“Trust an old cow not to see an inch beyond her own nose,” snorted Cleopatra contemptuously. “Do you suppose I’d be welcome in this family if I wasn’t useful? There’s nothing for me to do except pull the buggy, or Gabe’s wagon. Why, even that delightful red-headed girl, who always has sugar in her pocket, helps Amanda in the garden.”
“True,” admitted Mrs. Cowslip. “And I give milk.”
“Lucky for you,” said Cleopatra significantly. “When I think of my Clarence and your Gustavius, I tremble.”
Mrs. Cowslip looked startled. “What do you mean, Cleopatra?”
“I don’t want to alarm you, my dear, but I can’t forget that day when Gabe got into the calf’s pen with a sharp knife in his hand.”
“I’ve heard of such calamities to my race,” whimpered Mrs. Cowslip, her moist nose turning pale; “but it never occurred to me that a child of mine—”
“It was Amanda who dragged Gabe and his knife away,” continued Cleopatra. “Her words ring in my ears yet. She said: ‘O Gabe, wait till he’s older and we can roast him. I do love roast beef’; that’s what Amanda said.”
Mrs. Cowslip sidled affectionately up to Gustavius, who was still worrying the rubber tire with his sharp sprouts of horns, and licked his cheek tenderly.
“Don’t bother me, mother,” said the thoughtless bull-calf. “I feel that I’m making an impression on this thing.”
“If you do,” said Cleopatra, “and it shows signs of life, just you watch me, that’s all;” and, laying back her ears, she experimented with her heels to be sure that they were in good working order.