“There he is! He’s the fellow that kicked Farmer Green,” the Muley Cow’s neighbors would tell her. And they couldn’t understand why she wasn’t interested.
At last, however, somebody said something to the Muley Cow that made her both think and talk of very little except Mistah Mule. Up in the hillside pasture old Mr. Crow settled down upon the fence near her.
“Good morning!” he cried. “How are you to-day? And how’s your cousin?”
“I’m quite well, thank you,” the Muley Cow replied. “But which cousin do you mean? You know, half the herd is related to me. I have first cousins, second cousins, third cousins, fourth cousins——”
“Yes! Yes!” Mr. Crow interrupted. “I don’t mean your Cow cousins. I mean Mistah Mule.”
“What?” exclaimed the Muley Cow with an angry toss of her hornless head. “What? Sir! How dare you call that wretched creature my cousin?”
Old Mr. Crow chuckled. He loved to tease the Muley Cow.
“Well,” he replied, “there’s his name. ‘Mule’ and ‘Muley’ are a good deal alike, aren’t they?”
“Perhaps! Perhaps!” spluttered the Muley Cow. “But this Mistah Mule and I are not the least bit alike.”
“Well,” said old Mr. Crow with a grin, “there’s his tail.”