he garden. One of my neighbors has a cow, but
no land; and he seems desirous to pasture her on the surface of the
land of other people: a very reasonable desire. The man proposed that he
should be allowed to cut the grass from my grounds for his cow. I knew
the cow, having often had her in my garden; knew her gait and the size
of her feet, which struck me as a little large for the size of the body.
Having no cow myself, but acquaintance with my neighbor's, I told him
that I thought it would be fair for him to have the grass. He was,
therefore, to keep the grass nicely cut, and to keep his cow at home. I
waited some time after the grass needed cutting; and, as my neighbor
did not appear, I hired it cut. No sooner was it done than he promptly
appeared, and raked up most of it, and carried it away. He had evidently
been waiting that opportunity. When the grass grew again, the neighbor
did not appear with his scythe; but one morning I found the cow tethered
on the sward, hitched near the clothes-horse, a short distance from
the house. This seemed to be the man's idea of the best way to cut the
grass. I disliked to have the cow there, because I knew her inclination
to pull up the stake, and transfer her field of mowing to the garden,
but especially because of her voice. She has the most melancholy "moo" I
ever heard. It is like the wail of one uninfallible, excommunicated, and
lost. It is a most distressing perpetual reminder of the brevity of life
and the shortness of feed. It is unpleasant to the family. We sometimes
hear it in the middle of the night, breaking the silence like a
suggestion of coming calamity. It is as bad as the howling of a dog at a
funeral.

I told the man about it; but he seemed to think that he was not
responsible for the cow's voice. I then told him to take her away; and
he did, at intervals, shifting her to different parts of the grounds in
my absence, so that the desolate voice would startle us from unexpected
quarters. If I were to unhitch the cow, and turn her loose, I knew where
she would go. If I were to lead her away, the question was, Where? for
I did not fancy leading a cow about till I could find somebody who
was willing to pasture her. To this dilemma had my excellent neighbor
reduced me. But I found him, one Sunday morning,--a day when it would
not do to get angry, tying his cow at the foot of the hill; the beast
all the time going on in that abominable voice. I told the man that I
could