“Just like your own,” the Poet went on, “because, as the real thief was carrying off the valuable eggs he’d come for, a yearling colt put his head through a window into the hennery and playfully nipped him in the region of his hip pocket, tearing away a ragged square of cloth, which was found hanging to a nail on the window-ledge the next morning.”
The Poet took Clarence’s trophy from his pocket and examined it reflectively. Si Blodgett’s knees shook, and his mouth hung open.
“Finally,” said the Poet, “you might drive home your useful moral by explaining to your young hearers that your own dark trousers with their blue stripe bore a patch the exact size and shape of the square of cloth torn from those of the robber of henroosts—Why, Mr. Blodgett!”
At mention of the patch, the exhorter had turned and fled toward the road.
“Hi, there! Si! Si Blodgett!” yelled Gabriel.
“No,” said the Poet, restraining him. “You have a good, serviceable basket, and four fine, lusty Golden Guinea chicks—worth four dollars a pair. Don’t be greedy.”
“Clarence, you’re a wonder!” said Galatea, with her arm about the colt’s neck.
“Mandy,” said Gabriel, “you put these here chicks with their brothers an’ sisters in th’ henhouse—an’ don’t go ’round sowin’ no more keys.”
VI
Taurus Cupid, Esq.
