“They’ve brought those protest signs,” Mother said. “The ones with the depressing pictures of dead birds on them. I thought you told them they couldn’t bring their placards. If they’re going to be marching with those signs. . . .”
“I did, and they’re not,” I said. “Where are they?”
“Over by the barn.”
“I’ll talk to them,” I said. “While I do, why don’t you show Mr. Werzel the camels?”
But Mr. Werzel wasn’t interested in camels, or assumed he could see them anytime between now and the start of the parade. He trailed behind me as I went to straighten out the SPOOR delegation.
They were already dressed in their costumes—SPOOR members would be playing the six geese a-laying. They’d been trouble from the start. Shortly after dawn, I’d had to lay down the law and forbid the entire SPOOR membership from marching in goose costume.
“It’s six geese a-laying,” I’d said. “Not thirty-seven.”
“Thirty-eight counting Mrs. Markland,” one of them had put in, and the others had nodded approval, as they always did when anyone mentioned their late founder and first president.
“Mrs. Markland died last year,” I’d countered. “You’re not planning to bring her along, I hope?”
“She’s always with us in spirit,” one of the members had said.
“That’s fine,” I’d said. “You can have as many people with you in spirit as you like, whether they’re still on this plane or have gone to that giant protest march in the sky. But I only want to see six of you marching in costume in the parade, or I’ll get six of the Boy Scouts to replace you.”
They’d sulked at that, but had started drawing lots to see who got to wear their elaborately feathered Canada goose costumes and who would simply march along behind in plain clothes, carrying the SPOOR banner. I’d also had to discourage them from including an offputtingly realistic reenactment of egg-laying in their routine. I’d had a private word with Clarence, whom I considered one of the more sensible of the SPOOR members, and he’d promised to keep them in line.
And yet, in spite of everything, here they were blatantly trying to ignore the ban on carrying political signs in the parade.
When I arrived, the six lucky members who would be portraying the geese were doing a Rockettes-style dance number. I had to admit, it was pretty funny, seeing their giant webbed feet kicking into the air in unison, and even funnier when they bent over and waggled their fake tail feathers. I realized I was grinning at the sight so I paused a moment to settle my face into the kind of stern look that would tell them I meant business. And to see if I could have a word with Clarence. Even in costume, I should be able to spot him, thanks to his towering height.
No tall geese in sight, unfortunately. But I did notice that a dozen other SPOOR members were scuttling around furtively behind some shrubbery. They seemed to be carrying something.
I strode over, parted the bushes, and frowned at them. They were all hovering over a pile of placards. One of them had taken off his coat and was trying to conceal the contraband. The dancing geese broke ranks and came trailing after me.
“I’m confiscating the signs,” I said. I began picking up the placards and tucking them under my arm. Something poked me, and I realized that they’d trimmed the placards for the occasion with little bits of holly and evergreen.
“But it’s for such an important cause!” one of the costumed geese said.
“Yes, and that’s why I asked SPOOR to represent the geese,” I said. “Giving you a key, highly visible role in the parade. But you’re not going to win over anyone, marching in the holiday parade waving pictures of dead birds.”
“They don’t all show dead birds,” one SPOOR member said. “We’ve got some with birds that are victims of an oil spill.”
“Oh, and that’s so much more cheerful than dead birds,” I said. “Look, the dancing’s great—it should get SPOOR a lot of attention, and then when you are in a forum where it’s appropriate to protest, everyone will remember you favorably.”
Some of them seemed content with that idea, but the rest were muttering mutinously.
“And if you insist on carrying the placards—”
“We know—you can always replace us with Boy Scouts,” one said. “Of course the Boy Scouts don’t have costumes.”
“They’re always prepared, remember?” I said. “I’m sure they could come up with something on short notice.”
They nodded, most of them rather sullenly, and didn’t try to stop me from taking the rest of the signs.