My Road To Rotary

Chapter 7

Buttercup, Queen of the Pasture

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.