“No, my dear. Goats don’t bite. They butt you with their horns.”
“I don’t want any goat to butt me!” and the little boy hid behind his mother’s skirts.
Then the little girl, sitting on the grass, made up her mind to cry. Up to now she had not quite known whether to laugh or to cry, but suddenly she felt that she had been hurt, or scared, or something, and the next thing, of course, was to cry.
Tears came into her pretty blue eyes, she wiped them away with the dress of her doll and then she sobbed:
“Go away you bad goat you! Go ’way! I don’t like you! You—you tried to bite me!”
She had heard the little boy say that. But the little boy, getting brave as he saw that Lightfoot did not seem to want to bite, or butt either, any one, came from behind his mother’s skirts and said:
“Goats don’t bite, little girl; they butt. My mamma says so, and if you is hurted she’ll kiss you and make you all well.”
Some of the passengers laughed on hearing this, and the lady with the little boy went to where the little girl was sitting on the grass, picked her up in her arms and wiped away her tears.
“There, my dear,” she said. “You’re not hurt. See the pretty goat. He won’t hurt you.”
“You’re right there!” exclaimed the motorman. “He saved her from being hurt by my car, that’s what he did.”