“Of all the crazy notions!” sniffed Amanda.

She was filling glass jars with raspberries out of a kettle on the roaring kitchen stove, while Gabriel screwed down the metal tops, perspiring freely in the super-heated midsummer temperature.

“Pshaw!” said Gabriel, “this here Poet an’ his sister ain’t a bit crazier’n the Professor was. D’ye recollect what the Professor said ’bout ‘the emotional capacities of so-called dumb animals,’—I seem to hear his lingo now,—jest before he went away, after playin’ his flute in the barnyard till pretty near midnight?”

“The Professor was a nice man,” admitted Amanda, “but when it came to dealin’ with critters he was crazy as a bedbug.”

“I dunno, Mandy. I sneaked out to th’ barn that night, an’ th’ way th’ cow an’ calf took to th’ Professor’s music made my flesh creep. You know, Mandy, they ain’t nothin’ in natur’ so doggone stubborn an’ foolish as a bull-calf—not even a pig. Well, you ought ‘a’ seen th’ ca’m an’ peaceful way that bull-calf laid his chin on the Professor’s shoulder an’ bla-a-ted softly to himself when th’ slow an’ solemn tunes was bein’ played.”

“Gabe, you tend to them jars an’ quit your jokin’.”

“Honest, Mandy, true as I live an’ breathe. An’ when the Professor see I was lookin’ on, he stopped playin’ an said to me: ‘Gabriel,’ says he, ‘give me time, an’ I’ll teach this bull-calf to sing the doxology.’ An’ I’m darned if I don’t believe he’d ‘a’ done it.”

“I’ve heard dogs howl when somebody played the fiddle,” observed Amanda, “an’ that’s all there was to it. You can’t say the Professor ever had the crazy notion this here Poet has of givin’ a birthday party to a yearlin’ colt.”

“’T ain’t th’ Poet, Mandy; it’s his red-headed sister. She was out to th’ barn th’ first thing this mornin’, while I was milkin’, an’ braided th’ colt’s mane full of red and blue ribbons. I saw her kiss Clarence on the nose an’ wish him many happy returns o’ th’ day.”

“For the land sakes!” said Amanda.

“She got me to fix up a table in the shade of the old chestnut on th’ lawn, out of a barn door an’ a couple of sawhorses. There’s goin’ to be a birthday dinner at two o’clock, an’ all th’ critters are invited.”

“Be you goin’, Gabe?” inquired Amanda, with subtle sarcasm.

“Gosh, no! The dog an’ I ain’t speakin’ since that trouble ’bout th’ Golden Guinea eggs. You know it’s reely Napoleon that’s givin’ th’ party.”

“Gabe, you jest go ’long!”

“Honest, Mandy. That’s th’ Poet’s idee. He says th’ dog couldn’t do less after th’ colt savin’ him from that lickin’, ‘count o’ them eggs.”

“Well, I never!” Amanda sat down and fanned herself with her apron.

“Yes; an’ they’s goin’ to be speech-makin’ an’ music. That there artist chap is comin’ out with his banjo, an’ while the critters are eatin’ an’ drinkin’ he an’ th’ Poet with his guitar are goin’ to play duets, jest like they do in them high-toned restaurants down to New York. I heard ’em talkin’ it over when I was fixin’ up the table out under the chestnut.”

“Be you sure the artist-chap’s comin’, Gabe?” asked Amanda, all at once losing interest in the main topic.

“W’y, yes. W’y not? Anything wrong, Mandy?”

“I dunno; she’s been treatin’ him awful cool the last few days.”

Gabriel laughed. “I was awful gone on a red-headed girl once myself,—long ’fore I met you, Mandy,—an’ I tell you they keep you guessin’. You never know how to take ’em. It’s always a toss-up what to say or do when you court a red-headed girl. One day you can grab her and kiss her behind the door, an’ she’ll act as if she wanted to thank you for it, an’ the very next day she’ll go into tantrums if you even wink at her. I tell ye, Mandy, my red-headed girl kept me guessin’ which way she’d jump till I got so thin I couldn’t cast a shadder.”

“Served you right,” snapped Amanda. “Men are so stupid. I s’pose when you got so thin she could see right through you, she was thankful to settle down as an old maid.”

“No,” said Gabriel solemnly, “she married and proved a great blessin’ to her husband.”

“You don’t say! How could that be?”

“W’y, ye see,” drawled Gabriel, “he was th’ livin’ skeleton in a circus, an’ a month after th’ weddin’ he’d lost so much flesh that they doubled his salary.”

Then they both jumped guiltily at the sound of another voice:—

“May I come into your kitchen, Amanda?”

It was Galatea. She was biting her lips, which were hardly more brilliant than her mass of mahogany hair, and her eyes twinkled.

“I merely wanted to ask Gabriel if he has time to pull some young carrots, turnips, and red beets for our birthday party. George has dug some artichokes for Reginald.” Then she added: “Of course you’re coming to the party? There’ll be music, you know—guitar and banjo duets.”

“Sartin, sartin,” said Gabriel with alacrity.

“You’ll want some loaf-sugar for the mare and her colt,” said Amanda, bustling about.

“How good of you! Now I’ll go and give Napoleon his instructions as host of the occasion.”

With the exception of the bull-terrier, all the four-legged members of the family had their noses together in the shade of some willows down by the brook. They were exchanging views on a matter that puzzled them greatly. Cleopatra was apprehensive about the ribbons entwined in Clarence’s mane.

“I’ve half a notion,” she was saying to her gayly decorated colt, “that you and I had better take to our heels till this thing’s over, whatever it means. It’s too much like what I’ve seen at the County Fair in my time—yearling colts fixed up that way led off by some strange man and never heard of again.”

“It’s all right, mother,” said Clarence, who was very proud of his ribbons. “You can trust that red-headed girl. When she put these pretty things on me, she laughed and kissed me on the nose. Besides, look at that fool pig.”

Truly, Reginald did look rather foolish with the fine bouquet that was tied in the kink of his tail with a bit of yellow ribbon.

“That’s all I got when I went up to the house to get my back scratched,” grunted Reginald. “But Gustavius was no better off. He wanted that long-legged chap to rub his silly little horns, but was sent away with that jimcrack over his ears.”

Reginald referred to a garland which had given the bull-calf quite an ancient Roman look until Mrs. Cowslip had eaten half of it. But this was no more than fair, as Gustavius had done as much for his mother, whose crumpled horn still retained some twisted stems of daisies and dandelions. As for William, no amount of butting could have freed him from the trelliswork of wire, silver foil, and sunflowers of which his sturdy horns were the foundation. He seemed grieved and humiliated over it.

“And you, yourself, mother,” resumed Clarence, “are included in some scheme of general festivity. Never have I seen the luxuriant hair of your tail crimped so beautifully.”

“It may be that the Professor is returning,” suggested Mrs. Cowslip. “I, for my part, shall welcome him warmly.”

“Ah,” said Reginald, “when you mention the Professor I am thrilled by the most delicious memories. I seem to feel his highly cultivated fingers along my grateful spine at this moment.”

Suddenly Gustavius gave a truculent little bellow, and shook his horns.

“By the fat on my ribs, it’s the dog!” said Reginald, who secretly liked Napoleon as little as did the bull-calf, with memories of sharp teeth nipping his heels; “I marvel at his condescension!”

“What did I tell you, mother?” said Clarence. “No one ever heard of a dog being led off, yet look at the ribbons on Napoleon.”

The terrier was truly a gorgeous spectacle as he trotted proudly down the pasture. A decoration of red, white, and blue ribbons crossed his broad chest diagonally, passing under one foreleg, the two ends being tied in a large bow on his shoulders. The colt advanced to meet him. They had always been staunch friends from their mutual infancy; so friendly, in fact, that when Amanda was away and Clarence expressed a desire to go into the kitchen in search of stray tidbits, Napoleon always managed to be looking the other way. Now, as they met, the colt with head lowered and ears pointed forward in token of the utmost amiability and good will, the terrier leaped up, licking his velvet nose and barking eagerly:—

“You are to come up to the house at once, old chum; everything is ready.”

“Is Amanda away, and the kitchen door open?” asked Clarence.

“Oh, this is different,” said Napoleon hastily. “It’s the red-headed girl’s affair. What do you say to young turnips, and carrots, and lumps of sugar afterwards?”

“Will there be enough for mother, too?” asked Clarence, taking care not to speak loud enough to excite anticipations liable to disappointment.

“Yes, for everybody,” barked Napoleon so that all could hear; “you’re all to come at once.”

“Well,” grumbled Gustavius, with a shake of his sprouting horns, “you needn’t be so stuck up about it.”

“I had an engagement with the red-headed girl, anyway,” grunted Reginald, starting for the house at a fast trot.

“You just head off that pig, Napoleon, or he’ll make a mess of everything,” said the colt. “Come on, mother!”

With Clarence and Cleopatra in the lead, and Reginald sent squealing back to the rear with Napoleon’s teeth at his heels, the summoned guests proceeded, with rather more decorum than was to be expected, to the banquet table under the old chestnut, where Galatea awaited them smilingly, with outstretched hands. Catching sight of several inviting peck measures on the table, Mrs. Cowslip and Gustavius broke into a trot, with the result that the last dozen yards were a neck-and-neck race, except for Reginald, whose fat legs forced him to squeal plaintively along behind. As the guests arrived, Gabriel and Amanda hastened out from the kitchen, while the Poet, doubled up over his guitar, and the Artist, holding his banjo gracefully, with their backs to the chestnut tree, strummed forth a spirited march.

“Napoleon,” said Galatea, “take your place at the head of the table.”

The terrier leaped into the host’s chair, put his paws on the cloth, and awaited further instructions.

“Come, Clarence; as the guest of honor you will stand on Napoleon’s right, and, Cleopatra, your place is by the side of your son.”

With a pat on the nose for each, the girl brought them to their places. Meanwhile Gabriel had coaxed Mrs. Cowslip and Gustavius, with William, to places opposite them, while Amanda prudently stood guard over the peck measures. Galatea poured balm upon the wounded feelings of Reginald by inviting him to take the chair at the foot of the table. It was a most fortunate arrangement. The pig would have died rather than show himself inferior to Napoleon in the matter of table manners.

“Galatea, what’s the first course?” sang out the Poet.

“Turnips au naturel, George, with chicken À la Marengo for Napoleon.”

The Poet, for the first time in his life, almost smiled.

“Arthur,” he said, “I think ‘The Battle of Waterloo with Variations’ will go well with Napoleon’s chicken À la Marengo.”

Rendered more than usually docile by the music, the guests ate their turnips decorously from the hands of Galatea, Amanda, and Gabriel, while Napoleon, as host, nibbled daintily at his special dish. When the chicken and the turnips had disappeared, the host and his guests looked expectantly at Galatea. Napoleon thumped his short tail against the back of his chair. The music ended with a flourish.

“George,” said Galatea, “Napoleon requests you to make a few appropriate remarks.”

The Poet laid aside his instrument, unfolded his lank limbs, and strode to the side of Napoleon, fixing his earnest gaze on Clarence, the guest of honor, who pricked up his ears. The other guests—whose usual morning indulgence in grass and artichokes had eliminated the fiercer gustatory pangs—were round-eyed and attentive. Amanda caressed Mrs. Cowslip’s crumpled horn to hide her embarrassment at being a party to such foolishness, while Gabriel chuckled inwardly.

“Clarence,” began the Poet, “and fellow members of the flourishing firm of Bos, Equus and Co., we have come together upon this happy occasion to declare a dividend of mutual confidence and esteem. The occasion—which may have escaped the notice of some of you—is the first anniversary of the birth of one of our youngest, yet most enthusiastic members. Clarence, many happy returns of this day. We salute you.”

The Poet bowed to the colt, who nodded his head intelligently.

“Yes, yes!” barked Napoleon excitedly; words could not have said it plainer.

“Gosh!” whispered Gabriel to Amanda, “who would have believed it?”

“Clarence,” resumed the speaker, “the host of this joyful occasion”—he turned to Napoleon, who nearly wagged himself off his chair—“desires to express publicly his thanks for the great service you rendered him in that dark hour”—here the Poet frowned and shook a reproving finger at the chuckling Gabriel—“when he faced unjust punishment on the monstrous charge of having ravished the nest of the speckled hen. Then and there, Clarence, you rebuked the short-sighted minion of the law by nipping him smartly in the same sensitive region where you had nipped the real marauder, tearing from him the clue which will sooner or later bring him to justice.”

The Poet took from his pocket a ragged square of blue-striped dark cloth and submitted it for Clarence’s inspection. The colt laid back his ears and nipped at it. The Poet cast a glance of solemn triumph around the table.

“Friends and partners,” he said, “do we need any further evidence that it was indeed Clarence who was a witness of the crime, and performed this service for Napoleon and for justice?”

The point was overwhelmingly conceded.

“Doggone my skin!” whispered Gabriel to Amanda, “th’ colt remembers that rag by th’ smell!”

The Poet put the damning evidence back in his pocket. Suddenly Amanda nudged Gabriel.

“Of all things, Gabe, here comes Si Blodgett with a basket on his arm!”

An undersized, sanctimonious person, with a smooth upper lip and a tuft on his chin, carrying a covered basket, was approaching from the driveway. He seemed pained at the evidences of festivities progressing. When he had approached within a few yards of the banquet-table he put down the basket carefully and said:

“Brother Gabriel, Sister Amanda, what is the meaning of this unseemly scene of levity?”

The Poet looked interested.

“If, as your manner indicates,” he said suavely, “you don’t approve of this little celebration, I recommend that you address your remarks to headquarters. I speak for the host,—Napoleon, here at the head of the table,—who is giving a birthday party to our friend and comrade, Clarence.”

He waved his hand at the colt, and paused expectantly. The visitor rolled up his eyes and raised his hands.

“Vanity, vanity, all is vanity!”

“Oh, your name must be Blodgett,” said the Poet. “I’ve often heard you mentioned. Won’t you join us?”

“I would join you in prayer,” groaned Si Blodgett. “Would that I might snatch you from the seat of the scornful.”

Gabriel chuckled. The Poet turned to the guest of honor, and continued:—

“In conclusion, Clarence, and fellow members of Bos, Equus and Co., I wish to say for those of us to whom nature has given but two legs instead of four, but has made partial compensation by bestowing upon us the power of speech, that we are proud to claim you as friends, as partners, as equals—”

“Stop!” groaned Si Blodgett, with hand upraised. “Remember Moses and the golden calf!”

“Look here, Si,” said Gabriel, “don’t you slander our bull-calf. He ain’t gold. He’ll be doggone good beef some day.”

“Oh, ye unregenerate!” almost screamed Si Blodgett. “Soon ye will be bowing down to wood and stone!”

“Galatea,” said the Poet, “what’s the next course?”

“Carrots, George.”

While Si Blodgett continued to groan unavailingly, the carrots were served. The Poet resumed his instrument, and never before was that classic, “Hiawatha,” adapted for banjo and guitar, so inspiringly rendered. It was repeated until Galatea produced the dessert of loaf sugar, and Si Blodgett showed signs of frothing at the mouth over the ungodliness of the scene. As Galatea tripped around the table, dropping lumps of sugar into grateful mouths, Si Blodgett came forward, stretching his arms across the table to Gabriel. He had failed to notice that the colt was keeping one eye on him, with the accompanying ear laid back.

“Oh, brother, brother,” he said, “beware—”

Whatever the warning was to be, it was cut short by a grunt caused by the colt thrusting his hind quarters brusquely into Si Blodgett’s stomach.

“Darn th’ critter!” exclaimed the exhorter, with an astonishing change of voice and sentiment. And he slapped Clarence smartly on the flank.

“Lookout, Si!” shouted Gabriel. “Th’ colt don’t like ye.”

Si Blodgett dodged barely in time to escape Clarence’s heels. The other guests were becoming restless. The Poet and the Artist joined Galatea beside Napoleon’s chair. The exhorter went and picked up his basket, and, approaching Gabriel, said:—

“It is our duty to be good to those who despitefully use us. Brother Gabriel, hearin’ you’ve been disapp’inted in your hatchin’ of Golden Guinea eggs, and havin’ a couple o’ pair of the chicks to sell, I came over to offer you the first chance. They’re scarce, you know. I’ll take four dollars a pair.”

For the space of at least a minute there was amazed and breathless silence. Even the Poet found himself speechless. Amanda stared at Si Blodgett, and then at Gabriel, whose eyes were fixed on the basket while he opened and closed his mouth dumbly. At length speech burst from him.

“Si Blodgett, where’d ye git the eggs to hatch out them Golden Guinea chicks o’ yourn?”

“The Lord cares for them that serve Him,” said the prudent exhorter. “I got them eggs where you got yourn, an’ what’s more, I only paid twenty cents apiece for ’em.”

“You was there, Si Blodgett, biddin’ agin’ me,” said Gabriel, doubling up his huge fists, “an’ you heard th’ guarantee that there wa’n’t no more Golden Guinea eggs for sale in th’ hull county.”

“That was true, Brother Gabriel; but, ye see, I’d already bought mine three days before, an’ they wa’n’t for sale, neither.”

Gabriel gurgled and managed to swallow part of his wrath.

“Give us a look at them chicks,” he said.

Si Blodgett knelt down on the grass and picked at the knot of the string that held the cloth over his basket.

“George!” exclaimed Galatea in a startled whisper, “look! That man’s trousers are of dark cloth with a blue stripe!”

“Yes, but wait a bit. Look at Napoleon and the colt.”

The terrier had jumped down from his chair and was growling, with bristling crest. Clarence, with ears laid back, had turned about and was shaking his head at the man on his knees, whose back was toward him.

The knot was refractory. Si Blodgett’s coat-tails fell apart, revealing a key-chain, one end of which disappeared in his hip pocket.

“There!” whispered Galatea. “See that patch!”

“Wait!” said the Poet. “The psychological moment approaches—Ah!”

With a sudden rush the colt fell upon Si Blodgett’s rear, nipped savagely at the region of his hip pocket, and backed away triumphantly with his teeth closed on a chain from which a bunch of keys dangled. The man yelled in fright, then, seeing what was in the colt’s mouth, as Gabriel sprang forward to capture the aggressor, he jumped up, exclaiming:

“Never mind, Gabe; he’ll drop ’em in a minute.”

“Clarence!” said Galatea softly.

The colt took a high-kicking turn about the chestnut tree, swinging the keys from his teeth, and then trotted up to the girl and dropped them in her hand. Si Blodgett reached for them, but Amanda was too quick for him.

“W’y, of all things,” she said, holding one of the keys in a firm grip, “if here ain’t that lost key of our henhouse!”

Si Blodgett’s face turned red, then pale, and then he laughed nervously.

“Ye don’t say, Sister Amanda. I was wonderin’ if it was yourn, the day I found it in—in th’ road.”

Gabriel was beginning to look dangerous, but he couldn’t resist a thrust at Amanda.

“What do ye go ’round sowin’ henhouse keys for, Mandy? Expect to raise a crop of ’em?”

“I left that key in the henhouse door,” said Amanda stubbornly, “an’ that’s all there is to it.”

“O Lord, how long, how long!” groaned Si Blodgett, returning to his exhorter manner. “But I don’t bear malice. I’ll take my basket and go on my way in peace.”

“You’ll stop right where you are, Si Blodgett!” thundered Gabriel.

“Oh—er—Mr. Blodgett,” drawled the Poet, coming forward amiably. “I believe you have the reputation of being an earnest worker in—er—in the Lord’s vineyard?”

“If some have been brought to the throne of grace through my exhortations, it’s only the Lord’s mercy. I make no boast. I will be humble. I will take my basket and go.”

He stooped to pick up the basket, above whose rim peeped four little Guinea chicks. The Poet’s gentle hand restrained him.

“Perhaps you’d better go, Mr. Blodgett—presently. But if I were you I’d leave the basket, and—er—its contents.”

“I—I don’t quite understand,” said Si Blodgett weakly.

“Why,” said the Poet mildly, “one who is engaged in your chosen work of—er—of saving souls ought to neglect no opportunity of pointing a useful moral. Now, here is this little matter of circumstantial evidence which seems to convict a—er—a holy man of robbing his neighbor’s hennery.”

“Prove it! prove it! I defy ye!” snarled Si Blodgett.

“Be calm, Mr. Blodgett. Let us consider the subject from the standpoint of the exhorter. Imagine yourself addressing an assemblage of young men—young men who are a little wild, we will say, who have raided watermelon patches, and are in a fair way to break into their neighbors’ henneries. Think of the effect upon those young minds when you tell them about the lost key of a looted henroost found in your pocket!”

Si Blodgett laughed. “What does a key prove?”

“Then,” continued the Poet, “you go on to tell about the contributory evidence—the fact that the real thief wore dark trousers with a blue stripe, just like your own.”

“How do ye know he did?” snarled Si Blodgett, casting an uneasy glance down the legs of his dark trousers with their blue stripe.

“Just like your own,” the Poet went on, “because, as the real thief was carrying off the valuable eggs he’d come for, a yearling colt put his head through a window into the hennery and playfully nipped him in the region of his hip pocket, tearing away a ragged square of cloth, which was found hanging to a nail on the window-ledge the next morning.”

The Poet took Clarence’s trophy from his pocket and examined it reflectively. Si Blodgett’s knees shook, and his mouth hung open.

“Finally,” said the Poet, “you might drive home your useful moral by explaining to your young hearers that your own dark trousers with their blue stripe bore a patch the exact size and shape of the square of cloth torn from those of the robber of henroosts—Why, Mr. Blodgett!”

At mention of the patch, the exhorter had turned and fled toward the road.

“Hi, there! Si! Si Blodgett!” yelled Gabriel.

“No,” said the Poet, restraining him. “You have a good, serviceable basket, and four fine, lusty Golden Guinea chicks—worth four dollars a pair. Don’t be greedy.”

“Clarence, you’re a wonder!” said Galatea, with her arm about the colt’s neck.

“Mandy,” said Gabriel, “you put these here chicks with their brothers an’ sisters in th’ henhouse—an’ don’t go ’round sowin’ no more keys.”