Lightfoot looked around. He saw no policemen or park guards, such as he had seen when he was in the other place, and, as he felt a bit hungry after his run, he nibbled some of the green leaves. They had a good taste and he ate many of them. No one called to him to stop, and no one hit him with a stick.
“This is a good place,” thought Lightfoot.
As with most animals, when he had eaten well, the goat felt sleepy, and picking out a smooth grassy place beneath some trees he cuddled up, and was soon asleep.
How long he slept Lightfoot did not know, but when he awakened he had a feeling that he wished he was back with Mike again, drawing children about the park. Whether Lightfoot had dreamed about his shanty home amid the rocks I do not know. I do not know whether or not animals dream, but I think they do.
At any rate Lightfoot felt lonesome. He missed the cheerful whistle of the Irish boy, and he missed, too, the nice combing and rubbing-down that his master, Mike, used to give him every morning in order to keep his coat in good condition.
Some of the goats that lived on the rocks had coats very rough with tangled hairs, to say nothing of the burrs and thistles that clung to them. But Mike kept Lightfoot slick and neat, brushing him as a groom brushes his horses.
“But I don’t look very slick now,” thought Lightfoot, as he turned his head and saw a lot of burdock burrs on one side, while the other side carried a tangle of a piece of a briar brush. “I must clean myself up a bit,” thought the goat.
By twisting and turning about, using first one hind foot and then the other, as a cat scratches her ears, Lightfoot managed to get rid of most of the things that had clung to him as he tore his way through the bushes. Then he walked on again, until, feeling thirsty, he began to sniff the air for water. For goats and other animals can smell water before they can see it, though to us clean water has no smell at all.