“Daisy,” said Kit, “do look over the fence into the next field, and see those solemn cows watching us over the bars. They always come and stare at us when we have our Bakes, and generally, when we are fishing or digging clams on the shore, they come and stand in the water, and watch us by the hour, with their big, serious eyes.”
Rosie asked Aunt Gertrude if she might give the good cows some clam-bake?
“Yes, dear,” she replied, “I think they would enjoy the melon-rind and bread-crusts, very much.”
Rosie filled a basket with the remnants of the feast, and emptied it between the bars right at the feet of a “baby-cow,” as she called it, when, to her terror, just as the little calf put her head down to taste the nice morsels, two of the old cows came running toward her in a most furious manner, lowering their horns as if they were going to toss her; at which the baby-cow galloped off as fast as possible, and the selfish old animals ate up the whole feast, and went off leisurely, chewing their cud as if they had been doing the most well-behaved and proper thing in the world.
Jem told Rosie to “never mind, it was their way;” and Aunt Gertrude said—
“Cows are very sensitive; they will not stand any disrespect from the young ones. In a herd of cattle the eldest always takes the lead, and none of the young dare leave the pasture till the older ones have set the example.
“It is quite funny to see with how much contempt a new calfie is treated, when she makes her first appearance in the barn-yard. She is pushed aside by her elders, and not allowed to go near the feeding-trough till they have finished their meal, sometimes losing her supper altogether; but when another calf comes in, calfie the first turns tyrant, and treats her in the same manner. When I have seen young people push past older persons, in going out from a room, or choose for themselves the most comfortable seats, I have said to myself, ‘Even the little calves have been better trained.’ Indeed, I assure you, there is a deal of etiquette observed in the barn-yard parlor.”
“Do cows ever hurt children, Aunt Gertie,” asked little Bear.
“Sometimes, dear, but very rarely. A very short while ago a friend of mine, the widow of a clergyman, went with her only child, a lovely, bright boy of eight, to live in a quiet little mountain village. Here Spencer, for that was his name, soon won the love of all the villagers, by his gentle manners and helpful ways. His mother playfully wrote me that it seemed as if the child looked upon the village as ‘his father’s parish, and the villagers as parishioners left to his charge by that father.’ Day after day the little fellow might be seen wending his way through the village streets with his little pail of soup, or basket of dainties, for some sick person. Other days, the cottagers would stand at their doors watching the ‘minister’s boy,’ as he was always called, dragging out, in his little wagon, a neighbor’s sick baby, whilst the mother rested her weary back; and from this child of eight, those simple folk learned lessons of charity never to be forgotten.
“One summer morning, his mother heard him, at daylight, passing her bedroom door. She called, him to come to her, and he came in with his little box of tools, saying, ‘I did not mean to waken you, mother dear, but last night, when I passed poor old widow Sampson’s, I saw a board loose on her steps, and I kept waking up in the night and worrying for fear the poor old lady might fall and badly hurt herself before I could get there to fix it.’