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The next morning was bright and sunny. During the night, the bull had walked through the rose hedge of our front yard and pushed over a redbud sapling. 1 straightened the tree, and figured how the pancakes of manure left behind in the garden were adequate compensation.
By the time the brothers arrived, the bull had jumped the stream and was grazing on Woodchuck Hill. Together they drove it back to the cows, and, having put the fourth and fifth strand of wire in place, we all thought that was the end of the matter.
But it wasn’t.
One week later, I was amazed to see the bull thunder down the hillside again, this time in broad daylight, and jump the fence, clearing all five strands.
Joe and Harry were not at home when I telephoned, and a woman, who I think was their mother, answered. Her voice was sprightly — not your little-old-ladv by any score. She knew a lot about cattle. 1 told her what happened . . .
“Guess it thinks it’s a deer.’’ That was all she said.
If it was a joke, the laugh was on me. This time there was no .Joe and* Harry, no slithering Buick to come to the rescue. I was alone with the rogue bull. I'm not the type of an Englishman w'ho goes out in the midday sun; I’m much more cautious.
But that bull stamping on my land was a gauntlet thrown down, so to speak, a dare that- I had to do something about.
I grabbed a hayfork, and ran at the bull, shouting and hollering like Joe and Harry had done the week before. The bull raised its head, stood for a moment looking at the prongs held out toward it.
Then the black hulk turned and
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