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 if you accept it instantly, as you have accepted my horatian odes—not for publication, 42it is true, but—er—but for purposes best known to yourself, i shall at once take steps to become an honest husbandman.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 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, 54with 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 55can’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;” 56and, 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 57sprout 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.”

58“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. 59arthur, 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 60opening 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 61fire 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 62red 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 63kink 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. 64“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 65the 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.”

66with 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.