This young cow, you see, she was very fond of her calf,—very fond indeed she was,—and when they took it away from her, she was very unhappy, and went about roaring all day long.
"Cows don't roar!" said Toto the irrepressible. "They low. There's a piece of poetry about it that I learned once:—
"'The lowing herd—'
do something or other, I don't remember what."
"'The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,'"
quoted the grandmother, softly.
"What do they wind?" asked the raccoon. "Yarn, or a chain-pump like the one in the yard, or what?"
"I don't know what you mean by low, Toto!" said the squirrel, without noticing Coon's remarks. "Your cow roared so loud the other day that I fell off her horn into the hay. I don't see anything low in that."
"Why, Cracker, can't you understand?" cried Toto. "They low when they moo! I don't mean that they moo low, but 'moo' is 'low,' don't you see?"