Goats are the oddest creatures that can be imagined, and are as varied as to species as they are as to tricks. He is a sheepish looking animal, but nothing at all like the sheep in its habits. He can bear heat and cold, wind and storm—it is only very severe cold that kills him, as it did my poor “Billy,” in St. John’s Churchyard, seven years ago. The inconstancy of his disposition is marked by the irregularity of his actions. He walks, stops short, runs, leaps, approaches, retires, shows or conceals himself, or flies off, as if actuated by mere caprice, and without any other cause than what arises from an eccentricity of temper. Yet he is a very docile and attached beast. He can be made to draw a carriage, and patiently submits to labour. He will also bear a saddle, and in some mountain countries it is no uncommon thing to see little children mounted on goats, who ride with great ease, and sometimes with great speed. These goats are very fond of horses, and horses are very fond of them. I have often found our poor “Billy” standing on the back of “Bessie,” the mare, when the stable-door has been opened of a morning. They are, too, from their very nature, prone to climb: and master “Billy,” not always content with “Bessie’s” back as a mountain, on one occasion leaped from the wall of the dung-pit on to a higher wall, and from that to the tiles of the stable, and from there he soon mounted to the top of the roof; and after capering about there for some time, he, evidently pleased with the mountain-like elevation, bounded to the roof of another house, from that to a third, and so on from roof to roof, over half the houses in the town. It was difficult to know what to do—“Billy” would not come down till he liked. It was of no use to call “Billy, Billy,” and to hold up bunches of hay or Shrewsbury cakes—“Billy” only snorted at them; and every person over whose roof “Billy” pattered had a reverential fear for their tiles, and the outcry was loud to get him from them. One “savage bear” proposed to shoot him, a “cunning old fox” proposed to throw a lasso over him, but to no purpose. “Billy” was delighted with his elevated position, and felt as proud as if he had been called to the chair at a public dinner, and felt no desire to come down whatever. It so happened, however, that being Whit-Monday—Punch’s Holiday—the parish engines had to be called out for exercise, and the principal churchwarden of the place, the renowned Robert Balderdash, Esq., proposed that the water-spout should be brought to bear upon Billy. After some remonstrance on the part of Jemmy Barerib, the Secretary of the Teetotallers, at the unnecessary waste of water, the engine made play, and poor Billy was soused over head and ears, and nearly knocked over by the force of the water, whereupon he snorted and rose on his hind legs, and kicked and scampered homewards as fast as his legs would carry him.