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.
99ordinarily 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 100the 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 101gate, 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.”
102“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 103half-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.”
104they 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!”
105“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 106inquiringly 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.”
107“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. 108“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.”
109“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.
110“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 111taking 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.
112“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 113displayed 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 114you 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.”
115“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 116and 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. 117presently 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, 118“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 119high-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.”
120galatea’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.”
121the 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 122at 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 123could 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 124of 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 125the 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 126tantrum 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.
