have talked it over and he don't care for anything better than I am, so he ain't goin' away."
"Well," said father, "When I see you two together I think as much, but when you go down town loitering around with people that aren't half as smart as this goose, it's then that he misses you, and it's on that account that I wish you would leave his wings the way they are now. But because after he is gone you will feel bad and mope around for a few days, I thought I would tell you now that when spring comes he will leave you, notwithstanding the bond of friendship, so if you want him kept here (which I hope you don't) you had better cut the feathers on one wing."
I didn't want to mutilate his feathers so I left them on. A few weeks later coming from one of those important trips down town, they told me at home that my pet had gone. I said, "I guess not." I didn't want to let on that I was alarmed, but when they were not looking I made some big strides for the barnyard, and it was actually as still as death I whistled but no sound, save an echo, came in return.
I noticed the leaves hung silent on our trees, though the neighbors' trees were in action. I went back of the barn and called, but the call was wasted on a few old hens that "didn't belong." I tried to ginger up some life into the landscape by throwing a few old potatoes at things, but the brakes were set in general on everything and I went into the house and found all the family sitting in front of an empty fireplace with long faces. No one spoke and the only noise was the clock, which ticked louder than ever. It was about dark when father arose and said it was for the best, that "here in Silverton there were no opportunities for him, in fact no pond for him to swim in even, and when you were away down town no one that he apparently loved, and if you will think of it a moment, it would have been cruel for you, a lover of animals, to have kept him here all of his life." But there were no answers, just long breaths now and then, until it was time
