Eggs (revised version)

I couldn't tell you exactly how it happened. You know how it is with chickens. I had the coop door slightly open, holding it firmly with my right hand while I reached for a tempting clutch of eggs with my left, and I nearly had it. . . My fingers brushed the crackly straw of the nest box. . . When I felt a movement near my leg, and looked down to see a stream of chickens scrambling happily forth to freedom. I yelped and slammed the door on the last few; but too late, the wonderful garden, towards which I had always felt a sort of distant but loving connection, was flooded with ravenous hens intent on destruction.
“He told me not to—” I panted aloud, thrusting a stick between a rosebush and an incoming chicken. “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 could almost see the stern face of the gardener. Would he be angry and insist on punishment, like he had the time I accidentally trampled the baby cabbages? Panic spurred me on and I redoubled my efforts. I might never be allowed in the garden again! 
At this point, I was desperate. Pinning a squawking, flapping chicken under my arm, I wrenched open the coop door and thrust her inside. Hay slipped and jammed the door; there was a flurry of movement; and the two chickens that had been inside scampered forth to join their fellows while I chased after, shaking my stick like a spear and yelling. Now even more chickens were loose. I looked with despair at the mangled mess the gardener's treasured rosebush had become, and the tragic air the flattened horse-grass presented. All the mulch was in disarray. Mum's strawberries were being speedily vanquished. Even the hyacinth seemed to droop under the onslaught.
The more I tried to chase the chickens, the faster they seemed to peck and dig, until I finally stopped in the middle of the yard, sweating, panting, and leaning on my stick.
I swallowed hard as realization hit me: the ability to wrangle the chickens back to their proper place was one that I most certainly lacked. I would have to go find the gardener and ask for help. O bother.
Heart thumping, I stumbled down the path to the shed, deliberating on what I would say. “I'm sorry" didn't seem like enough. “Please assist me to correct my wrongdoing” sounded too stiff and formal. There didn't seem to be a way to make my statement sound better than it was: the chickens were out, and the gardener's hard work was erupting in chaos.  
From the shed there emanated the smell of fresh pouring soil and plants. The gardener, Mr. Perkins, was re-potting a geranium. He looked up as I burst inside.
Perkins might have been old and his face and voice were as scratchy and wrinkly as walnuts but all plants loved him. I began at once, my voice a terrified squeak.
“Sir, I'm sorry—it just happened so fast—I couldn't do anything—can you help me—I promise I didn't mean—”
He sensed what my blabbered tale failed to convey. He shuffled to the door and looked out. The evidence of my misbehavior was evident at once.
For several seconds he surveyed the guilty scene.
“Did you let these chickens out, Emmeline.”
I squirmed. “Yes, sir.”
“Ah.” Sadness infused the wrinkled features as he saw the rosebush. Remorse set in harder than I had expected, drowning what remained of my fear.
“I'm sorry! I tried to get the eggs when you told me not to and they just slipped out!”
Desperate to make amends, I seized the stick and made to resume my efforts, but the gardener held out a hand. 
“A handful of oats, Emmeline, will facilitate the process. Ask the cook for some.”
I did so. When I returned, he was calmly shepherding the buff rooster away from the rhubarb. 
“Couldn't resist those eggs, eh?” He said as I handed him the oats.
I trembled, waiting to be forbidden from the garden or worse; but thought I espied a twinkle in the aged eye as he spoke.
“You will help fix it. I will too.”
Startled, I looked up. “Me? Help?”
“Yes, you help. I'll see you here tomorrow morning. Bring gloves.”
Could it be true? Far from being forbidden: I was being invited! I stared in admiration at the gardener as he stumped off, chickens trailing obediently in his wake. Relief and excitement flooded me.
Tomorrow I would help in the garden!

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