side,
and the other is willing to give it up.

Mrs. Shallock lives in a crazy old frame-house, over a saloon. Her
kitchen is approached by a sort of hen-ladder, a foot wide, which
terminates in a balcony, the whole of which was occupied by a big gray
goat. There was not room for the police inquisitor and the goat too,
and the former had to wait till the animal had come off his perch.
Mrs. Shallock is a widow. A load of anxiety and concern overspread her
motherly countenance when she heard of the trouble.

"Are they after dem goats again?" she said. "Sarah! Leho! come right
here, an' don't you go in the street again. Excuse me, sor! but it's
all because one of dem knocked down an old woman that used to give it
a paper every day. She is the mother of the blind newsboy around on
the avenue, an' she used to feed an old paper to him every night. So
he follied her. That night she didn't have any, an' when he stuck his
nose in her basket an' didn't find any, he knocked her down, an' she
bruk her arrum."

Whether it was the one-horned goat that thus insisted upon his
sporting extra does not appear. Probably it was.

"There's neighbors lives there has got 'em on floors," Mrs. Shallock
kept on. "I'm paying taxes here, an' I think it's my privilege to have
one little goat."

"I just wish they'd take 'em," broke in the widow's buxom daughter,
who had appeared in the doorway, combing her hair. "They goes up in
the hall and knocks on the door with their horns all night. There's
sixteen dozen of them on the stoop, if there's one. What good are
they? Let's sell 'em to the butcher, mamma; he'll buy 'em for mutton,
the way he did Bill Buckley's. You know right well he did."

"They ain't much good, that's a fact," mused the widow. "But yere's
Leho; she's follying me around just like a child. She is a regular
pet, is Leho. We got her from Mr. Lee, who is dead, and we called her
after him, Leho [Leo]. Take Sarah; but Leho, little Leho, let's keep."

Leho stuck her head in through the front door and belied her name. If
the widow keeps her, another campaign will shortly have to be begun in
Forty-sixth Street. There will be more goats where Leho is.

Mr. Cleary lives in a rear tenement and has only one goat. It belongs,
he says, to his little boy, and is no good except to amuse him. Minnie
is her name, and she once had a mate. When it was sold, the boy cried
so much that he was sick for two weeks. Mr. Cleary couldn't think of
parting