Sympathy for the Devil

The Power of Speech by Natalie Babbitt

A lot of people believe that once a day every goat in the World has to go down to Hell to have his beard combed by the Devil, but this is obvious nonsense. The Devil doesn’t have time to comb the beards of all the goats in the World even if he wanted to, which of course he doesn’t. Who would? There are far too many goats in the first place, and in the second place their beards are nearly all in terrible condition, full of snarls, burrs, and dandelion juice.

Nevertheless, whether he wants to comb their beards or not, the Devil is as fond of goats as he is of anything, and always has one or another somewhere about, kept on as a sort of pet. He treats them pretty well too, considering, and the goats gives back as good or as bad as they get, which is one reason why the Devil likes them so much, for goats are one hundred percent unsentimental.

Now, there was a goat in the World once that the Devil had his eye on for some time, a great big goat with curving horns and a prize from every fair for miles around. “I want that goat,” said the Devil to himself, “and I mean to have him even if he has to be dragged down here by his beard.” But that was a needless thing to say, and the Devil knew it, for animals, and especially goats, are nothing at all like people when it comes to right and wrong. Animals don’t see much to choose between the two. So, Heaven or Hell, it’s all one to them, especially goats. All the Devil had to do was go up there, to the cottage that the goat called home, and lead him away.

The only trouble was that the old woman who owned the goat was no dummy. She knew how much the Devil liked goats and she also knew how much he hated bells. So she kept the goat-whose name was Walpurgis-tied up to a tree in her yard and she fastened a little bell around his neck with a length of ribbon. Walpurgis hated bells almost as much as the Devil did; but there was no way he could say so and nothing he could do about his own bell except to stand very still in order to keep it from jangling. This led some passers-by to conclude that he was only a stuffed goat put there for show and not a real goat at all. So many people came up to the old woman’s door to ask about it that at last she put up a sign which said: THIS IS A REAL GOAT. And after that she got a little peace and quiet. Not that any of it mattered to Walpurgis, who didn’t give a hoot for what anybody thought one way or another.

The Devil didn’t care what anybody thought either. But he still wanted the goat. He turned the whole problem of the bell over in his mind, considering this solution and that, and at last, hoping something would occur to him, he went up out of Hell to the old woman’s door to have a little talk with her. “See here,” he said as soon as she answered his knock. “I mean to have your goat.”

The old woman looked him up and down, and wasn’t in the least dismayed. “Go ahead and take him,” she said. “If you can do that, he’s yours.”

The Devil glanced across the yard to where Walpurgis stood tied up to the tree. “If I try to untie him, that bell will ring, and I can’t stand bells,” he said with a shudder.

“I know,” said the old woman, looking satisfied.

The Devil swallowed his annoyance and tried a more familiar tack. “I’ll give you anything you want,” he said, “if you’ll go over there and take away that wretched bell. I’ll even make you Queen of the World.”

The old woman cackled. “I’ve got my cottage, my goat, and everything I need,” she said. “Why should I want to buy trouble? There’s nothing you can do for me.”

The Devil ground his teeth. “It takes a mean mind to put a bell on a goat,” he snapped. “If he were my goat, I’d never do that. I’ll bet a bucket of brimstone he hates that bell.”

“Save your brimstone,” said the old woman. “He’s only a goat. It doesn’t matter to him.”

“He’d tell you, though, if he could talk,” said the Devil.

“May be,” said the old woman. “I’ve often wished he could talk, if it comes to that. But until he can, I’ll keep him any way I want to. So goodbye.” And she slammed the door between them.

This gave the Devil the very idea he was looking for. He hurried down to Hell and was back in a minute with a little cake into which he had mixed the power of speech, and he tossed it to Walpurgis. The goat chewed it up at once and swallowed it and then the Devil changed himself into a field mouse and hid in the grass to see what would happen.

After a while Walpurgis shook himself, which made the bell jangle, and at that he opened his mouth and said a very bad word. An expression of great surprise came over his face when he heard himself speak, and his eyes opened wide. Then they narrowed again and he tried a few more bad words, all of which came out clear and unmistakable. Then, as much as goats can ever smile, Walpurgis smiled. He moved as far from the tree as the rope would allow, and called out in a rude voice: “Hey there, you in the cottage!”

The old woman came to the door and put her head out. “Who’s there?” she asked suspiciously, peering about.

“It’s me! Walpurgis!” said the goat. “Come out here and take away this bell.”

“You can talk, then!” observed the old woman.

“I can,” said Walpurgis. “And I want this bell off. Now. And be quick about it.”

The old woman stared at the goat and then she folded her arms. “I had no idea you’d be this kind of goat,” she said.

“To the Devil with that,” said Walpurgis carelessly. “What’s the difference? It’s this bell I’m talking about. Come over here and take it off.”

“I can’t,” said the old woman. “If I do, the Devil will steal you away for sure.”

“If you don’t,” said the goat, “I’ll yell and raise a ruckus.”

“Yell away,” said the old woman. “I’ve got no choice in the matter that I can see.” And she went back inside the cottage and shut the door.

So Walpurgis began to yell. He yelled all the bad words he knew and he yelled them loud and clear, and he yelled them over and over till the countryside rang with them, and before long the old woman came out of her cottage with her fingers in her ears. “Stop that!” she shouted at the goat.

Walpurgis stopped yelling. “Do something, then,” he said.

“All right, I will!” said the old woman. “And serve you both right. If I’d known what kind of a goat you were, I’d have done it in the first place. The Devil deserves a goat like you.” She took away the bell and set Walpurgis free and right away the Devil leaped up from the grass and took the goat straight back to Hell.

Now the funny thing about the power of speech is that the Devil could give it away but he couldn’t take it back. For a while it was amusing to have a talking goat in Hell, but not for very long, because Walpurgis complained a lot. He’d always been dissatisfied but being able to say so made all the difference. The air was too hot, he said, or the food was too dry, or there was just plain nothing to do but stand around. “I might as well be wearing a bell again, for all the moving about I do in this place,” said Walpurgis.

“Don’t mention bells!” said the Devil.

This gave Walpurgis the very idea he was looking for. He began to yell all the bell-ringing words he knew. He yelled them loud and clear-clang, ding, jingle, bong-and he yelled them over and over till Hell rang with them.

At last the Devil rose up with his fingers in his ears. “Stop that!” he shouted at the goat.

Walpurgis stopped yelling. “Do something, then,” he said.

“All right, I will!” said the Devil. And with that he changed Walpurgis into a stuffed goat and took him back up to the old woman’s cottage and left him there in the yard, tied up to the tree.

When the old woman saw that the goat was back, she hurried out to see how he was. And when she saw how he was, she said to herself, “Well, that’s what comes of talking too much.” But she put the bell around his neck and kept him standing there anyway, and since the sign was still there too, and still said THIS IS A REAL GOAT, nobody ever knew the difference. And everyone, except Walpurgis, was satisfied.