JOSEPH EARNEST AND HIS COW “COMFORT.”
A STORY OF THE WESTERN RESERVE.
BY S. B. MORRIS, CHARLESTOWN, PORTAGE CO., O.
The luxury of having fresh milk, cream, and butter, may be enjoyed by every family in city, town, or hamlet, that can provide a cow with the necessaries expressed in one word—comfort. To show what may be done in this respect, allow me to give somewhat of the history of Joseph Earnest. Joseph’s father was a carpenter, and never kept a horse or cow. After giving his son the best education he could receive at the common school, he kept him at work with himself until Joseph also became a master carpenter. At the time our story commences, he is married and has a family of three children, a girl of eight, a boy of six years, and a baby. By industry, economy, and good habits, he had accumulated sufficient means to purchase a half-acre lot in the outskirts of a flourishing manufacturing town. Upon this lot he had built a small but comfortable house. His wife, the daughter of a well-to-do farmer, having a little property of her own, invested it in the vacant lot adjoining them. The winter previous Joseph had put up a building which was to serve the double purpose of barn and workshop. The barn for his visiting friends, the workshop for himself. Back of this building, and adjacent to it, was a small hennery in which were kept a few fowls; at one side was a shed for his gardening implements. Everything about the premises showed the owner was neat and orderly, as well as thrifty, while within the snug cottage the same virtues reigned supreme. Many a time did Mary look back to the old home-life on the farm, and think of the plentiful products of the dairy. Then she would say to Joseph, “How I wish we could keep a cow. It seems as though I cannot half cook with only one quart of milk a day, and the children would be so much healthier if they could have what milk they want.” Joseph agreed with her, and would add, “But you know Mary we cannot raise our own vegetables and fruit, and keep a cow, with only one acre of land.” Imagine her surprise, when, after a short absence one morning, Joseph returned leading a cow. He was soon surrounded by his family and plied with questions, such as: Whose is she? Where did you get her? What will you do with her? In answer to these questions Joseph replied, “I went over to Mr. Durham’s this morning, to see if he could pay me what was back on the work I did for him last fall. I found him feeding his cattle and made known my errand. He said he had no money at present, but was wanting to sell a cow, and as soon as he could would pay me. I asked him which cow he wanted to sell; he pointed out this one, which was smaller than the others and seemed driven by them. Not a very large cow, he said, but young, with some Jersey blood in her—better for a family cow than for a factory cow. I say Earnest, she is just what you need, with your family. But I’ve no place to put her, said I, and I don’t know how to take care of a cow. Nonsense, said he, put her in your stable for the present, and you’ll learn how to take care of her fast enough. But what shall I feed her? Why the money you pay Churchill for milk, with what you can raise on your lot, will keep your cow right along, and instead of one quart a day, you’ll have all the milk and cream and butter you want to use, and some to spare, and, Mary, I thought it wouldn’t break us up if it didn’t prove a success, so I took the cow on what he was owing me—twenty five dollars—and here she is.”
“Oh, Joseph, I am so glad you bought her, I do believe we can keep her,” said Mary, “how gentle she seems,”—for during the talk the children had been petting the cow, who appeared well pleased with her new acquaintances. The baby partaking of the general animation, crowed with delight, as though already anticipating the good time coming.
“She has behaved like a baby coming over here,” said Joseph, “and I declare I begin to love her already. I have always wished we could live where we could have animals around us, and perhaps we will some day.” Mary said she hoped they could, for she felt lonesome for them. “But what shall we name our cow? For my part I would like to call her ‘Comfort,’ and while she contributes to our comfort we will endeavor to do the same for her.” Joseph agreed to the name, saying he needed plenty to eat and drink, a good bed and pleasant home, and he believed that animals did too, so he would give her one of his nice roomy stalls in his barn, make her a bed of shavings from the shop until he could do better. “We have pure water for her to drink, with hay and vegetables to eat, and that will keep her alive until we learn what she will thrive on best.” As this was a “broken” day, he thought they had better get neighbor Manning’s horse and carry-all, and drive out to father Granger’s. He had always been a good farmer and could tell him just how to care for the cow. All were delighted with this plan and were soon enjoying a six-mile drive into the country.
He learned that a cow would eat almost anything that grows, but that judgment and experience was needed in feeding to produce the best results. Father Granger said they could keep a cow as well as not, and better too, and Joseph began to believe it. At the suggestion of father G. he borrowed a bag, and on his way home stopped at the grist mill and had it filled with bran, which the old gentleman said was about the best feed for a cow just before coming in. After arriving home “Comfort” received a feed of hay and a quart of bran—had a drink of fresh water, her stable cleaned, some fresh shavings given her for a bedding, and with kind pats and words was left for the night. In the evening bedding was talked over. Joseph thought he would get the privilege of gathering leaves from a wood lot about one half mile distant, but Mary thought they would be too wet at this season, then sawdust was suggested, but that was not quite the thing they concluded, that is, if they could think of anything better. To be perfect it must be comfortable for the cow to stand or lie upon, it must be an absorbent of liquid manure, and something that would add to the value of the compost heap, and would easily decompose. Suddenly Joseph exclaimed, “I have it, just the thing. You remember I went out to N. last fall to do a job of work for Charlie Curtiss’s brother, and when he came to bring me home, with my tools, he put a large top box on his wagon box, and also put in a number of sacks. I asked him what he was going to bring home and he said ‘oat shucks’ to bed his cows with—that the shucks were dry and bulky, and for fifty cents you could get all you could draw at a load. He said it was the best and cheapest bedding he could get, and much more than paid for itself in the value of the manure. That is just what we want, and I will get Charlie to draw me a load to-morrow.” So the next night “Comfort” laid down for the first time in her life on a “first-class” bed of oat shucks, while the adjoining stall was filled full for future use.
“Joseph, what are you going to do with that lumber Charlie left here to-day?” said Mary, a few evenings later. “Well I have been thinking ‘Comfort’ ought to have a little yard where she can walk around and enjoy the sunshine and fresh air. I am going to build a fence from the farther corner of the hennery to the fence on the back side of the lot, and one from the corner of the shed back, and that will make her a good yard. Those two English cherry trees will come in it and furnish shade for her in the hottest weather.”