The Great Turnip Pull

In the far corner of Farmer Goose’s garden grew a turnip. Not a polite, dinner-sized turnip. This turnip was as big as a bathtub and as round as the moon, and one bright morning, Farmer Goose tied on her soup apron and took hold of the leaves.

She planted both feet. She flapped both wings. She made her fiercest turnip face. She pulled and she pulled and she PULLED… but the turnip stayed put.

“Horse!” called Farmer Goose. “I need muscle.” Horse trotted over and tossed his mane. “Stand back,” he boomed. “This is strong-animal work.” He tugged while Farmer Goose caught her breath, and she tugged while Horse admired his own muscles. They pulled and they pulled and they PULLED… but the turnip stayed put.

Cow wandered over, chewing thoughtfully. “Perhaps I may assist?” she mooed. “After you,” said Horse. “No, no,” said Cow, “after YOU.” First one pulled, then the other, then they spent quite a while being polite. They pulled and they pulled and they PULLED… but the turnip stayed put.

Thump-thump-thump. Dog bounded through the beans, barking encouragement. Cat strolled behind him, fresh from a very important nap. Dog pulled while Horse was resting. Horse pulled while Cow was checking her hooves. Cow pulled while Dog was chasing his tail. Cat gave one elegant tug, so as not to muss her whiskers. They pulled and they pulled and they PULLED… but the turnip stayed put.

Everyone flopped down in the grass, puffing like five teakettles. Farmer Goose’s wing tips drooped. “Impossible turnip,” panted Horse. “Rude vegetable,” sniffed Cat. And then, from the fence post, came a very small voice.

“Excuse me,” said Tam the mouse. Everyone looked up. Tam was smaller than the turnip’s smallest leaf, and his knees wobbled under all those eyes. Still, he lifted his chin. “You are all very strong. But you keep pulling one at a time. Nobody has pulled together.”

Tam scampered down the post. “On three — everybody, all at once.” So Horse held the leaves, and Cow held Horse, and Dog held Cow, and Cat held Dog (carefully, because of claws), and Farmer Goose held Cat, and Tam held on at the very end with both paws and all his whiskers.

“ONE,” squeaked Tam. Everyone leaned back. “TWO…” The garden went still. Even the worms were listening. Tam filled his tiny chest. “THREE!”

They pulled and they pulled and they PULLED… TOGETHER! The soil cracked. The leaves shook. POP! Out came the turnip like a cork from a bottle, and down went everybody, tumble-bumble, into a warm and laughing heap in the clover, with Tam sitting right on top.

That night there was turnip soup, a whole garden-full, with buttered bread for dipping. Tam got the first bowl, and it was nearly as big as Tam. The pot went round and round the table until every spoon had scraped bottom.

Then the lamps went low, and the garden grew still, and the moon rose slow over the empty turnip patch — round and quiet as a turnip, somebody said, which made everybody laugh one more sleepy laugh.

The End