130 BIRDS AND POETS 
the way home. She cut capers in front of the White 
House, and tried twice to wind me up in the rope 
as we passed the Treasury. She kicked up her heels 
on the broad avenue, and became very coltish as she 
came under the walls of the Capitol. But that night 
the long-vacant stall in the old stable was filled, and 
the next morning the coffee had met with a change 
of heart. I had to go out twice with the lantern 
and survey my treasure before I went to bed. Did 
she not come from the delectable mountains, and 
did I not have a sort of filial regard for her as 
toward my foster-mother ? 
This was during the Arcadian age at the capital, 
before the easy-going Southern ways had gone out 
and the prim new Northern ways had come in, and 
when the domestic animals were treated with distin- 
guished consideration and granted the freedom of 
the city. . There was a charm of cattle in the street 
and upon the commons; goats cropped your rose- 
bushes through the pickets, and nooned upon your 
front porch; and pigs dreamed Arcadian dreams 
under your garden fence, or languidly frescoed it 
with pigments from the nearest pool. It was a time 
of peace; it was the poor man’s golden age. Your 
cow, or your goat, or your pig led a vagrant, wan- 
dering life, and picked up a subsistence wherever 
they could, like the bees, which was almost every- 
where. Your cow went forth in the morning and 
came home fraught with milk at night, and you 
never troubled yourself where she went or how far 
she roamed, 
