Ovind looked on. She rose and began to pull at the goat, but he wouldn't go, and stretched his neck over towards Ovind. "Baa-a," said he. She took hold of him by the hair with one hand, and drawing the cord in with the other, said coaxingly,--"Come now, goaty, come, you shall come to the kitchen and I'll give you nice milk and bread,"--then she sang:
"Come calf from my mother,
Come goat from the lad,
Come pussy mew kitty,
Oh! I am so glad!
Come ducklings so yellow,
Go each with your fellow,
Come chickens and run,
Haste to join in the fun,
Come little doves cooing,
Your feathers are fine--
The grass may be wet,
But the sun will still shine,
Early, early, early, in the summer sky,
Calling unto autumn that her days are nigh!"
There stood the boy. He had tended the goat since winter when he was born, and the idea of losing him had never entered his mind, but now he was gone all in a minute, and he should never see him more.
The mother came singing up from the well. She saw the boy sitting in the grass crying, and went over to him. "What are you crying for?"
"Oh! the goat,--the goat."
"Yes, where is the goat?" said the mother, as she looked up to the roof.
"He won't come any more!" said the boy.
"Dear, how can that be?"
Ovind wouldn't tell about it.