Read Ebook: Gambolling with Galatea: a Bucolic Romance by Dunham Curtis Herford Oliver Illustrator

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Ebook has 842 lines and 28628 words, and 17 pages

But Amanda's mind was glued on strawberries; and for the present other matters of moment require us, too, to leave the escaped prisoners to their own devices.

Half a mile away the Poet and his sister sat on a boulder beside the road. It was a semi-public road winding around the foot of a wooded hill. Behind them, a mile away, was the railway station. That mile had been mostly uphill, and the Poet did not love physical exercise. He was tall and lean, with a geometrical figure composed mainly of acute angles. When in a state of repose, it resembled a carpenter's pocket rule which protested at being entirely shut up. The Poet's sister, on the contrary, was mainly curves--those delicate, subtle curves that deny the presence of bones, yet repel any suggestion of fat. She was young; not too young--just young enough to have won the crowning glory of spinsterhood. She had quantities of red hair, the kind of red hair that always goes with that astonishingly transparent skin underneath which scattering amber freckles come and go over-night. There was one now on the side of her nose, which had a becomingly mirthful tilt at the end. Her lips were full at the centre, carmine, and with finely shaped corners which could not by any possibility be drawn downward. She wore a solid pair of calfskin boots, with military heels which looked small while being ample in size. Her dark walking-skirt barely reached the interesting spot where her bootlaces were tied. Her waist, of a soft, cream-tinted material, left her neck and throat bare--for which the Lord be praised!--and a shapeless, yet shapely, fluffy white thing resting on the coils of her hair seemed to absorb warmth from them. In short, you will make no mistake when you keep your mind fixed on the Poet's sister.

"Just around the next turn of the road, George," she was saying, "our little summer Elysium will burst upon your view."

The Poet mopped the long, solemn countenance that was belied by his eyes and his manner of speech.

"Galatea, I have observed that most things elysian in this life are generally just around the corner. I am not impatient. I can wait. In fact, I should prefer to have that first view burst upon me while I am comfortably seated in the spring wagon of--What did I understand you to say the gentleman's name was, Galatea?"

"He is called Gabe."

"Doubtless a corruption of Gabriel. I wonder if Gabriel blows his trumpet for breakfast?"

Galatea's lips parted in a musical ripple of laughter. The sight would have caused a dentist to pass on, with misgivings about his future. The Poet merely remarked:--

"Galatea, are you sure we brought our toothbrushes?" Whereupon the dentist would have been heartened by the sight of a tiny point of gold shining out of the crown of her left bicuspid.

"George, you lazy thing, come on. It's only half a mile further. Gabriel probably missed us at the station, and has returned by the main road."

"Oh, well, if all roads lead to Elysium, I suppose it's no use waiting here."

Slowly the Poet's angles adjusted themselves to the upright position, and he strode on beside his sister.

"So you really like the place, Galatea?"

"It's lovely--just the spot to give you inspiration, George. I shall expect great things of you, dear."

"Will it inspire me to reduce the rhythm of Anacreon to ragtime, do you think?"

"O George! And there are the Professor's pets, you know--Mrs. Cowslip, Clarence, Reginald, Gustavius, and William. I told you about them. The Professor has the most wonderful knack of understanding domestic animals and making them understand him. Really, they look upon him as one of themselves. The Professor says we do our domestic animal pets great injustice when we overlook their loyalty and intelligence, refusing to meet them half-way in friendly companionship. Why, with only a little encouragement they develop the most remarkable emotions, almost human in their complexity; while their powers of expression develop correspondingly. Positively the Professor and his cow, and colt, and pig, and bull-calf,--William the goat, Napoleon the dog, and Cleopatra the mare were away the day I called to arrange about the lease for the summer,--are just one big happy family."

Galatea's cheeks were flushed with enthusiasm. The Poet's eyes twinkled, but his face remained long and solemn.

"What name does the pig answer to?"

"Reginald; but he's a nice, clean pig."

"O George, how perfectly absurd!"

"Not necessarily. I give way to no man in my determination to do justice to my fellow creatures, irrespective of the number of legs with which they are equipped. As the Professor has left us in undisputed possession for the next six months, there's no telling what we may accomplish. What sort of voice has Reginald?"

"George, I shan't tell you another thing!"

"I lay claim to no advance information respecting Arthur's intentions," answered the Poet's sister, in cool, even tones. The flapping brim of her headgear was between the Poet's eyes and her cheek, suddenly turned pink.

They had reached the turn of the road that overlooked their summer Elysium. The Poet distributed his joints over another roadside boulder, while Galatea stood by his side, and gave his attention to the charming scene in detail.

"Really, a fine, rambling old house surrounded by shaded verandas below, and not too near the road. A stone-walled inclosure of half a dozen acres sloping down to a pretty brook that flows under the lower wall just below the barn--a comfortable red barn; a barn that isn't red is only half a barn. A kitchen-garden and an orchard, and the rest pasture that is neat enough for a lawn. What romps we shall have, Galatea, with the colt and the bull-calf! What's that vine-covered affair reared against the west gable of the house? Oh, a water-tank. Just so; there's a pipe connecting underground with the brook, and that wind-wheel on the barn roof does the pumping. Good! I anticipate the luxury of an occasional tub. I was afraid Elysium was like Germany--lots of romance and no bathtubs. Galatea, we shall do--we shall do beautifully. But I say, what's that funny-looking thing on the peak of the house roof?"

"Isn't it the chimney?"

"It looks to me like a saw-horse."

They walked on. After passing through a grove of chestnuts, they had a nearer and better view of the house.

"No, it isn't a saw-horse," said the Poet. "It moves. Did you see it?"

Galatea looked embarrassed.

"Yes," Galatea admitted reluctantly, "it must be William."

Presently they turned in at the gate--and then the Poet doubled up like a jack-knife. Galatea plumped down on the grass and laughed till she cried. A nice clean fat pig, with a sort of Elizabethan ruffle about his neck, raised himself on his forelegs and sat at a little distance from Galatea, grunting mild inquiries respecting the object of her call. The ruffle was explained by the presence of several other articles of feminine wearing apparel scattered about on the grass, evidently undergoing the bleaching process. In making a selection for his own adornment, the pig had not been quite discreet. A sleek and motherly cow, with one crumpled horn, lay in the soft earth of a tulip-bed, chewing her cud. Her total lack of humor was manifest in the complacent glances which she bestowed upon her offspring, a reckless-looking bull-calf, which wore a peach-basket unnecessarily on one of his hind-legs. This scene of domestic contentment was further enhanced when a saucy yearling colt put his head out through the kitchen window and shook it knowingly at the intruders, as much as to say:--

And then the colt, the cow, the bull-calf, the pig wearing the improvised ruffle, and the goat from his perch on the roof, united in a glance of intense astonishment at the girl seated on the grass. Why was she swaying her body up and down in that foolish fashion, while her hands beat the air aimlessly and her throat emitted incomprehensible gurgles, like the bull-calf with a turnip stuck in his gullet?

"Oh dear, oh dear!" choked Galatea. "Amanda's stepped out somewhere, and Bos, Equus and Co. are in full charge. The cow chewing her cud in the tulip-bed--oh dear, oh dear! The bull-calf picking up stray peach-baskets, and the colt in the kitchen--oh dear, oh dear! The pig wearing one of Amanda's--ha! ha! he! he!--one of Amanda's newest aramatums for a collar! Slap me on the back, George; I shall die--oh dear, oh dear! And the goat overlooking things from the roof! Come and fan me, George. Oh dear, oh dear!"

But the Poet had recovered his accustomed solemnity of visage. He stood with arms folded, contemplating the goat.

"Bos, Equus and Co. are plainly within their rights," he said, "excepting the goat. The roof of our house is not a proper place for any member of our family, two-legged or otherwise. William, come down from there!"

The goat wrinkled his nose at the Poet. It was as though he had said:--

"Why should I waste words on a stranger and an interloper?"

"Come down, William. Come down, or I'll assert the last remnant of my authority as a two-legged person."

William stamped his foot on the shingles in a manner plainly hostile. The Poet picked up a good-sized cobble-stone.

"William, for the last time I warn you. Come down!"

The goat backed up two or three steps and shook his horns.

"Very well, William, your blood be on your own head"; and the Poet threw the cobble-stone.

Now, as is well known, a goat has only one really vulnerable spot, namely, his curved and bony nose. Furthermore, a goat's nose--like the beard of the prophet--is sacred. Therefore, when the cobble-stone, flying straight from the Poet's incautious hand, struck William forcibly upon his most honored feature, the situation became grave. Stopping only to make one grimace of anguish, partly physical but mainly of his outraged soul, he ran to the west gable, leaped down upon the water-tank, thence to the woodshed roof, and from there one leap landed him on the ground. Measuring with his inflamed and malevolent eye his distance from the Poet, he began backing slowly, with portent that could not be misunderstood.

"O George, he's going to butt you!" screamed Galatea. "Sit down! sit down!"

But the Poet stood gazing at William like one fascinated. Having backed to a distance satisfactory to his nice discrimination in such matters, the goat lowered his nose and launched himself forward straight as an arrow aimed for the lank, concave surface which indicated the Poet's stomachic region. Perhaps it was the goat's waning enthusiasm over a mark so little inviting,--at any rate the impact of his horns was only sufficient to cause the Poet to sit down with promptness.

"O George, did he hurt you?" asked Galatea anxiously. "I told you to sit down."

"I believe I took your advice, Galatea," said the Poet, looking about him in a dazed manner.

The goat was slowly backing again. There was a look in his eye which said more plainly than words:--

"Perchance you've had enough? If not, there's more where that came from."

"Don't get up, George," said Galatea. "Don't move. Sit where you are and he'll go away."

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