Miss Dominie tossed her head. “Perhaps,” she cackled, “but I can only charm you in the absence of Mrs. Cochin.”
“What do I care for Mrs. Cochin?” protested Jeremiah, and he looked Miss Dominie over with the eye of a connoisseur. She was certainly well bred and she carried herself erect. This was because she had been raised a pet, but Jeremiah ascribed it all to her aristocratic lineage and thought complacently that if any ill fate overtook Mrs. Cochin, Miss Dominie would be a close second in his affections. “Mrs. Cochin is too old,” he added.
“And that is a good thing for you,” retorted Miss Dominie. “She is too old to be particular and she may tolerate you. For myself, I draw the line at ganders. Chickens are good enough for me.”
“You talk like a preacher,” suavely answered Jeremiah, “and I agree with you. They are good enough for me, too,” but Miss Dominie had darted around the big coop and was lost to view. At that moment Dollie came out of the house carrying a bucket of water and went from pan to trough, pouring the chickens a fresh drink. With cries of delight, Jeremiah fluttered in her rear, paddling and throwing the water, making it an undrinkable mixture for the chickens. Suddenly his eyes dilated, his neck straightened and stiffened, his wings slightly lifted and his large feet passed each other in rapid succession, fence-ward. Dollie’s father was coming from the barn, walking stiffly, his arm pressed against an aching back. His eye caught Jeremiah’s and the pursuit began. The man forgot his lame back and plunged forward, gathering small stones which he aimed at Jeremiah. Round and round the fence they went, the man throwing stones and execrations; the gander gabbling, ducking, dodging until he bethought himself of the haven of gooseberry bushes, scrambled under them and into the orchard, through the hedge into the open where, joy inexpressible, Mrs. Cochin and her ten fluffs were tumbling in the dog fennel.
“At last I have found you, my beloved,” gasped Jeremiah, and he rounded up the chicks and drove them into the orchard. Mrs. Cochin followed, protesting. She even flung herself at Jeremiah, with many a cluck and scratch; but Jeremiah had constituted himself head of her household and, serene in the consciousness of right, he took the family through the orchard, under the gooseberry bushes and back into the yard.
Jeremiah knew that a little of him went a long way with Mrs. Cochin, yet he never lost hope that his persistent devotion would win her favor. He had been a lone gander many years. There was not another feather of his kind in the poultry yard. It was sometimes marveled that he did not take to the ducks, his next of kin, fat and wabbly, with raucous voices. It was so much easier to love Mrs. Cochin, the perfection of grace and beauty. She was large and stately. She wore always a buff robe that flashed in the sun like burnished gold. Poor Jeremiah fell easily a prey to her unconscious wiles and consecrated himself, body and soul, to her personal attendance and protection.
Jeremiah’s first concern, again inside the yard, was to reconnoitre for his friend, the enemy. He was nowhere in sight and Jeremiah turned pleadingly to Mrs. Cochin. “Let us make up,” he urged. “Your coldness is killing me. I honestly think I have not long to live.”
“Diet yourself,” suggested Mrs. Cochin, her feminine intuitions connecting cause and effect. “And don’t be a goose.”
Mrs. Cochin went scratching in a flower bed. Ignored, he followed at a respectful distance, hissing at the pup who ambled near, striking a cat whose lithe body was poised for a spring at one of the chickens, and frightening away a brood of ducklings. All afternoon the faithful sentinel executed his self-imposed duty, and finally followed his charmer across the yard to the old workshop.
“Do not go in there,” he cried, sharply.