But Lightfoot could not tell. All he knew was that he was with his friends again, and on a farm, which he thought much nicer than the park, pretty as that was.
The leaping goat soon made himself at home. He was given a little stall to himself in the stable with the horses, who grew to like him very much.
Mike had brought with him from the city the goat wagon, and many a fine ride he had in it, pulled along the country road by Lightfoot, who was bigger and stronger than before.
“I wonder what Blackie, Grandpa Bumper and the other goats would think of me now?” said Lightfoot one day as he rolled over and over in a green meadow where daisies and buttercups grew.
But as the other goats were not there they could say nothing. And so Lightfoot had his many adventures, and he was put in a book, just as he hoped to be, so I suppose he is happy now.
THE END
Transcriber’s Notes:
Printer’s, punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.
Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.