OUR COW’S COW FIGHT.
It was our Sussex brown cow who told me all this, so I am sure it is true. If you had ever seen our Sussex brown you would know how very truthful she is. I used sometimes to go to her house, and sit by the door in the evening, after milking-time, and listen to the stories she would tell me. She knew many very different stories but she was most fond of this one. I will tell it to you just as she used to tell it to me.
“You know, my dear,” she would begin, “I did not always live at this farm. I used to belong to a very rich farmer, who had a large farm in Sussex. I was born and bred in Sussex—the best place for a cow to be born in, I can tell you—and it was only three or four years ago that I came to live here. Well, we used to be driven into one field in the morning and taken back to our houses in the evening, and in that field there was an old black horse. I believe he stayed there night and day, for I never saw him taken into a stable. He was very black and had no doubt been handsome in his day, but he was getting very old, although he always pretended to be as young and gay as ever. He would come up to us when we were grazing and start clearing his throat. Did I hear you laugh, my dear?” she said suddenly looking at me rather sadly out of her velvety-brown eyes. “Horses, like men, clear their throats to draw attention when they are going to speak.”
“What did the horse do when he had cleared his throat?” I asked.
“Oh,” he said—‘Excuse me, ladies, but did I ever tell you that I come of a very ancient Spanish stock?’
“Generally we just said ‘Yes, and went on eating, but it didn’t stop his talk.’
“‘Oh, those were good old days!’ he would say. ‘I was ridden by a toreador in those days.’ If there were a calf in the field the silly little thing would say ‘What is a Toreador?’ and that was just what the old horse wanted to be asked.
“‘A toreador is a man who fights bulls,’ he would say proudly. ‘I and my companions used to be ridden by these toreadors into the arena, which is a large round place, like the thing that is called a circus ring I believe. We didn’t wear harness as horses do here, but what our toreadors called “trappings.” And these trappings were made of bright red cloth. Our toreadors were dressed in scarlet, too, and carried little pieces of red silk in their hands. Then someone would open a door in the side of the arena and the bull would come in. He was always rather stupid at first and used to stare about him without seeing anything, until the toreadors galloped up with us and shouted and waved their red flags. Then the silly old thing would get angry, and try to run his horns into us, but we were always too quick for him. At least, of course, some of the horses used to get hurt sometimes, but I never did. It only needed a little sense to keep out of the way of such a stupid old noodle as a bull. And he always got killed in the end by our brave toreadors.’
“‘Brave toreadors, indeed!’ we used to say very angrily, because of course it was very rude of him to come and talk of our relations the bulls like that. Besides, we never really believed him at all. He only made it up to annoy us.”
“Oh, no, Brownie!” I said, “there really are bull-fights you know.”
“Nonsense,” said Brownie “don’t try to teach me! I know more of the world than you do, and I don’t believe it.”
“All right, Brownie dear,” I said quickly, “you do know ever so many things. Please, go on with the story.”
“Well, perhaps we shouldn’t have minded so much if the old horse had only told us this once, but he did it every day and we got tired of him.
“So, one day, before he had come up to us, I said to the others, ‘Look here! Let’s see if he is as brave and as quick at bull-fights as he says. We can’t give him a bull-fight but we can show him what cows can do. In his bull-fights there were always a lot of horses and only one bull. Well, in our cow fight there will be only one horse and a great many cows. Now, all of you, when he comes to speak to us this morning, put down your horns and run at him!’”
“Oh, Brownie, Brownie!” I said, “I thought you were always kind and gentle. Poor old horse!”
“No, my dear, not poor old horse! We had had quite enough of that tiresome old creature and it was time we stopped his nonsense,” said Brownie. “The others all agreed to do as I had told them, and when the old horse came up to us we made a dash at him. He was dreadfully frightened and ran away, but we chased him and chased him, and wherever he turned he found a cow ready to try and toss him. Of course, we never really touched him, but he was just as frightened as if we had tossed him all to bits. At last, he began to beg us to stop, and I said, ‘We will stop, if you will promise us something.’
“‘Oh—anything,’ he said, and sank down on the grass. We all lay down around him and laughed and laughed. ‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ said our Sussex Brown, beginning to laugh at the thought of it.
“Have you ever heard a cow laugh? If ever you do I am sure you will laugh too, because it is much funnier than most things.
“At last,” Brownie went on, “when I had got my breath and was able to stop laughing, I said, ‘You must promise never to talk of bull-fights again. We are thoroughly tired of your boasting stories, and we know just how brave you are now. If you can’t win a cow-fight I’m sure you could never get the better of a bull.’
“‘I promise,’ said the old horse, ‘but you ought to have seen our toreador when the bull was dead and they—’
“‘Get up!’ I called to the others, ‘he is ready for another cow-fight. Down with your horns, my friends!’
“‘No, no!’ said the old horse, ‘I will never talk about it again,’ and he never did. But oh dear, my dear, I wish you could have seen us chasing that horse all round the field? It was so funny! And our Sussex Brown began to chuckle and laugh so loudly that she did not answer me when I said ‘Good-night,’ and went out of her house. I could hear her still laughing to herself as I went into the farm.”