Ticked Off Three

What is the School Swamp? asks Kierkegaard.

Where they drop pencils, says Terence.

It's a strange concept, says Kierkegaard.

They don't do it on purpose, says the emu-wren. They're not meant to leave anything behind.

Oh, says Kierkegaard. So, if we find a pencil....

We can keep it, says Terence. Come on!

Soon they hear sounds of children, not far away.

The emu-wren stops.

What time is it?

Almost midday, says Kierkegaard.

They'll be having their lunch soon, says the emu-wren.

Will they have dropped their pencils? asks Terence.

It's not that simple, says the emu-wren.

Do we make ourselves known? asks Kierkegaard.

You can, says the emu-wren. I never do. But they sometimes spot me.

Don't you want them to? asks Terence.

I don't care, says the emu-wren.

Maybe you should, says Terence. They might give you crumbs.

I don't eat crumbs, says the emu-wren.

They are now close enough to hear what the children are saying. They are sitting together, comparing their lists.

I've ticked off three, says a girl who looks like Lily, ( but isn't).

Which ones? asks her friend, who looks like her.

Let's see! says a boy who looks like most boys.

Hello! says Terence.

Why aren't you wearing your school hat? asks the one who looks like Lily but isn't.

Don't have one, says Terence.

The boy who looks like most boys taps Terence's cement head with a ruler.

That's enough! says Kierkegaard, stepping forward.

What's going on here? asks Mrs Bennett, the teacher, also stepping forward. Who are you?

Sören Kierkegaard, says Kierkegaard. Forgive me if we've trespassed. I have been following this infant.

O have you? says Mrs Bennett. Are you his dad?

No, says Kierkegaard. But he's with me and my two colleagues. We're bird spotting in Stipiturus Conservation Park.

Really? Any luck? asks Mrs Bennett.

An emu-wren, says Kierkegaard. A few parrots.

The class is bird spotting today, says Mrs Bennett. Children, this is Mr ..... what was it?

Kierkegaard, says Kierkegaard.

That name rings a bell, says Mrs Bennett. Are you a poet?

No he isn't, says Terence. He's a scientist.

Not at all, says Kierkegaard. I'm first and foremost a philosopher.

Whoa-ah! says Mrs Bennett. What an interesting person. May I prevail upon you to talk to the class while they're eating their sandwiches?

Kierkegaard is flattered.