A PEEP OUT OF MY WINDOW.
I wish I knew what that cow is thinking about; how lazily she stands there, switching her sides with her tail, and looking up and down the meadow. I am no judge of cows, but I think that is a pretty cow. Any lady might be proud of her great, soft brown eyes. I am glad she does not know that one of these days, the butcher will thump her on the head and sell her for beef; I am glad she does not know that the pretty little calf, which frolics by her side, will be eaten for veal, next week. Munch away, old cow, and enjoy the fresh clover while you can; I don’t believe you have any idea what a pretty picture you and your baby calf make, as you stand with your hoofs in that brook and bend your heads to drink. I like to think, though I know it is not so (because you have no soul, old cow), that when you raise your head from the brook and lift it toward the sky, you are thinking of Him who made the pretty clover grow and the sparkling brook to flow. And now the little calf is nursing. Pull away, little rogue? if you have not a better right to your mother’s milk than Sally, the dairy-maid, I will agree to go without butter; pull away, it does me good to see you; now kick up your heels and run like mischief over the meadow; see the old cow blink and wink, as she looks after her, as if to say, Well, well, I was young myself, once; calves will be calves, spite of cows. And there is a hen and her cunning little chickens; I should like to catch that tiny white one, which blows over the meadow like a piece of cotton wool, and cuddle her right up in my neck; I am sure the old hen would not object if she knew how I liked chickens; but she don’t, and she would probably take me for a highwaywoman, and I can’t have my character called in question that way, even by a hen; beside her beak is sharp, and so are her claws: I think I had better admire her little soft white baby at a distance. Nice little thing, how glad I am it does not have to be fixed up in lace and embroidery, every morning, and have a nurse rubbing its nose enough to rub it off, every time a stray breeze makes it sneeze; how glad I am the little thing can roll and tumble in the grass, instead of being stewed up in a hot nursery and sweltered under a load of crib-blankets, till all its strength oozes out in perspiration; dear little chick, I hope you will find plenty of little worms to eat, and I hope no old rooster will cuff your ears for doing it; I hope you will have the downiest side of your mother’s wing to sleep under, and plenty of meal and water when worms are scarce. But, see! there’s a shower coming up; you had better scamper under the shed; don’t you hear the thunder, little chick? don’t you see that beautiful zig-zag lightning darting out of that dark cloud? and don’t you see that lovely blue sky over yonder, peaceful as the good man’s soul, when the cloud of trouble threatens him? No, little chick, you don’t notice it a bit; you are only chasing after your mother, and trying to dodge the rain-drops; well, pretty as you are, I had rather be born with a soul; I am glad my soul will live millions of years after you are dead; I want to know so much that puzzles me here on earth, but which I am willing to believe is all right, until God Himself explains it all to me. I am glad I am not a little chick without a soul, because I want to learn about these things in heaven.
