Eggs

How had this happened?  
In one short moment, my life had gone from a normal and boring afternoon to sheer disaster; and I could see my entire evening collapsing before my eyes. I stood in the midst of a once-peaceful back yard, now flooded with an army of chickens who seemed intent on destroying everything they came across---including Mum's strawberries and the gardener's cherished rosebushes.  
“He told me not to—” I panted aloud, thrusting a stick between a rosebush and an incoming hen. “If I had only listened—” I stabbed at a busily pecking Wyandotte. “If I hadn't tried—” I lunged for a rogue Rhode Island Red. “to get those eggs—” I stumbled after a group of cackling Barred Rocks. “I would have to deal—” I hurled myself at a marauding Beilefelder. “---with this. O bother.”
I tripped over a root and collapsed in a sweaty heap on the opposite end of the yard, where I eyed the chicken coop door (swinging gently on its hinges) with a mixture of reproach and fury.
“I'll probably have to help fix everything.” I muttered resentfully. I despised gardening. Maybe there was some way I could avoid being blamed. . .
“Emmeline Cricket!” called a gruff voice. I bolted upright in a trice. Unfortunately, the afternoon's prospects were only getting worse: here I was, with the evidence of my misbehavior squawking at my heels, and Mr. Perkins the gardener approaching. Perkins might have been old and his face and voice were as scratchy and wrinkly as walnuts but all plants loved him. His displeasure at my disobedience must've been profound; for several seconds he surveyed the guilty scene.
“Did you let these chickens out, Emmeline?”
I squirmed. “Yes sir.”
He stood and looked down at his favorite rose-bush, now a scrambled mess, with an expression of great sorrow. Remorse set in harder than i had expected.
“I'm sorry!” Maybe I could make amends by putting the chickens back by myself. I seized my stick and approached the most vicious chicken of all: a buff rooster scratching haughtily among the strawberries. But Perkins held out his hand to stop me.
“A handful of oats, Emmeline, will facilitate the process. Ask the cook for some.”
When I returned, he was still standing and looking. His face was stiff as he took the oats. “Let me do it.” 
His feet didn't move and I felt his gaze on me. I ventured a glance upwards. He looked. . . So sad.
 A fresh flood of remorse drowned my fear and what remained of my stubbornness. I blurted, “I could fix it up for you or something, couldn't I? I promise I didn't mean—”
“You will help fix it.” He said gravely. “So will I.”
I gulped.
“N–no. I'll do it—by myself.”
“Ah. Thank you, Emmeline.”
I imagined a slight twinkle in the aged eye.  
“Couldn't resist those eggs, eh?” he said by way of forgiveness, and stumped off toward the coop, the chickens trailing obediently in his wake.

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