“One thing I don’t understand,” said the Artist, who, being in love, was quite hopelessly serious, “and that is how you manage these animals turned out loose this way, when they become unruly, as all animals are apt to at times.”
“The learned Professor of whom we rented this place, and who attended to their early education, didn’t neglect that point,” answered the Poet, with a solemn glance at Galatea which brought before her mind’s eye a vision of their first exciting experience with William and Gustavius. “In times of mutiny one magic word uttered by the Professor brought them to their senses completely humbled.”
“Indeed!” said the Artist. “This is most interesting. I’ve heard of such methods being used by animal trainers. What is that word, George?”
“Its efficacy, Arthur, consists in the rarity of its use. It is pronounced only as a last resort, as familiarity would breed contempt for it. The word, Arthur, is”—and he whispered in the Artist’s ear—“Abracadabra.”
And Galatea related the circumstances of their single observation of its potency,—as recorded in the early part of this veracious chronicle,—with special stress on the advantages offered by a low-limbed cherry tree in case of pursuit by an enraged bull-calf.
“What you have told me is really wonderful,” said the Artist. “Never again will I doubt that domestic animals are possessed of reasoning powers, as well as capacity for affection.”
“Here comes Gabriel,” said Galatea. “He looks alarmed. I wonder what has happened?”
Gabriel caught his breath and said, addressing the Poet:—
“Si Blodgett fell off a haystack an’ thinks he’s goin’ to die. He wants to confess about them eggs.”
“Oh, the poor man!” said Galatea.