Baby Goats Quotes

Kids are baby goats. They're cute and they have redeeming social value. You are definitely not kids.

I knew it!" He pumps a fist into the air. "You've fallen in love with me. You want to have my babies. We'll get a team of horses and a covered wagon and we'll journey to South America and raise goats.

I'd follow a clown into a storm drain if he had a baby goat in pajamas.

Inside my head I carry: my baby goat, my baby brother, my ama's face, our family's future. My bundle is light. My burden is heavy.

Hedge snorted. “Kids are baby goats. They’re cute, and they have redeeming social value. You are definitely not kids.

In that day the wolf and the lamb will live together; the leopard will lie down with the baby goat. The calf and the yearling will be safe with the lion, and a little child will lead them all. —Isaiah 11:6

Dreams were the worst. Of course I dreamed of food and love, but they were pleasant rather than otherwise. But then I'd dream of things like slitting a baby's throat, mistaking it for a baby goat. I'd have nightmares of other islands stretching away from mine, infinities of islands, islands spawning islands, like frogs' eggs turning into polliwogs of islands, knowing that I had to live on each and every one, eventually, for ages, registering their flora, their fauna, their geography.

He stopped at every village, every hamlet, every house and hovel he passed along the way to ask if they had seen or heard anything of his sister,, Gretel. But no one had. "You mean Gretel, the old woman?" "No, my sister." "Gretel, my sister's baby?" "No, my sister. And she's not a baby." "I have a goat named Gretel." "No!

Quentin Quire: I'm just gonna lay this out there. You're blonde, Russian and exceedingly demonic. How is it that we aren't already dating? . Illyana Rasputin: I would tear you apart, little boy, like the bear does a baby goat.

Their cute little faces are exactly about survival. Baby animals all have large eyes and big foreheads because adult mammals are hardwired to consider it cute and feed them. It’s pure, vicious survival. Survival of the fittest. Practically mercenary.” “Oh my god, are you ruining baby goat videos for me?

Oh, just you wait. I'll have, like Great Danes and pygmy goats and maybe even a baby panda living with me. That is what panic does to people if the attacks get bad enough.

Baby rats need rat milk, baby cats need cat milk, baby dogs need dog milk, baby humans need human milk, baby cows need cow milk, baby chimps need chimp milk.. Would anyone believe it if someone claimed adult giraffes need elephant milk? or adult horses need squirrel milk? or adult possums need goat milk? or adult humans need cow milk? oh, wait, no, that last one makes total sense.. NOT

What happened?" "This happened." He shifted his arms to reveal a bundle of tiny, knobby joints and fluffy patches of black and white. A newborn goat. "Oh, my goodness." She knelt behind him, peering over his shoulder. "Surely not Marigold?" "I told you so," he said irritably. As if she'd be intimidated by gruff words from a man cradling a newborn goat in his arms. She'd always known he had a capacity for gentleness. I told you so, too. She reached to stroke the little goat's fur. Gabriel's shoulder muscle flinched in annoyance. "My shirt was ruined, I'll have you know. Completely unsalvageable. And then this runtish little thing wouldn't stop shivering." "Would it help if I told you that I've never found you so wildly attractive as I do in this moment?" "No.

This is Marvin," he says. "He eats everything and yells like a distressed baby to get attention. I'm goat-sitting him this summer.

Holy baby goats in pajamas.

Haiku Christmas Story New light in the sky announces a sacred birth. Shine brightly young star. Hallelujah song carries on a gentle wind, heralding a king. Shepherds lift their heads, not to gaze at a new light but to hear angels. "Unto you is born in the city of David a Savior for all." Born on straw at night under low stable rafters, Baby Jesus cried. Sheep and goats and cows gather 'round a manger bed to awe at a babe. Wise men come to see a child of greater wisdom and honor divine. Rare and precious gifts, gold and myrrh and frankincense, to offer a king. Mary and Joseph huddle snugly together. They cradle God's son. On this wise He came, the Son of God to the earth. A humble wonder.

Gabriel nudged her with his shoulder. "Look." The newborn goat was standing on his own wobbly legs, taking drunken steps. When he toppled sideways, he bleated indignantly. Gabriel started to reach for him, but Penny held him back. "Wait." Marigold roused herself and ambled over to her kid, licking him about the head until George lurched and swayed himself to his hooves, and when he nosed at her swollen underside, she allowed him to nurse. "Oh. That's lovely." Penny snuggled under Gabriel's arm. "Thank God she finally took to him," he said. "How could she not? Look how adorable he is. Best little goat in the world.

Biju stepped out of the airport into the Calcutta night, warm, mammalian. His feet sank into dust winnowed to softness at his feet, ad he felt an unbearable feeling, sad and tender, old and sweet like the memory of falling asleep, a baby on his mother's lap. Thousands of people were out though it was almost eleven. He saw a pair of elegant bearded goats in a rickshaw, riding to slaughter. A conference of old men with elegant goat faces, smoking bidis. A mosque and minarets lit magic green in the night with a group of women rushing by in burkas, bangles clinking under the black and a big psychedelic mess of colour from a sweet shop. Rotis flew through the air as in a juggling act, polka-dotting the sky high over a restaurant that bore the slogan "Good food makes good mood". Biju stood there in that dusty tepid soft sari night. Sweet drabness of home - he felt everything shifting and clicking into place around him, felt himself slowly shrink back to size, the enormous anxiety of being a foreigner ebbing - that unbearable arrogance and shame of the immigrant. Nobody paid attention to him here, and if they said anything at all, their words were easy, unconcerned. He looked about and for the first time in God knows how long, his vision unblurred and he found that he could see clearly.

Can’t you see the danger all around you?” Daniel the shoemaker walked up to them and abruptly put a baby lamb in Keeley’s arms. “For your mum. Tell her I’ll get her the baby goat in another week or two.” They stared at the lamb bleating in Keeley’s arms as Daniel returned to his shop. “Yes, Sister, the danger is everywhere.

The following spring was a time of calving. Great icebergs calved from the vast glaciers which stretched down to our fjords from distant mountains. The heifers and cows of Kaupangen gave birth to over one hundred calves that spring. Most survived. Gudrod, the master shepherd, had seventy-five new lambkins skipping after their mothers. Ten sets of lamb twins were born in the city that year. Bitches had pups suckling at their breasts. The mountain goats that stood watch over the fjord, indifferently chewing on the wild grasses between the rocks, had kids following them on their steep paths. The residents of the city, too, gave birth. Twenty-one new healthy babies were born within thirty days of the spring equinox; boys and girls with thick blonde, brown, black, or red hair; others with smooth bald heads. Olaf, my third father, my king, had a son, stillborn. Olaf wept. Kenna wept. I wept as the boy was buried inside the casket with his mother in our graveyard by the church.

Sheep and goats and cows gather 'round a manger bed to awe at a babe.

As for describing the smell of a spaniel mixed with the smell of torches, laurels, incense, banners, wax candles and a garland of rose leaves crushed by a satin heel that has been laid up in camphor, perhaps Shakespeare, had he paused in the middle of writing Antony and Cleopatra — But Shakespeare did not pause. Confessing our inadequacy, then, we can but note that to Flush Italy, in these the fullest, the freest, the happiest years of his life, meant mainly a succession of smells. Love, it must be supposed, was gradually losing its appeal. Smell remained. Now that they were established in Casa Guidi again, all had their avocations. Mr. Browning wrote regularly in one room; Mrs. Browning wrote regularly in another. The baby played in the nursery. But Flush wandered off into the streets of Florence to enjoy the rapture of smell. He threaded his path through main streets and back streets, through squares and alleys, by smell. He nosed his way from smell to smell; the rough, the smooth, the dark, the golden. He went in and out, up and down, where they beat brass, where they bake bread, where the women sit combing their hair, where the bird-cages are piled high on the causeway, where the wine spills itself in dark red stains on the pavement, where leather smells and harness and garlic, where cloth is beaten, where vine leaves tremble, where men sit and drink and spit and dice — he ran in and out, always with his nose to the ground, drinking in the essence; or with his nose in the air vibrating with the aroma. He slept in this hot patch of sun — how sun made the stone reek! he sought that tunnel of shade — how acid shade made the stone smell! He devoured whole bunches of ripe grapes largely because of their purple smell; he chewed and spat out whatever tough relic of goat or macaroni the Italian housewife had thrown from the balcony — goat and macaroni were raucous smells, crimson smells. He followed the swooning sweetness of incense into the violet intricacies of dark cathedrals; and, sniffing, tried to lap the gold on the window- stained tomb. Nor was his sense of touch much less acute. He knew Florence in its marmoreal smoothness and in its gritty and cobbled roughness. Hoary folds of drapery, smooth fingers and feet of stone received the lick of his tongue, the quiver of his shivering snout. Upon the infinitely sensitive pads of his feet he took the clear stamp of proud Latin inscriptions. In short, he knew Florence as no human being has ever known it; as Ruskin never knew it or George Eliot either.

The people of jewel," said Olga Ciavolga,"treat their children like delicate flowers. They think they will not survive without constant protection. But there are parts of the world where young boys and girls spend weeks at a time with no company except a herd of goats. They chase away wolves. They take care of themselves, and they take care of the herd. And so, when hard times come - as they always do in the end - those children are resourceful and brave. If they have to walk from one end of the county to the other, carrying their baby brother and sisters, they will do it. If they have to hide during the day and travel at night to avoid soldiers, they will do it. They do not give up easily." The tunnel took a sharp right-hand turn and, for a moment, the old woman s voice was lost. Something dropped onto Goldie's arm, and she opened her mouth to yelp - and thought of those children carrying their baby brothers and sisters through the night - and closed her mouth and kept going. She rounded the corner in time to hear Olga Ciavolga murmur,"Of course, I am not saying that it is a good thing to give children such heavy responsibility's. They must be allowed to have a childhood. But they must also be allowed to find their courage and their wisdom, and learn when to stand and when to run away. After all, if they are not permitted to climb the trees, how will they ever see the great and wonderful world that lies before them?

She set the kid on the floor, and George gamboled about the room, making high-pitched, chirping bleats. "He prances. Sideways. It's adorable." The kid attempted to admit it was rather adorable. Especially the way the newborn goat made its way to him from across the room, stopping at his boots to issue an entitled bleat. He was a demanding little thing already. Gabe bent to give the kid a scratch between the ears.

At the next Goat Guys show, the band came on stage with their wings, their haunches, their horns. The audience swooned at their feet. Cherokee spun and spun until she was dizzy, until she was not sure anymore if she or the stage was in motion. Afterwards two girls in lingerie and over-the-knee leather boots offered a joint to Raphael and Angel Juan. All four of them were smoking backstage when Cherokee and Witch Baby came through the door. Witch Baby went and wriggled onto Angel Juan's lap. He was wearing the horns and massaging his temples. His face looked constricted with pain until he inhaled the smoke from the joint. "Are you okay?" Witch Baby asked. "My head's killing me.

I say is someone in there?’ The voice is the young post-New formalist from Pittsburgh who affects Continental and wears an ascot that won’t stay tight, with that hesitant knocking of when you know perfectly well someone’s in there, the bathroom door composed of thirty-six that’s three times a lengthwise twelve recessed two-bevelled squares in a warped rectangle of steam-softened wood, not quite white, the bottom outside corner right here raw wood and mangled from hitting the cabinets’ bottom drawer’s wicked metal knob, through the door and offset ‘Red’ and glowering actors and calendar and very crowded scene and pubic spirals of pale blue smoke from the elephant-colored rubble of ash and little blackened chunks in the foil funnel’s cone, the smoke’s baby-blanket blue that’s sent her sliding down along the wall past knotted washcloth, towel rack, blood-flower wallpaper and intricately grimed electrical outlet, the light sharp bitter tint of a heated sky’s blue that’s left her uprightly fetal with chin on knees in yet another North American bathroom, deveiled, too pretty for words, maybe the Prettiest Girl Of All Time (Prettiest G.O.A.T.), knees to chest, slew-footed by the radiant chill of the claw-footed tub’s porcelain, Molly’s had somebody lacquer the tub in blue, lacquer, she’s holding the bottle, recalling vividly its slogan for the past generation was The Choice of a Nude Generation, when she was of back-pocket height and prettier by far than any of the peach-colored titans they’d gazed up at, his hand in her lap her hand in the box and rooting down past candy for the Prize, more fun way too much fun inside her veil on the counter above her, the stuff in the funnel exhausted though it’s still smoking thinly, its graph reaching its highest spiked prick, peak, the arrow’s best descent, so good she can’t stand it and reaches out for the cold tub’s rim’s cold edge to pull herself up as the white- party-noise reaches, for her, the sort of stereophonic precipice of volume to teeter on just before the speaker’s blow, people barely twitching and conversations strettoing against a ghastly old pre-Carter thing saying ‘We’ve Only Just Begun,’ Joelle’s limbs have been removed to a distance where their acknowledgement of her commands seems like magic, both clogs simply gone, nowhere in sight, and socks oddly wet, pulls her face up to face the unclean medicine-cabinet mirror, twin roses of flame still hanging in the glass’s corner, hair of the flame she’s eaten now trailing like the legs of wasps through the air of the glass she uses to locate the de-faced veil and what’s inside it, loading up the cone again, the ashes from the last load make the world's best filter: this is a fact. Breathes in and out like a savvy diver… –and is knelt vomiting over the lip of the cool blue tub, gouges on the tub’s lip revealing sandy white gritty stuff below the lacquer and porcelain, vomiting muddy juice and blue smoke and dots of mercuric red into the claw-footed trough, and can hear again and seems to see, against the fire of her closed lids’ blood, bladed vessels aloft in the night to monitor flow, searchlit helicopters, fat fingers of blue light from one sky, searching.

Risk assessment is the new religion, the Big Babies'equivalent of the apotropaic ritual, the haruspices, the chicken entrails and the goat on the altar. Where our ancestors looked up at the stars, and spoke with the gods, and went off upon the great and dangerous adventures which would return them to their communities as adults, we, adorned not with swords and quivers but with all the tentative apparatus of our intelligence and our carefulness, look upwards and see, not gods, but improperly secured overhead lighting, untrimmed branches, loose cables, inadequately fastened false ceiling partitions; and we decide not, after all, to go. It is, after all, too dangerous.

A favorite pastime of soldiers on long mounted patrols was testing each other with impossible hypotheticals. They were an endearing yet vulgar form of moral drama, but only because the alternative was to contemplate being blown up by an illiterate goat herder’s morning project. “What would you rather do, have sex with your sister or shoot your mother?” “Would you rather pick up a baby with a pitchfork, or throw a paraplegic in a fire?” In one form or another, these young men were weighing the relative value of human life in real terms, perhaps as a surrogate for murkier thoughts that might otherwise be in the forefront, such as, “Why am I risking my life in this wasteland?” or “Whose life is worth more, that of my best friend in the gun turret or of some Iraqi kid I’ve never met?” It passed the time.

Hunding, stop skulking in the hallway and get in here.” The bellhop poked his head around the doorway. “I wasn’t skulking,” he said defensively. “I was lingering.” “Come in. I need you to do three things. One: Find a way to track Thor’s FitnessKnut. Report his whereabouts at all times.” “Won’t he just circle the worlds in order?” I made a face. “Thor’s sense of direction is terrible. His path will likely be erratic. Moving on. Two: Have squads of einherjar launch surprise attacks on the Bifrost. I want to know that Heimdall is on guard.” “Very good, sir. And the third thing?” “Inform the thanes that as of tomorrow, I will be unavailable for a while.” I transformed my appearance from a rugged one-eyed god of wisdom to a beautiful two-eyed woman clad in chain mail. “I will be living with my Valkyries to decide for myself which of them deserves to be captain.” Hunding raised a hairy eyebrow. “An idea from Utgard-Loki, Lord Odin?” “Wisdom can be gleaned from any source if one only looks hard enough.” I paused, thinking. “Let’s put that on a T-shirt. And, Hunding?” “My lord?” I transformed back into my true form. “Download cute baby goat videos to my phablet. I must learn what all the fuss is about.

Bessie was News, Leaders, and Gossip; Enid was Features, Make-up and general Sub. Whenever they were at a loss for copy they would mercilessly pillage ancient copies of Punch or Home Chat. An occasional hole in the copy was filled with a ghoulish smudge - local block-making had clearly indicated that somewhere a poker-work fanatic had gone quietly out of his mind. In this way the Central Balkan Herald was made up every morning and then delivered to the composition room where the chain-gang quickly reduced it to gibberish. MINISTER FINED FOR KISSING IN PUBIC. WEDDING BULLS RING OUT FOR PRINCESS. QUEEN OF HOLLAND GIVES PANTY FOR EX-SERVICE MEN. MORE DOGS HAVE BABIES THIS SUMMER IN BELGRADE. BRITAINS NEW FLYING-GOAT.

There's no such thing as witches. But there used to be. It used to be the air was so thick with magic you could taste it on your tongue like ash. Witches lurked in every tangled wood and waited at every midnight-crossroad with sharp-toothed smiles. They conversed with dragons on lonely mountaintops and rode rowan-wood brooms across full moons; they charmed the stars to dance beside them on the summer solstice and rode to battle with familiars at their heels. It used to be witches were wild as crows and fearless as foxes, because magic blazed bright and the night was theirs. But then came the plague and the purges. The dragons were slain and the witches were burned and the night belonged to men with torches and crosses. Witching isn’t all gone, of course. My grandmother, Mama Mags, says they can’t ever kill magic because it beats like a great red heartbeat on the other side of everything, that if you close your eyes you can feel it thrumming beneath the soles of your feet, thumpthumpthump. It’s just a lot better-behaved than it used to be. Most respectable folk can’t even light a candle with witching, these days, but us poor folk still dabble here and there. Witch-blood runs thick in the sewers, the saying goes. Back home every mama teaches her daughters a few little charms to keep the soup-pot from boiling over or make the peonies bloom out of season. Every daddy teaches his sons how to spell ax-handles against breaking and rooftops against leaking. Our daddy never taught us shit, except what a fox teaches chickens — how to run, how to tremble, how to outlive the bastard — and our mama died before she could teach us much of anything. But we had Mama Mags, our mother’s mother, and she didn’t fool around with soup-pots and flowers. The preacher back home says it was God’s will that purged the witches from the world. He says women are sinful by nature and that magic in their hands turns naturally to rot and ruin, like the first witch Eve who poisoned the Garden and doomed mankind, like her daughter’s daughters who poisoned the world with the plague. He says the purges purified the earth and shepherded us into the modern era of Gatling guns and steamboats, and the Indians and Africans ought to be thanking us on their knees for freeing them from their own savage magics. Mama Mags said that was horseshit, and that wickedness was like beauty: in the eye of the beholder. She said proper witching is just a conversation with that red heartbeat, which only ever takes three things: the will to listen to it, the words to speak with it, and the way to let it into the world. The will, the words, and the way. She taught us everything important comes in threes: little pigs, bill goats gruff, chances to guess unguessable names. Sisters. There wer ethree of us Eastwood sisters, me and Agnes and Bella, so maybe they'll tell our story like a witch-tale. Once upon a time there were three sisters. Mags would like that, I think — she always said nobody paid enough attention to witch-tales and whatnot, the stories grannies tell their babies, the secret rhymes children chant among themselves, the songs women sing as they work. Or maybe they won't tell our story at all, because it isn't finished yet. Maybe we're just the very beginning, and all the fuss and mess we made was nothing but the first strike of the flint, the first shower of sparks. There's still no such thing as witches. But there will be.

You know what I’ve been thinking about?” Rachel asked, extending her hand to get snuffled by Boo Boo again, a true glutton for attention, as most of the goats were. “All the people I could have married. Not that anyone else asked me! But all the strangers I could have chosen to have a baby with. Like, Sliding Doors, but with my life, instead of Gwyneth Paltrow. Is that the most depressing thing you’ve ever heard?” Porter shook her head. “Yes. I mean, no, it’s not the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard. It’s my entire life. It’s also a fun game to play for other people. The good news is that I think you have to stop when you have children, because you know that whoever you give birth to wouldn’t be there if you’d made different choices. And when Elvis is born, or Felix, or Tallulah, or whoever, you and I are going to look at them and say, fuck, I’m glad you’re here, and not someone else, and whatever choices you made led you to that person, your little person, and so the past becomes perfect. The future can always change, but not the past.

Those who know your name will trust in you, for you, LORD, have never forsaken those who seek you. PSALM 9:10 SEPTEMBER 29 A missionary’s wife in central China during World War II knew the Japanese were approaching her city. She was with her baby girl, two months old, and her son, just over a year old. Her husband had been taken to a hospital, himself ill. He was one hundred and fifteen miles away and would not be back for perhaps a month. The poor woman was filled with fear—she was alone and unprotected, in bitter January weather. When morning came, she realized that she was without food for her children. She pulled off the calendar page. That day’s verse stated simply: “So then, don’t be afraid. I will provide for you and your children” (Genesis 50:21). There was a rap at the door. “We knew you would be hungry,” said a longtime neighbor, “and you didn’t know how to milk the goats. So I have milked your goats. Here is milk for your children.” Will you try to explain this away, handle it on an intellectual basis as just pure coincidence? When you come right down to it, what is coincidence? It is an act of God in the midst of time.

Cendrillon specialized in seafood, so we had four fish stations: one for poaching, one for roasting, one for sautéing, and one for sauce. I was the chef de partie for the latter two, which also included making our restaurant's signature soups. O'Shea planned his menu seasonally- depending on what was available at the market. It was fall, my favorite time of the year, bursting with all the savory ingredients I craved like a culinary hedonist, the ingredients that turned my light on. All those varieties of beautiful squashes and root vegetables- the explosion of colors, the ochre yellows, lush greens, vivid reds, and a kaleidoscope of oranges- were just a few of the ingredients that fueled my cooking fantasies. In the summer, on those hot cooking days and nights in New York with rivulets of thick sweat coating my forehead, I'd fantasize about what we'd create in the fall, closing my eyes and cooking in my head. Soon, the waitstaff would arrive to taste tonight's specials, which would be followed by our family meal. I eyed the board on the wall and licked my lips. The amuse-bouche consisted of a pan-seared foie gras served with caramelized pears; the entrée, a boar carpaccio with eggplant caviar, apples, and ginger; the two plats principaux, a cognac-flambéed seared sea scallop and shrimp plate served with deep-fried goat cheese and garnished with licorice-perfumed fennel leaves, which fell under my responsibility, and the chief's version of a beef Wellington served with a celeriac mash, baby carrots, and thin French green beans.

Studentdom, he felt, must pass its own Examinations and define its own Commencement--a slow, most painful process, made the more anguishing by bloody intelligences like the Bonifacists of Siegfrieder College. Yet however it seemed at times that men got nowhere, but only repeated class by class the mistakes of their predecessors, two crucial facts about them were at once their hope and the limitation of their possibility, so he believed. One was their historicity: the campus was young, the student race even younger, and by contrast with the whole of past time, the great collegiate cultures had been born only yesterday. The other had to do with comparative cyclology, a field of systematic speculation he could not review for me just then, but whose present relevance lay in the correspondency he held to obtain between the life-history of individuals and the history of studentdom in general. As the embryologists maintained that ontogeny repeats phylogeny, so, Max claimed, the race itself--and on a smaller scale, West-Campus culture--followed demonstrably--in capital letters, as it were, or slow motion--the life-pattern of its least new freshman. This was the basis of Spielman's Law--ontogeny repeats cosmogeny--and there was much more to it and to the science of cyclology whereof it was first principle. The important thing for now was that, by his calculations, West-Campus as a whole was in mid-adolescence... 'Look how we been acting,' he invited me, referring to intercollegiate political squabbles; 'the colleges are spoilt kids, and the whole University a mindless baby, ja? Okay: so weren't we all once, Enos Enoch too? And we got to admit that the University's a precocious kid. If the history of life on campus hadn't been so childish, we couldn't hope it'll reach maturity.' Studentdom had passed already, he asserted, from a disorganized, pre-literate infancy (of which Croaker was a modern representative, nothing ever being entirely lost) through a rather brilliant early childhood ('...ancient Lykeion, Remus, T'ang...') which formed its basic and somewhat contradictory character; it had undergone a period of naive general faith in parental authority (by which he meant early Founderism) and survived critical spells of disillusionment, skepticism, rationalism, willfulness, self-criticism, violence, disorientation, despair, and the like--all characteristic of pre-adolescence and adolescence, at least in their West-Campus form. I even recognized some of those stages in my own recent past; indeed, Max's description of the present state of West-Campus studentdom reminded me uncomfortably of my behavior in the Lady-Creamhair period: capricious, at odds with itself, perverse, hard to live with. Its schisms, as manifested in the Quiet Riot, had been aggravated and rendered dangerous by the access of unwonted power--as when, in the space of a few semesters, a boy finds himself suddenly muscular, deep-voiced, aware of his failings, proud of his strengths, capable of truly potent love and hatred--and on his own. What hope there was that such an adolescent would reach maturity (not to say Commencement) without destroying himself was precisely the hope of the University.

My dear Marwan, in the long summers of childhood, when I was a boy the age you are now, your uncles and I spread our mattress on the roof of your grandfathers’ farmhouse outside of Hom. We woke in the mornings to the stirring of olive trees in the breeze, to the bleating of your grandmother's goat, the clanking of her cooking pots, the air cool and the sun a pale rim of persimmon to the east. We took you there when you were a toddler. I have a sharply etched memory of your mother from that trip. I wish you hadn’t been so young. You wouldn't have forgotten the farmhouse, the soot of its stone walls, the creek where your uncles and I built a thousand boyhood dams. I wish you remembered Homs as I do, Marwan. In its bustling Old City, a mosque for us Muslims, a church for our Christian neighbours, and a grand souk for us all to haggle over gold pendants and fresh produce and bridal dresses. I wish you remembered the crowded lanes smelling of fried kibbeh and the evening walks we took with your mother around Clock Tower Square. But that life, that time, seems like a dream now, even to me, like some long-dissolved rumour. First came the protests. Then the siege. The skies spitting bombs. Starvation. Burials. These are the things you know You know a bomb crater can be made into a swimming hole. You have learned dark blood is better news than bright. You have learned that mothers and sisters and classmates can be found in narrow gaps between concrete, bricks and exposed beams, little patches of sunlit skin shining in the dark. Your mother is here tonight, Marwan, with us, on this cold and moonlit beach, among the crying babies and the women worrying in tongues we don’t speak. Afghans and Somalis and Iraqis and Eritreans and Syrians. All of us impatient for sunrise, all of us in dread of it. All of us in search of home. I have heard it said we are the uninvited. We are the unwelcome. We should take our misfortune elsewhere. But I hear your mother's voice, over the tide, and she whispers in my ear, ‘Oh, but if they saw, my darling. Even half of what you have. If only they saw. They would say kinder things, surely.' In the glow of this three-quarter moon, my boy, your eyelashes like calligraphy, closed in guileless sleep. I said to you, ‘Hold my hand. Nothing bad will happen.' These are only words. A father's tricks. It slays your father, your faith in him. Because all I can think tonight is how deep the sea, and how powerless I am to protect you from it. Pray God steers the vessel true, when the shores slip out of eyeshot and we are in the heaving waters, pitching and tilting, easily swallowed. Because you, you are precious cargo, Marwan, the most precious there ever was. I pray the sea knows this. Inshallah. How I pray the sea knows this.

The Dead Girl on Goat Hill...    S.P. English Ignoring a baby in the girl's arms, he shot her twice and left her to die. But an hour later he returned.

A dog will be a dog regardless of its owner, the same stick that pokes sheep, will impale the goat. Women tend to believe that he won't do to me what he has done to her. A dog will be a dog regardless of its owner. The same stick that smote the yellow snake will smite the black one too.

Trudy let out a long breath and hung her head. “Actually, it’s kinda embarrassing,” she said from beneath a curtain of curls. “My mum, she’s been perfecting bioluminescent yeast and lactobacillus strains, some with firefly splices, some with blue glowing Noctiluca plankton splices. Last week, for a lark she grabbed the wrong starter—the perils of using lab equipment for lab work and yogurt starter, I guess—and cultured some goats milk. We enjoyed it for breakfast. The cats got intae it, they ate it as weel. There was also some question, possible contamination of the kraut,” she said brightly. “We first noticed Boo’s—my baby brother, Boo’s short for the ‘Nobu’ in ‘Schrödinger Nobu Duncan Yamaguchi’—glowing nappy later thae evening when I helped put him tae bed. Next we saw the litter box, the glowing cat box, full of glowing cat turds.” She made a disgusted, resigned face. “Ye ken whit they’re like! They play catty-cake with their leavings and as ye can see, whaur kitty’s shitty paws go so does the yellow glow. Nar, I know,” she finished. “Wait, not so fast Yamaguchi,” said Olivia. “Does this mean you’ve been dropping glow sticks off at the pool, leaving bioluminescent raver monkey arms in the bowl, stocking the ole’ lake with incandescent brown trout much?” Trudy looked truly horrified, mortified. “SHUT UP,” she whispered in crisply articulated exasperation, pale green eyes bulging. “I really, really dinna want tae talk aboot it, much less think aboot it,” she added with a convulsive shiver. “Ye, Rosebeetle, dinna even think aboot it either!” He gave her his best what-who-me-? look in reply. “And stop looking at my bahookie!” With difficulty he and Olivia tore their eyes from her curvy derrière. “Glow-poops,” said Byron quickly, “we’re all thinking it.” Trudy glared at him.

Yoo-hoo! Yes, you two! I need a footman and a driver. What say you?” Sybilla called out to the two nearest goats. The goats chewed mouthfuls of grass and looked unimpressed. “How is that for gratitude? Is anyone else more prone to honor than these two pigs?” she called to the rest of the herd. An ancient, shriveled buck goat Cinderella kept because she didn’t have the heart to see him slain approached Sybilla with one of the year’s baby goats—a doeling. The doeling pranced and jumped, leaping over the back of the old goat, who baaed at Sybilla before knocking the doeling in the head with his horns. “Thank you very much. I assure you the mice won’t be much trouble. I’ve already given them directions,” Sybilla said. “Now, be men!” Nothing

I grabbed a menu and looked at the selections. There were several tempting salads, including one with field greens, goat cheese, pecans, raisins, and fresh sliced apple. The tuna salad also looked good- albacore, diced celery, onion, capers, and mayonnaise, served on mixed greens. Capers? I'd never heard of putting capers in tuna salad. It sounded interesting. Farther down the menu I saw sandwiches. Rare roast beef and Brie with sliced tomato on a toasted French baguette. That sounded great, but I'd have to forgo the Brie- too much cholesterol. But then, without the Brie, what did you really have but just another roast beef sandwich? The chicken salad sandwich also looked good, with baby greens, tomato, sprouts, grapes, and crumbled Gorgonzola, but there was the issue of the cheese again. Then I saw something that really caught my eye- the Thanksgiving Special. Oven-roasted turkey breast, savory stuffing, and fresh cranberry sauce on whole wheat bread. Perfect.

The gypsies, with whom it is obvious that she must have been in secret communication before the revolution, seem to have looked upon her as one of themselves (which is always the highest compliment a people can pay), and her dark hair and dark complexion bore out the belief that she was, by birth, one of them, and had been snatched by an English Duke from a nut tree when she was a baby and taken to that barbarous land where people live in houses because they are too feeble and diseased to stand the open air. Thus, though in many ways inferior to them, they were willing to help her to become more like them; taught her their arts of cheese-making and basket-weaving, their science of stealing and bird-snaring, and were even prepared to consider letting her marry among them. But Orlando had contracted in England some of the customs or diseases (whatever you choose to consider them) which cannot, it seems, be expelled... The elders, however, who had seen more of foreigners than they had, became suspicious. They noticed that Orlando often sat for whole hours doing nothing whatever, except look here and then there; they would come upon her on some hilltop staring straight in front of her, no matter whether the goats were gazing or straying. They began to suspect that she had other beliefs than their own, and the older men and women thought it probable that she had fallen into the clutches of the vilest and cruelest among all the Gods, which is Nature,

On the weekend I looked after a baby. I didn’t do a very good job and the baby was eaten by a goat. Okay, not quite. This is what happened. The baby belonged to Ma’s friend, Mrs Whitman. Mrs Whitman and the baby came to our house to visit. I wanted to play outside so Mrs Whitman said the baby could stay outside with me while she had coffee inside with Ma.

On the weekend I looked after a baby. I didn’t do a very good job and the baby was eaten by a goat. Okay, not quite. This is what happened. The baby belonged to Ma’s friend, Mrs Whitman. Mrs Whitman and

HEJ HEJ! CAFÉ MENU RULLEKEBAB Original (Rullekebab)----shaved seasoned beef, fresh flatbread, lettuce, tomato, cucumber, kebab sauce Blue Kebab (Rullekebab med blåmögelost)----Original Rullekebab with blue cheese Shroom Kebab (Rullekebab med champinjoner)----Original Rullekebab with mushrooms Hej Hej! Special Rullekebab----Original Rullekebab with pineapple, blue cheese, jalapeños HAMBURGARE Hand-patted, local grass-fed beef, homemade buns The Classic----beef, choice of cheese, bun The Gettysburg----caramelized shallots, mushrooms, blue cheese, bacon, balsamic glaze The Farfar----two patties, four slices of American cheese, four pieces of bacon The Gruff Burger----goat cheese, fries (on top!), caramelized shallots, poutine gravy to dip The Valedictorian----pepper-jack cheese, bacon, guacamole (from Rosa's) POMMES FRITES Fresh-cut fries Plain----with cheese or gravy to dip Loaded Kebab Fries----fresh-cut fries, chopped kebab meat, red and white kebab sauces, crumbled feta, diced jalapeños and tomatoes Goat Cheese Poutine----fresh-cut fries, house-made gravy, goat cheese crumbles MUNKAR Äpple Munk----fresh donut, cinnamon sugar, filled w/ apple and sweet cream Bär Munk----fresh donut, sugar, seasonal berry jam, sweet cream Munkhål----baby donuts (holes), cinnamon sugar Special Munk----daily and seasonal specials CUPCAKES Vanilla Wedding Cake, Devil's Food, Lemon, Strawberry Cheesecake, Weekly Specials SEASONAL TREATS Homemade Apple Crisp à la Mode Apple Fritters Pumpamunk Saffron Buns

Curious now, she glanced to its contents and this time did squeal with delight when she saw all the cages holding the furry friends she'd rescued, mended and adopted over the years. At least, the ones that hadn't been released back to the wild: Osborn the three-legged goat, Lowrans the blind wildcat, Grisell the baby cow who couldn't walk when she first saw her and now could but was still quite wobbly on her feet, and of course Brodie the bunny, and her earless little fox.

Why?” Beppo asked. “AAAAAHHH!!” the baby screaming goat screamed.  “Why?” Beppo asked. The female goat simply watched.  “AAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!” the screaming goat screamed.  “Why?” Beppo asked. “AAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!” the baby screaming goat screamed.  “Why?” Beppo asked. “AAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!” the screaming goat screamed.  “Why?” Beppo asked. “Have fun!” Kate shook her head with a smile and ran down the stairs wondering just how long that conversation would go on.

I’d follow a flow down a storm drain if he had a baby goat in pajamas.

I’d follow a clown down a storm drain if he had a baby goat in pajamas.

Kimi, I think it’s a landslide!” Gracie cried out. Small rocks joined the pebbles and Kimi flicked her wand. A giant bubble appeared around the goat. The rocks and pebbles bounced off it, keeping everyone safe. A few seconds later, the kid landed gently beside its father. He nuzzled it happily. “Now I’m happy that the chief troll threw my bubble tea this way,” said Kimi. “If she hadn’t, we would never have been able to save the baby goat.

I’d follow a clown into a storm drain if he had a baby goat in pajamas.

The propaganda worked, not just on my mother, but across the region. It was, we know now, a global scheme engineered by Nestlé to get mothers hooked on formula and to give up breastfeeding. Mothers were taught the risks of breastfeeding and discharged from hospitals armed with sample boxes of formula and baby bottles, ready to rear their children like their wealthy, wondrous, Western counterparts who had already bought into the marketing. But when my grandfather examined the ingredient list on the back of the Nestlé tin can, he flung it across the room. “What is this nonsense?” Dada Abu raged. This was not milk from a living creature. Not from a goat or cow or buffalo or sheep. It was dead milk, made from dead, fake ingredients. And no way was his granddaughter going to be drinking this trash.

The diet of mountain goats lacks an important ingredient - salt. With this in mind, goats seek out areas where it is present to lick, such as a piece of ground or particularly salty rock. However once they discovered that human urine is quite salty, they started hanging out around areas in which people were camping, waiting for a man to unbutton his flies, and would then run up to him and start drinking his pee. If a baby stork is not happy with the way it is being reared, it sometimes abandons its parents and wanders into another nearby nest to be fed by a new family! Mosquitos prefer to bite children rather than adults - and prefer blondes to brunettes! No-one knows why.

Think what you want about making babies. Believe in demons. Pray to a goat. So long as it doesn't bruise me, why should I bother myself?

Think what you want about making babies. Believe in demons. Pray to a goat. So long as it doesn’t bruise me, why should I bother myself?

Pandora, come back here!” came a new voice--Beatrix Hathaway’s voice--and Christopher’s senses sparked in recognition. He twitched uneasily at the commotion, his reflexes urging him to take some kind of action, although he wasn’t yet certain what the bloody hell was going on. A large white goat came leaping and capering and twisting through the hallway. And then Beatrix Hathaway appeared, tearing around the corner. She skidded to a halt. “You might have tried to stop her,” she exclaimed. As she glanced up at Christopher, a scowl flitted across her face. “Oh. It’s you.” “Miss Hathaway--” he began. “Hold this.” Something warm and wriggling was thrust into his grasp, and Beatrix dashed off to pursue the goat. Dumbfounded, Christopher glanced at the creature in his hands. A baby goat, cream colored, with a brown head. He fumbled to keep from dropping the creature as he glanced at Beatrix’s retreating form and realized she was wearing breeches and boots. Christopher had seen women in every imaginable state of dress or undress. But he had never seen one wearing the clothes of a stablehand. “I must be having a dream,” he told the squirming kid absently. “A very odd dream about Beatrix Hathaway and goats…

You might have tried to stop her,” she exclaimed. As she glanced up at Christopher, a scowl flitted across her face. “Oh. It’s you.” “Miss Hathaway--” he began. “Hold this.” Something warm and wriggling was thrust into his grasp, and Beatrix dashed off to pursue the goat. Dumbfounded, Christopher glanced at the creature in his hands. A baby goat, cream colored, with a brown head. He fumbled to keep from dropping the creature as he glanced at Beatrix’s retreating form and realized she was wearing breeches and boots. Christopher had seen women in every imaginable state of dress or undress. But he had never seen one wearing the clothes of a stablehand. “I must be having a dream,” he told the squirming kid absently. “A very odd dream about Beatrix Hathaway and goats…” “I have her!” the masculine voice called out. “Beatrix, I told you the pen needed to be made taller.” “She didn’t leap over it,” came Beatrix’s protest, “she ate through it.” “Who let her into the house?” “No one. She butted one of the side doors open.” An inaudible conversation followed. As Christopher waited, a dark-haired boy of approximately four or five years of age made a breathless entrance through the front door. He was carrying a wooden sword and had tied a handkerchief around his head, which gave him the appearance of a miniature pirate. “Did they catch the goat?” he asked Christopher without preamble. “I believe so.” “Oh, thunderbolts. I missed all the fun.” The boy sighed. He looked up at Christopher. “Who are you?” “Captain Phelan. The child’s gaze sharpened with interest. “Where’s your uniform?” “I don’t wear it now that the war is over.” “Did you come to see my father?” “No, I…came to call on Miss Hathaway.” “Are you one of her suitors?” Christopher gave a decisive shake of his head. “You might be one,” the boy said wisely, “and just not know it yet.” Christopher felt a smile--his first genuine smile in a long time--pulling at his lips. “Does Miss Hathaway have many suitors?” “Oh, yes. But none of them want to marry her.” “Why is that, do you imagine?” “They don’t want to get shot,” the child said, shrugging. “Pardon?” Christopher’s brows lifted. “Before you marry, you have to get shot by an arrow and fall in love,” the boy explained. He paused thoughtfully. “But I don’t think the rest of it hurts as much as the beginning.” Christopher couldn’t prevent a grin. At that moment, Beatrix returned to the hallway, dragging the nanny goat on a rope lead. Beatrix looked at Christopher with an arrested expression. His smile faded, and he found himself staring into her blue-on-blue eyes. They were astonishingly direct and lucid…the eyes of a vagabond angel. One had the sense that no matter what she beheld of the sinful world, she would never be jaded. She reminded him that the things he had seen and done could not be polished away like tarnish from silver. Gradually her gaze lowered from his. “Rye,” she said, handing the lead to the boy. “Take Pandora to the barn, will you? And the baby goat as well.” Reaching out, she took the kid from Christopher’s arms. The touch of her hands against his shirtfront elicited an unnerving response, a pleasurable heaviness in his groin. “Yes, Auntie.” The boy left through the front door, somehow managing to retain possession of the goats and the wooden sword. Christopher stood facing Beatrix, trying not to gape. And failing utterly. She might as well have been standing there in her undergarments. In fact, that would have been preferable, because at least it wouldn’t have seemed so singularly erotic. He could see the feminine outline of her hips and thighs clad in the masculine garments. And she didn’t seem at all self-conscious. Confound her, what kind of woman was she?

6A day will come when the wolf will live peacefully beside the wobbly-kneed lamb, and the leopard will lie down with the young goat; The calf and yearling, newborn and slow, will rest secure with the lion; and a little child will tend them all. 7Bears will graze with the cows they used to attack; even their young will rest together, and the lion will eat hay, like gentle oxen. 8-9Neither will a baby who plays next to a cobra’s hole nor a toddler who sticks his hand into a nest of vipers suffer harm. All my holy mountain will be free of anything hurtful or destructive, for as the waters fill the sea, The entire earth will be filled with the knowledge of the Eternal.

After tying Albert’s leash to a slender porch column, Christopher knocked at the door and waited tensely. He reared back as the portal was flung open by a frantic-faced housekeeper. “I beg your pardon, sir, we’re in the middle of--” She paused at the sound of porcelain crashing from somewhere inside the house. “Oh, merciful Lord,” she moaned, and gestured to the front parlor. “Wait there if you please, and--” “I’ve got her,” a masculine voice called. And then, “Damn it, no I don’t. She’s heading for the stairs.” “Do not let her come upstairs!” a woman screamed. A baby was crying in strident gusts. “Oh, that dratted creature has woken the baby. Where are the housemaids?” “Hiding, I expect.” Christopher hesitated in the entryway, blinking as he heard a bleating noise. He asked the housekeeper blankly, “Are they keeping farm animals in here?” “No, of course not,” she said hastily, trying to push him into the parlor. “That’s…a baby crying. Yes. A baby.” “It doesn’t sound like one,” he said. Christopher heard Albert barking from the porch. A three-legged cat came streaking through the hallway, followed by a bristling hedgehog that scuttled a great deal faster than one might have expected. The housekeeper hastened after them. “Pandora, come back here!” came a new voice--Beatrix Hathaway’s voice--and Christopher’s senses sparked in recognition. He twitched uneasily at the commotion, his reflexes urging him to take some kind of action, although he wasn’t yet certain what the bloody hell was going on. A large white goat came leaping and capering and twisting through the hallway. And then Beatrix Hathaway appeared, tearing around the corner. She skidded to a halt. “You might have tried to stop her,” she exclaimed. As she glanced up at Christopher, a scowl flitted across her face. “Oh. It’s you.

Also, and this is something I feel passionate about, I simply never call children "kids." Baby goats are kids, not children! I know it may seem silly to some, but it's something I feel most strongly. If we respect little people, then they in turn will grow up to respect others.

She was not alone. “There’s a definite panic on the hip scene in Cambridge,” wrote student radical Raymond Mungo that year, “people going to uncommonly arduous lengths (debt, sacrifice, the prospect of cold toes and brown rice forever) to get away while there’s still time.” And it wasn’t just Cambridge. All over the nation at the dawn of the 1970s, young people were suddenly feeling an urge to get away, to leave the city behind for a new way of life in the country. Some, like Mungo, filled an elderly New England farmhouse with a tangle of comrades. Others sought out mountain-side hermitages in New Mexico or remote single-family Edens in Tennessee. Hilltop Maoists traversed their fields with horse-drawn plows. Graduate students who had never before held a hammer overhauled tobacco barns and flipped through the Whole Earth Catalog by the light of kerosene lamps. Vietnam vets hand-mixed adobe bricks. Born-and-bred Brooklynites felled cedar in Oregon. Former debutants milked goats in Humboldt County and weeded strawberry beds with their babies strapped to their backs. Famous musicians forked organic compost into upstate gardens. College professors committed themselves to winter commutes that required swapping high heels for cross-country skis. Computer programmers turned the last page of Scott and Helen Nearing’s Living the Good Life and packed their families into the car the next day. Most had no farming or carpentry experience, but no matter. To go back to the land, it seemed, all that was necessary was an ardent belief that life in Middle America was corrupt and hollow, that consumer goods were burdensome and unnecessary, that protest was better lived than shouted, and that the best response to a broken culture was to simply reinvent it from scratch.

Burnaby bobbed to the surface of the water after a few minutes, seemingly “unscathed” as journalists would report. A “universal cheer” went up as the daredevil with the shaved, painted head swam toward the base of Luna Island; would-be rescuers reached out for him even as, when Burnaby was less than ten feet from shore, a powerful undertow sucked him down into the swift, green-tinged water. Eyewitnesses would claim that, as he was sucked down, Burnaby cried, “Darling, goodbye! Kiss the baby for me!” to his young wife who watched helplessly, their eight-month infant in her arms, from a platform on Goat Island. That infant would one day be Dirk Burnaby’s father. The

Holy baby goats in pajamas. I swear I almost blacked out. It was the most blatantly sexual thing he’d done in front of me. And I wanted more. I wanted to see him naked, spread out before me like a buffet.

But nothing happens to the baby goat. I repeat, baby goat remains unharmed and cute.

Fools mock,” he answered gruffly. “Tongues wag. Babies cry. And goats bleat.

Dominic kept his gaze on me and reached down to adjust himself. Holy baby goats in pajamas. I swear I almost blacked out. It was the most blatantly sexual thing he’d done in front of me. And I wanted more.

6 large eggs 1/4 cup chopped fresh basil leaves 1/2 cup crumbled goat cheese 1/2 teaspoon salt 1/4 teaspoon ground black pepper 1 tablespoon olive oil 2 cups sliced baby bella mushrooms 1 small yellow onion, peeled and diced 1 cup water 1 In a medium bowl, whisk together eggs, basil, goat cheese, salt, and pepper. Set aside. 2 Press the Sauté button on the Instant Pot®. Heat oil 30 seconds and stir-fry mushrooms and onions 5 minutes until onions are translucent. 3 Transfer cooked mushroom mixture to a 7-cup glass bowl greased with either oil or cooking spray and set aside to cool 5 minutes. Pour

AAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!” the screaming goat screamed.  “Why?” Beppo asked. “AAAAAHHH!!” the baby screaming goat screamed.  “Why?” Beppo asked. The female goat simply watched.  “AAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!” the screaming goat screamed.  “Why?” Beppo asked. “AAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!” the baby screaming goat screamed.  “Why?” Beppo asked. “AAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!” the screaming goat screamed.  “Why?” Beppo asked.

They have agreed to watch Walter Bishop, each of them in turn. Since the baby went missing, there has been a soundless panic in the street. He has seen it in people’s eyes. In the way they hurry themselves indoors. No one passes the time of day anymore.

who are you angry at?” “The strange man with the long hair. The man in the big house at the top of the road.” “The one who took the baby.” “Yes,” Sheila says, “the one who took the baby. He’s a bad man, Lisa. You’re not to go near him. Ever. Do you hear me?

You’ve fallen in love with me. You want to have my babies. We’ll get a team of horses and a covered wagon and we’ll journey to South America and raise goats.

But I’m pretending to. I wouldn’t disrespect my theoretical girlfriend.” He grinned. I had to stifle a smile. “So you’re not with your baby’s mother?” He looked amused. “Definitely not. I’m fostering.” Liz smiled. “Chloe is soooo cute. He’s such a good daddy to her.” She nodded at him. “Show her a picture.” He pulled out his phone and swiped. Then he held it out to me. A laugh burst from my lips. “Your kid is a baby goat? In pajamas?

A man like Jim Norton would want to walk cautiously around there. He might get snatched up off the side of a mountain after being mistaken for a baby goat. Watching his flailing legs as he’s carted off to become lunch for a family of eagles would probably be visually hilarious, but it’s pretty horrible when you think about it.

Her eyes were wide. “I’d follow a clown into a storm drain if he had a baby goat in pajamas.

overloaded horses bent backwards by the chisel of the mason who once sculpted an eternal now on the brow of the wingless archangel, time-deformed cherubim and the false protests, overweight bowels fallen from the barracks of the pink house carved with grey rain unfallen, never creaking, never opening door, with the mouth wide, darkened and extinguished like a burning boat floating in a voiceless sea, bottle of rum down threadbare socks, singing from pavement to pavement, bright iridescent flame, "Oh, my Annie, my heart is sore!", slept chin on the curb of the last star, the lintel illuminated the forgotten light cast to a different plane, ah the wick of a celestial candle. The piling up of pigeons, tram lines, the pickpocket boys, the melancholy silver, an ode to Plotinus, the rattle of cattle, the goat in the woods, and the retreat night in the railroad houses, the ghosts of terraces, the wine shakes, the broken pencils, the drunk and wet rags, the eucalyptus and the sky. Impossible eyes, wide avenues, shirt sleeves, time receded, 'now close your eyes, this will not hurt a bit', the rose within the rose, dreaming pale under sheets such brilliance, highlighting unreality of a night that never comes. Toothless Cantineros stomp sad lullabies with sad old boots, turning from star to star, following the trail of the line, from dust, to dust, back to dust, out late, wrapped in a white blanket, top of the world, laughs upturned, belly rumbling by the butchers door, kissing the idol, tracing the balconies, long strings of flowers in the shape of a heart, love rolls and folds, from the Window to Window, afflicting seriousness from one too big and ever-charged soul, consolidating everything to nothing, of a song unsung, the sun soundlessly rising, reducing the majesty of heroic hearts and observing the sad night with watery eyes, everything present, abounding, horses frolic on the high hazy hills, a ships sails into the mist, a baby weeps for mother, windows open, lights behind curtains, the supple avenue swoons in the blissful banality, bells ringing for all yet to come forgotten, of bursting beauty bathing in every bright eternal now, counteract the charge, a last turn, what will it be, flowers by the gate, shoe less in the park, burn a hole in the missionary door, by the moonlit table, reading the decree of the Rose to the Resistance, holding the parchment, once a green tree, sticking out of the recital and the solitaire, unbuttoning her coat sitting for a portrait, uncorking a bottle, her eyes like lead, her loose blouse and petticoat, drying out briefs by the stone belfry and her hair in a photo long ago when, black as a night, a muddy river past the weeds, carrying the leaves, her coffee stained photo blowing down the street. Train by train, all goes slow, mist its the morning of lights, it is the day of the Bull, the fiesta of magic, the castanets never stop, the sound between the ringing of the bells, the long and muted silence of the distant sea, gypsy hands full of rosemary, every sweet, deep blue buckets for eyes, dawn comes, the Brahmanic splendour, sunlit gilt crown capped by clouds, brazen, illuminated, bright be dawn, golden avenues, its top to bottom, green to gold, but the sky and the plaza, blood red like the great bleeding out Bull, and if your quiet enough, you can hear the heart weeping.

A Clean Egg She is washing eggs at the kitchen sink when she feels it. It feels like a little pulse between her palms. She looks down at the egg she is holding, which has a large green smear across it. Eggs must be washed carefully. Eggs come out of their chickens covered in slime, and then they roll around in their nests and always wind up covered in chicken shit before she can come out to collect them, so the washing is important. She has a special brush for washing eggs. She’s using it now, against this smear, when she feels the pulse again. She sets down the brush. There is something moving inside the egg. It is not, of course, a baby chicken. She has no rooster, and so all of the eggs her chickens lay are merely eggs, unfertilized. They were never going to be baby chickens. It is not even a tragedy. Besides, the thing moving inside the egg does not feel to her like a chick. Don’t ask her how she knows that. She cups the egg in two hands. It is warm, and whatever is inside is tapping at the curved walls rhythmically, steadily, like the egg is not an egg but a heart, or a room. Could it be a little naked fairy, like the ones in the pictures her aging aunts send her, the ones they seem to think she’d like to hang on her clean walls? Could it be something more extravagant, like a little giraffe, its neck all curled up inside the egg like a fiddlehead, or a miniature tiger with wet fur and sharp, tiny claws? Could it be the other thing, the thing she has been waiting for, alone in this white house, with her chickens and her one goat and her resistance to the society of others? A crack appears in the smooth white wall of the egg. The thing inside is trying to get out. She will, in a moment or two, finally find out what it is, how many legs, what it looks like, if it looks like her, if it looks like him. The crack becomes a dark slice. The slice becomes a dark hole. She closes her eyes. She tips her hands apart. She stomps the egg into the carpet.

Rhea, the wife of Cronus, gave birth to a new son, Zeus. To save the boy, she wrapped a stone in a blanket like a baby and fooled Cronus into swallowing that. The real baby Zeus she sent away to Crete, where he grew up drinking goat milk.

Grover brayed like a baby goat and went climbing up a mountain of metal.

How I Accidently Ate Cabbage The Amazing Vomiting Boy There’s a Fly in My Ice-Cream The Fart Collection His Fries are Longer than Mine My Plan to Take Over the World Superhero Names The Terrible Day at the Beach Getting Rid of My Monster Some Poems The Man Who Wasn’t Very Nice I Like to Poop at Home The Baby and the Goat My Friend Cheswick Getting Rid of Cheswick

Vashet made an amused huffing sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "He was so sure he was right. Nothing could sway him. Years ago I decided arguing such things with a barbarian is a long, weary waste of my time." She shrugged. "Think what you want about making babies. Believe in demons. Pray to a goat. So long as it doesn't bruise me, why should I bother myself?" I chewed it over for a moment. "There's wisdom in that," I said. She nodded. "But either a man helps with a baby or he does not," I pointed out. There can be many opinions on a thing, but there is only one truth." Vashet smiled lazily. "And if the pursuit of truth was my goal, that would concern me." She gave a long yawn, stretching like a happy cat."Instead I will focus on the joy in my heart, the prosperity of the school, and understanding the Lethani. If I have time left after that, I will put it toward worrying on the truth.

It’s kind of like when a tiger adopts a baby goat at the zoo. It’s unnatural and shouldn’t warm your heart, and yet it does.

I mounted the stairs to my pavilion and sank onto Hlidskjalf, the magic throne from which I can peer into the Nine Worlds. The seat cradled my posterior with its ermine-lined softness. I took a few deep breaths to focus my concentration, then turned to the worlds beyond. I usually begin with a cursory look-see of my own realm, Asgard, then circle through the remaining eight: Midgard, realm of the humans; the elf kingdom of Alfheim; Vanaheim, the Vanir gods’ domain; Jotunheim, land of the giants; Niflheim, the world of ice, fog, and mist; Helheim, realm of the dishonorable dead; Nidavellir, the gloomy world of the dwarves; and Muspellheim, home of the fire giants. This time, I didn’t make it past Asgard. Because goats. Specifically, Thor’s goats, Marvin and Otis. They were on the Bifrost, the radioactive Rainbow Bridge that connects Asgard to Midgard, wearing footy pajamas. But there was no sign of Thor, which was odd. He usually kept Marvin and Otis close. He killed and ate them every day, and they came back to life the next morning. More disturbing was Heimdall, guardian of the Bifrost. He was hopping around on all fours like a deranged lunatic. “So here’s what I want you guys to do,” he said to Otis and Marvin between hops. “Cavort. Frolic. Frisk about. Okay?” I parted the clouds. “Heimdall! What the Helheim is going on down there?” “Oh, hey, Odin!” Heimdall’s helium-squeaky voice set my teeth on edge. He waved his phablet at me. “I’m making a cute baby goat video as my Snapchat story. Cute baby goat videos are huge in Midgard. Huge!” He spread his hands out wide to demonstrate. “I’m not a baby!” Marvin snapped. “I’m cute?” Otis wondered. “Put that phablet away and return to your duties at once!” According to prophecy, giants will one day storm across the Bifrost, a signal that Ragnarok is upon us. Heimdall’s job is to sound the alarm on his horn, Gjallar—a job he would not be able to perform if he were making Snapchat stories. “Can I finish my cute baby goat video first?” Heimdall pleaded. “No.” “Aw.” He turned to Otis and Marvin. “I guess that’s a wrap, guys.” “Finally,” Marvin said. “I’m going for a graze.” He hopped off the bridge and plummeted to almost certain death and next-day resurrection. Otis sighed something about the grass being greener on the other side, then jumped after him. “Heimdall,” I said tightly, “need I remind you what could happen if even one jotun snuck into Asgard?” Heimdall hung his head. “Apologetic face emoji.” I sighed. “Yes, all right.

Starters Corn chowder with red peppers and smoked Gouda $8 Shrimp bisque, classic Chinatown shrimp toast $9 Blue Bistro Caesar $6 Warm chèvre over baby mixed greens with candy-striped beets $8 Blue Bistro crab cake, Dijon cream sauce $14 Seared foie gras, roasted figs, brioche $16 Entrées Steak frites $27 Half duck with Bing cherry sauce, Boursin potato gratin, pearls of zucchini and summer squash $32 Grilled herbed swordfish, avocado silk, Mrs. Peeke's corn spoon bread, roasted cherry tomatoes $32 Lamb "lollipops," goat cheese bread pudding $35 Lobster club sandwich, green apple horseradish, coleslaw $29 Grilled portabello and Camembert ravioli with cilantro pesto sauce $21 Sushi plate: Seared rare tuna, wasabi aioli, sesame sticky rice, cucumber salad with pickled ginger and sake vinaigrette $28 *Second Seating (9:00 P.M.) only Shellfish fondue Endless platter of shrimp, scallops, clams. Hot oil for frying. Selection of four sauces: classic cocktail, curry, horseradish, green goddess $130 (4 people) Desserts- All desserts $8 Butterscotch crème brûlée Mr. Smith's individual blueberry pie à la mode Fudge brownie, peanut butter ice cream Lemon drop parfait: lemon vodka mousse layered with whipped cream and vodka-macerated red berries Coconut cream and roasted pineapple tart, macadamia crust Homemade candy plate: vanilla marshmallows, brown sugar fudge, peanut brittle, chocolate peppermints

We have pretzels and mustard. We have doughnuts. And if we really, really like you, we have chips and dip. This is fun food. It isn't stuffy. It isn't going to make anyone nervous. The days of the waiter as a snob, the days of the menu as an exam/ the guest has to pass are over. But at the same time, we're not talking about cellophane bags here, are we? These are hand-cut potato chips with crème fraîche and a dollop of beluga caviar. This is the gift we send out. It's better than Christmas." He offered the plate to Adrienne and she helped herself to a long, golden chip. She scooped up a tiny amount of the glistening black caviar. Just tasting it made her feel like a person of distinction. Adrienne hoped the menu meeting might continue in this vein- with the staff tasting each ambrosial dish. But there wasn't time; service started in thirty minutes. Thatcher wanted to get through the menu. "The corn chowder and the shrimp bisque are cream soups, but neither of these soups is heavy. The Caesar is served with pumpernickel croutons and white anchovies. The chèvre salad is your basic mixed baby greens with a round of breaded goat cheese, and the candy-striped beets are grown locally at Bartlett Farm. Ditto the rest of the vegetables, except for the portobello mushrooms that go into the ravioli- those are flown in from Kennett Square, Pennsylvania. So when you're talking about vegetables, you're talking about produce that's grown in Nantucket soil, okay? It's not sitting for thirty-six hours on the back of a truck. Fee selects them herself before any of you people are even awake in the morning. It's all very Alice Waters, what we do here with our vegetables." Thatcher clapped his hands. He was revving up, getting ready for the big game. In the article in Bon Appétit, Thatcher had mentioned that the only thing he loved more than his restaurant was college football. "Okay, okay!" he shouted. It wasn't a menu meeting; it was a pep rally! "The most popular item on the menu is the steak frites. It is twelve ounces of aged New York strip grilled to order- and please note you need a temperature on that- served with a mound of garlic fries. The duck, the sword, the lamb lollipops- see, we're having fun here- are all served at the chef's temperature. If you have a guest who wants the lamb killed- by which I mean well done- you're going to have to take it up with Fiona. The sushi plate is spelled out for you- it's bluefin tuna caught forty miles off the shore, and the sword is harpooned in case you get a guest who has just seen a Nova special about how the Canadian coast is being overfished.

She sat down in front of her open pantry and breathed deeply. She reached forward and patted the large clear jar of dried flageolet beans. She pawed the ten-pound bag of basmati rice, sweet and fragrant. She kissed the chickpeas, haricot beans, dried wild mushrooms. Ah, yes, even the dried cèpes. Oh, she felt better. And look, her vinegars, balsamic, sherry, white and red wine, cider, raspberry. And the oils. So many oils. And so many marinated vegetables. She marinated them herself, picking the freshest, finest baby vegetables, adding extra-virgin olive oil, and enclosing them in beautiful jars. Ah, and look, she smiled. Walnut oil peeked from behind a linen bag of fresh walnuts. She could make a goat cheese salad at any moment. She took a deep, restorative breath. She fingered the labels of the canned smoked oysters, the mussels, the herring, and the boneless skinned sardines in olive oil. She could make a sardine pâté in seconds. And best of all were her vacuum-packed French-style crêpes, which she kept in case of emergencies. A flip of the wrist and she could sit down to a feast of crêpes oozing with fruit syrup and slathered in whipped cream.

L'AMUSE-BOUCHE Strawberry Gazpacho served in Chinese Spoons, garnished with Deep-Fried Goat Cheese and Basil L'ENTRÉE Zucchini Cakes with Lemon Prawns and Braised Wild Asparagus, garnished with Edible Flowers OU Cream of Wild Asparagus Soup OU Roasted Cauliflower and Beets with Capers, served over Spinach in a White Wine Lemon Sauce LE PLAT PRINCIPAL Drunk Shrimp, Flambéed in Cognac, served over a Terrine of Tomatoes, Avocado, Strawberries, and Creamy Lemon Risotto OU Confit du Canard, served with Roasted Baby Carrots and Sweet Sautéed Radishes OU Bœuf en Croute with Foie Gras and Mushrooms, served with Grilled Wild Asparagus and Sweet Sautéed Radishes LA SALADE ET LE FROMAGE Strawberries and Wild Asparagus, served over Arugula with a White Wine Vinaigrette Selection of the Château's Cheeses LE DESSERT Crème Brûlée with a Trio of Strawberries and Cognac

I hope there are other animals my age out there. I always wanted to kill a baby goat!

Do you wake up one day and say "hey honey, let's have a baby goat and guava jam business"?

recipe. 6 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil 1 red bell pepper, stemmed, seeded, and cut into 1 by ¼-inch strips 1 pound asparagus, trimmed and cut on bias into 1-inch lengths Salt and pepper 1 shallot, sliced thin 1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon sherry vinegar 1 garlic clove, minced 6 ounces (6 cups) baby spinach 4 ounces goat cheese, cut into small chunks

email: Lee@LeeMWinter.com or via facebook Visit my website at LeeMWinter.com Table of Contents How I Accidently Ate Cabbage The Amazing Vomiting Boy There’s a Fly in My Ice-Cream The Fart Collection His Fries are Longer than Mine My Plan to Take Over the World Superhero Names The Terrible Day at the Beach Getting Rid of My Monster Some Poems The Man Who Wasn’t Very Nice I Like to Poop at Home The Baby and the Goat My Friend Cheswick Getting Rid of Cheswick

roman-style omelet omelette romano ½ pound hot or sweet Italian sausage 12 large eggs Pinch of baking powder Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper 4 tablespoons unsalted butter ¼ cup julienned roasted red bell pepper (see Note) 2 tablespoons fresh basil, washed, stems removed, julienned 2 ounces goat cheese, crumbled (about 2 tablespoons) 1 In a sauté pan, cook the sausage over medium-high heat until nicely browned and cooked through. Drain on paper towels until cool enough to handle, and then crumble the sausage meat. Set aside. 2 Crack the eggs into a mixing bowl, add the baking powder, and season to taste with salt and pepper. Using a wire whisk, beat until smooth and airy. 3 In a large nonstick sauté or 7-or 8-inch omelet pan, melt 1 tablespoon of butter over medium heat. Pour about a quarter of the eggs into the pan, sprinkle with a little more salt and pepper, and cook for 30 seconds, or until the bottom begins to set. 4 Gently flip the eggs and cook for about 30 seconds longer, or until the bottom sets but the eggs do not brown. 5 Sprinkle about a quarter of the bell pepper, a quarter of the basil, and a quarter of the cheese just off center on the omelet. Fold in half, cook for about 1 minute to soften the cheese and warm the bell pepper, and slide from the pan onto a plate and serve. Repeat to make 3 more omelets. I call this a Roman omelet because of its ingredients, particularly the fresh sausage. Every supermarket in the United States sells Italian sausage labeled “sweet” or “hot and spicy.” The choice is yours. When I think of the sausage I have eaten in Italy and especially in Rome, I think of the classic fennel-infused fresh pork sausage, which adds flavor that is just bold enough for this simple omelet whose flavor is further boosted with roasted peppers and basil. The goat cheese is the finishing touch.  serves 4 note To roast bell peppers, char them over a grill or gas flame or under a broiler until blackened on all sides and soft. Turn them as they char to ensure even blackening. Remove from the heat and transfer to a bowl. Cover with plastic wrap and set aside for about 20 minutes to steam as they cool. Lift the peppers from the bowl and rub or peel off the blackened skin. frittata with oven-dried cherry tomatoes and mozzarella frittata con pomodorini secchi e mozzarella 12 large eggs 1 cup freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese ¼ cup whole milk Pinch of baking powder Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper 4 tablespoons unsalted butter 32 Oven-Dried Cherry Tomato halves (recipe follows) 16 baby mozzarella balls, each about ½ ounce, halved

Haul water. Card flax. Spin thread. Weave clothes. Mend sandals. Make soap. Pummel wheat. Bake bread. Collect dung. Prepare food. Milk goats. Feed men. Feed babies. Feed animals. Tend children. Sweep dirt floors. Empty waste pots... Like God's, women's toil had no beginning and no end.

Somehow he released her hand and pulled his free. He wrapped his arms around her and hauled her against him so her entire body pressed against his. The man was a rock. Big, unyielding and warmed by the sun. She wanted to snuggle even closer. She wanted to rip off her clothes and give the goats something to talk about. She wanted-- He licked her lower lip. The unexpected moist heat made her gasp as fire raced through her. Every singed nerve ending vibrated with need for more. The masculine, slightly piney scent of him surrounded her. Operating only on instinct, she parted her lips to allow him entry. She had a single heartbeat to brace herself for the power of his tongue touching hers. Then he swept inside and blew her away. It was like being inside the space shuttle on take-off. Phoebe might not have any personal experience with space flight, but she could imagine. The powerful force between them left her weak and clinging to his broad shoulders. She trembled and needed and ached with equal intensity. His tongue brushed against hers again. He tasted of coffee and mint and something wonderfully sensual and sweet. His mouth seemed designed for kissing. Maybe it was all that non-conversation. Maybe talking too much undermined a man’s ability to kiss. She didn’t know and didn’t care. All that mattered was the way he stroked her, touched her, teased her. He cupped her head with one hand and ran his other up and down her back. If only this moment would never end. But it did. A sharp bark from somewhere in the distance brought Phoebe back to earth with a rude thunk. She suddenly became aware of being pressed up against a really good-looking stranger, kissing in front of a goat pen. Apparently Zane got a similar wake-up call, because he stepped back at the same second she did. At least the man was breathing hard. She would hate to think she was the only one who had been affected. “Okay, then,” she said when she realized that all feelings to the contrary, she still could breathe. Zane continued to stare at her. She swallowed. “Did you want to say something?” Anything would be fine. Just any old reaction. As long as he wasn’t going to say it was all a mistake. That would really annoy her. Or maybe she was making a big deal out of nothing. Maybe he kissed lots of women out here by the goat pens. “I have to get back to work. Can you find your way to the house?” She blinked at him. That was it? Okay. Fine. As long as she didn’t try to walk on legs that were still trembling, she could pretend nothing had happened. “Sure,” she muttered. “No problem.” He nodded, then bent down and picked up his hat. She frowned. When exactly had that fallen off? He straightened, opened his mouth, then closed it. She wasn’t even surprised when he turned and left without saying a word. It was just so typical. When she was alone, Phoebe tried to work up a case of righteous indignation. When that didn’t work, she went for humor. If nothing else, she had to give Maya credit for the promised distraction. Oh. She also had to remember that as soon as she found out what constituted a treat on the baby-goat food hit list, she would be sure to send a thank-you gift.

Oh, God. Something’s coming out.” “Of course something’s coming out,” Gabe said. “A baby goat.” “No,” Ash said grimly. “No.” “If it’s not a goat, then what is it?” “It’s a punishment for all my earthly sins, is what it is.” “Describe it,” Chase said. “I’ve done my research. What does it look like?” “Picture a soap bubble,” Ashbury said slowly. “Then picture a soap bubble blown in Hell, by a demon with a phlegmy cold.

It was the Law that every tenth year the people of all the tribes in the Dumii Empire should come and be Counted. They did not go all the way to the great capital city of Ware, but went instead to the little walled town of Tregon Marus. The Counting was always a great occasion. Tregon Marus would double in size and importance overnight as tribal tents were pitched outside its walls. There was a horse market and a five-day fair, old friends to be met, and a flood of news to be exchanged. And there was the Counting itself. New names were added to the crackling scrolls, which, the people liked to believe, were taken to Ware, even to the Great Palace of the Emperor himself. The Dumii clerks laboriously wrote down how many pigs and goats and tromps everybody had, and one by one the people shuffled on to the next table and paid their taxes in furs and skins. That was the unpopular part. So the queue wound round Tregon Marus, in at the East Gate, through the postern and stables, across the market square, and through the countinghouse. Even the youngest babies were carried past the clerks, for the quill pens to wobble and scratch their names on the parchment. Many a tribesman got a funny name because a clerk didn’t know how to spell, and there’s more of that sort of thing in History than you might expect.

Did you see how she was sucking on that tube like a baby goat on a tit? Not a vampire, my ass.

So what’s this guy look like?” she asked. I scoffed. “Scott Eastwood in The Longest Ride, only with a beard. Oh, and he had a baby goat in pajamas.

I wanted his muddy dog to jump on me and I wanted to play with a baby goat and I wanted to be in a place with warm, soft furniture and let someone easy and good hold me in a town that asked me for nothing.