In the milking barn she encountered old Ed Lister. He seemed to have grown much older, and there was a dim bluish look to his eyes.
Eris shook hands with him.
“How-de-do,” he said, peering at her. And answered, “Yes, marm,” and “No, marm,” as though in his mind there was some slight confusion concerning her identity.
She passed along the stanchions, petting and caressing the beautiful creatures, dropping handfuls of bran, tossing in a little clover-hay.
Everywhere satin-smooth coats were being wiped off, udders bathed in tepid water. The cattle were busy with bran and hay or drinking from the patent buckets.
Eris went to the calf-pen, where fawn-like heifer-calves, pretending shyness and alarm, soon came crowding to lick her hands.
She looked at the bull-calves; at the two young bulls selected to aspire to future leadership.
She went to the bull-pen, where the herd-bull, White Cloud, gazed curiously upon her, sniffed her hand, stretched his massive neck to be rubbed and fondled, rolling contented and sentimental eyes.
Her half-brothers, Gene and Willis, came in wearing spotless white. Greetings were friendly and awkward; and presently they went on into the western wing to attend to the cows on test there.
Her father and Cyrus were already milking. Buddy was in the loft; Ed Lister sat with gnarled fingers clasped and dim gaze fixed on the cattle, quiet, solemn, aged.