Brave Horatius. Felix Mendelssohn rode in my apron pocket and Elizabeth Barrett Browning followed after.
We had not gone far when we heard an awful squeal—so different from the way pigs squeal when they want their supper. I felt cold all over. Then I did have knowings why the mamma had let me start away to the woods without scolding. And I ran a quick run to save my dear Peter Paul Rubens; but already he was dying—and he died with his head in my lap. I sat there feeling dead, too, until my knees were all wet with blood from the throat of my dear Peter Paul Rubens. After I changed my clothes and put the bloody ones in the rain-barrel, I did go to the woods to look for the soul of Peter Paul Rubens. I did n't find it, but I think when comes the spring I will find it among the flowers—probably in the blossom of a faon lily or in the top of a fir tree. To-day, when Brave Horatius and I went through the woods, we did feel its presence near. When I was come back from the woods, they made me grind sausage, and every time I did turn the handle I could hear that little pain squeal Peter Paul Rubens always gave when he did want me to come where he was at once.
