“May I come into your kitchen, Amanda?”
It was Galatea. She was biting her lips, which were hardly more
brilliant than her mass of mahogany hair, and her eyes twinkled.
“I merely wanted to ask Gabriel if he has time to pull some young
carrots, turnips, and red beets for our birthday party. George has dug
some artichokes for Reginald.” Then she added: “Of course you’re coming
to the party? There’ll be music, you know—guitar and banjo duets.”
“Sartin, sartin,” said Gabriel with alacrity.
“You’ll want some loaf-sugar for the mare and her colt,” said Amanda,
bustling about.
“How good of you! Now I’ll go and give Napoleon his instructions as host
of the occasion.”
With the exception of the bull-terrier, all the four-legged members of
the family had their noses together in the shade of some willows down by
the brook. They were exchanging views on a matter that puzzled them
greatly. Cleopatra was apprehensive about the ribbons entwined in
Clarence’s mane.
“I’ve half a notion,” she was saying to her gayly decorated colt, “that
you and I had better take to our heels till this thing’s over, whatever
it means. It’s too much like what I’ve seen at the County Fair in my
time—yearling colts fixed up that way led off by some strange man and
never heard of again.”
“It’s all right, mother,” said Clarence, who was very proud of his
ribbons. “You can trust that red-headed girl. When she put these pretty
things on me, she laughed and kissed me on the nose. Besides, look at
that fool pig.”
Truly, Reginald did look rather foolish with the fine bouquet that was
tied in the kink of his tail with a bit of yellow ribbon.
“That’s all I got when I went up to the house to get my back scratched,”
grunted Reginald. “But Gustavius was no better off. He wanted that
long-legged chap to rub his silly little horns, but was sent away with
that jimcrack over his ears.”
Reginald referred to a garland which had given the bull-calf quite an
ancient Roman look until Mrs. Cowslip had eaten half of it. But this was
no more than fair, as Gustavius had done as much for his mother, whose
crumpled horn still retained some twisted stems of daisies and
dandelions. As for William, no amount of butting could have freed him
from the trelliswork of wire, silver foil, and sunflowers of which his
sturdy horns were the foundation. He seemed grieved and humiliated over
it.
“And you, yourself, mother,” resumed Clarence, “are included in some
scheme of general festivity. Never have I seen the luxuriant hair of
your tail crimped so beautifully.”
“It may be that the Professor is returning,” suggested Mrs. Cowslip. “I,
for my part, shall welcome him warmly.”
“Ah,” said Reginald, “when you mention the Professor I am thrilled by
the most delicious memories. I seem to feel his highly cultivated
fingers along my grateful spine at this moment.”
Suddenly Gustavius gave a truculent little bellow, and shook his horns.
“By the fat on my ribs, it’s the dog!” said Reginald, who secretly liked
Napoleon as little as did the bull-calf, with memories of sharp teeth
nipping his heels; “I marvel at his condescension!”
“What did I tell you, mother?” said Clarence. “No one ever heard of a
dog being led off, yet look at the ribbons on Napoleon.”
The terrier was truly a gorgeous spectacle as he trotted proudly down
the pasture. A decoration of red, white, and blue ribbons crossed his
broad chest diagonally, passing under one foreleg, the two ends being
tied in a large bow on his shoulders. The colt advanced to meet him.
They had always been staunch friends from their mutual infancy; so
friendly, in fact, that when Amanda was away and Clarence expressed a
desire to go into the kitchen in search of stray tidbits, Napoleon
always managed to be looking the other way. Now, as they met, the colt
with head lowered and ears pointed forward in token of the utmost
amiability and good will, the terrier leaped up, licking his velvet nose
and barking eagerly:—
“You are to come up to the house at once, old chum; everything is
ready.”
“Is Amanda away, and the kitchen door open?” asked Clarence.
“Oh, this is different,” said Napoleon hastily. “It’s the red-headed
girl’s affair. What do you say to young turnips, and carrots, and lumps
of sugar afterwards?”
“Will there be enough for mother, too?” asked Clarence, taking care not
to speak loud enough to excite anticipations liable to disappointment.
“Yes, for everybody,” barked Napoleon so that all could hear; “you’re
all to come at once.”
“Well,” grumbled Gustavius, with a shake of his sprouting horns, “you
needn’t be so stuck up about it.”
“I had an engagement with the red-headed girl, anyway,” grunted
Reginald, starting for the house at a fast trot.
“You just head off that pig, Napoleon, or he’ll make a mess of
everything,” said the colt. “Come on, mother!”
With Clarence and Cleopatra in the lead, and Reginald sent squealing
back to the rear with Napoleon’s teeth at his heels, the summoned guests
proceeded, with rather more decorum than was to be expected, to the
banquet table under the old chestnut, where Galatea awaited them
smilingly, with outstretched hands. Catching sight of several inviting
peck measures on the table, Mrs. Cowslip and Gustavius broke into a
trot, with the result that the last dozen yards were a neck-and-neck
race, except for Reginald, whose fat legs forced him to squeal
plaintively along behind. As the guests arrived, Gabriel and Amanda
hastened out from the kitchen, while the Poet, doubled up over his
guitar, and the Artist, holding his banjo gracefully, with their backs
to the chestnut tree, strummed forth a spirited march.
“Napoleon,” said Galatea, “take your place at the head of the table.”
The terrier leaped into the host’s chair, put his paws on the cloth, and
awaited further instructions.
“Come, Clarence; as the guest of honor you will stand on Napoleon’s
right, and, Cleopatra, your place is by the side of your son.”
With a pat on the nose for each, the girl brought them to their places.
Meanwhile Gabriel had coaxed Mrs. Cowslip and Gustavius, with William,
to places opposite them, while Amanda prudently stood guard over the
peck measures. Galatea poured balm upon the wounded feelings of Reginald
by inviting him to take the chair at the foot of the table. It was a
most fortunate arrangement. The pig would have died rather than show
himself inferior to Napoleon in the matter of table manners.
“Galatea, what’s the first course?” sang out the Poet.
“Turnips _au naturel_, George, with chicken _à la Marengo_ for
Napoleon.”
The Poet, for the first time in his life, almost smiled.
“Arthur,” he said, “I think ‘The Battle of Waterloo with Variations’
will go well with Napoleon’s chicken _à la Marengo_.”
Rendered more than usually docile by the music, the guests ate their
turnips decorously from the hands of Galatea, Amanda, and Gabriel, while
Napoleon, as host, nibbled daintily at his special dish. When the
chicken and the turnips had disappeared, the host and his guests looked
expectantly at Galatea. Napoleon thumped his short tail against the back
of his chair. The music ended with a flourish.
“George,” said Galatea, “Napoleon requests you to make a few appropriate
remarks.”
The Poet laid aside his instrument, unfolded his lank limbs, and strode
to the side of Napoleon, fixing his earnest gaze on Clarence, the guest
of honor, who pricked up his ears. The other guests—whose usual morning
indulgence in grass and artichokes had eliminated the fiercer gustatory
pangs—were round-eyed and attentive. Amanda caressed Mrs. Cowslip’s
crumpled horn to hide her embarrassment at being a party to such
foolishness, while Gabriel chuckled inwardly.
“Clarence,” began the Poet, “and fellow members of the flourishing firm
of Bos, Equus and Co., we have come together upon this happy occasion to
declare a dividend of mutual confidence and esteem. The occasion—which
may have escaped the notice of some of you—is the first anniversary of
the birth of one of our youngest, yet most enthusiastic members.
Clarence, many happy returns of this day. We salute you.”
The Poet bowed to the colt, who nodded his head intelligently.
“Yes, yes!” barked Napoleon excitedly; words could not have said it
plainer.
“Gosh!” whispered Gabriel to Amanda, “who would have believed it?”
“Clarence,” resumed the speaker, “the host of this joyful occasion”—he
turned to Napoleon, who nearly wagged himself off his chair—“desires to
express publicly his thanks for the great service you rendered him in
that dark hour”—here the Poet frowned and shook a reproving finger at
the chuckling Gabriel—“when he faced unjust punishment on the monstrous
charge of having ravished the nest of the speckled hen. Then and there,
Clarence, you rebuked the short-sighted minion of the law by nipping him
smartly in the same sensitive region where you had nipped the real
marauder, tearing from him the clue which will sooner or later bring him
to justice.”
The Poet took from his pocket a ragged square of blue-striped dark cloth
and submitted it for Clarence’s inspection. The colt laid back his ears
and nipped at it. The Poet cast a glance of solemn triumph around the
table.
“Friends and partners,” he said, “do we need any further evidence that
it was indeed Clarence who was a witness of the crime, and performed
this service for Napoleon and for justice?”
The point was overwhelmingly conceded.
“Doggone my skin!” whispered Gabriel to Amanda, “th’ colt remembers that
rag by th’ smell!”
The Poet put the damning evidence back in his pocket. Suddenly Amanda
nudged Gabriel.
“Of all things, Gabe, here comes Si Blodgett with a basket on his arm!”
An undersized, sanctimonious person, with a smooth upper lip and a tuft
on his chin, carrying a covered basket, was approaching from the
driveway. He seemed pained at the evidences of festivities progressing.
When he had approached within a few yards of the banquet-table he put
down the basket carefully and said:
“Brother Gabriel, Sister Amanda, what is the meaning of this unseemly
scene of levity?”
The Poet looked interested.
“If, as your manner indicates,” he said suavely, “you don’t approve of
this little celebration, I recommend that you address your remarks to
headquarters. I speak for the host,—Napoleon, here at the head of the
table,—who is giving a birthday party to our friend and comrade,
Clarence.”
He waved his hand at the colt, and paused expectantly. The visitor
rolled up his eyes and raised his hands.
“Vanity, vanity, all is vanity!”
“Oh, your name must be Blodgett,” said the Poet. “I’ve often heard you
mentioned. Won’t you join us?”
“I would join you in prayer,” groaned Si Blodgett. “Would that I might
snatch you from the seat of the scornful.”