And now an upward glance. A little figure, each in daily turn, takes its place, and Dolly’s swinging tail is gently held at rest. The pail is raised to its position between extended knees, and all is ready. I notice that the milker adheres to the proper school. I do not hold, myself, for a position with the forehead of the milker pressed against the bovine flank; rather, I like to see the left knee gently touching the off hind leg. It is a satisfaction to see things done with a nice attention to detail.
And now we hear the first streams strike the bottom of the empty pail. The shrill staccato of their impact is the overture, soon muffled by the increasing flood. The cadence slows; we are in the full orchestral swing by now. The milker’s bowed head is slowly raised, and, as the white foam nears the top, he looks aloft. He sways a bit on his tilted stool; his head moves gently back and forth like some inspired conductor carrying his musicians through the difficult passages of a mighty symphony. And now the beat quickens, the little streams leap into the rising tide of foam with soft lisping sounds. A final volley; then a few soft notes, long-drawn, and it is done.
The milker rises, flushed, triumphant. He casts a quick appraising glance at the pail.
“Half quart off to-night—the grass is getting dry,” he says.
Our messengers wait, and with the heavy pail between, carry our precious spoil kitchenward. Once, when the going was slippery, an accident occurred. But that is not spoken of now.
I glance about the tidy stable. How well he keeps it! Windows closed against the noonday heat now open to cooling breezes of late afternoon. The little gate to the back land, swung hospitably open, invites me to explore its familiar mysteries. I visit the pigs and have a cheerful moment as I note that even here are care and cleanliness. The henhouse, freshly whitewashed, smells of lime, and sleek fat fowl are busy with fresh litter on a dry, clean floor. Cerberus is at my side; my pipe draws cool and sweet.
I remember the garden and the white-clad guests. I shake what dust I may from coat and trousers—I find the guests have lingered. The garden lies half shadowed; sweet flowering things in gay profusion line the soft green turf; a bluebird glides from treetop to tiny pool to drink and bathe.
Gracious ladies sit in gentle talk beneath the trees. I join them. I note with satisfaction that the group contains none save the choice elect. They know the easy give-and-take of talk. They have a feeling for silence, the one true test of gentle breeding. Their clothes, a mystery beyond my ken, are those I like—sheer, simple things with graceful lines; their hands, the firm, strong hands of ripened womanhood, with scant adornment. Tiny feet, well shod, are—like their hands—at rest. These four who so adorn the scene are the only ones I know who can sit still.
We talk, each as we choose: the homely task, the book, the play, the careless unthought talk of friends. I feel an utter thankfulness: my lines in very truth have fallen in the pleasantest of places. And well may I be thankful, for many moons may wax and wane before this group, by happy accident, shall meet again in perfect mood and perfect weather. And to think I almost missed it! What brought me back? What happened over yonder, ’neath the tree where Dolly grazed?
The shadows lengthen. One by one, with laughing eyes, the guests betake themselves to homes made blessed by their presence. And now we sit in silence. Back from duties well performed, the children come. Tired little bodies seek the softness of the close-cropped grass. Cerberus sees that all is well, and sinks to slumber by my chair.