“Yes, dear, it’s your turn,” replied the Poet complacently.
“But I’m—I’m sitting down.”
“It’s that red badge of provocation you carry about under your hat, Galatea. Why in thunder did you take it off? Look out! He’s coming!”
The Poet rose, intending to intercept the bull-calf, whose progress was somewhat impeded by the peach-basket; but, noticing the goat backing away for another assault, he sat down again.
“Quick, Galatea! The cherry tree!”
There was a comfortable branch at about the height of a man’s shoulder, with a wooden bench under it. With the bellowing bull-calf close at her heels, Galatea ran to the bench and—not without a generous display of striped hose—swung herself up to the branch, leaving the enemy pawing the earth innocuously below.
“Galatea,” remarked the Poet solemnly, “I always said that those striped ones of yours were unlucky. Do you remember?”
“Shut up, George!” Galatea tucked her little boots under her on the branch, smoothed out her walking-skirt, and leaned against the trunk of the tree with the manner of a young lady accustomed to the usages of the very best society. George had the indecency to laugh.
“George, if I were a full-grown man I wouldn’t sit on the grass the whole afternoon just because of a poor, innocent little billy-goat.”
“Galatea, if I were a perfectly proper, highly educated and accomplished young lady just out of Vassar, I wouldn’t roost in a cherry tree just because of an innocently inquiring bull-calf.”