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. 



