“Oh, if you succeed, Arthur,—dear Arthur,—I shall try and remember, some day, to tell you how much I—how much I really love you.”
The Artist had the most excellent good sense to kiss her fervently, on the lips, and the superlative intelligence thereon to leave her and rush to the rescue of Gustavius. Galatea returned to the house, went into the library, and for quite half an hour kept her eyes fixed on one page of a book that was upside down.
The spectacle that met the Poet’s gaze as he burst through the grapevine thicket caused him to exclaim:—
“The obsequies of Bos Nemo, as I’m a sinner!”
The truth of this remark was obvious. On the margin of the brook, whither his instinct had prompted him to crawl when fatally stricken with what Gabriel explained was “the black leg,” lay the lifeless body of a strange steer, nameless so far as any one present knew; and near by, with their noses to the ground while they pawed dust over their shoulders, Mrs. Cowslip and Gustavius, according to the custom of their kind, were bellowing and mooing the last rites for the dead. In vain Gabriel prodded them with his pitchfork; the obsequies continued with an increasing display of emotion.
“This is news to me,” said the Artist, when Gabriel had explained that horned cattle never neglect to hold funeral ceremonies over the dead of their kind. “It’s like a wake—barring the pipes and bottles.”
“Darn the critters’ skins,” said Gabriel; “when that cow an’ bull-calf come out of their tantrum they’re goin’ to be locked in the barn to think it over the rest of the day.”
“No,” said the Poet, “that’s not according to the rules and regulations that govern the firm of Bos, Equus and Co. Equal rights and privileges to all, irrespective of the individual equipment as to legs—that’s our constitution, Gabriel. Mrs. Cowslip has just as much right to her funeral as I have to mine. Besides, can’t you see, she’s teaching Gustavius the orthodox bovine ceremony.”
Leaving the Poet and Gabriel in charge of the mourners, being assured that their grief would presently wear itself out, the Artist hastened back to Galatea. He found her in the library, and his thrilling tale of how he saved the life of Gustavius merited all the reward it inspired.
