myself being superintendent-in-chief of the whole establishment of animals, there remained only little Franz to whose special care the calf could be committed.
“What say you, my boy,—will you undertake to look after this little fellow?”
“Oh yes, father!” he replied. “Once you told me about a strong man, I think his name was Milo, and he had a tiny calf, and he used to carry it about everywhere. It grew bigger and bigger, but still he carried it often, till at last he grew so strong that when it was quite a great big ox, he could lift it as easily as ever. And so you see, if I take care of our wee calf and teach it to do what I like, perhaps when it grows big I shall still be able to manage it, and then—oh, papa—do you think I might ride upon it?”
I smiled at the child's simplicity, and his funny application of the story of Milo of Crotona.
“The calf shall be yours, my boy. Make him as tame as you can, and we will see about letting you mount him some day; but remember he will be a great bull long before you are nearly a man. Now what will you call him?”
“Shall I call him Grumble, father? Hear what a low muttering noise he makes!”
“Grumble will do famously.”
“Grumble, Grumble. Oh, it beats your buffalo's name hollow, Jack!”
“Not a bit,” said he; “why, you can't compare the two names. Fancy mother saying, ‘Here comes Franz on Grumble, but Jack riding on the Storm’ Oh, it sounds sublime!”
We named the two puppies Bruno and Fawn, and so ended this important domestic business.
For two months we worked steadily at our salt-cave, in order to complete the necessary arrangement of partition walls, so as to put the rooms and stalls for the animals in comfortable order for the
