er an article of
furniture paid a quick return in the matter of looks, she did. She could
never be a very fat Mis' Cow--she was not of that build. But a few days
of good food and plenty of it certainly worked wonders. She filled out
several of the most alarming hollows around her hips and along her
ridge-pole, she seemingly took on height and length. She grew smooth,
even glossy; her tail no longer hung on her like a bell-cord, but became
a lithe weapon of defense that could swat a fly with fatal precision on
any given spot of her black-and-white area. It was only a little while
until we were really proud to have her in the landscape, and the picture
she made grazing against the green or standing in the apple shade was
really gratifying. When the trees were pink and white with bloom and
Mis' Cow rested under them, chewing in time to her long reflections, we
often called one another out to admire the pastoral scene. A visiting
friend of Scotch ancestry was moved to exclaim, "Ah, the bonny cow!"

Then there was the matter of milk--she certainly justified Westbury's
reputation in that respect. From a quart or two of thin, pale unusable
fluid her daily dividend grew into gallons of foaming richness that
became pitchers of cream and pounds of butter; for Elizabeth, like
myself, had known farming in an earlier day, and rows of milk-pans and a
churn went with her idea of the simple life. All day Mis' Cow munched
the new grass, and night and morning yielded a brimming pail. She was a
noble worker, I will say that.

But there was another side to Mis' Cow--a side which Westbury forgot to
mention. Mis' Cow was an acrobat. When she had been on bran mash and
clover for a few weeks she showed a decided tendency to be gay--to caper
and kick up her heels--to break away into the woods or down the road, if
one was not watching. But this was not all--this was mere ordinary cow
nature, which is more foolish and contrary than any other kind of nature
except that which goes with a human being or a hen. I was not surprised
at these things--they were only a sign that she was getting tolerably
restored, according to specifications. But when one day I saw her going
down the road, soon after I had turned her into the pasture and
carefully put up the bars, I realized that she had special gifts. Stone
walls did not a prison make--not for her. Elizabeth and I rounded her up
and got her back into the pasture, and from concealment I watched her.
She