“Si Blodgett fell off a haystack an’ thinks he’s goin’ to die. He wants
to confess about them eggs.”
“Oh, the poor man!” said Galatea.
“This isn’t the first time I’ve been mistaken for a clergyman—that is,
at first sight,” said the Poet. “Is he really badly hurt, Gabriel?”
“They ain’t no bones broke, but Si’s groanin’ somethin’ terrible an’
says it’s his insides.”
“But he can’t want _me_,” said the Poet. “Why, I put together the links
of circumstantial evidence that proved he stole the eggs.”
“That’s jest it. Si says you’re th’ Lord’s instrument sent to awaken his
sleepin’ conscience—darn him!—an’ he’s afraid of hell-fire if you don’t
come an’ hear his confession.”
“Poor man!” said Galatea, with tears in her eyes. “Come, George, I’ll go
with you. It’s only a step. Arthur, you wait here; we’ll soon be back.”
Conducted by Gabriel, they disappeared down the road, and the Artist was
alone with his fate. He had no premonition of disaster. He lay on the
grass with his eyes closed, wrapped in the joys and miseries of being in
love.
The living croquet-arches, with one impulse, got their heads together
and considered the situation.
“I, for one, shall go and take a look around the kitchen,” said
Clarence.
“It’s the roof of the house for me,” said William; “I haven’t had a good
view of the surrounding country since strawberry-time.”
“What about that chap on the grass?” asked Gustavius. “What will he be
doing?”
“That reminds me,” said Reginald; “now’s your chance, Gustavius. You’ve
been longing to catch him alone.”
The bull-calf shook his horns sulkily. “I kind of hate to do it. He
seems to be a friend of the red-headed girl.”
“Besides, my son,” observed Mrs. Cowslip, “none of our race ever attacks
a sleeping person.”
“Leave that to me,” said Reginald; “it’s time an example should be made
of these outsiders.”
Clarence agreed with him. They began circling around the prostrate
enemy, gradually drawing nearer, nipping at his legs or arms and darting
away, until at length Clarence’s teeth brought their victim to his feet
with a yell of mingled surprise and pain. But the Artist was not of a
vengeful disposition.
“Ha! ha!” he laughed, “you’re spoiling for a frolic, I see!”
He ran toward the colt and then turned, as though inviting pursuit. The
invitation was accepted with a unanimity that thoroughly alarmed the
Artist. Even Mrs. Cowslip and Cleopatra were making hostile
demonstrations, while William was backing away with a significance that
caused the Artist to seize a croquet mallet as he dodged about the
field. This was enough for the bull-calf, who began bellowing and pawing
the earth, while his eyes turned red.
“Good fellows! good boys!” said the Artist, holding out his hand.
But they gathered about him closer yet, with snorts, bellows, and grunts
which convinced the Artist it was time to exert authority. So he shouted
in a stern voice:—
“Away! To the barn, all of you!”
For answer the indignant pig ran between his legs, all but upsetting
him, and the others crowded in closer yet. Thoroughly frightened, the
Artist decided that extreme measures were justifiable. Recalling the
magic word whispered in his ear by the Poet, he raised his hand and
thundered:—
“ABRACADABRA!”
The effect was instantaneous, but disconcerting. After one instant of
general stupefaction, Clarence stood on his hind-legs with his forefeet
beating the air, and addressed his companions in a shrill whinny, which
they readily understood to mean:—
“What! Shall a miserable interloper presume so far!”
“Let me at him!” roared the bull-calf, with horns low and tail high.
The Artist turned and fled, with Gustavius bellowing at his heels, urged
on by his comrades following close behind. Straight for the house sped
the fugitive. The low-limbed cherry tree was nearer, and, luckily, he
remembered it in time. Having sufficient presence of mind at the last
moment to fling his forty-dollar Panama hat into Gustavius’s face, he
swung himself into the tree, and was safe.
Gustavius kept one eye on him while practicing on the hat, which was
presently only an expensive memory.
Clarence, finding the kitchen door open, walked in. By way of a
rain-water barrel, the woodshed, and the water-tank, William mounted to
the peak of the house roof and proceeded to enjoy the prospect. Reginald
made himself comfortable in a veranda rocker. Mrs. Cowslip found the
soft earth of the tulip-bed conducive to somnolence and cud-chewing,
while Cleopatra grazed near by on some late pansies. Such was the scene
that presented itself to Galatea when she returned alone, having found
Si Blodgett more scared than hurt.
“Why, Arthur!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing up there?”
“Call off your bull-calf, and I’ll come down and tell you.” The Artist
was annoyed.
“Gustavius? Why, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Wouldn’t he? Just look at my forty-dollar Panama!”
“Oh, Arthur, surely there must be some mistake—some misunderstanding.”
“It’s past the misunderstanding stage when I’m treed like this.”
“You must have said something that offended Gustavius. He’s terribly
sensitive, poor fellow!”
“Said something! I treated them like friends and fellow citizens till
they all set upon me at once; then, seeing it was a conspiracy, I said
‘Abracadabra,’ of course.”
“Oh, Arthur! You forgot that you had no right—that you were not a member
of our family—yet.”
“They seemed to remember it all right—especially the bull-calf. I nearly
burst a blood-vessel getting up here.”
“It is really most unfortunate, Arthur.” She looked about her, at the
late pansies, at the tulip-bed, and at the house roof, and said
reproachfully: “William! Mrs. Cowslip! Cleopatra!”
The goat came meekly down from the roof. The cow and the mare walked
slowly off toward the barn, much mortified.
“You don’t seem to mind Gustavius—and me,” complained the Artist.
Galatea sat on the grass and took off her hat.
“You may come down presently, Arthur. I have long wanted to say certain
things to you, but you are so impulsive in your—in various ways, that it
seemed necessary for me to wait for some such opportunity as this, when
you are—otherwise occupied. Arthur, you have pressed me to name a day
for a certain ceremony—”
She was interrupted by a bellow from Gustavius, consequent upon a sudden
movement of the Artist, who immediately concluded _not_ to forsake his
perch.
“_Must_ you interrupt me, Arthur?”
“I didn’t; it was the bull-calf; I don’t bellow.”
“Well, Arthur, I _would_ oblige you and set a date for our wedding if I
were quite sure that we understand each other.”
“Galatea, there’s nothing to understand except that I love you to the
extinction of every other thought or feeling, and always shall.” He
paused to regain his balance, for the tree was a small one, and swayed
under the stress of his emotion.
“Then, dear, if I set an early date, will you promise faithfully to love
me in all my moods, no matter what I say or do, and never be angry, or
dispute with me about anything?”
“Bless you, my darling! I swear it!”
“Have you no misgivings, Arthur?”
“None, none! Not one!”
“Not even when you remember that my hair is red?”
“I adore red hair!”
“But not on other girls, Arthur?”
“No; only on you, darling.”
“Thank you, Arthur, dear. If the second Wednesday in October, five weeks
hence, will suit you, then you may come down and kiss me.”
“Galatea!”
Gustavius pawed the earth, and he hesitated.
“Can a bull-calf stand between you and me, Arthur?”
“Never!” He leaped far out from the tree and took her in his arms.
Gustavius gave them one glance and walked away in disgust. Being only a
bull-calf, he did not realize that he had accomplished in a single
afternoon something which had baffled the little rosy god himself for
more than a year.
The sound of voices in the road brought the lovers back to earth.
“It’s all over,” said the Poet, catching sight of them. “Si Blodgett has
confessed everything, and his insides don’t hurt him any more.”
Gabriel had intercepted the rural delivery; he gave Galatea a letter
bearing a foreign postmark. She tore open the envelope, read two pages,
and exclaimed:—
“O George, it’s from the Professor! Just listen to this:—
“‘Finding the cause of the higher education of domestic animals much
farther advanced in Germany than in America, I have decided to locate
permanently in Berlin, where some promising pupils have been placed in
my charge, including a young ram with a wonderful talent for algebra. I
am therefore offering for sale the place which you leased from me, at
the very reasonable price of seven thousand five hundred to _you_,
knowing that my former pupils will thus continue in good hands.’”
“Too bad,” sighed the Poet; “I’ve often wished I’d been born a plumber.”
“Galatea,” said the Artist, “would you really like to have this place
for your own?”
“Oh, Arthur, it makes me weep to think of leaving Gustavius, and
Clarence, and Reginald—”
“And Cleopatra, and Mrs. Cowslip, and William, and Napoleon,” added the
Poet.
“You shall not leave them,” said the Artist, beaming upon them both.
“Give me the Professor’s address, Galatea, and you shall have a deed of
the place on the second Wednesday in October.”
“Eh, what’s that—the second Wednesday in October?” said the Poet.
“Why, on that happy date,” said the Artist, as Galatea flung her arms
about his neck, “Bos, Equus and Co. are to take in a new partner.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS
U. S. A.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s note: