For eleven years the Goose Egg-man came by post each spring with his gift neatly laid in a small wooden box. The great white ovoid nestling in the wood shavings was annually presented to me with a brief courtly message of goodwill.

The Goose-Egg man did this for over a decade and never revealed who he was.

Last year there was no goose egg and the seeds of doubt were sown. Was Goosey ill? Or, more mournful still, was her boss sick or gone away?

Such prayers as are made for the geese and goose eggs, and the owners of those mighty and strident birds, were offered up and we banished our dark thoughts near where the rushes grow by the pond.

But this year?

We asked Goosey Goosey Gander whither his girl friend has wandered. But there was no reply. There was quiet in the barnyard, and the wind sighed in the hayricks.

Being out your soft sad cypress. Lay on your boughs of dark yew.

The Egg-man cometh no more.