Lightfoot did not remember much about the time when he was a very very small goat. He could dimly recall that he had once lived in a green, grassy field with other goats, and then, one day, that he had been taken for a long ride in a wagon. He went to a number of places, finally reaching the home of the Widow Malony and her son Mike, who was a tall, strong lad with a happy, laughing face, covered with freckles and on his head was the reddest hair you ever saw.
Lightfoot soon made himself at home among the other goats Mrs. Malony kept. At first these goats said very little to him, but one day, when he was but a small kid (as little goats are called) he surprised the other animals among the rocks by giving a big jump to get away from a dog that ran after him.
“That goat will soon be a fine jumper,” said Grandpa Bumper, who was called that because he could bump so hard with his horns and head that all the other goats were afraid of him. “Yes, he’ll be a great jumper,” went on the oldest goat of them all. “I think I shall name him Lightfoot, for he comes down so lightly and so easily after he makes his leap.”
And so Lightfoot was named. As far as he knew there were none of the other goats who were any relation to him. He was a stranger among them, but they soon became friendly with him. Among the six goats owned by the Widow Malony there were only two who were any relation. These were Mr. and Mrs. Sharp-horn, as we would call them, though of course goats don’t call each other husband and wife. They have other names that mean the same thing.
But though he had no brothers or sisters or father or mother that he knew, Lightfoot was not unhappy. There was Blackie, with whom he played and frisked about among the rocks. And Grandpa Bumper, when he had had a good meal of the sweet grass that grew on top of the rocks, with, perhaps, some sweet paste-paper from the outside of a tomato can to finish off, would tell stories of his early life. And he would tell of other goats, in far-off mountains, some of them nearly as big as cows, with great, curved horns on their heads. Lightfoot loved to listen to these stories.
There was not much for the goats to do at the home of the Widow Malony. They had no work to do except to jump around on the rocks and to eat when they were hungry and could find anything they liked, though some of the goats were milked. There was more milk than the widow and her son could use, so they used to sell some to their neighbors who did not keep goats.