Seated on the veranda, in a low lawn-chair which caused his long shanks to thrust his angular knees up to the level of his chin, the Poet was perusing the Odes of Horace in the original text, and pencilling their English equivalent on the leaves of a small writing-pad. His handwriting was large and careless. Every minute or two he tore a filled sheet from the pad and dropped it on the edge of the veranda floor at his side. A straggling honeysuckle vine concealed from him the fact that William was present, and that, as each sheet fell to the floor, the goat was consuming it with every evidence of appreciation. 40Probably never before had a translation of Horace met with such instant success.
But presently William, becoming impatient at the Poet’s deliberation, seized a sheet out of his hand and stood detected. At the same instant a musical peal of laughter from the open window of the breakfast room proved that the Poet’s sister had been a delighted witness of the disaster. After one startled look about him, the Poet realized that the goat’s attentions had been indeed thorough. He had recourse to his customary whimsical philosophy.
“Galatea,” said the Poet gravely, “do you observe that the whole of my manuscript has been accepted without reading? That is the highest compliment possible to pay a poet.”
“And yet you hear it everywhere that the classic poets are not appreciated nowadays.”
The girl, still laughing, joined her brother on the veranda. She was all in pink—fluffy 41pink, with a fluffy pink thing flapping above her mahogany tresses, producing an effect impossible to describe, fatal to another woman, in her case charming. The goat put his forefeet on the veranda and seemed to nod his approval.
“William,” said the Poet, “you have given me an idea—an idea which may influence my whole career.”
“Why not?” commented Galatea. “Haven’t you and I been duly initiated as members of the firm of Bos, Equus and Co.? Aren’t all our interests mutual?” And again she laughed.
“I have long been undecided,” resumed the Poet, “as to whether my muse is classical and for the few, or modern and for the many; or, indeed, whether I should not give up poetry for the plough. William, it shall be for you to decide. I will now compose something for the masses. If you accept it instantly, as you have accepted my Horatian Odes—not for publication, 42it is true, but—er—but for purposes best known to yourself, I shall at once take steps to become an honest husbandman. If, however, you decline what I am about to offer you, I shall consider myself a properly ordained Poet of the People, and shall act accordingly. William, a grave responsibility rests upon your discrimination.”
The goat nodded with an intelligent expression, his venerable beard sweeping the floor.
“O George, how perfectly absurd!” laughed Galatea.
The Poet scribbled on his pad for a couple of minutes, tore off the sheet, and offered it to William. The goat sniffed at it, and appeared doubtful.
“You are quite right, William. Others have found my handwriting illegible. I will read it to you.”
The Poet read:—
43“Sir Mortimer’s poems of note
Were despised by his lady’s pet goat.
The goat said, ‘Oh pschutt!’
And proceeded to butt
Sir Mortimer into the moat.”
“Now, William, it’s up to you,” said the Poet, as his sister, regardless of her fluffy pink finery, sat down on the floor and shrieked.
But already the goat, looking deeply embarrassed, was trotting off toward the barn.
“That settles it,” said the Poet solemnly. “I am ordained Poet of the People.”
Galatea got up, gurgling, and rested her flushed cheek on her brother’s collar.
“George, you’re the most delicious old thing ever created.”
He held her off, regarding her curiously.
“All in pink? Nothing like pink to show dirt. Wherefore all this regardlessness of expense, Galatea?”
44She took a letter from her bosom and gave it to him.
“It’s from Arthur. It came in the morning mail. I didn’t want to disturb you—and William—in your literary labors. You’d better read it now.”
The Poet read:—
“‘I’m taking a little spin out your way in my new Red Ripper. Will reach your place about noon. If you’ve nothing else to do, we can have a whirl down the old Post Road and back before two o’clock. Then I must be off to Stamford on an important engagement about a portrait—in fact, it means the price of this modest luxury on wheels. But do give me the two hours. Think what poetic wonders George may accomplish in that time, undistracted by your luminous presence.’”
THE GOAT SEEMED TO NOD HIS APPROVAL
“‘Luminous presence’ isn’t bad,” commented the Poet. “That is, for Arthur. Don’t 45you give him any of your impudence, Galatea. We can’t afford to quarrel with people who can own Red Rippers.”
“Rubbish, George. Arthur is sometimes very trying. He isn’t half as handsome as he thinks he is.”
“But you are, Galatea. Be charitable. You could do much worse than go through life in—in a Red Ripper. Noon, did you say?”
The Poet looked at his watch. “Why, it’s eleven-forty already. Hello! What’s the matter with our four-legged partners?”
Cleopatra, with Clarence at her side, had galloped up the driveway from the bottom of the pasture, and stopped, with head up, snorting loudly at something down the road. The colt could not snort as loudly as his mother, but he made up by snorting twice as often. Mrs. Cowslip and Gustavius, the bull-calf, quite in the dark as to the cause of the excitement, 46but willing to become excited themselves, were stopping en route to snatch an occasional mouthful of grass. Reginald’s short legs were flying in the distance, while he uttered plaintive squeaks at being left behind. The goat was giving him the assistance of an occasional butt in the right direction. Napoleon, rudely awakened out of a deep dream of peace, barked wildly from the edge of the veranda. Amanda came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.
“For the land sakes, what ails the critters?” she asked of Gabriel, who had run up from the potato-patch, armed with his hoe.
Gabriel ran to the side of the colt, glanced down the road, and came back laughing.
“It’s one of them there hossless buggies,” he said. “The mare never could stand the sight of ’em, and the colt takes after her. They take it as a personal insult for a buggy to go 47humpin’ along like that without a hoss to pull it.”
“It’s Arthur,” said Galatea. “He’s made better time than he expected to, and he’ll be unbearable.”
The whirr of the wheels was now audible. Cleopatra and Clarence, with a final snort of rage, put their heads between their forelegs, slashed out vindictively behind, and galloped off to the far side of the driveway. The Red Ripper turned in swiftly from the road, giving Mrs. Cowslip the fright of her life as she plunged, bellowing, to the rear of her defiant equine comrades. At sight of the shining red enamel, Gustavius, for one instant, contemplated a valiant charge, but thought better of it barely in time to save his skin, if not his dignity.
As though to make the affront beyond all forgiveness, the driver of the red thing steered 48straight on toward the barn, then, describing a graceful circle about his outraged spectators, returned and came to an abrupt halt near the gateway. He lifted his cap to Galatea with easy grace, and jumped from his seat to take the Poet’s outstretched hand.
“Good boy. You did that with almost human intelligence.” The Poet’s eyes twinkled—the nearest approach to a smile in which he had ever been known to indulge.
“Yes; rather neat, I call it. Isn’t she a beauty? Only two tons weight and forty horsepower; maximum of sixty-nine miles an hour on a level road; climbs hills like a goat; the only sparking device that never hitches—”
“Kind to women and children and stands without hitchin’,” drawled the Poet.
“Quit your kidding, George,” and then, at a loud snort from Cleopatra: “I say, George, who’re your friends?”
49“Including Galatea and myself, they’re Bos, Equus and Co.”
“Oh, freedom of the place—part of the family, eh? You’re a queer chap, George. They don’t seem quite friendly. I hate to break up a happy home, you know.”
“It does look like it, Arthur. The mare can’t bear the sight of a vehicle that is independent of her services. The bull-calf resents its brilliant color. Besides, they all hang together on general principles. However, Galatea and I still retain a few of our characteristics unchanged by these associations. We forgive you.”
Gabriel and Amanda returned to their duties in potato-patch and kitchen. The Poet went into the house, leaving the Artist with Galatea on the veranda. She had given him her hand with a bewildering smile, but as he immediately began to chatter interminably about his automobile 50and the great things he was going to do in the way of speed, her red lips shaped themselves into a curl that was not so pleasant, and if he had noticed the satirical little side glances she gave him now and then, his tone would have been much less complacent.
The Artist was really an excellent fellow, stalwart, straight-limbed, and undeniably handsome. His type originated with the new generation of popular fiction illustrators. You would instantly recognize his smooth-shaven face, his straight nose, and his determined chin for those of the plain American young hero who walks unconcernedly into the boudoir of the Crown Princess of Grossbock (who falls desperately in love with him at first sight), and presently rescues her from the very foot of the throne, dashing with her in his arms through a whole regiment of Hussars, without turning a hair. It was not to be expected that such a hero 51would remain sacred to the romances over which little girls weep tears of joy and longing. The daughter of Isaac Ickleheimer called her father’s attention to him one day, and ever since then he has adorned the advertising pages of the magazines, attired in the most lovely ready-to-wear clothes, with shoulders more than human.
But the Artist couldn’t help this, any more than he could help chattering about his new automobile to a girl who was dying to have soft nothings whispered in her ear. After a while Galatea, realizing that such hopes were doomed to disappointment for the present, abruptly choked off the dissertation on Red Rippers by dragging the Artist in to luncheon.
With the human element thus eliminated, now occurred one of those scenes which gave to the present chronicler his chief inspiration.
The red thing being quiescent, Cleopatra and 52Clarence had ceased their snorting and were approaching cautiously, with occasional coy side-prancings, yet with a curiosity in their eyes that was not unmixed with vindictiveness. Mrs. Cowslip and Gustavius grazed near by, with one eye open to developments. William surveyed the red thing speculatively, evidently wondering whether it offered a profitable opportunity for butting, while Reginald, the pig, less imaginative than the others, rubbed one of his fat sides tentatively against a rubber tire.
“Not so bad,” grunted Reginald. “A bit too smooth, that’s all; don’t seem to take hold like the Professor’s finger-nails—”
“Look at that fool pig,” whinnied Clarence to his mother. “Reginald has no dignity. I wouldn’t demean myself by such condescension to an enemy with such a vile-smelling breath.”
“That proves that the thing is really alive,” 53commented Cleopatra. “It’s eaten something that don’t agree with it.”
“It’s breath smells just like Gabe’s lantern when he’s late with his work in the barn,” said Mrs. Cowslip, coming up, with Gustavius by her side, shaking his sharp sprouts of ............