“Brother Gabriel, Sister Amanda, what is the meaning of this unseemly scene of levity?”
The Poet looked interested.
“If, as your manner indicates,” he said suavely, “you don’t approve of this little celebration, I recommend that you address your remarks to headquarters. I speak for the host,—Napoleon, here at the head of the table,—who is giving a birthday party to our friend and comrade, Clarence.”
He waved his hand at the colt, and paused expectantly. The visitor rolled up his eyes and raised his hands.
“Vanity, vanity, all is vanity!”
“Oh, your name must be Blodgett,” said the Poet. “I’ve often heard you mentioned. Won’t you join us?”
“I would join you in prayer,” groaned Si Blodgett. “Would that I might snatch you from the seat of the scornful.”
Gabriel chuckled. The Poet turned to the guest of honor, and continued:—
“In conclusion, Clarence, and fellow members of Bos, Equus and Co., I wish to say for those of us to whom nature has given but two legs instead of four, but has made partial compensation by bestowing upon us the power of speech, that we are proud to claim you as friends, as partners, as equals—”
“Stop!” groaned Si Blodgett, with hand upraised. “Remember Moses and the golden calf!”