“That you were that piper’s cow?” asked Ban-Ban, twirling his moustache with, it must be confessed, considerable self-satisfaction. “Oh, I recognized you at once, because I saw you considering. May I ask whither you are going and whence you came?”
You will see that Ban-Ban was trying to express himself elegantly, because he wanted to impress the cow, and hoped to get her to see things his way.
“I came from the piper,” said the cow, “but I have no idea where I am going. I have left him for good and all. He had nought to give me—”
“Yes; I know,” interrupted Ban-Ban.
“Well, of course I am fond of music and all that,” the cow went on, “but a person cannot live on piping, and corn is better than the tune, ‘Corn Rigs Are Bonny.’ So I had to leave the piper, and now I am looking for a home. When I see a comfortable farm, and a farmer that looks good-tempered, and as if he would be kind to animals, I shall turn in at his gate and chew my cud until he takes me to keep.”
Ban-Ban fairly quivered with eagerness. “We are not farmers,” he began, and as the cow stared more than ever at the cat who made such an unnecessary statement, he stopped and went back to the beginning of his story.
“We are cats,” he said, “who have built this city of Purrington on this river Meuse for a place where all poor, abused cats can come and live happily all their nine lives. We have everything we want, except milk. Don’t you think you could be happy if you joined us? There would not be any one to bother you all day long; you could wander where you might choose—and wherever a cow chews—with no one to drive you, or turn you into a poor pasture, or out of a good one. We would be honoured by your presence, and would build you a house all to yourself, and all we would ask would be that every morning and night you would let down your milk to us.”
“That would be like my friend Cusha-Cow Bonny. Her master asked her to let down her milk to him, and he promised her in return a gown of silk and a silver tee,” remarked the cow, thoughtfully.
“I don’t know what a silver tee is,” said Ban-Ban, “but it doesn’t sound like anything that a cow would care for, and I’m sure you would rather have a nice house and your freedom all the long summer days than a gown of silk. Any sensible person would, especially we who already have such beautiful gowns of fine fur and glossy brown hair,—yours is a lovely colour, if you will pardon a personal remark,” added artful Ban-Ban.
The cow smiled. “Not as beautiful as yours,” she said, not to be outdone in politeness. “Yours is silver on the high line of your back, and almost purple in the shadow; I never saw a more beautiful coat.”