But the Poet stood gazing at William like one fascinated. Having backed to a distance satisfactory to his nice discrimination in such matters, the goat lowered his nose and launched himself forward straight as an arrow aimed for the lank, concave surface which indicated the Poet’s stomachic region. Perhaps it was the goat’s waning enthusiasm over a mark so little inviting,—at any rate the impact of his horns was only sufficient to cause the Poet to sit down with promptness.
“O George, did he hurt you?” asked Galatea anxiously. “I told you to sit down.”
“I believe I took your advice, Galatea,” said the Poet, looking about him in a dazed manner.
The goat was slowly backing again. There was a look in his eye which said more plainly than words:—
“Perchance you’ve had enough? If not, there’s more where that came from.”
“Don’t get up, George,” said Galatea. “Don’t move. Sit where you are and he’ll go away.”
“I’ve no intention of getting up,” answered the Poet. “I’m perfectly comfortable where I am, thank you. Besides, I’m not one of those low-spirited, truckling persons who insist on standing in the presence of a superior.”
The cow, the bull-calf, the pig in his ruffle, and the colt looking out of the kitchen window, were regarding the spectacle with evident satisfaction. The goat, as though satisfied that his wounded honor had been sufficiently avenged, began slowly consuming one of the white garments bleaching on the grass.
In her excitement Galatea’s hat had escaped from its fastening and fallen to the ground. Just now the sun shone through the branches of an old cherry tree, converting her loosened coils of dark red hair into a scarlet taunt which the bull-calf could not ignore. With hind-legs wide apart, because of the peach-basket, he was pawing the earth with his forefeet and uttering adolescent bellows of rage.
“Do you think, dear, that he means me?” asked the girl anxiously, starting to rise.