And so Lightfoot was named. As far as he knew there were none of the other goats who were any relation to him. He was a stranger among them, but they soon became friendly with him. Among the six goats owned by the Widow Malony there were only two who were any relation. These were Mr. and Mrs. Sharp-horn, as we would call them, though of course goats don’t call each other husband and wife. They have other names that mean the same thing.
But though he had no brothers or sisters or father or mother that he knew, Lightfoot was not unhappy. There was Blackie, with whom he played and frisked about among the rocks. And Grandpa Bumper, when he had had a good meal of the sweet grass that grew on top of the rocks, with, perhaps, some sweet paste-paper from the outside of a tomato can to finish off, would tell stories of his early life. And he would tell of other goats, in far-off mountains, some of them nearly as big as cows, with great, curved horns on their heads. Lightfoot loved to listen to these stories.
There was not much for the goats to do at the home of the Widow Malony. They had no work to do except to jump around on the rocks and to eat when they were hungry and could find anything they liked, though some of the goats were milked. There was more milk than the widow and her son could use, so they used to sell some to their neighbors who did not keep goats.
But many others besides Mike and his mother kept goats, for all the neighbors of the Malonys were poor squatters who lived among the rocks on the edge of the big city. They were called “squatters” because they did not own the land whereon they built their poor shanties, some of them being a few boards covered with sheets of tin from some old building. These people just came along and “squatted” on the land. Some had been there so long they thought they owned it.
Mrs. Malony and her son were very poor. Sometimes, had it not been for the milk of the goats, they would have had nothing to eat. The widow took in washing, and Mike earned what he could running errands. But, for all that, the widow and Mike were cheerful and tried to be happy. They kept their shanty clean, and were clean themselves. And they took very good care of the goats. Mike made a little shed for them to sleep in when Winter came; and when the grass on the rocks was scarce Mike would get a job in the city, cutting the lawn of some big house, and he would bring the clipped grass home to Lightfoot and the others.
“Yes, I’m going up on top of the rocks,” said Lightfoot to himself as he began to climb upward.
The path to the top was a hard and rough one to climb. But Lightfoot did not give up.
“I know I can do it,” he declared, still to himself. “I was nearly up once but Mr. Sharp-horn chased me back. I was only a little goat then.”
Lightfoot knew he was much larger and stronger now, and he certainly was a better jumper. He really did not know how far he could jump, for he had not had much chance. On the lower rocks there were not many good jumping places. The ground was too rough.
“Wait until I get up to the top,” thought Lightfoot to himself. “Then I’ll do some jumping. I wonder if they’ll chase me back?”