From the Improvement Era, July 1940 –

Meet General Grant – A Short Short Story

By Marguerite Cameron

There was sunshine in the Eldredge meadow the morning General Grant was born — just a wobbly, red bull calf. Ben sat on the fence watching him come to life in the warm glow, watched him wriggle his ears, toss his head, finally pull himself up on four shaky legs, and heard him “squawk.”

“Swish your tail,” directed Father Eldredge, who was helping along. “Swish your tail, General. I miss my guess if you’re not the finest Devon calf I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen plenty.”

Ben was eight. He had seen Father coax many a pure-bred Devon calf into life.

“I used to get Devon cattle by the hundreds, Ben,” Father had told him many times, “when we were at Winter Quarters. Every emigrant wagon meant one yoke at least and it was up to me to get them. I always chose Devon oxen. I thought they were the best.”

“The strongest, Pa?” inquired Ben.

“Yes, and they have the most sense. Seem to know ‘Gee’ from ‘Haw’ straightway they are born.”

Ben marveled. As far as he could see, that was half of an ox’s schooling. To haul a wagon over the plains and up into the mountains as far as Utah there seemed to be just four words an ox must know: “Gee” (right), “Haw” (left), “Giddap” (go), and “whoa” (stop).

But General Grant as he grew up would have told Ben, would have told anyone, that a young bull calf’s education was far otherwise. And, although the Gen4eral felt sure he was the finest bull calf in the Eldredge meadow, he had learned to practice the rules of life, according to his kind. Father Eldredge used to study the way General Grant stood on his feet.

“See, Ben, see — all alert, no sagging down. Devons are natural mountain climbers.”

Then the General’s horns came through, prominent and curving.

“Ben, did you ever see such horns? Some day we’ll sell him for a fine price to someone who knows a good Devon bull,” and Father rubbed the shiny smooth hide of General Grant. “Had a good start in life, Ben, a good sire and a purebred heifer for mother.”

When Ben played with General Grant in the meadow, at first he had to run after the calf. Then tables turned. The General followed so close upon the heels of his young master that Ben had to run away from him.

Father said in a loud voice that the General was getting to be a pest. And Mother told the boys, “You must close the gates. Fasten them, too, or the calf will ruin our vegetable and flower gardens.”

“Selling the General?” more than one herdsman inquired.

“Not yet, not yet,” spoke his owner.

One day Ben and his brother, Ernie, drove their goat teams along the grass-grown ditch bank to State Road, where they turned north. The goats they drove were good, as goats went. But neighborhood boys were talking about a very special kind of goat in the Brigham Young Barnyard of late, and the two Eldredge boys were on heir way to see that goat.

In through Eagle Gate they ran, goats at their sides, home-made carts rattling at their heels. And now it became apparent why the carts had been brought. Without them the boys could not have seen over the cobblestone wall which ran along the barnyard.

Ben and Ernie drew the carts alongside the wall, yelled a loud, “Whoa, whoa-a-a-a,” climbed atop, and from this uncertain platform looked down on the other side.

There he stood — the goat!

Bennie looked and Ernie looked. Such a goat they had never seen before.

He lay in a corner, chewing his cud until he spied the two tousled heads of the boys. Then he rose up and came toward them. This was a goat of the angora breed. The boys saw his hair was long and beautiful.

“It’s too bad our goats can’t see him, ” Ernie spoke up. “Do you think they would let us in by the gate?”

But Ben shook his head.

“It might hurt their feelings,” he said thoughtfully, referring of course to the goats.

Somehow the sight of this superfine goat stung Ben with a sudden thought of General Grant. Anyone who had a goat like this would sooner or later be after the prize bull of the territory.

Three years passed. General Grant was three years old and Ben had turned eleven. The General wore a ring through his nose in the fashion of grown-up bulls and bore the Eldredge cattle brand on his thigh. Whenever and wherever he had visited a stock show, he had always brought home a blue ribbon. Better still, many a husky Devon calf which ran in the Eldredge meadows counted him as its blue-blood sire.

One day a carriage drove down the lane to the Eldredge barn.

Ben heard the pad-padding of horses’ hoofs on the soft, earth roadway. He heard the whirr of light carriage wheels. And presently the booming voice of his father, Horace Eldredge, called in through the barn door:

“Ben, oh Ben, bring out the General. President Young wants to see him.”

Now President Young was known throughout the territory for his wise appraisement of livestock. Everyone knew that. Ben remembered the fine angora goat he had seen in his barnyard. And now President Young had come to see the prize-winning Devon bull.

Was this the day toward which Father had maintained his “Not yet”?

Ben was not an experienced showman, but he thought a lot of General Grant, and he wanted him to look right. This was his chance to be somebody. Ben led the General out into the barnyard. Ben nodded his head. A pull on the General’s rope, and the bull nodded also. Ben posed him in a straight, head-on, full-necked stand, then watched the man who sat as prospective purchaser, shoulders huddled in a gray shawl— he was suffering from a cold — another shawl across his knees.

President Young beheld the head of the prize bull. He was not too sick to see the merits of the massive head, which, though massive, had no coarseness about it.

“Fine animal, Horace,” he called out.

Then Ben turned the bull halfway around that President Young might see his fine points in general build — the straight top line which ran the length of the animal, the deep body, the long hind quarters, the neat head.

Ben pointed to the General’s graceful horns.

“Splendid,” came the verdict.

Ben led the General in a fast walk for President Young to see his best paces. He led him more slowly.

“Fine animal. Fine, Horace. How much — ”

And leaving the two men to come to terms. Ben led General Grant back to the barn.

Next day President Young’s man came for him. He led him down the lane to the bridge over the irrigation ditch. Ben stood by, holding the gate open. He said no word as General Grant and his new keeper passed through. He just looked.

But that Devon bull, seeing that Ben made no move to follow, stood suddenly still. He jerked his head to see the boy better. He turned to go Ben’s way.

The man leading the General felt the pull upon the rope in hand, the other end of which ran through the ring in the bull’s nose.

“Well,” said he, “he seems to know ye.”

Know Ben? Whom might he know better?

Ben stepped aside, threw the bolt of the gate. The bull was on the other side. A tear slid off Ben’s cheek — unnoticed. General Grant had made the grade and now he passed triumphantly and forever out of Ben’s life.