aments, and floral jackets."

MONSIEUR SEGUIN'S LAST KID GOAT

_To Pierre Gringoire, lyrical poet, Paris._

You'll never get anywhere, Gringoire!

I can't believe it! A good newspaper in Paris offers you a job as a
critic and you have the brass neck to turn it down. Look at yourself,
old friend. Look at the holes in your doublet, your worn-out stockings,
and your pinched face which betrays your hunger. Look where your
passion for poetry has got you! See how much you have been valued for
your ten years writing for the gods. What price pride, after all?

Take the job, you idiot, become a critic! You'll get good money, you'll
have your reserved table in Brebant's, you will be seen at premieres,
and it will secure your reputation....

No? You don't want to? You prefer to stay as free as the air to the end
of your days. Very well then, listen to the story of _Monsieur Seguin's
last kid goat_. You'll see where hankering after your freedom gets you.

* * * * *

Monsieur Seguin never had much luck with his goats.

He lost them all, one after another, in the same way. One fine morning
they would break free from their tethers and scamper off up into the
mountain, where they were gobbled up by the big bad wolf. Neither their
master's care, nor the fear of the wolf, nor anything else could hold
them back. They were, or so it seemed, goats who wanted freedom and
open spaces whatever the cost.

Monsieur Seguin, who didn't understand his animals' ways, was dismayed.
He said:

--It's all over. Goats get fed up here; I haven't managed to keep a
single one of them.

But he hadn't totally lost heart, for even after losing six goats, he
still bought a seventh. This time he made sure to get it very young, so
she would settle down better.

Oh! Gringoire, she was really lovely, Monsieur Seguin's little kid
goat; with her gentle eyes, her goatee beard, her black shiny hooves,
her striped horns, and her long white fur, which made a fine greatcoat
for her! It was nearly as delightful as Esmeralda's kid goat. Do you
remember her, Gringoire? And then again, she was affectionate and
docile, holding still while she was milked, never putting her foot in
the bowl. A lovely, a dear little goat....

There was a hawthorn enclosure behind Monsieur Seguin's house where he
placed his new boarder. He tied her to a stake in the finest part of
the field, taking care that she had plenty of rope, and often went out