There, standing on the roof of the old chicken shed, was a baby goat.

Ginger stopped so suddenly that the bucket of grain she was carrying bumped against her knees. She blinked, looked away, and looked back again. The goat was still there, standing proudly near the peak of the roof as though he belonged there.

“Well, what in the world are you doing up there?” she asked.

The little goat answered with a cheerful, “Maaa!”

His name was Biscuit, and he was the newest addition to her grandfather’s farm. He was barely three months old, with a round belly, floppy ears, and a little white patch on his forehead that looked as though someone had dabbed him with flour. Biscuit was supposed to be in the pasture with his mother, but Biscuit had never been particularly interested in what he was supposed to do.

Ginger set down her bucket and studied the situation. The shed wasn't terribly tall, but it was certainly too tall for a baby goat to be wandering around on its roof. Worse yet, the roof sloped sharply on both sides, and several of the old shingles were loose.

“Biscuit, you come down from there,” Ginger ordered, pointing toward the ground.

Biscuit looked at her, scratched his ear with a back hoof, and walked three steps closer to the edge.

“No! Not that way!”

Biscuit stopped. He lowered his head and peered over the edge at Ginger, his ears dangling on either side of his face. Then, as though he had just remembered something terribly important, he began chewing on a corner of the roof.

Ginger put her hands on her hips. “You are going to be a lot of trouble, aren't you?”

Biscuit wagged his little tail.

Ginger hurried around the shed, trying to figure out how he had gotten up there. Behind it stood a pile of old wooden crates, a broken wagon wheel, and a stack of hay bales her grandfather had meant to move. Two of the bales had fallen against the shed, making a sort of staircase. At the top of the pile was a narrow wooden ledge just below the roof.

Ginger grinned. “So that's how you did it!”

She climbed onto the first hay bale, then the second, but stopped when the stack shifted beneath her feet. The roof suddenly looked much higher than it had from the ground. Ginger climbed back down. She wasn't afraid of climbing, but she wasn't foolish enough to trust a wobbly pile of hay.

“I'll be right back,” she told Biscuit. “And don't go anywhere!”

Biscuit immediately trotted to the opposite side of the roof.

Ginger ran across the yard toward the barn, where her grandfather was repairing a gate. He was bent over a hinge with a wrench in one hand and a nail between his lips.

“Grandpa! Biscuit's on the roof!”

Her grandfather removed the nail from his mouth. “Biscuit's where?”

“On the chicken shed. He's walking around up there like he owns the place!”

Her grandfather stared at her for a moment, then set down his wrench. “Well, I'll be.”

Together they hurried back to the shed. Biscuit was now standing on the highest part of the roof, looking out over the farm. The chickens had gathered below him, clucking and scratching as though they were discussing the unusual visitor.

Her grandfather tipped back his hat and looked up. “That goat has more curiosity than good sense.”

“He climbed up the hay bales,” Ginger explained. “I tried to get him down, but he won't listen.”

“Goats generally don't,” her grandfather replied. “Especially little ones who think they're mountain goats.”

He fetched a sturdy ladder from the barn and leaned it against the side of the shed. Ginger held the bottom while he climbed carefully toward the roof. Biscuit watched him approach with great interest. For one wonderful moment, it appeared that the little goat might allow himself to be picked up.

Then Biscuit jumped sideways.

“Whoa there!” her grandfather exclaimed, grabbing the edge of the roof.

Biscuit skipped along the ridge, turned around, and gave a delighted little kick with both back legs. One loose shingle slipped free and clattered to the ground.

Ginger jumped out of its way. “Grandpa, I think he's playing with you!”

“I believe you're right,” he muttered. “And I don't much care for the game.”

Her grandfather climbed back down. He stood beside Ginger, rubbing his chin and studying the goat. Biscuit had settled himself comfortably on the roof and was watching a butterfly flutter past.

“We could wait for him to come down,” her grandfather said.

“What if he falls?”

“That's what worries me.”

Ginger thought for a moment. She knew something about Biscuit that her grandfather seemed to have forgotten. Every morning when she brought grain to the pasture, Biscuit came running before any of the other animals. He loved grain almost as much as he loved climbing.

“I have an idea!”

She raced back to her bucket, scooped up a handful of grain, and returned to the shed. Standing near the hay bales, she held out her hand and rattled the grain.

“Biscuit! Look what I've got!”

One floppy ear turned in her direction.

Ginger rattled the grain again. “Come on, Biscuit. Breakfast!”

Biscuit stood up. He walked to the edge of the roof and stretched his neck toward her. Ginger stepped backward, hoping he would remember the way he had climbed up. Instead, Biscuit crouched slightly, his little legs bending beneath him.

Her grandfather recognized what was coming.

“Ginger, move back!”

Biscuit launched himself off the roof.

For one astonishing second, all four of his legs were stretched out in the air, his ears flying behind him like little wings. He sailed past the hay bales, landed squarely in a soft pile of loose hay, disappeared completely, and then popped up with a mouthful of straw.

Ginger stared at him in disbelief.

Her grandfather stared too.

Biscuit shook himself, sneezed twice, and trotted straight over to Ginger's outstretched hand.

For a moment, nobody said anything. Then Ginger began to laugh. She laughed so hard that she had to sit down on an overturned bucket. Her grandfather took off his hat and wiped his forehead.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose that's one way to get a goat off a roof.”

Biscuit finished the grain, nosed Ginger's pocket for more, and then tried to climb into her lap. Ginger wrapped her arms around his little neck and buried her face in his soft fur.

“You ridiculous little goat,” she said. “You scared us half to death!”

Biscuit gave a satisfied little bleat and nibbled the end of her braid.

Her grandfather moved the hay bales away from the shed and checked the roof for damage. Then he carried Biscuit back to the pasture while Ginger followed with the grain bucket. Biscuit's mother greeted him with a loud, disapproving call, but Biscuit paid little attention. He was already investigating a large rock beside the water trough.

That afternoon, Ginger helped her grandfather repair the loose shingles. She handed him nails, held the ladder, and kept an eye on Biscuit, who had somehow managed to climb onto the lowest rail of the pasture fence.

“Grandpa,” she called, “I think he's going to do it again!”

Her grandfather glanced over his shoulder. “What's he climbing now?”

“The fence!”

Her grandfather sighed. “That goat is going to turn my hair white.”

Ginger looked at his head, where only a few dark hairs remained beneath his hat.

“I think he's already started,” she said.

Her grandfather looked down at her, trying very hard not to smile. Then he burst out laughing.

Just before supper, Ginger went to check on Biscuit one last time. She found him standing on top of an overturned feed tub, balancing on four tiny hooves while surveying the pasture like a king inspecting his kingdom.

“Biscuit,” she said, shaking her head, “you just can't stand having your feet on the ground, can you?”

Biscuit bleated proudly.

Ginger scratched him behind his floppy ears and turned toward the farmhouse. She had taken only a few steps when she heard a loud CLANG!

She looked back.

The feed tub was rolling across the pasture, and Biscuit was chasing it as fast as his little legs could carry him.

Ginger watched him race past the chickens, leap over a puddle, and tumble headfirst into a patch of weeds.

Then she grinned.

Tomorrow, she decided, she was bringing two buckets of grain.

And she was keeping the ladder handy.