“Little girl, I pray you don’t hold up to me that wisp of hay. In just that same way they held before my eyes one pleasant morning a bunch of sweet-clover, to entice me from my pretty calf.
“Poor thing! She was the only one I had; so gay and sprightly, so playful, so frisky, so happy! It was a joy to see her caper, and toss her heels about, without a thought of care or sorrow: it was good to feel her nestling close at my side; to look into her bright, innocent eyes; to rest my head lovingly upon her neck.
“And already I was looking forward to the time when she would become steady and thoughtful like myself; was counting greatly upon her company of nights in the dark barn, or in roaming the fields through the long summer-days: for the butterflies and bees, and all the bits of insects, though well enough in their way, and most excellent company, were, after all, not akin to me; and there is nothing like living with one’s own blood relations.
“But I lost my pretty little one. That bunch of sweet-clover enticed me away. When I came back, she was gone. I saw through the bars the rope wound about her; I saw the cart; I saw the cruel men lift her in. She made a mournful noise: I cried out, and thrust my head over the rail, calling in language she well understood, ‘Come back!—oh, come back!’
“She looked up with her round, sorrowful eyes, and wished to come; but the rope held her fast. The man cracked his whip; the cart rolled away: I never saw her more.
“No, little girl, I cannot take your wisp of hay: it reminds me of the silliest hour of my life,—of a day when I surely made myself a fool. And on that day, too, I was offered by a little girl a bunch of grass and flowers.
“It was a still summer’s noon. Not a breath of air was stirring. I had waded deep into the stream, which was then calm and smooth. Looking down, I saw my own image in the water; and I perceived that my neck was thick and clumsy; that my hair was brick-color, and my head of an ugly shape, with two horns sticking out much like the prongs of a pitchfork. ‘Truly, Mrs. Cow,’ I said, ‘you are by no means handsome.’
“Just then a horse went trotting along the bank. His hair was glossy black. He had a flowing mane, and a tail which grew thick and long. His proud neck was arched, his head lifted high. He trotted lightly over the ground, bending in his hoofs daintily at every footfall. Said I to myself, ‘Although not well-looking, it is quite possible that I can step beautifully, like the horse: who knows?’ And I resolved to plod on no longer in sober cow-fashion, but to trot off nimbly and briskly and lightly.
“I waded ashore, climbed the bank, held my head high, stretched out my neck, and did my best to trot like the horse, bending in my hoofs as well as was possible at every step, hoping that all would admire me.
“Some children gathering flowers near by burst into shouts of laughter, crying out, ‘Look, look, Mary, Tom! What ails the cow? She acts like a horse. She is putting on airs. Clumsy thing! her tail is like a pump-handle. Oh! I guess she’s a mad cow.’ Then they ran, and I sank down under a tree with tears in my eyes.