But I don’t go up. It’s coming down. Oh, my head! What’s dropping down?—-work-basket, dominos, glass tumbler, scissors, pin-cushion, knitting-work, hooks and eyes, buttons. Oh, here’s the fun! Now I’ll get pins; now I’ll pull the needles out; now I’ll put things in my mouth!—da, da, da!
REASONS WHY THE COW TURNED HER HEAD AWAY.
REPORTED BY A BARN-SWALLOW.
“Moolly cow, your barn is warm: the wintry winds cannot reach you, nor frost nor snow. Why are your eyes so sad? Take this wisp of hay. See, I am holding it up! It is very good. Now you turn your head away. Why do you look so sorrowful, Moolly Cow, and turn your head away?”
“Little girl, it makes me sad to think of the time when that dry wisp of hay was living grass; when those brown, withered flowers were blooming clover-tops, buttercups, and daisies, and the bees and butterflies came about them. The air was warm then, and gentle winds blew. Every morning I went forth to spend the day in sunny pastures. I am thinking now of those early summer-mornings,—how the birds sang, and the sun shone, and the grass glittered with dew; and the boy that opened the gates,—how merrily he whistled! I stepped quickly along, sniffing the fresh morning-air, snatching at times a hasty mouthful by the way: it was really very pleasant. And, when the bars fell, how joyfully I leaped over! I knew where the grass grew green and tender, and hastened to eat it while the dew was on.
“As the sun rose higher, I sought the shade; and at noonday I lay under the trees, chewing, chewing, chewing, with half-shut eyes, and the drowsy insects humming around me; or perhaps I would stand motionless upon the river’s bank, where one might catch a breath of air, or wade deep in to cool myself in the stream. And when noontime was passed, and the heat grew less, I went back to the grass and flowers.
“And thus the long summer-day sped on,—sped pleasantly on; for I was never lonely. No lack of company in those sunny pasture-lands! The grasshoppers and crickets made a great stir, bees buzzed, butterflies were coming and going, and birds singing always. I knew where the ground-sparrows built, and all about the little field-mice. They were very friendly to me; for often, while nibbling the grass, I would whisper, ‘Keep dark, little mice! don’t fly, sparrows! boys are coming!’
“No lack of company; oh, no! When that withered hay was living grass, yellow with buttercups, white with daisies, pink with clover, it was the home of myriads of little insects,—very, very little insects. Oh! but they made things lively, crawling, hopping, skipping among the roots, and up and down the stalks, happy, full of life, never still; and now not one left alive. They are gone!—that pleasant summer-time is gone! Oh these long, dismal winter-nights! All day I stand in my lonely stall, listening, not to the song of birds, or hum of bees, or chirp of grasshoppers, or the pleasant rustling of leaves, but often to the noise of howling winds, hail, sleet, and driving snow.