Brother
Cecil was eventually set up in business of his own; that of driving our
old cow Buttercup to and from the pasture. He went at his task bravely. If
I were asked to name the most outstanding characteristic of my brother
Cecil, I would unhesitatingly answer, courage. His courage never failed
him. He took life as it came extracting from each day's experiences the
maximum of sweetness and never quailing in the face of danger or disaster.
Many
years after the events here recorded, Cecil, suffering bodily ailments
painfully manifest to relatives and friends, invariably stoutly insisted
that all was well. If he knew what fear was, he never admitted it. One of
the last things he said to me as his sun was about to set was, "Whatever
else may be said of me, no one will ever be able to say truthfully that I
didn't enjoy life while it lasted." True to the last word and syllable, my
brother!
Of all
my many sins the one I most regret was the one of striking you, my dear
brother. One summer day in Wallingford, in a burst of anger I shot my fist
out through the battered hat you were wearing and landed a full blow on
your face. You were both hurt and humiliated and your eyes filled with
tears but you did not strike me back. I was ashamed and would have given
all my small possessions to be able to take back the cruel blow.
Thousands of times the scene has come to my memory always with a feeling
of sorrow.
So
Cecil took the business of driving Buttercup to pasture in his customary
stride, although all he had learned of cows during our brief residence in
the West was what was delivered at the back door by the milkman, and of
that there had never been too much.
Eventually Cecil took to himself a junior partner in the business of
driving the cow to and from the pasture. Why he did so I do not know
unless it were for the sake of company. In any event, I was given the
honor though my faith in the good intentions of cows was shaken by the
fact that they had been equipped with formidable horns, a fact not easily
reconcilable with the ideals of peace on earth, good will toward little
boys.
The results of our first day of driving Buttercup to
pasture were not reassuring. Buttercup, with other cows belonging to our
neighbors opened warfare in the lane leading to the pasture and it seemed
for a time as if bedlam had been turned loose. By interposition of
Providence, someone had left a capacious drygoods box in the lane —a
refuge in time of need. I stood not upon the order of going but into the
drygoods box I scrambled, leaving Cecil and the boys of the neighborhood
either to carry on or else find drygoods boxes of their own. From within
my fortress, I viewed the clash of horns and heads with a somewhat limited
degree of composure, but did not relinquish the strategic advantage of my
position until Cecil and the other boys assured me that the war was over;
that the belligerents had been driven into the pasture and the bars put up
to prevent egress to the lane. If they had further disputes to settle they
would have to settle them in the pasture behind five feet of sturdy bars.
With this seeming inauspicious beginning, my
education in the manners of cows continued until I came to an
understanding of them, and so, to love them. To me cows are reminiscent of
my childhood days. Pastoral paintings arouse something altogether
agreeable in me.
Buttercup was a Hereford, of a breed imported from
England and reputed to be more productive of meat than of milk; however,
our cow managed to be productive of both. She was larger than any other
cow in the pasture, even larger than Jimmy Conley's cow which stood next
in order. The cows of other neighbors recognized the priority rights of
Buttercup and stood aside while the bars were being let down, giving her
the right of way in going in and out of the pasture.
When Buttercup was fresh having given birth to a
calf, she used to yield two big pails of rich, foaming milk. Her breath
was wondrous sweet; no victim of halitosis she, and she had other good
qualities too numerous to mention, most important of which perhaps was
that she was truly our own, good faithful Buttercup. Had there been a
'"Who's who" in cowdom, I am sure her name would have been given a place
at the top of the list. Her soft mooing was sweet music in my ears and had
it not been for the outbreak of temper the time she cleaned Jimmy Conley's
cow up in a battle for the supremacy of the pasture, I would always
thought of her as a true Christian cow. Not that I thought any worse of
her for having stood up for her rights; in fact, I gloated over the
victory if memory serves me right and I may even have egged her on a bit.
I used to think that Buttercup must have been
terribly lonely, pent up as she was in a small stall during the long cold
winter months with only one small window to look through and only snow to
look at when she did peek out. She did, however, have the satisfaction of
knowing that her stall was on the south side of the barn and that the icy
winds from the North Pole had thick walls and several tiers of neatly
piled wood to sift through before they could touch her thick old hide. The
hens and their male escort the rooster were under the same roof and the
hens cackled whenever they laid their eggs and the rooster was the best
kind of an alarm clock when it came time for announcing the coming of day.
Grandfather also was a regular visitor both morning
and evening, bringing generous portions of cornmeal in exchange for
whatever quantities of milk Buttercup might yield. High days and holidays
meant nothing to her; she kept right on feeding, giving milk and chewing
her cud. She may also have lived over again in dreams the happy days of
summer spent in the pasture with other lady cows and one gentleman cow,
big, brown and sleek. She may, in fact, have treasured memories of her
friends very much as I treasured memories of our summer visitors,
especially the sweet girls. She must have had a comforting philosophy of
life
Buttercup had a very
good time peeking through her tiny window. One of my own most interesting
distractions during extra stormy days in winter, was to kneel on the floor
in front of one of the sitting room windows, with my nose flattened
against the pane, looking out at the falling snow, noticing especially the
big flakes. Some of them were of gigantic proportions, completely
overshadowing their comrades of the air. How varied their shapes and how
lazily they drifted down from somewhere. God only knew where, how silent
they were in their flight and their landing and how wondrously clean and
white.
When
the flakes were falling by the thousands, I used to wonder how long it
would take for them to bury us all but when grandmother glanced out of
the window, she used to say, "This storm will not last long; big flakes
are too lazy to do much damage; it is the small flakes one has to look out
for; small flakes haven't much sense; they sometimes pile themselves on
top of each other, day in and day out, until nothing short of snow ploughs
can dig the roads out." Another one of grandmother's sayings was, "It's a
mighty cold day when the bright sunshine can't set the eaves-spouts
a-dripping."
Grandfather did the milking as a rule at our home but he was not expert.
He could milk with one hand only and his performance was not more
impressive than a one-handed piano player. He never used to bury his
forehead in the flank of Buttercup as more experienced milkers would have
done but sat bolt upright, balanced precariously on his one-legged stool,
and holding the pail in his left hand. His position was in no respect
impregnable as it left him entirely exposed to the swishing tail, which,
in fly time not infrequently wrapped itself around his neck. This
interlude, however well intended, was annoying to grandfather though a
source of considerable pleasure to the audience of two small boys.
Our barn was the scene of many a
performance worthy of a place on the vaudeville stage. One night when tall
grandfather was trying to induce, cajole, push or pull Jason, a half-grown
calf, son of Betty, Buttercup's daughter, into the barn yard through a
very low door, a drama was enacted. Jason, after long having resisted
every blandishment grandfather had to offer, suddenly changed his mind and
bolted through the door, dragging grandfather in his wake. Had he been a
well-intentioned calf he might have seen that it would be difficult for
grandfather to negotiate the low door on high but Jason was either
unconcerned or else he did not care a fig what happened to grandfather;
manifestly he had resolved to throw off all responsibility in that regard.
Anyhow grandfather did his part like the true New England gentleman that
he was; at just the right moment he ducked as skillfully as any boxer
could have ducked the blow of an adversary and both Jason and grandfather
came through. Having accomplished his purpose, Jason stopped as
precipitately as he had begun and he and grandfather, both with legs
spread wide as a safeguard against any eventuality, looked each other
over. They had never seen each other in just that light before.
The following
morning. Cook, the butcher, led Jason out of the yard; henceforth he would
be spoken of as veal; he had been too individualistic for grandfather.
My love of bovine creatures once lured me to the Channel Islands of the
British seas, Jersey, Guernsey and Aldemey, in order
that I might see the aristocrats of cowdom
feeding on their native hills. While on those islands, I learned that in
order to get back to the real origin of the species one must cross from
the islands to the coast of Brittany where two priestly Orders each
developed its own pure and distinct breed of cattle. I learned that when
the monks were banished from France, they took their domestic animals with
them; one order to the nearest island, Jersey, and the other to Guernsey;
still others went to the Island of Aldemey.
The cow population of Guernsey numbers six thousand
only but there are hundreds of thousands of Guernseys scattered
throughout the world, most of them in the United States. It may be
gratifying to my fellow New Englanders to know that Peterborough of the
State of New Hampshire is the center of learning in regard to Guernseys
and that the Guernsey publication issued in that small city is considered
authoritative throughout the world, even including the island from which
the animals migrated.
It has
always been a source of wonderment to me why it is that only farmers and
dairymen appear to be interested in cows. Much has been written of the
admirable qualities of dogs and horses, but little attention has been
given to the characteristics and personalities of cows. The only book I
ever read on the subject designed to be read by laymen, was a story
entitled, "The Stalled Ox", by a New England writer who describes some of
the laws and regulations recognized as rules of conduct (codes of ethics,
if you please) in the relationship of one bovine with another.
During
the course of an automobile trip through Wisconsin, I spent a night at the
home of a well-to-do farmer, who had a fine herd of Guernseys. He was the
son of German immigrants and he loved his cows. It was his custom to take
his morning shower bath and shave in a compartment of the bam adjoining
the immaculate cow stables. One day he had a radio installed that he might
listen to music while performing his ablutions. This he did without having
any idea that early morning concerts would be enjoyed by any other
creature than himself but it seems that the radio went wrong one night
with the result that in the morning the concert had to be omitted. He was
aggravated and annoyed, the more so when he discovered that his cows were
nervous and fretful and that not until morning music had been resumed did
they become contented and willing to let down a full flow of milk.
I might
have doubted the story of the German farmer had I not once heard in a
lovely pastoral district in Switzerland that on farms where cows are
accustomed to whistling milkers, those who have not acquired the knack of
whistling need not apply.
Once
upon a time, I spent a happy afternoon in the hinterland of Montreux
on Lake Geneva, only half a mile from the busy tourist center. It was
like stepping back from the twentieth century to the peace and quiet of
past generations. Tiny villages where old folks could sit in comfortable
chairs near a little center by the village pump where farmers brought
their cows and work horses. A half mile further along, there was a tiny
village with a milk store where farmers operating the small farms brought
their milk in large cans and customers came for it with pitchers.
Not far distant a hay crop
was being harvested on a half-acre plot by a man, a boy and a friendly ox.
The air was full of the fragrance of new-mown hay and men, women and
children were doing things in a leisurely manner seemingly enjoying their
work and breathing in the serenity of it all. Peace is traditional in
Switzerland and why should it not be? There is nothing more peaceful than
a Swiss countryside dotted with big, brown Swiss cows.
An American friend of mine
whose business it is to buy and sell cows tells me that cows transferred
from one farm to another frequently let down in their production of milk.
One Guernsey cow which he had recently sold at a fancy price, had to be
returned to the farm from whence she had come. Prior to the sale she had
been producing fifty pounds of milk per day, but after the sale she
produced twelve pounds only, so the buyer was only too happy to return her
to the seller at the purchase price. Upon being returned to her former
stall her appetite returned at once and normal production of milk
followed. The farmer was glad to get his cow back and declared that he
would never sell her again; that if
she loved her home that much she was entitled to remain in it for the rest
of her life.
The sentiment expressed by
the American farmer did not differ greatly from that of the Hindoo farmer
who cares for his aged and decrepit cows as long as they live and gives
them decent burial when death comes. Oh, the Hindoo idea of the
sacredness of the cow is pure
superstition, you say. Well, as for myself, I have never been able to
define clearly where superstition leaves off and something else begins.
As for our old Buttercup, she possessed attributes which folks of our
faith designate as purely Christian, as for instance who better than she
demonstrated the doctrine that it is better to give than to receive; her
milk was almost a complete food in itself. From her own body Buttercup
nourished me as a mother nourishes a
child; my bone and my flesh was of her munificence.
What did she get in return? A measure of corn meal,
green grass from the pasture, hay from our orchard, and a warm stall in
which to pass the days and nights of winter; that was all.
For a
picture of tranquility and contentment, I know of nothing to compare with
cows in pasture enjoying their noontime siesta, lying in the shade of
trees bordering on the brook from which they have drunk their fill of
clear, cold water. In their own sweet Elysium, with eyes half closed, they
rest during the heat of the day with nothing more serious to think about
than horseflies and the agreeable pastime of chewing their cud.
When I at times have thought that my feeling towards
cows as a symbol of tranquility may perhaps have been overtender, the
following words of John Burroughs, America's most loved naturalist,
bolster my faltering faith:
"All
the ways and doings of cattle are pleasant to look upon, whether grazing
in the pasture or browsing in the woods, or ruminating under the trees,
or feeding in the stall, or reposing upon the knolls. There is virtue in
the cow; she is full of goodness; a whole' some odor exhales from her; the
whole landscape looks out of her soft eyes; the quality and the aroma of
miles of meadow and pasture lands are in her presence and products. I
would rather have the care of cows than to be the keeper of the great seal
of the nation. Where the cow is, there is Arcadia. So far as her
influence prevails, there is contentment, humility and sweet homely
life."
I know nothing whatever of the sacredness of cows but I do know that it
would give me a homey feeling if grandfather, grandmother and our old
Buttercup were to meet me at the gates of gold.
