“‘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.’”
[Illustration: THE GOAT SEEMED TO NOD HIS APPROVAL]
“‘Luminous presence’ isn’t bad,” commented the Poet. “That is, for
Arthur. Don’t you 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, but 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 humpin’ 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 straight 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?”
“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 and 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 would 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 Clarence 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,” commented 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 horns truculently.
The pig braced himself against a corner of the metal framework in front,
and grunted with more unction:—
“Ah! this is better.”
“Why don’t the thing show signs of life?” complained Cleopatra. “Then
I’d know where to plant my heels. It was lively enough a little while
ago.”
Gustavius, with calf-like bellows of provocation, was exercising his
sharp little horns on one of the rubber tires.
“Why should you be so incensed against such a lumbering old thing?”
asked Mrs. Cowslip, with a placid glance at the mare. “Seems to me you
ought to be grateful to any sort of wagon that would leave you free to
enjoy yourself.”
“Trust an old cow not to see an inch beyond her own nose,” snorted
Cleopatra contemptuously. “Do you suppose I’d be welcome in this family
if I wasn’t useful? There’s nothing for me to do except pull the buggy,
or Gabe’s wagon. Why, even that delightful red-headed girl, who always
has sugar in her pocket, helps Amanda in the garden.”
“True,” admitted Mrs. Cowslip. “And I give milk.”
“Lucky for you,” said Cleopatra significantly. “When I think of my
Clarence and your Gustavius, I tremble.”
Mrs. Cowslip looked startled. “What do you mean, Cleopatra?”
“I don’t want to alarm you, my dear, but I can’t forget that day when
Gabe got into the calf’s pen with a sharp knife in his hand.”
“I’ve heard of such calamities to my race,” whimpered Mrs. Cowslip, her
moist nose turning pale; “but it never occurred to me that a child of
mine—”
“It was Amanda who dragged Gabe and his knife away,” continued
Cleopatra. “Her words ring in my ears yet. She said: ‘O Gabe, wait till
he’s older and we can roast him. I do love roast beef’; that’s what
Amanda said.”
Mrs. Cowslip sidled affectionately up to Gustavius, who was still
worrying the rubber tire with his sharp sprouts of horns, and licked his
cheek tenderly.
“Don’t bother me, mother,” said the thoughtless bull-calf. “I feel that
I’m making an impression on this thing.”
“If you do,” said Cleopatra, “and it shows signs of life, just you watch
me, that’s all;” and, laying back her ears, she experimented with her
heels to be sure that they were in good working order.
“Me, too,” said Clarence, following his mother’s example with a
significance not to be misunderstood.
“If you’re really making an impression,” bleated William to Gustavius,
backing away and shaking his horns, “one good, swift butt ought to do
the business.”
Gustavius moved his hind quarters to one side, and bored away with one
horn as hard as he could.
“Clear the track,” bleated the goat; “I’m coming!”
On came William with a rush that astonished even himself. The last leap
was twelve good feet in mid-air. With his neck stiffened like a rod of
steel, the roots of his horns struck the rubber tire squarely just below
the boring sprout of Gustavius. There was an explosion and a fierce puff
of something in their faces that sent both the goat and the bull-calf
back on their haunches.
“It’s alive! It’s alive!” shrieked Cleopatra, as she wheeled about,
filled with the joy of battle.
Lashing out with her heels at the red thing amidships, the mare’s heels
clattered among the driving-levers most ominously. Clarence’s heels,
being out of range in his excitement, did no damage. They looked around,
snorting, awaiting the enemy’s retort. To their surprise the red thing
remained motionless.
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Cleopatra, “what’s the use of attacking such a
spiritless creature, anyway?”
“In my opinion you’ve killed it,” said Mrs. Cowslip. “I never saw such a
smash in my life.”
“It was I who finished the thing,” boasted Gustavius, finding himself
unhurt. “I felt its last breath in my face.”
William turned away in disgust.
The pig, engrossed with his own selfish pursuit of new dermatological
sensations, had been only momentarily disturbed by these events. He felt
that something was lacking.
“If I could only get my back under something,” he complained. “I wonder
if it’s safe to crawl under the thing?”
Reginald investigated, and was interested. “There’s a lot of little
jiggers under there that look as though they’d just fit my back.”
He got down on his fore-knees and wriggled under the red thing,
grunting, while the others still debated together on ways and means.
During luncheon Galatea’s mood had softened. She was no longer piqued at
the Artist’s detailed accounts of the wonders of his new automobile.
Arthur, in a moment of intelligence, had squeezed her hand under the
table.
“In case of a break-down of any kind,” observed the Poet, “I suppose you
carry all sorts of tools and materials for repairs?”
“I never give the matter a thought,” said the Artist. “She’s such a
perfect piece of mechanism that she can’t break down.”
“But suppose you should run over a pig, or a cow, and—”
“Oh, in that case I dare say the tool box might come handy.”
“Or punctured a tire?”
“The Red Ripper’s tires are warranted puncture-proof”; and the Artist
entered into a long technical description of the new and improved
process which had produced the Red Ripper’s impregnable tires. Galatea
sighed several times, but it was useless.
“After all,” drawled the Poet at the first opening caused by a fish-bone
sticking in the Artist’s throat, “you can’t make a sympathetic companion
of an automobile as you can of a horse. Why, Galatea and I have the most
improving conversations with Cleopatra and the pig.”
“Yes,” chimed in Galatea eagerly, “even Gustavius, the bull-calf,
understands everything we say to him. It all proves the Professor’s
theory that we don’t give these domestic pets half the credit they
deserve for intelligent and affectionate interest in us and our
affairs.”
“I’ve heard of your Professor and his crazy theories about animals,”
said the Artist, having swallowed the fish-bone. “I’ll bet you do just
as he did—you keep your pockets full of sugar for the mare, and you
scratch the pig’s back.”
“Arthur, you haven’t the first conception—”
“No, Arthur,” broke in the Poet, seeing the fire in his sister’s eyes,
“you couldn’t even see that Cleopatra was aware that your Red Ripper is
a menace to her means of livelihood.”
“Pooh! George, the mare isn’t used to automobiles, that’s all.”
The Artist looked at his watch. “I think we had better be going,
Galatea; I’ve just twenty-five minutes in which to whirl you thirty
miles and back.”
Galatea disappeared, and returned in a moment with her fluffy pink
costume, hat and all, covered by a hooded cloak of gray silk which
became her exceedingly. The Artist put on his cap and gloves. At that
instant a series of heart-rending squeals filled the air.
“Something has happened to Reginald!” exclaimed the Poet, and his long
legs flew as he rushed to the rescue.
When Galatea and the Artist caught up with him, he was on his stomach
half under the Red Ripper, tugging with all his might at one of
Reginald’s hind legs. The pig’s squeals grew louder and more hopeless.
Cleopatra, the colt, the cow, the bull-calf, and the goat, huddled
together, looked on from a distance with expressions of wondering
innocence. Napoleon barked furiously at the Poet’s waving legs. Gabriel
came running up with a fence-rail on his shoulder. The Poet emerged,
perspiring and baffled.
“The critter’s stuck, darn him!” said Gabriel. “We must lift the
machine.”
He thrust one end of the rail under the Red Ripper’s frame. “Now, all
together!”
The Poet and the Artist joined Gabriel with their shoulders under the
rail, the machine rose an inch or two, and Reginald, choking a final
squeal in his throat, scrambled out. At least three square inches of his
back were ravished of their bristles. Not a particle of kink remained in
Reginald’s tail. Straight for the barn he ran, emitting short grunts of
relief and contrition.
“Great snakes!” exclaimed the Artist. “Look at that rear tire. There’s a
hole in it you could throw a dog into.”
Nobody could offer any explanation, the bull-calf having forgotten all
about it. The Artist’s eye suddenly lighted on the bent driving-levers,
and for half a minute his language was far from polite.
“I warned you about Cleopatra,” said the Poet; “but you wouldn’t give
the mare credit for sufficient intelligence to protect her personal
interests.”
“Do you think, Arthur, that we will be able to whirl thirty miles and
back in twenty-five minutes with a flat tire?” inquired Galatea
innocently.
“Of course you can,” said the Poet solemnly. “The Red Ripper is such a
perfect piece of mechanism that she can do it on three wheels.”
“That’s right, rub it in,” said the Artist. “When I came out here I
didn’t count on being hoodooed by these four-legged friends of yours
that can do everything but talk.”
“They can talk too,” retorted Galatea wickedly; “and they don’t confine
their harangues to automobiles, either.”
The Artist winced. Galatea had one more shot for him.
“If you positively must be in Stamford at three o’clock, I’m sure
Cleopatra will be only too glad to oblige you.”
“The blacksmith down to the station can fix you up in ten minutes,”
spoke up Gabriel. “He’s a reg’lar genius at tinkerin’ up hossless
buggies.”
“It’s mostly down-hill to the station,” said the Poet; “I’m sure
Cleopatra will be charmed to assist the Red Ripper that far.”
Galatea sat down on the ground and laughed.
“Gosh, yes,” said Gabriel, starting for the barn. “I’ll go an’ git her
harness.”
The Artist surrendered. He sat down beside Galatea, while the Poet
looked the other way, and whispered things that made her eyes shine.
When Gabriel reappeared with the harness, a whiffletree and a stout
chain, Cleopatra’s complete understanding of the situation could not be
doubted. She thrust out her head for the collar, welcomed the bridle,
and before the straps were buckled trotted proudly into position before
the vehicle, which was now no better than an ordinary buggy.
“Isn’t she a dear?” said Galatea.
“All aboard; git in,” said Gabriel. “Mind and be careful about the
brake—it’s down-hill.”
With a grimace the Artist placed himself in the chauffeur’s seat.
Gabriel handed him the reins.
“I’ll foller an’ bring back the mare,” he said. “Giddap, old gal.”
Cleopatra looked around, shook her head, and refused to budge. Gabriel
laughed, and looked at Galatea.
“You’ll have to git in. You can’t fool the mare; she sees you’re dressed
for drivin’.”
The Poet, with great gravity, helped his sister up beside the Artist.
Galatea took the reins. At her cheerful, familiar chirrup Cleopatra
stretched her fine muscles, and, while the colt pranced about, kicking
up his heels in irrepressible joy at this warning to the horseless,
dragged the ponderous, vanquished enemy into the road and away. Never
before stepped a mare of pedigree so proudly, nor trailed along a Red
Ripper so ignobly.
III
_Pig-Malion and Galatea_
“Galatea!” hailed the Poet from the bottom of the stairs.
“Yes, George?”
“There’s a letter from Arthur. Come down.”
“I can’t, this moment. Je suis en déshabillé.”
“I thought so; your voice sounds full of pins. But you don’t need to air
your Vassar French. The pig isn’t listening.”
“My French prose is better than your English verse. What does Arthur
say?”
“He’ll be out here early.”
“What for?”
“Girl, have a care! While you are about it, make the most of the small
charms with which the good Lord has endowed you.”
“I will, brother mine; I’m expecting Reginald to have his back
scratched.”
Truth to tell, the pig was already contemplating a call with that object
in view. Since early morning Cleopatra and her yearling colt, Mrs.
Cowslip and Gustavius, and William, the big-horned one, had diligently
cropped the dewy grass of the lower lawn until their sides bulged, while
Reginald was so replete with artichokes that he was constrained to sit
on his haunches and grunt stuffily while making occasional rude comments
on the gluttony of his comrades.
“You have often reproved me for being greedy,” grunted Reginald as the
colt harvested a luscious bunch a yard from where he sat, “yet I have
never tried to eat up the whole pasture between sunrise and noon.”
“Don’t give me any of your impudence,” retorted Clarence, with his mouth
full, “or I’ll shut my teeth on one of your ridiculous, flapping ears.”
“If you gave milk,” commented Mrs. Cowslip, “you would understand the
necessity of a stomach filled with something better than artichokes.”
“Ha! ha!” laughed the pig, with his mouth wide open. “The sides of your
son bulge like the sides of the barrel in which Gabe keeps your
breakfast of bran. Ha! ha! does Gustavius give milk?”
“Let me at him, mother,” said the bull-calf, waving his tail aloft and
lowering his horns. “I’ll teach him!”
“No, you don’t,” said the pig, showing surprising agility. “You greedy
fellows annoy me; I’m going to the house and get that red-headed girl to
scratch my back.”
So intensely satisfied with himself that the kink in his tail tightened
to the verge of discomfort, Reginald scampered across the lawn and up
the steps leading to the veranda. With his forefeet on the top step he
halted at a gruff challenge from Napoleon. The bull-terrier, with teeth
unpleasantly visible, barred his way to the door.
“My goodness,” said the pig, with easy assurance, “how you startled me!
You were always such a joker.” And Reginald got his forefeet on the
veranda floor.
“Now, that’s the limit,” growled Napoleon. “One step farther, and I’ll
have your ears in ribbons.”
“You don’t know how handsome you are when you put on that fierce look,”
said the pig in flattering tones. “Any stranger would believe you in
earnest. But you and I know each other.”
“What do you want?” growled Napoleon, somewhat mollified in spite of
himself by the pig’s flattery.
“I’ve nothing to conceal from you, Napoleon. I never have. I’ve come to
get that lovely red-headed girl to scratch my back.”
“You’ll have to wait; she’s inside.”
“I’ll go right in,” grunted Reginald complacently; “no trouble at all, I
assure you. Just step one side, Napoleon, and I won’t disturb you in the
least.”
“You’ll come right in?” Napoleon was boiling with indignation. “Who ever
heard of a pig in the parlor? You’ll get right out of here before I make
you.”
Reginald assumed a look of injured amazement as he replied: “Is it
possible, Napoleon, that you really mean to do me this injustice? Have
you forgotten that we are all on terms of equality here?”
“Not in the parlor,” growled Napoleon. “No pig gets into our parlor, not
if I know it.”
“But you go into the parlor whenever you please,” grumbled Reginald.
“It’s part of my business to go all over the house and see that there’s
no trespassing. That’s what’s been expected of us dogs ever since the
world began. Amanda raised an awful row that time the colt got in the
kitchen. But I wasn’t to blame, being away from home with Gabe and
Cleopatra.”
The pig, with all the stubbornness of his race, refused to be convinced.
“The Professor used to invite me in often,” he complained. “The
red-headed girl would, too, I’m sure, if she knew I was here.”
“No, she wouldn’t. She’s busy with that automobile chap. Can’t you hear
their voices through the window?”
Reginald listened. Yes, it was the voice he loved so well—when
accompanied by the delicious sensation of one of Amanda’s cast-off
nutmeg-graters being rubbed smartly up and down his spine. It was cool
and even, and was saying:—
“No, Arthur, I won’t go for a walk, thank you. I don’t think I like you
very well to-day. You explain that you walked over from the station out
of regard for the feelings of Cleopatra and Clarence, and yet you are
wholly oblivious of my feelings. You come out here without your Red
Ripper on an ideal day for a spin, and then you add insult to injury by
talking of nothing else. Arthur, I hate your Red Ripper, I despise its
phenomenally perfect sparking device, I loathe its triple-speed gear—”
The pig lifted up his voice in supplication. It was not in vain. Galatea
emerged upon the veranda, smiling a welcome to Reginald, whom the Artist
regarded with dark looks of resentment.
“Good-morning, Reginald; won’t you be seated?” she said brightly,
dragging forward an easy-chair.
The intelligent pig scrambled into the chair, making confidential little
throaty grunts out of the side of his mouth into the ear of his hostess.
The bull-terrier satisfied his dignity by barking one brief comment for
Reginald’s benefit:—
“Now what do you think? This isn’t the parlor. Perhaps you’ll understand
after this that the veranda is the limit, for a pig.”
“Hush, Napoleon,” commanded the red-headed girl. “Here, get up beside
Reginald and make him feel at home.”
It was a wide chair. After but one instant of disgusted hesitation, the
bull-terrier obeyed.
“What has the terrier done that he should be so humiliated?” asked the
Artist, who had even more than the average man’s respect for dogs as
compared with other domestic animals.
The girl ignored the question. There was something odd and unfamiliar in
her manner, a peculiar glint in her eye, her full lips were drawn in a
straighter line than usual. Having no professional interest in the
scene, the Artist—unluckily for him—observed none of these ominous
signs. Galatea shook her finger in the terrier’s face.
“Napoleon, your manner toward Reginald is not cordial. Sit closer!”
The terrier meekly obeyed. The pig gave him an expansive smile. The
Artist began an impulsive protest:—
“Oh, now, I say, Galatea—”
“Napoleon! Reginald! Salute each other!”
The dog thumped the chair with his tail, the pig grunted amiably, and
they pressed their cheeks together like affectionate children. The lank
figure and solemn visage of the Poet appeared in the door.
“What is Napoleon’s crime that he should suffer such punishment?” he
inquired.
“Just as I was remarking,” began the Artist; “but—”
“That will do,” said the girl, taking no notice of these comments. “Now
sit up and look pleasant; you are about to have your pictures taken by a
very celebrated artist.”
Both Reginald and Napoleon assumed attitudes really remarkable for their
ease and naturalness.
“Ahem!” began the Artist, growing very red in the face, and stopped
abruptly at a coolly inquiring glance from Galatea.
“Do I understand,” she inquired frigidly, “that you take the absurd
position of Paderewski, Calvé, Jean de Reszke, and other public
favorites, and disdain to exhibit your art upon social occasions?”
“Not at all,” answered the Artist hastily, while the Poet regarded them
solemnly, but with a twinkle in his eye. “No, but—Well, you see, I—I am
not accustomed to have pigs sit to me for their portraits—at least, not
upon social occasions.”
“It is perhaps as well that you should understand fully that Reginald is
a personal friend of mine, and that we are on terms, not only of
sympathetic affection, but of perfect equality.” And the girl placed her
arm about the pig’s neck with a caressing touch that sent him into a
transport of appreciative grunts.
“If I thought that you were guying me—”
The girl turned upon him sharply. “Have I ever insinuated that you were
guying me when you compelled me to listen for hours to mechanical
details about your Red Ripper? I, to whom poets are proud to read their
original manuscripts in advance of publication?”
“Arthur,” said the Poet gravely, “Galatea is right. This is a case of
love me, love my pig. Your professional pride need not suffer. In fact,
the result of your labors may bear appropriately a title that is
classical.” He turned to his sister. “Galatea, I assume that you are to
be in the picture—you will sit with the pig?”
“Certainly,” said the girl, as a swift glance of understanding passed
between brother and sister.
“Why, then, just consider, Arthur,” said the Poet cheerfully, “you can
send your picture to the Fall Exhibition catalogued as, ‘Pig-Malion and
Galatea.’”
The girl laughed in spite of herself. Even the over-serious Artist was
not proof against a conceit so pungent. But Galatea’s mood puzzled and
disturbed him, for he really loved her as self-complacent young men
often do love girls of keen wit and analytical minds.
“Unfortunately,” he said, “I have no drawing materials with me.”
“I can supply them,” replied the girl, rising.
Reginald grunted reproachfully and started to scramble down from the
chair.
“O Reginald, forgive me. I had forgotten you came to have your poor back
scratched.”
She turned to the Artist. “Arthur, kindly hand me that nutmeg-grater
over by the honeysuckle vine.”
The Artist obeyed. The pig grunted in grateful anticipation. Galatea
applied the nutmeg-grater where she knew by experience it would do the
most good. Napoleon sniffed disgustedly, jumped down from the chair, and
went to the Poet for consolation.
“Now, Arthur,” said the girl presently, handing him the nutmeg-grater,
“you attend to Reginald while I go for the drawing materials.”
The Artist took the unfamiliar instrument, looked at it, and then at the
pig, and then at Galatea. He seemed dazed. As has been remarked before
in this truthful narrative, the Artist was a most correct and proper
young man. He was fashionably dressed, and with excellent taste. He
would have considered it a crime to wear a cravat that disagreed by so
much as a single dot or stripe from the prevailing mode. The thought of
having in any way transgressed the rules of good form, as laid down in
the exclusive club of which he was a member, would have tortured him for
weeks. Could he conscientiously scratch a pig’s back—with a cast-off
nutmeg-grater?
Galatea drew up a chair close to that occupied by Reginald. “Come,
Arthur; you will not find Reginald ungrateful.”
“Galatea,” said the Artist, with a supplicating glance into the girl’s
eyes as he moved toward the vacant chair, “when I leave this evening
will you walk part way to the station with me?”
“Are you going to be a true friend to my friend—to Reginald?”
The Poet had strolled to the other end of the veranda.
“Yes, Galatea. You could have no friend who would be unworthy of my
friendship.” In spite of the nutmeg-grater in his hand, in spite of the
waiting pig, his manner and his voice were romantic.
“Yes, Arthur, then I will walk with you to the station.” But the smile
she gave him was reflective, and at least half of it rested on the pig.
The Artist sat down obediently and applied the nutmeg-grater with a will
to Reginald’s back. Galatea disappeared within the house. Presently she
was heard calling to her brother. The Poet followed her. He found her in
the library, sitting limply in a straight-backed chair and holding her
handkerchief to her mouth. With a gesture of warning she dragged him
into her own little den off the library, closed the door, and gave her
merriment full rein. The Poet regarded her solemnly. Presently she was
able to speak, though her phrases were interrupted by convulsions of
cachinnation.
“George, it is perfectly clear—that in one respect Arthur—is
hopeless—Never, never, never—never in this world will he acquire the
slightest sense of humor. Think of it! At this moment—with an old
nutmeg-grater, he is scratching a pig’s back—with all the
seriousness—and attention to detail—that he would give to a portrait
of—the Empress of Russia—George, a little while ago I was angry with
Arthur. I thought him stupid, self-sufficient, insufferable. But now,
when I think of him out there—irreproachably attired—scratching
Reginald’s back—with all the grave politeness—and earnestness—with which
he would hand around cups of tea at one of Mrs. Van Rensellaer’s
afternoons—I—I almost love him.”
The Poet had not even smiled.
“Galatea,” he said, without a trace of his customary solemn banter,
“don’t you carry this thing too far with Arthur. He’s as good as gold.
He’s a young man among a million.”
“George, Arthur is more than human. I won’t have it. He’s got to let
himself down, like ordinary people.”
“He is a man of honor—honor that is deep-rooted, ancestral.”
“He is a slave to the perfectly correct forms endorsed by the
Knickerbocker Club.”
“He is a gentleman. He lives in the country upon acres that are his own,
and is a father to those who serve him.”
“He is sacred to the memory of ‘noblesse oblige,’ and he rubs it in.”
“Galatea, you are an impudent and improvident young woman. As your legal
guardian I would feel justified in locking you in your room, and keeping
you there until you could realize the blessings you have and the
opportunities that are open to you.”
“George, you are becoming almost as stupid as Arthur is. I wouldn’t have
thought it of you. Listen. I am going to reform Arthur. I admit he’s
worth saving. It is hopeless ever to expect him to develop a sense of
humor, but he shall at least cultivate a sympathetic interest in Bos,
Equus and Co.”
She took from her desk and thrust into the Poet’s hands pencils and a
sheet of Bristol board.
“Take these to Arthur, please. I’ll join you in a minute.”
The Poet shook his head doubtfully, but obeyed. The girl stood for a
moment with her finger on her lip, smiling. Then she took from a
work-basket needles and thread and a yard or two of faded pink ribbon,
and, picking up a somewhat dilapidated specimen of the fluffy chiffon
headgear which she affected, she returned demurely to the veranda where
the Artist was still painstakingly exercising the nutmeg-grater on
Reginald’s back. The pig lifted his nose and grunted in her face, with
language that could not be misunderstood:—
“Ah, at last! Our mutual friend here has been doing his best, but he
falls short of exactly the right touch. Evidently he’s inexperienced.”
“Thank you, Arthur,” said Galatea amiably, accepting the post which the
Artist surrendered to her. “Reginald says you have been very attentive.
Now he will reciprocate by posing in his very best manner. Attention,
Reginald!”
The pig assumed a serious and dignified expression. The girl sat beside
him, placing the chiffon affair daintily over his ears. The Artist
seated himself opposite with pencils and drawing-board. The Poet leaned
against the veranda rail and looked over the Artist’s shoulder. His long
visage had resumed its customary expression of whimsical solemnity. The
Artist’s manner was unaffectedly professional.
“Does the hat belong to the pose?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Galatea. “The idea is that of a girl thoughtful for the
comfort of her dumb friend. To protect his head from the rays of the
July sun she places upon it the hat taken from her own head, already
well protected by nature.”
“True,” commented the Poet. “I’ve often thought how chagrined the July
sun must feel when he attempts to vie with your blazing topknot.”
“As a matter of fact,” went on Galatea composedly, “the flies have been
worrying poor Reginald’s ears terribly. Hereafter he shall have the same
protection as other civilized beings.”
The Artist’s pencil moved swiftly. With needle and thread Galatea
attached a pink ribbon to each side of the hat,—while Reginald grunted
confidential inquiries in her ear,—and then tied them in a bow under his
fat chin.
“There, Reginald, you’re perfectly lovely. Now if you’ll promise to sit
perfectly still for five minutes, while the gentleman takes your
picture, I’ll give your back my personal attention.” And she showed him
the nutmeg-grater.
“Your goodness of heart is only exceeded by your beauty,” grunted the
grateful pig as plainly as words could have said it. “Believe me, I
shall always be responsive to your slightest wish.”
“I have an idea,” said the Poet. “If you will excuse me I will go and
indite a Dissertation on a Pig That was Not Roasted.” And he disappeared
into the house.
From time to time Galatea stole a glance at the Artist’s face. It had
the composure of a painter whose mind is concentrated on his subject and
who feels that he is doing conscientious work. A look of more than
admiration came into the girl’s eyes. They grew tender. The
nutmeg-grater had dropped from her hand, and she was deaf to the
wheedling grunts of Reginald. Presently she seemed troubled, as though
dissatisfied with herself.
“Arthur,” she said gently, “I didn’t expect you to do more than make a
rough sketch.”
“Oh, that’s all right, Galatea. This is a new and valuable experience to
me. I’ve neglected animals. I couldn’t have a better chance than this.
Would you mind asking Reginald to turn his face a trifle to the left?
There—that’s splendid.”
The girl bit her lip and tapped with her foot on the floor. She even
gave Reginald an impatient glance.
“I never realized until now,” said the Artist, as he took a steady look
at Reginald’s profile, “how much expression there is in a pig’s face.”
“Indeed?” said Galatea shortly.
“Of course Reginald is an exceptional pig. He has advantages, and
associations, which few pigs enjoy.”
A sharp retort leaped to the girl’s lips, but a glance at the Artist’s
perfectly serious and preoccupied expression caused her to stifle it.
“I had a horse once,” he went on, as he limned Reginald’s snout with a
sure hand, “who actually smiled in the most convincing manner. There was
no mistaking it. I suppose that was because I spent so much time with
him. After all, it is not so wonderful if domestic animals do acquire
traits of some human friend who gains their confidence and their
affection.”
Now this was one of Galatea’s favorite arguments. But, strangely enough,
the Artist’s endorsement of it in the present situation did not seem to
appeal to her. She drew her chair away from Reginald’s, ignoring his
reproaches, and asked:—
“Wouldn’t you rather finish your sketch some other time?”
“No; I am ashamed now that I did not accept your suggestion with greater
enthusiasm—Look up, Reginald! that’s the idea—in the beginning. That
double curve where the jowl meets the neck is different from anything
I’ve seen in another subject. Unless you’re tired, I’ll be grateful for
four or five minutes longer.”
He had hardly glanced at the girl. Clearly the pig was claiming his
whole attention. She turned upon Reginald a look that paralyzed him with
amazement, and then addressed the Artist in her softest voice:—
“Do you think your automobile will be safe where you left it, Arthur?”
“Oh, yes, perfectly. Look! the intelligence of Reginald is wonderful. I
was just wishing for a more serious expression, and he has already
assumed it. Wonderful, really wonderful!”
“If some mischievous boy should tamper with the rubber tires, I should
feel to blame,” said Galatea. “There are no boys about here.”
“No danger. Now if you’ll lift that bit of chiffon out of Reginald’s
eyes—Oh, you frightened the poor chap!”
Galatea turned her back on the pig. Once more she tried to show her
amicable intentions.
“I didn’t quite understand your explanation of your new sparking device,
Arthur. Does the spark ignite the gasolene? Or does the gasolene ignite
the—”
“Yes, that’s right—Would you mind giving me one look at Reginald with
the hat off? I want to be sure about that right ear.”
Galatea snatched the hat off so rudely that the pig squeaked his sense
of unmerited rebuke. The Artist drew a few rapid lines and heaved a sigh
of satisfaction. He held up the sketch for Galatea’s inspection.
“Do you think it will pass?”
“Magnificent,” she said, barely glancing at it. “Thank you so much. Now,
if you must go, I’ll get my hat and walk with you.”
[Illustration: SIT PERFECTLY STILL FOR FIVE MINUTES WHILE THE GENTLEMAN
TAKES YOUR PICTURE]
“Oh, will you? It is early. We can turn into that picturesque old
wood-road, and you can easily get back before dusk.”
Galatea took the sketch into the house, and presently returned wearing a
hat which was merely a fresher copy of the one which the Artist had
replaced on Reginald’s ears.
“Shall we invite Reginald to accompany us?” he asked. “He’s been so
good.”
Galatea’s indignant surprise nearly betrayed her. She managed to nod
assent.
“Come, Reginald,” said the Artist, cheerily.
The pig scrambled down, squeaking his delight, and the odd trio, all at
cross-purposes and none aware of it but the girl, passed out through the
gate and strolled down the road. Galatea was silent. The Artist glanced
at her with a troubled look, but her head was bent and the flapping
chiffon thing on her coils of mahogany-colored hair concealed her eyes
from his view. The Artist’s star was in the ascendant, but he was the
last who would have known it. It was a situation that called for
blundering—and the Artist could be trusted to blunder.
“It was good of you to give me that chance with the pig,” he said.
“Reginald!” exclaimed the girl. “Reginald, run home, at once,” and she
stamped her foot at the astonished pig.
With plaintive squeaks Reginald obeyed, making his short legs fly back
over the road.
They walked on in silence until they had entered the shadows of the
wood-road. Suddenly Galatea sat down on a stump, put her handkerchief to
her eyes, and began to sob.
“Why, Galatea, what have I done!” The Artist turned pale. “Are you ill?
Shall I go for help—for a doctor?”
An emphatic shake from the shapeless chiffon thing.
“Do you want to be alone? Shall I leave you?”
Another shake—and more sobs.
The Artist fell on his knees beside the stump and dared to take her
hand.
“Galatea, never in this world could I knowingly give you one moment’s
pain. You know how I love you, and I know how hopeless is my love. I
shall continue to love you to my dying day, and there is no sacrifice I
would not make to see you happy. Tell me, Galatea, how I have offended
you.”
She raised her head and looked at him steadily. He wondered that she did
not look her displeasure. Instead, there was something in her
expression—he could not think what—that made his heart thump.
“Arthur,” she said, “will you do just as I tell you?”
“Only try me, Galatea.”
“Stand out there, in the middle of the road.”
He did so. She rose and faced him at arm’s length.
“In the first place, don’t you dare to interrupt or contradict me.”
He bowed, wondering.
“Arthur, I’m a mean, low, deceitful creature, and I don’t deserve any
consideration whatever from anybody. Just now I’ve made up my mind to
reform—but that will take time. I want you to come out to see us often
and note how I’m getting on. Now, look over your left shoulder.”
He turned his face from her. Quick as a flash she leaned forward, her
lips brushed his cheek, and the next instant she had turned and was
flying down the road homeward. He stretched out his arms and started in
pursuit of her, crying out:—
“Galatea! Stop! Come back!”
Then he remembered her commands, and, seeing that she ran faster than
ever, prudently turned his steps in the opposite direction. But he
couldn’t feel his feet touch the ground. Yet, in the midst of his tumult
of exultation, he was puzzled. Suddenly he smote himself on the chest
and exclaimed:—
“Of course. It’s because I had sense enough to be polite to the pig.”
IV
_The Obsequies of Bos Nemo_
Not all was gladness and light in the entwined lives of Bos, Equus and
Co. There came a day early in July when the confidence of Galatea and
the Poet in their four-legged partners was stretched almost to the
breaking-point. But for the wisdom of the Poet, which assured him that,
after all, civilization is only a thin veneer which is liable to crack
open under stress of provocation and reveal the savage man or the
unenlightened beast, Mrs. Cowslip and her bull-calf, on that memorable
day, would have been condemned to solitary confinement in the barn,
while Napoleon, the bull-terrier, would have fallen victim to the
flimsiest of circumstantial evidence.
Ordinarily the activities of Bos, Equus and Co. did not have their daily
awakening until at least an hour of sunshine had striven with the
dew-laden meadow. Gabriel’s duties were light, and rheumatic warnings
urged him against braving early damps. Amanda, most energetic of
housewives, refrained from disturbing her pots and pans out of regard
for the Poet and his sister, who dearly loved that last hour of slumber
made more sweet by the chirpings of early birds under their windows.
On this particular morning the dozing Poet was conscious that the voices
of the birds were eclipsed by ominous rumblings which, instead of
arousing him to complete consciousness, plunged him into the midst of a
perilous adventure. He was on the deck of an ocean liner enveloped in
the dense fogs of that awesome region off the Banks of Newfoundland. His
body and soul were shaken by the vibrations of the siren, whose
long-drawn warning was being echoed from out of the mists. No, it was
not an echo—it was another siren. Its menace was growing louder! A
ghastly gray shape hove near. The officer on the bridge seemed frozen
with terror. The relentless ocean, scoffing at sirens and rudders, was
hurling two ships into a fatal embrace. The Poet jumped for a
life-preserver, striking his head violently upon—upon an old-fashioned
walnut bedpost.
Then he realized that it was the melancholy voice of Mrs. Cowslip,
interrupted by lamenting bellows from Gustavius, that had so nearly
brought him to a watery grave. He ran to the open window, and heard
Amanda complaining:
“Gabe, what on earth is the matter with the critters? For the land sakes
do git up!”
From his window the Poet could see Mrs. Cowslip and the bull-calf side
by side, with their necks stretched out over the barnyard gate, sending
forth their lamentations toward the bottom of the pasture, where the
brook ran under the stone-wall into a thicket of old willow trees
heavily encumbered with wild grapevines. He could hear Cleopatra and
Clarence clattering about uneasily on the floor of their stalls, while
Reginald squealed for his breakfast with more than his usual insistence,
and their neighbors in the hennery cackled inquiringly.
Gabriel was kicking on his boots outside the kitchen door when the Poet
and Galatea hurried down, eager to know how they could calm the feelings
of their four-legged partners.
“Oh, pshaw!” said Gabriel, seizing a tin milk-pail, “critters are like
folks; they have their ornery spells without knowin’ what’s the matter
with ’em.”
“I never saw Mrs. Cowslip paw the dust up over her head before,” said
Galatea. “See! Now Gustavius is doing it.”
“She’s giving her offspring lessons in some mysterious rites of her
species,” said the Poet oracularly. “I shall investigate and make a note
of it.”
“No, it’s instinct,” said Gabriel, as the Poet and his sister
accompanied him to the barnyard. “You can edicate critters till you’re
blue in the face. You can teach ’em to act like human folks almost, and
then some day, all of a sudden, they’ll forgit everything and do the
same fool things their great-grandmothers did.”
Gabriel entered the barnyard with a three-legged stool, butted his head
into the flank of Mrs. Cowslip, and proceeded to play a pleasant tune on
the bottom of the tin pail. Gustavius was not distracted by this
familiar operation. Suddenly he redoubled his bellowings over the
barnyard gate. Mrs. Cowslip wavered between surges of emotion and her
respect for Gabriel.
“So, boss,” commanded the man with the half-filled pail between his
knees. And then, as Mrs. Cowslip switched her tail in his face: “Stand
still, darn ye!”
Such language at such a time was not wise. Mrs. Cowslip, ignoring
intervening obstacles, rushed to join Gustavius in a duet of
lamentation, leaving Gabriel on his back with the milk-pail overturned
into his protesting bosom. He rose, gasping, with arms hanging limp like
a man trying to get as far away from his clothes as possible. At that
moment Amanda emerged wildly from the hennery, screaming:—
“Gabe! Gabe! They’s only four eggs under the speckled hen!”
“What’s that?” asked Gabriel, startled out of his fury at Mrs. Cowslip,
although he could feel streams of warm milk trickling down into his
boots. “Only four, Amanda? The hull dozen was there, yesterday. I took
the hen off an’ counted ’em.”
They looked at each other as though stunned by a calamity too dreadful
for words. Amanda was first to recover her speech. Her eye traveled down
Gabriel’s soaking garments to the tin pail bottom up on the ground, and,
with the genuine feminine logic which men find so charming in such
moments, she said:—
“Gabe, I do believe you’ve spilled all the morning’s milk!”
“No,” drawled the Poet soothingly, “he has it all in his pockets.”
“Hush, George,” said Galatea. And then to Amanda:—
“Were the eggs valuable ones?”
“Valuable!” exclaimed Gabriel. “They was only one settin’ of ’em in th’
hull county. Amanda was crazy for ’em, and so was Si Blodgett, darn the
old hypocrite! He and Amanda bid against each other till I had to pay
fifty cents apiece for them eggs!”
“Oh dear!” said Galatea. “Then they weren’t hen’s eggs at all?”
“Hen eggs? I should say not. They were Golden Guinea eggs, and no more
to be had for love or money.”
Mrs. Cowslip and Gustavius lowed dismally, casting dust upon their
heads.
“There’s sympathy for you,” observed the Poet. “Never tell me again that
a cow lacks intelligence, or a bull-calf perspicacity. Any one can see
that they’re bemoaning disaster to those eggs.”
“For the land sakes, Gabe, turn the critters out,” said Amanda.
“No,” said the Poet solemnly, disregarding Galatea’s warnings not to
trifle with disaster, “they must be held as witnesses; a crime has been
committed.”
Just then Napoleon crawled under the fence, lifted one front paw, cocked
one ear, and looked inquiringly in the face of the dripping Gabriel.
Amanda seemed startled by a sudden suspicion.
“Gabe,” she said, “do you suppose the dog—”
“I’ll settle that in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” said Gabriel, who had
already divined Amanda’s suspicion.
He took the whimpering terrier by the collar and dragged him toward the
gate.
“Wait a bit; not so fast,” said the Poet. “Where’s your evidence against
Napoleon?”
Gabriel pointed to certain yellow stains about the terrier’s muzzle.
“That’s egg—Golden Guinea egg at fifty cents apiece. Open the gate,
Mandy.”
“What are you going to do?” demanded the Poet. “You can’t condemn and
execute a member of the firm of Bos, Equus and Co. on one little bit of
circumstantial evidence.”
“No, indeed not,” said Galatea.
“But I can give him the third degree, darn him, an’ make him confess,”
declared Gabriel, who, as constable of the township, had taken pains to
post himself on the latest police methods.
The suspected criminal, his accusers, and his two champions, proceeded
to the hennery and to the nest of the incubating speckled hen, amid a
chorus of cackling inquiries. Straight up to the ravished nest Napoleon
was led. The speckled hen pecked him sharply on the nose. Napoleon
yelped.
“There!” exclaimed Galatea. “It’s perfectly plain that the hen could
defend herself against a small dog like Napoleon.”
“Lift her off the nest,” said Gabriel.
The speckled hen squawked, but Amanda was firm. Galatea lifted up the
terrier and rubbed his nose in the nest.
“What did I tell ye?” said Gabriel in triumph. “D’ye see the guilty look
in his face?”
“It isn’t guilt,” declared Galatea hotly; “it’s reproach—reproach for
your unjust suspicions.”
“It’s righteous indignation,” said the Poet.
“It’s guilt,” said Amanda, restoring the hen to her four eggs. “When a
dog has been stealin’ eggs, an’ you rub his nose in the nest, he always
looks that way.”
“Besides, there’s the yaller on his nose,” said Gabriel. “Napoleon,
you’re goin’ to git th’ lickin’ of your lifetime.”
“Wait,” said Galatea. “That’s yellow paint on Napoleon’s nose. I
repainted some croquet balls yesterday, and he’s been playing with
them.”
“Ah,” said the Poet, “think of all the innocent men who have been hanged
on circumstantial evidence.”
“It’s egg,” said Gabriel stubbornly.
“It’s paint,” said Galatea. “Gabriel, don’t you dare punish Napoleon.”
“At least it’s a case for the experts,” observed the Poet. “We must have
a chemical analysis of Napoleon’s nose before he can be convicted.”
“Gosh!” said Gabriel, “what a lot of fuss all on account of a dog.”
“You forget,” said Galatea. “Napoleon is a member of our family; we’re
all on terms of equality here.”
During this argument for and against the guilt of Napoleon, Clarence,
with his head through a small window in the wall which separated his
stall from the hennery, had been an interested spectator. As though to
indicate his approval of Galatea’s last remark, he bared his teeth and
nipped Gabriel sharply in the region of his hip pocket.
“Ouch!” said Gabriel.
“One more witness for the defense,” said the Poet. “Hello, what’s this?”
A ragged-edged square of dark woolen cloth, with a blue stripe, hung
from a rusty nail in the ledge of the window through which Clarence had
withdrawn his head in dodging a slap from Gabriel.
“Behold!” said the Poet, displaying the bit of cloth, which was about
the size of a man’s hand. “Behold proof of Napoleon’s innocence!”
“How d’ye make that out?” demanded Gabriel.
“By the process known as inductive reasoning; the same kind of reasoning
which enabled Edgar Allan Poe to solve the Nassau Street murder mystery
after the police had given it up. It is perfectly plain that the thief
who stole those eight expensive eggs wore trousers of the same pattern
as this bit of cloth. In taking the eggs from the nest he stood where
you were standing, Gabriel, when Clarence nipped you. The speckled hen
was not to be ravished of her eggs without a struggle. She pecked and
she squawked. Clarence heard her and flew to the rescue. He put his head
through the window, as he did just now, and he nipped the thief just as
he nipped you, Gabriel—that is, in the region of the hip pocket. Only in
this case Clarence knew that he was dealing with a violator of the law,
and he nipped deep. His teeth tore away and hung upon that waiting nail
the clue which will one day convict the criminal. Look for the man whose
dark, blue-striped trousers have a patch over or near the hip pocket.
How strange are the ways of justice!”
“Well, I swan to man!” said Gabriel.
Amanda was twisting the corners of her apron nervously. Gabriel gave her
a stern glance.
“Mandy, have you been losin’ any more keys of the henhouse?”
“I missed one yesterday,” said Amanda meekly. “Maybe I left it in the
lock, havin’ my hands full of fresh eggs.”
Gabriel snorted. He released Napoleon, who ran to Galatea for
consolation, and got it; and then the court adjourned to the barnyard,
where Mrs. Cowslip and Gustavius were still lamenting.
“I suggest,” said the Poet, “that, as the case is tolerably clear
against the man with the blue-striped trousers, we excuse these somewhat
doubtful witnesses, who seem to have troubles of their own.”
Thereupon all the four-legged members of Bos, Equus and Co. were turned
loose, and the two-legged members repaired to the house in search of
their belated breakfast.
During the next hour the agony of mind displayed by Mrs. Cowslip and
Gustavius was somewhat eased by the fresh flavor of the dew-washed grass
with which they set about restoring the rotundity of their sleek bodies.
But they grazed always in the direction of the stone fence where the
brook ran under it, and ever and anon they lifted up their half-filled
mouths and mourned as eloquently as could be expected of a cow and a
bull-calf in such circumstances.
William, he of the big horns and whiskers, who was similarly
employed,—there being no succulent sheets or pillow-slips left out to
bleach at so early an hour,—regarded his melancholy companions with a
coldly critical eye. Reginald could be heard grunting thankfully among
the artichokes. It was Cleopatra and Clarence who, alone, had sufficient
good breeding to accompany their morning repast with amiable
conversation.
“Mother,” the colt was saying, “what do you make of the extraordinary
conduct of Mrs. Cowslip and her offspring? Is it colic, or is the
weather going to change?”
“My son,” replied Cleopatra between nibbles, “when you have lived as
long as I have, you will cease all attempts to discover the motives
which actuate the cow kind. Beings of that species have no intelligence.
They have only a sort of blind instinct and an emotional capacity which
stamps them as primitive in the extreme, and therefore unworthy to
associate on equal terms with our highly intellectual race.”
Clarence turned this chunk of wisdom over in his mind several times,
and, being unable to assimilate it, observed:—
“I overheard Mrs. Cowslip saying something to Gustavius about smelling
death in the air this morning. I at once counted noses, and none of the
family was missing.”
“That reminds me, my son, that the cow kind have a strange custom which
probably dates back to some prehistoric ancestor as superstitious and
unphilosophic as themselves. I refer to their custom of holding unseemly
ceremonies over their dead. I remember once—”
“But, mother,” interrupted Clarence,—for the colt was young and
Cleopatra was an indulgent parent,—“there are none of the cow kind in
our family except Mrs. Cowslip and Gustavius. You can see for yourself
that they are both alive.”
“Haven’t I told you, my son, that out in the great world beyond the
stone fence—which you may visit some day when you are older—there are
many families like ours, including the cow kind?”
“Now I understand, mother; perhaps some Gustavius of the great world
beyond the stone fence has met with a violent death, and our Gustavius
and his mother feel some intimation of it in the breeze which comes from
that direction.”
“My son,” said Cleopatra, with a proud glance at her offspring, “I see
daily evidences that the development of your intelligence does credit to
my teaching. Doubtless you have hit upon the right solution of this
mystery. Observe: Mrs. Cowslip and her son, as they graze, proceed
steadily in the direction of the stone fence. It would not surprise me
if you should soon see with your own eyes some such ceremony as I have
mentioned.”
Cleopatra and Clarence continued their nibbling in silence, while each
kept one speculative eye upon the comrades whom they considered so far
beneath them. William evidently had pleasurable anticipations, also, for
he postponed his usual morning observation of the surrounding country
from the woodshed roof. Presently he was observed to rear his horns
aloft and stamp one foot menacingly.
“Look at that fool goat, mother,” said Clarence. “He’s forever looking
for trouble.”
Cleopatra raised her head and looked off down the road. Then she went on
quietly nibbling.
“Can you see anything, mother?” asked Clarence, who was thrilling with
curiosity.
“Nothing, my son—nothing but that strange young man in the buggy that
runs without my assistance.”
“Gracious!” exclaimed the colt, kicking up his heels gleefully. “Now
we’ll have fun.”
“No, my son, the uncanny thing is beneath our notice.”
Clarence looked at his mother in astonishment.
“The other time that evil-smelling red thing came swooping into our
front yard,” he said, “you kicked two ribs out of it because you said it
was a menace to our means of livelihood.”
“Hush, my son. Were they not compelled, after all, to rely on my
services to get the thing off the premises? With a slight injury it had
no more life in it than an ordinary buggy. I thought of this while I was
dragging the clumsy affair to the blacksmith shop. No, my son, that
sputtering red thing with the shocking bad breath is a false alarm. Our
occupation is safe.”
Indeed, the Artist, as he gracefully turned his Red Ripper into the
driveway and stopped near the veranda, was relieved to notice that its
late enemies gave it only an indifferent glance. He was attired from top
to toe in the most irreproachable new automobile togs, and in his
buttonhole was an orchid of price—purple, shading delicately into pink.
The Artist’s spirits appeared to be as high as his boutonnière was
high-priced. It was as though some invisible herald had announced: “Lo,
the bridegroom cometh.” The truth is, it was the Artist’s first visit
since the day of Galatea’s impulsive act of penitence in the wood-road,
and he still thrilled with the memory of the swift kiss she had left
upon his cheek the instant before she sped away. All this was well
enough; but it was impossible for the Artist not to blunder. His present
blunder was in being over-confident in the memory of that kiss.
The moment the Poet’s mahogany-haired sister, in a trig costume of
glossy white linen, including the prettiest of high-heeled little
slippers, came out upon the veranda and cast her eye over the
immaculate, exultant visitor, you would have been sorry for him—sorry
that God had not gifted him with a modicum of subtlety in matters
feminine.
“Good-morning, Arthur.”
Galatea’s voice was as cool as one of Amanda’s unplucked cucumbers.
Arthur sprang lightly up the steps, and, screened by the honeysuckle
vine, seized her hand and kissed it ardently.
“Why, Arthur! Are you ill? Has the sun affected your head?”
“Don’t play with me, Galatea, I’m too happy—so happy that I’m serious.
The time has come for us to understand each other.”
Galatea looked curiously at the much-kissed hand.
“Arthur, you’ll forgive me if I confess to doubts about ever being able
to understand you.”
“Dear—don’t, don’t say that, after that moment in the wood-road.”
“The wood-road?” She put her finger pensively to her lip. “Oh, yes, now
I remember. I brushed a mosquito off your cheek.”
The Artist would not be warned—it was not his fault, he was built that
way. He took her hand again.
“Galatea! Galatea! For the first time you let me tell you how much I
love you. You confessed that you had not treated me with consideration,
and you asked me to come often and note the progress of your
reformation.”
Here the Artist paused and kissed Galatea’s hand a great many more
times. He did not see the mischief in her eyes as she drew her hand away
and asked:—
“Arthur, tell me, why do you do that?”
“Why do I kiss your hand?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps it is because I have not courage to kiss your—Galatea, why did
you kiss my cheek in the wood-road?”
A series of throaty bellows were wafted to their ears from the direction
of the stone fence at the bottom of the meadow. Galatea drew the Artist
toward the end of the veranda where there was a clear view.
“Oh, Arthur! Look at Mrs. Cowslip! She’ll kill poor Gustavius!”
The bull-calf’s situation was indeed precarious. He was neatly balanced
on his stomach on top of the stone fence, while his mother, with frantic
bellows, after the manner of her kind was endeavoring to boost him over
with her horns. Gabriel was hastening to the scene, with a pitchfork in
his hand, and Napoleon, forgetful of late humiliations, barking at his
heels. Cleopatra and Clarence were snorting their alarm from a little
distance. It remained for William to relieve the general tension by
planting a terrific butt with such precision that Gustavius, launched
headlong from the fence, made his first actual acquaintance with the
great world beyond. Before Gabriel with his pitchfork could head off
Mrs. Cowslip, she, with a mighty leap and scramble, joined her
offspring, and together, bellowing, they rushed into the tangle of
willows and wild grapevines. Gabriel followed with Napoleon.
Galatea, having alarmed the Poet, hurried with her brother and the
Artist down the meadow. Before they reached the fence, Gabriel’s head
appeared over it. He waved the pitchfork, addressing Galatea.
“Git back! Git back! A cow funeral ain’t no place for wimmen folks!”
“Oh, Mrs. Cowslip must be dead,” sobbed Galatea, restraining the Artist
as the Poet hurried on and shot his long legs over the stone fence.
“Poor, dear, good Mrs. Cowslip! Promise me, Arthur, that you’ll save
Gustavius.”
She was clinging to his arm beseechingly. Arthur experienced one of his
rare moments of real intelligence. He drew a long breath, and thrust out
his chest.
“And if I succeed, Galatea?”
“Oh, if you succeed, Arthur,—dear Arthur,—I shall try and remember, some
day, to tell you how much I—how much I really love you.”
The Artist had the most excellent good sense to kiss her fervently, on
the lips, and the superlative intelligence thereon to leave her and rush
to the rescue of Gustavius. Galatea returned to the house, went into the
library, and for quite half an hour kept her eyes fixed on one page of a
book that was upside down.
The spectacle that met the Poet’s gaze as he burst through the grapevine
thicket caused him to exclaim:—
“The obsequies of Bos Nemo, as I’m a sinner!”
The truth of this remark was obvious. On the margin of the brook,
whither his instinct had prompted him to crawl when fatally stricken
with what Gabriel explained was “the black leg,” lay the lifeless body
of a strange steer, nameless so far as any one present knew; and near
by, with their noses to the ground while they pawed dust over their
shoulders, Mrs. Cowslip and Gustavius, according to the custom of their
kind, were bellowing and mooing the last rites for the dead. In vain
Gabriel prodded them with his pitchfork; the obsequies continued with an
increasing display of emotion.
“This is news to me,” said the Artist, when Gabriel had explained that
horned cattle never neglect to hold funeral ceremonies over the dead of
their kind. “It’s like a wake—barring the pipes and bottles.”
“Darn the critters’ skins,” said Gabriel; “when that cow an’ bull-calf
come out of their tantrum they’re goin’ to be locked in the barn to
think it over the rest of the day.”
“No,” said the Poet, “that’s not according to the rules and regulations
that govern the firm of Bos, Equus and Co. Equal rights and privileges
to all, irrespective of the individual equipment as to legs—that’s our
constitution, Gabriel. Mrs. Cowslip has just as much right to her
funeral as I have to mine. Besides, can’t you see, she’s teaching
Gustavius the orthodox bovine ceremony.”
Leaving the Poet and Gabriel in charge of the mourners, being assured
that their grief would presently wear itself out, the Artist hastened
back to Galatea. He found her in the library, and his thrilling tale of
how he saved the life of Gustavius merited all the reward it inspired.
[Illustration: SEIZED HER HAND AND KISSED IT ARDENTLY]
V
_Equus Minor, Detective_
“Of all the crazy notions!” sniffed Amanda.
She was filling glass jars with raspberries out of a kettle on the
roaring kitchen stove, while Gabriel screwed down the metal tops,
perspiring freely in the super-heated midsummer temperature.
“Pshaw!” said Gabriel, “this here Poet an’ his sister ain’t a bit
crazier’n the Professor was. D’ye recollect what the Professor said
’bout ‘the emotional capacities of so-called dumb animals,’—I seem to
hear his lingo now,—jest before he went away, after playin’ his flute in
the barnyard till pretty near midnight?”
“The Professor was a nice man,” admitted Amanda, “but when it came to
dealin’ with critters he was crazy as a bedbug.”
“I dunno, Mandy. I sneaked out to th’ barn that night, an’ th’ way th’
cow an’ calf took to th’ Professor’s music made my flesh creep. You
know, Mandy, they ain’t nothin’ in natur’ so doggone stubborn an’
foolish as a bull-calf—not even a pig. Well, you ought ‘a’ seen th’ ca’m
an’ peaceful way that bull-calf laid his chin on the Professor’s
shoulder an’ bla-a-ted softly to himself when th’ slow an’ solemn tunes
was bein’ played.”
“Gabe, you tend to them jars an’ quit your jokin’.”
“Honest, Mandy, true as I live an’ breathe. An’ when the Professor see I
was lookin’ on, he stopped playin’ an said to me: ‘Gabriel,’ says he,
‘give me time, an’ I’ll teach this bull-calf to sing the doxology.’ An’
I’m darned if I don’t believe he’d ‘a’ done it.”
“I’ve heard dogs howl when somebody played the fiddle,” observed Amanda,
“an’ that’s all there was to it. You can’t say the Professor ever had
the crazy notion this here Poet has of givin’ a birthday party to a
yearlin’ colt.”
“’T ain’t th’ Poet, Mandy; it’s his red-headed sister. She was out to
th’ barn th’ first thing this mornin’, while I was milkin’, an’ braided
th’ colt’s mane full of red and blue ribbons. I saw her kiss Clarence on
the nose an’ wish him many happy returns o’ th’ day.”
“For the land sakes!” said Amanda.
“She got me to fix up a table in the shade of the old chestnut on th’
lawn, out of a barn door an’ a couple of sawhorses. There’s goin’ to be
a birthday dinner at two o’clock, an’ all th’ critters are invited.”
“Be you goin’, Gabe?” inquired Amanda, with subtle sarcasm.
“Gosh, no! The dog an’ I ain’t speakin’ since that trouble ’bout th’
Golden Guinea eggs. You know it’s reely Napoleon that’s givin’ th’
party.”
“Gabe, you jest go ’long!”
“Honest, Mandy. That’s th’ Poet’s idee. He says th’ dog couldn’t do less
after th’ colt savin’ him from that lickin’, ‘count o’ them eggs.”
“Well, I never!” Amanda sat down and fanned herself with her apron.
“Yes; an’ they’s goin’ to be speech-makin’ an’ music. That there artist
chap is comin’ out with his banjo, an’ while the critters are eatin’ an’
drinkin’ he an’ th’ Poet with his guitar are goin’ to play duets, jest
like they do in them high-toned restaurants down to New York. I heard
’em talkin’ it over when I was fixin’ up the table out under the
chestnut.”
“Be you sure the artist-chap’s comin’, Gabe?” asked Amanda, all at once
losing interest in the main topic.
“W’y, yes. W’y not? Anything wrong, Mandy?”
“I dunno; she’s been treatin’ him awful cool the last few days.”
Gabriel laughed. “I was awful gone on a red-headed girl once
myself,—long ’fore I met you, Mandy,—an’ I tell you they keep you
guessin’. You never know how to take ’em. It’s always a toss-up what to
say or do when you court a red-headed girl. One day you can grab her and
kiss her behind the door, an’ she’ll act as if she wanted to thank you
for it, an’ the very next day she’ll go into tantrums if you even wink
at her. I tell ye, Mandy, my red-headed girl kept me guessin’ which way
she’d jump till I got so thin I couldn’t cast a shadder.”
“Served you right,” snapped Amanda. “Men are so stupid. I s’pose when
you got so thin she could see right through you, she was thankful to
settle down as an old maid.”
“No,” said Gabriel solemnly, “she married and proved a great blessin’ to
her husband.”
“You don’t say! How could that be?”
“W’y, ye see,” drawled Gabriel, “he was th’ livin’ skeleton in a circus,
an’ a month after th’ weddin’ he’d lost so much flesh that they doubled
his salary.”