"Raymond Kershaw; a Story of Deserved Success", was published by Roberts Brothers in 1888. The story is a touching one commencing in pathos and ending in heroism; a lesson to every boy and girl who, plunged suddenly and unexpectedly into difficulty, have to face the hard realities of life. There is an extremely fine passage in this book. Winthrop, the author of "John Brent", could not have done it better. It is the description of a maddened bull, "Meadow King", which Paul Potter might have painted. It needs no comment. Spirited and full of life, every actor in the scene performs his or her part with a truthfulness which is wonderful. Many a more voluminous writer than Mrs. Cox has done far less superior work than this truly great scene exhibits in its dramatic attitudes.
EXTRACT FROM "RAYMOND KERSHAW."
After country fashion, every farmer for miles around came to look at "Kershaw's new bull". Without mistake they saw a royal animal. Without a spot to mar his jet-black coat, through which the great veins were visible like netted cords, his small, strong, sinewy legs, all muscle and bone, carried his heavy body as lightly as if he were a horse, and his flanks and shoulders, when James pushed up his supple skin with his hand, felt as if he wore a velvet coat over an iron frame; his neck, not too short for grace, was still very heavy and muscular, with wrinkles like necklaces encircling it, and his fiery eyes glowed, far apart, under his tight-curled poll, from which those mischievous horns, sharp, long and slightly out-curving, stood in beautiful harmony with the whole outline; and his great lashing tail, with its tasselated end, completed his perfections.
All went well for a fortnight, after which, on a hot Sunday morning all drove off to church leaving Mrs. Kershaw and Mary at home together.
(Mrs. Kershaw, the sweet and tenderly-loved invalid mother, was half-lying in her chair and Mary sat, Bible in hand, on the first step of the piazza near her, when)
Suddenly a roar struck upon their ears with horror; and, filled with one of those blind accesses of rage to which his race is so strangely subject, tearing, bellowing along, up the hillside came Meadow King. As he halted for a breath behind the fence, he was like one's night-dreams of such a creature,—an ideal of pure brute force and wrath. His head tossed high, he gave a prolonged bellow, and leaped the high bars without an effort.
Mary rose without a word, and laying her Bible on Mrs. Kershaw's lap, stood white as the dead to watch him; destroying the delicate things in his way, he ran madly towards the sheds. Mary gave silent thanks that he had not taken to the road. The high gates of the cow-yards stood wide open, and through them he rushed.
"Miss Kershaw, I've got to shut them gates!" said Mary.
"Oh, don't think of it, Mary!" said Mrs. Kershaw, her hands clasped and trembling. "Are you not afraid?"
"Skeered!" said Mary,—"I'm skeered out of my life; but them gates has got to be shut!"