“Bos, Equus and Co. are plainly within their rights,” he said, “excepting the goat. The roof of our house is not a proper place for any member of our family, two-legged or otherwise. William, come down from there!”
The goat wrinkled his nose at the Poet. It was as though he had said:—
“Why should I waste words on a stranger and an interloper?”
“Come down, William. Come down, or I’ll assert the last remnant of my authority as a two-legged person.”
William stamped his foot on the shingles in a manner plainly hostile. The Poet picked up a good-sized cobble-stone.
“William, for the last time I warn you. Come down!”
The goat backed up two or three steps and shook his horns.
“Very well, William, your blood be on your own head”; and the Poet threw the cobble-stone.
Now, as is well known, a goat has only one really vulnerable spot, namely, his curved and bony nose. Furthermore, a goat’s nose—like the beard of the prophet—is sacred. Therefore, when the cobble-stone, flying straight from the Poet’s incautious hand, struck William forcibly upon his most honored feature, the situation became grave. Stopping only to make one grimace of anguish, partly physical but mainly of his outraged soul, he ran to the west gable, leaped down upon the water-tank, thence to the woodshed roof, and from there one leap landed him on the ground. Measuring with his inflamed and malevolent eye his distance from the Poet, he began backing slowly, with portent that could not be misunderstood.
“O George, he’s going to butt you!” screamed Galatea. “Sit down! sit down!”