As jocund Summer merged into placid Autumn, Gustavius throve mightily and waxed fat. His shoulders broadened, his voice deepened, his sharp-pointed horns acquired a high polish through painstaking friction upon every available object, and became rigidly embedded in his thickening skull. He could summon the red glow to his eyes in moments of anger, and he exulted in the knowledge that his stout heart was bursting with courage. Gustavius was putting bull-calfhood forever behind him, and each day brought him increased yearnings for valorous deeds.

In view of this physical and moral transformation, Gustavius wondered at his tolerance of the familiarities still recklessly practiced by his comrades. But how could he stoop so low as to enforce respect from a pig or a goat? The dog was eliminated from the problem, because it was a dog’s natural prerogative to nip at the heels of superiority and avoid punishment by flight. As for the mare, she was uniformly courteous, and the playfulness of the colt disarmed him.

Concerning the two-legged members of the family, Gustavius felt himself the victim of hereditary respect for the sternly authoritative person called Gabe, and there was something so soothing in the manner of the lank, long-limbed man who spent most of his time lounging about the veranda that it was impossible to offer him any sort of challenge. The red-headed girl—ah! Gustavius was not ashamed to confess to himself that the bare sight of her made him glow with docile affection.

“And yet,” said Reginald impudently,—for Gustavius’s later reflections had unconsciously resolved themselves into speech, as he stood with his comrades in the afternoon shade of the willows,—“and yet a bit of anything else as red as that girl’s hair sends you into convulsions of rage. Talk about inconsistency—”

“Shut up, pig!” said Clarence. “You’re jealous.”

Suddenly Gustavius began to bellow and paw the earth.

“What disturbs you, my son?” inquired Mrs. Cowslip, between the finish of one cud and the beginning of another.

“It’s that rank outsider again, who is forever butting in with that vile-smelling red wagon,” said Gustavius, lifting his nose toward the lawn. “He angers me beyond words. I’ve laid for him a hundred times, but he hasn’t a drop of sporting blood in his body; he’s forever hanging on to the skirts of the red-headed girl.”

Galatea and the Artist, carrying a long, flat box between them, were walking about the lawn midway between the house and the willows. Presently they found a smooth, level space, opened the box, and proceeded to drive into the ground two gaudily painted stakes and some arches of wire.

“It’s very annoying the way that chap’s always about nowadays,” admitted Reginald. “I was just thinking of going up to get my back scratched, but it’s no use now.”

“My time will come one of these days,” said Gustavius. “Just let me catch that chap alone once, that’s all!” And he began industriously sharpening his horns on the stone fence.

It was nothing short of wonderful, the influence unconsciously exerted by the Poet’s sister over these four-legged comrades whom she had captivated on the very day of her arrival, as you cannot fail to remember. Now Mrs. Cowslip, Cleopatra, Clarence, Reginald, and William, who ordinarily prided himself on his independence of action, left the grateful shade of the willows, and, with perfunctory nibblings at grass, of which they were already over-full, slowly approached the scene of preparations for that ancient and honorable game called croquet. Soon that influence was too powerful even to be resisted by Gustavius, notwithstanding the hated presence of the Artist, and he moved sulkily after the others.

The Artist was pensive, and occasionally, as his adoring glance rested on Galatea’s graceful figure, he sighed. His attention being thus divided, it was not strange that he should miss the second arch.

“How foolish of you!” she said. “I can now save you further exertions by taking your ball around with me.”

Being already past the first side arch and in position for the middle one, with the Artist’s ball an easy victim, she was able to make good her promise. The Artist could not regret his inevitable defeat; it left him free to follow Galatea about and pour into her ears a lover’s woes.

“Sweetheart, why do you continue so cold and distant to me? One would suppose that when a girl is engaged—”

“Arthur, take your foot away from that arch!”

With beautiful precision she made the long “split” stroke, and was safe for the first stake.

“As I was saying, dear, when a girl is engaged—”

“Arthur! you are trying to make me miss the stake! Can’t you play fair?”

“I’m not playing at all, darling. I can’t play. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. One would expect a little mercy from a girl who wears his engagement—”

“There! you moved your ball just as I was about to strike for it!”

The Artist groaned and replaced the ball. She plumped her own into it dexterously from half-way across the field, and proceeded on the home stretch.

“I don’t know how long I’m going to stand this suspense,” sighed the Artist, “and yet you resist all my pleadings to name the day—”

“Arthur, I am playing croquet. Will you kindly stand one side?”

She played safely up to the last arch.

“If the date was fixed, dear, I think I could bear your lack of—enthusiasm; that is, if the date were reasonably near—”

“Can’t you keep away from the handle of my mallet, Arthur? Now I’m staked on your ball, and must risk all on one last stroke.”

“Oh, you’ll make it,” groaned the Artist. “I wish that ball was my head. Any sort of attention would be better than none at all. I’ve lost all hope of getting another kiss—”

“Ha! Whitewashed! whitewashed!” sang the girl, dancing about the stake. “Perhaps there’s some other game you play?”

The Artist sat down on the grass with his head in his hands.

“Does your head ache, Arthur?”

“My heart aches. Darling, have pity on me and name the day when we two—”

“Why, certainly—Wednesday.”

The Artist leaped to his feet.

“Day after to-morrow—how happy you make me!”

“Oh, I haven’t decided on any particular Wednesday.”

He threw himself back on the grass.

“But I’ve a feeling that it will be some Wednesday, Arthur, dear.”

Then she stooped over quickly and kissed him.

“I wondered whether Arthur would have sufficient diplomacy to let you win, Galatea,” said the Poet, with a perfectly straight face, his approach having been unobserved; “but it seems that I did him an injustice.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Galatea with dignity; “but if you want to make it a three-handed game, I’ll undertake to whitewash you both.”

“Oh, there’s nothing in it for me,” drawled the Poet aggravatingly; “however, I’m obliging by nature; I don’t mind simplifying things for Arthur.”

Galatea, with her nose in the air, sent her ball through the first two arches with a single stroke, and with the two thus gained took position, made the third arch, and with a swift safe drive for the middle one, which she missed, found herself well out of the way of hostile balls.

“There,” she said; “I don’t mind giving you the advantage by starting first.”

“Your generosity deserves a better reward,” said the Poet, as he selected a mallet with great care, “but some twenty years’ observation of the game has taught me that the croquet field is where friendship ceases.”

The Poet’s lank, knobby figure was about as symmetrical as that of a daddy-longlegs, but he had the eye of a champion marksman, and no nerves at all. He followed his sister’s tactics, and improved upon them. He took his position at the third arch with such nicety that in striking through it he sent his ball to within a yard of where Galatea’s lay.

“Any odds?” he asked coolly, as he clicked them together.

Galatea was scornfully silent. The Poet’s “split” for position at the centre arch was defective, and with brutal disregard of the Artist’s feelings he took position directly in line with the two first arches.

“Arthur,” ordered Galatea, “come straight through and use your two strokes to get George’s ball.”

“Oh, well, if you’re going to play partners against me!” And the Poet threw down his mallet.

“There’s no rule against coaching,” snapped Galatea.

But the Artist’s mind was not on croquet. The game resolved itself into a contest between the Poet and his sister as to which should take the greatest liberties with his ball. Thus they were neck and neck at the centre arch on the home stretch, with the Artist still at his second arch. Galatea missed, and the Poet found himself in cocksure position for the last two arches and the stake.

By this time all the four-legged members of the firm of Bos, Equus and Co. had drawn near and were watching the progress of the game with lively curiosity. Reginald, with his customary assurance, now advanced with ingratiating grunts out of the side of his mouth, and rubbed his side against the Poet’s leg, who had a sudden inspiration.

“Two to one I can make it with the pig’s legs for arches,” he said.

Galatea experienced renewed hope. The Poet cajoled Reginald into standing between the two arches with his kinked tail resting upon the one nearest the stake. There was a narrow, though clear, space between his legs, in line with the arches.

“Attention, Reginald!” and the Poet struck his ball with just the requisite force to send it through the two arches.

Unfortunately, at that instant Reginald sat down, and the ball, striking his fat stomach, bounced hopelessly out of position. Galatea dropped on the grass and shrieked.

“I’ll give you the game,” said the Poet. “It’s an antiquated pastime, anyhow.”

“Sour grapes,” laughed Galatea.

“Not at all. I’ve thought of an improvement, that’s all,” said the Poet. “Stay where you are, Reginald. William, come here.”

The goat put his nose in the Poet’s hand and followed him to the other end of the field, where he suffered himself to be stationed between the two arches opposite the pig. Over the two arches on one side the Poet stationed Cleopatra and Clarence, and opposite them Mrs. Cowslip and Gustavius. The bull-calf wrinkled his yellow nose and looked mutinous, while his comrades seemed much gratified. Then the Poet went calmly around the field and pulled up all the arches, except the centre one, and said:—

“There, all we lack is a camel or an elephant for the centre—but nothing is perfect in this world, at the start.”

“George,” said Galatea, wiping her eyes, “for out-and-out idiocy you certainly take the prize.”

“Not at all. That’s what’s said at first about every great discoverer. There hasn’t been a single improvement in this game in seven hundred years. Now for the first time in history you’re going to see croquet played with living arches—Ouch!”

Clarence had made a sudden playful leap from his position and nipped the Poet’s lean thigh. He was led back and admonished so severely that he meekly refrained from making any further demonstrations.

With perfect gravity the Poet led Galatea and the Artist in a game of croquet calculated to make history. If Mrs. Cowslip had not kicked the Poet’s ball clear off the field when it bounced smartly against her tenderest pastern, and if Gustavius had not destroyed the Artist’s nerve by bellowing hoarsely in his ear at a critical moment, it would have been a bewildering success.

“Anyway,” said the Poet, when Galatea had won through rank favoritism on the part of Reginald, who refrained from sitting down in her critical moment, “anyway, we’ve given one more demonstration that all are born free and equal in the firm of Bos, Equus and Co., even when it comes to croquet.”

“One thing I don’t understand,” said the Artist, who, being in love, was quite hopelessly serious, “and that is how you manage these animals turned out loose this way, when they become unruly, as all animals are apt to at times.”

“The learned Professor of whom we rented this place, and who attended to their early education, didn’t neglect that point,” answered the Poet, with a solemn glance at Galatea which brought before her mind’s eye a vision of their first exciting experience with William and Gustavius. “In times of mutiny one magic word uttered by the Professor brought them to their senses completely humbled.”

“Indeed!” said the Artist. “This is most interesting. I’ve heard of such methods being used by animal trainers. What is that word, George?”

“Its efficacy, Arthur, consists in the rarity of its use. It is pronounced only as a last resort, as familiarity would breed contempt for it. The word, Arthur, is”—and he whispered in the Artist’s ear—“Abracadabra.”

And Galatea related the circumstances of their single observation of its potency,—as recorded in the early part of this veracious chronicle,—with special stress on the advantages offered by a low-limbed cherry tree in case of pursuit by an enraged bull-calf.

“What you have told me is really wonderful,” said the Artist. “Never again will I doubt that domestic animals are possessed of reasoning powers, as well as capacity for affection.”

“Here comes Gabriel,” said Galatea. “He looks alarmed. I wonder what has happened?”

Gabriel caught his breath and said, addressing the Poet:—

“Si Blodgett fell off a haystack an’ thinks he’s goin’ to die. He wants to confess about them eggs.”

“Oh, the poor man!” said Galatea.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve been mistaken for a clergyman—that is, at first sight,” said the Poet. “Is he really badly hurt, Gabriel?”

“They ain’t no bones broke, but Si’s groanin’ somethin’ terrible an’ says it’s his insides.”

“But he can’t want me,” said the Poet. “Why, I put together the links of circumstantial evidence that proved he stole the eggs.”

“That’s jest it. Si says you’re th’ Lord’s instrument sent to awaken his sleepin’ conscience—darn him!—an’ he’s afraid of hell-fire if you don’t come an’ hear his confession.”

“Poor man!” said Galatea, with tears in her eyes. “Come, George, I’ll go with you. It’s only a step. Arthur, you wait here; we’ll soon be back.”

Conducted by Gabriel, they disappeared down the road, and the Artist was alone with his fate. He had no premonition of disaster. He lay on the grass with his eyes closed, wrapped in the joys and miseries of being in love.

The living croquet-arches, with one impulse, got their heads together and considered the situation.

“I, for one, shall go and take a look around the kitchen,” said Clarence.

“It’s the roof of the house for me,” said William; “I haven’t had a good view of the surrounding country since strawberry-time.”

“What about that chap on the grass?” asked Gustavius. “What will he be doing?”

“That reminds me,” said Reginald; “now’s your chance, Gustavius. You’ve been longing to catch him alone.”

The bull-calf shook his horns sulkily. “I kind of hate to do it. He seems to be a friend of the red-headed girl.”

“Besides, my son,” observed Mrs. Cowslip, “none of our race ever attacks a sleeping person.”

“Leave that to me,” said Reginald; “it’s time an example should be made of these outsiders.”

Clarence agreed with him. They began circling around the prostrate enemy, gradually drawing nearer, nipping at his legs or arms and darting away, until at length Clarence’s teeth brought their victim to his feet with a yell of mingled surprise and pain. But the Artist was not of a vengeful disposition.

“Ha! ha!” he laughed, “you’re spoiling for a frolic, I see!”

He ran toward the colt and then turned, as though inviting pursuit. The invitation was accepted with a unanimity that thoroughly alarmed the Artist. Even Mrs. Cowslip and Cleopatra were making hostile demonstrations, while William was backing away with a significance that caused the Artist to seize a croquet mallet as he dodged about the field. This was enough for the bull-calf, who began bellowing and pawing the earth, while his eyes turned red.

“Good fellows! good boys!” said the Artist, holding out his hand.

But they gathered about him closer yet, with snorts, bellows, and grunts which convinced the Artist it was time to exert authority. So he shouted in a stern voice:—

“Away! To the barn, all of you!”

For answer the indignant pig ran between his legs, all but upsetting him, and the others crowded in closer yet. Thoroughly frightened, the Artist decided that extreme measures were justifiable. Recalling the magic word whispered in his ear by the Poet, he raised his hand and thundered:—

“ABRACADABRA!”

The effect was instantaneous, but disconcerting. After one instant of general stupefaction, Clarence stood on his hind-legs with his forefeet beating the air, and addressed his companions in a shrill whinny, which they readily understood to mean:—

“What! Shall a miserable interloper presume so far!”

“Let me at him!” roared the bull-calf, with horns low and tail high.

The Artist turned and fled, with Gustavius bellowing at his heels, urged on by his comrades following close behind. Straight for the house sped the fugitive. The low-limbed cherry tree was nearer, and, luckily, he remembered it in time. Having sufficient presence of mind at the last moment to fling his forty-dollar Panama hat into Gustavius’s face, he swung himself into the tree, and was safe.

Gustavius kept one eye on him while practicing on the hat, which was presently only an expensive memory.

Clarence, finding the kitchen door open, walked in. By way of a rain-water barrel, the woodshed, and the water-tank, William mounted to the peak of the house roof and proceeded to enjoy the prospect. Reginald made himself comfortable in a veranda rocker. Mrs. Cowslip found the soft earth of the tulip-bed conducive to somnolence and cud-chewing, while Cleopatra grazed near by on some late pansies. Such was the scene that presented itself to Galatea when she returned alone, having found Si Blodgett more scared than hurt.

“Why, Arthur!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing up there?”

“Call off your bull-calf, and I’ll come down and tell you.” The Artist was annoyed.

“Gustavius? Why, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Wouldn’t he? Just look at my forty-dollar Panama!”

“Oh, Arthur, surely there must be some mistake—some misunderstanding.”

“It’s past the misunderstanding stage when I’m treed like this.”

“You must have said something that offended Gustavius. He’s terribly sensitive, poor fellow!”

“Said something! I treated them like friends and fellow citizens till they all set upon me at once; then, seeing it was a conspiracy, I said ‘Abracadabra,’ of course.”

“Oh, Arthur! You forgot that you had no right—that you were not a member of our family—yet.”

“They seemed to remember it all right—especially the bull-calf. I nearly burst a blood-vessel getting up here.”

“It is really most unfortunate, Arthur.” She looked about her, at the late pansies, at the tulip-bed, and at the house roof, and said reproachfully: “William! Mrs. Cowslip! Cleopatra!”

The goat came meekly down from the roof. The cow and the mare walked slowly off toward the barn, much mortified.

“You don’t seem to mind Gustavius—and me,” complained the Artist.

Galatea sat on the grass and took off her hat.

“You may come down presently, Arthur. I have long wanted to say certain things to you, but you are so impulsive in your—in various ways, that it seemed necessary for me to wait for some such opportunity as this, when you are—otherwise occupied. Arthur, you have pressed me to name a day for a certain ceremony—”

She was interrupted by a bellow from Gustavius, consequent upon a sudden movement of the Artist, who immediately concluded not to forsake his perch.

“Must you interrupt me, Arthur?”

“I didn’t; it was the bull-calf; I don’t bellow.”

“Well, Arthur, I would oblige you and set a date for our wedding if I were quite sure that we understand each other.”

“Galatea, there’s nothing to understand except that I love you to the extinction of every other thought or feeling, and always shall.” He paused to regain his balance, for the tree was a small one, and swayed under the stress of his emotion.

“Then, dear, if I set an early date, will you promise faithfully to love me in all my moods, no matter what I say or do, and never be angry, or dispute with me about anything?”

“Bless you, my darling! I swear it!”

“Have you no misgivings, Arthur?”

“None, none! Not one!”

“Not even when you remember that my hair is red?”

“I adore red hair!”

“But not on other girls, Arthur?”

“No; only on you, darling.”

“Thank you, Arthur, dear. If the second Wednesday in October, five weeks hence, will suit you, then you may come down and kiss me.”

“Galatea!”

Gustavius pawed the earth, and he hesitated.

“Can a bull-calf stand between you and me, Arthur?”

“Never!” He leaped far out from the tree and took her in his arms.

Gustavius gave them one glance and walked away in disgust. Being only a bull-calf, he did not realize that he had accomplished in a single afternoon something which had baffled the little rosy god himself for more than a year.

The sound of voices in the road brought the lovers back to earth.

“It’s all over,” said the Poet, catching sight of them. “Si Blodgett has confessed everything, and his insides don’t hurt him any more.”

Gabriel had intercepted the rural delivery; he gave Galatea a letter bearing a foreign postmark. She tore open the envelope, read two pages, and exclaimed:—

“O George, it’s from the Professor! Just listen to this:—

“‘Finding the cause of the higher education of domestic animals much farther advanced in Germany than in America, I have decided to locate permanently in Berlin, where some promising pupils have been placed in my charge, including a young ram with a wonderful talent for algebra. I am therefore offering for sale the place which you leased from me, at the very reasonable price of seven thousand five hundred to you, knowing that my former pupils will thus continue in good hands.’”

“Too bad,” sighed the Poet; “I’ve often wished I’d been born a plumber.”

“Galatea,” said the Artist, “would you really like to have this place for your own?”

“Oh, Arthur, it makes me weep to think of leaving Gustavius, and Clarence, and Reginald—”

“And Cleopatra, and Mrs. Cowslip, and William, and Napoleon,” added the Poet.

“You shall not leave them,” said the Artist, beaming upon them both. “Give me the Professor’s address, Galatea, and you shall have a deed of the place on the second Wednesday in October.”

“Eh, what’s that—the second Wednesday in October?” said the Poet.

“Why, on that happy date,” said the Artist, as Galatea flung her arms about his neck, “Bos, Equus and Co. are to take in a new partner.”