"Well, I'm afraid of goats myself," said Miss Kitty, "and I think there ought to be a law against their being allowed inside the city limits. What with the small boy who torments the goat, and the goat which cannot distinguish between his tormentor and any other member of the human race, every passer-by is certain of being made ridiculous, if nothing more serious occurs. But to change the subject, would you young giant-killers like to hear a story that I have written for you?"
Of course they were delighted, and, the softly-shaded lamp having been adjusted, and Mrs. Benton seated so that the light fell upon her knitting, Miss Benton took her seat at the other side of the table, and read the following allegory:
GIANT PROCRASTINATION.
Stretching off far as the eye can reach, lies a vast plain, intersected by many roads of various widths, from the narrowest foot-path to those wide enough for three or four vehicles to pass abreast. Pleasant roads they seem to be, too; wild-flowers of brilliant hues grow along their sides, birds of beautiful plumage twitter their varied notes, and pretty little squirrels and rabbits dart here and there. But when the saunterer along one of these by-paths plucks the blossoms, they fall to pieces in his hands, and, on near approach, the birds circle for a few moments about the head, and then fly away and are seen no more.
These by-ways continually lead into and cross one another, but all at last meet in one broad road, and this is the road of "By and By," which leads to the castle of "Never." This castle stands at the entrance to a dark and gloomy forest, through which no path has ever been cut, and which is so dense and wild that one draws back in fear, finding it impossible not to think of it as inhabited by beasts and serpents and insects as wild and poisonous as those which infest the South American forests or the jungles of India.
At the right and left of the castle rise huge cliffs unscaled by mortal foot during the lifetime of the present owner, and seldom attempted even during the ages gone by, when his ancestors, in a more or less direct line, held high orgies, while with demoniac laughter they tortured their victims.
The present owner and occupant of the castle is a giant, so skilled in the art of metamorphosis that he is constantly deceiving and deluding his victims, each of whom he approaches in a different manner. With some he wears an air of haughty though courteous dignity, and gives them fair and sweet promises of granting their every desire as soon as his plans are perfected and he is ready. With others, he puts on a smiling, joyous look, points out to them the birds and flowers along the roadside, and tells them that to-morrow all these pleasures shall be theirs. A different face and garb for every deluded follower, who ever ends in becoming his victim; for, just at the entrance to the castle, still covered by the seemingly fair flowers, is a frightful morass, out of which the wanderer is helped only by the giant himself, and taken by him thence into the castle, from which there is no escape.
The dreadful Castle of Never! And yet, how fair it looks to those who stand just outside its gates! Its battlemented towers, decorated with flags and banners floating gayly in the air, its many windows, catching and reflecting every ray of sunlight, its majestic proportions, make it seem a dwelling much to be desired. And either because it is enchanted, or from some strange property of the surrounding atmosphere, it often appears to be raised high in the air, so that at a very great distance it shows larger, if less distinct, than when viewed near by.
It is early morning. The sun himself has not yet risen, although his approach is heralded by lovely green and rose tints on the eastern horizon. The great Giant Procrastination lies stretched upon his huge bed, dreaming uneasily, for he groans and starts many times, but still sleeps on. The inside of the far-famed castle shows not so fair as the outside. There are many things lying about on tables and chairs, or tucked away under articles of larger furniture; some of them are pretty, some elegant, but all unfinished.
The morning wind, rising as if it, too, had lain asleep during the night, shrieks and whistles as if in wrath, or moans and sighs as though in mortal anguish. And hush! What other sound is that which rises above the roar of the wind and fills one's soul with terror? Alas! it is the shrieks of despair from the prisoners in the dungeon, and one hears, mingled with their groans, the dreadful words, "Too late! Too late!"