All of the sentences containing the word “goat”, rearranged into a new narrative.
Wandering along the bank of the river, which on the outskirts of most towns is the life-stream of all outcasts, goats, and aboriginals, Alf could not help feel moved as he remembered the generous waters of Numburra, and the clumps of orange bamboos in which the gins waited at dusk.
“You could get torn,” Mrs Godbold warned, who had come up to the edge of the road, in search of something, whether child, goat, or perhaps just the daily paper. Heaping boughs and pouring endearments, she would padlock her goat every night, and return, and return, to see whether her love might not have vanished in the course of some devilish conjuring act.
“What happened to the goat?” He would mumble a grace through his broad, goat’s teeth, eyes half closed, almost smiling.
The goat had appeared already before Peg’s death. “Goats? Please don’t tell me! I really do not understand any of these things.”
In time her mind grew equal to the tranquil wisdom of the goat-mind, and as she squatted in the evening to milk her doe, after they alone were left, their united shadow would seem positively substantial. After the doe had been delivered of a dead buck, Peg said they should milk their goat, which Mary Hare proceeded to do.