“Don’t you think, Butty,” said Daisy, “that we could do something for the bull? He must be dreadfully cold without his proper coat. I feel so sorry for him.”
“So do I,” said Buttercup, “but I don’t know what we could do.”
“I shall try and find out where he lives,” said Daisy, “and then perhaps we could get him away from those people and he could stop here and live with us. I’m sure he could tell us lovely tales.”
“Yes,” said Buttercup, “but how will you do it?”
“I don’t know,” said Daisy, “I must think.”
So all the afternoon Daisy thought, and thought, and when the sun sank down and twilight came she got through a hole in the hedge and went down the road, down which the procession had gone that morning. When she had turned the corner of the road she saw before her, in one of the fields, a great white tent, with a great many caravans round it. Daisy was a sensible little calf, and she knew at once that this tent must have something to do with the Sacred Bull. So she walked up to it and looked through a small opening at the side. It was filled with people, and Daisy saw elephants doing tricks in the large ring, which was in the middle of the tent. She saw the cages of lions and tigers, but there was no Sacred Bull. Then Daisy said to herself:
“He must be outside—that is better, because no one will see me speak to him,” and she walked away from the tent and sniffed all round the caravans, but she could not find the bull. At last she saw a little wooden hut on wheels.
“That must be his house,” she said, and hurried up to it. When she got near it she mooed gently, and the Sacred Bull put his head out of a hole at one side of his house and answered her.
Now although the Bull was a Burmese bull there is only one language for bulls and cows in all countries, and he understood at once what Daisy had said to him.
“What is this field you speak of?” he said.