Clementine was a goat who loved to climb.
She climbed the hay bales. She climbed the fence posts. She climbed the old stone wall behind the barn.
But one Tuesday morning, Clementine climbed the ladder that Mr. Bartlett left leaning against his house.
Up, up, up.
Clip, clop, clip, clop, clip, clop.
And there she was. On the roof.
She stood on the very tip-top, right next to the chimney, and looked out over the whole town. She could see the church steeple. She could see the pond. She could see Mrs. Garcia's laundry line, with all the shirts blowing like flags.
Clementine chewed a mouthful of nothing and felt very, very pleased.
Down below, Mr. Bartlett came outside with his coffee.
He looked at the ladder. He looked at the roof. He looked at the goat on the roof.
He was so surprised, he dropped his coffee mug!
It hit the ground and broke into five white pieces.
"There is a goat," said Mr. Bartlett, "on my roof."
Mrs. Garcia came over from next door. She was still holding a wet sock.
"Well," she said. "So there is."
Then came old Mr. Dunlop with his walking stick. Then came the twins from across the street, still in their pajamas. Then came a mail carrier who wasn't even delivering mail on that road — she just heard about it.
Pretty soon, lots of people stood in Mr. Bartlett's yard, all looking up.
Clementine looked down at them.
She chewed another mouthful of nothing.
"Come down, Clementine!" called Mr. Bartlett.
Clementine did not come down.
"Maybe try the ladder," said Mrs. Garcia.
But here was the problem. When Clementine had gone up the ladder, her back hooves had kicked it sideways. The ladder was now leaning against the house at a funny, wonky, no-good angle. Nobody could reach the roof. And nobody wanted to climb a wonky ladder.
"We could get her down with food," said one of the twins.
"She's a goat," said the other twin. "She eats everything. She'd just eat the food AND stay on the roof."
This was a very good point.
Mr. Dunlop scratched his chin. The mail carrier scratched her chin. Everybody scratched their chins and stared.
Then the smallest person there — a girl named Ruthie, who had wandered over in rain boots and a tutu — walked right past all of them.
She walked up to the wonky ladder.
She didn't climb it.
She grabbed the bottom and pulled, and she slid that ladder down flat on the grass. Then she dragged it — scraaaape — back to the wall, straight and true.
She gave it a good shake to make sure.
Then Ruthie put her hands on her hips and looked up at Clementine.
"Okay," she said. "Come on, then."
Clementine tilted her head. She walked to the edge of the roof. She looked at the ladder. It was straight. It was steady.
Clip, clop, clip, clop, clip, clop.
Down came Clementine, one careful hoof at a time, calm as anything.
She stepped off the last rung and onto the grass. She walked straight to Ruthie and pressed her warm goat head right into Ruthie's belly.
Ruthie laughed so hard she sat down.
Everybody clapped and cheered. Mr. Bartlett picked up the five broken pieces of his coffee mug. Mrs. Garcia waved her wet sock in the air like a victory flag.
And Clementine stood in the middle of it all, chewing a mouthful of nothing, already looking at the garage.
