The Color of His Boots

by W. C. Tuttle

“Hurry up with that milk!” I yelps.

I hears somebody swearing sweet and low; a cow grunts deep-like, and then comes a dull thud.

“Wa-a-a-a! Ma-a-a-a!” wails the kid.

“Woof!” I hears Magpie grunt and then, “Come huh-here! Got ’um!”

I lays the baby down on the ground and crawls through the fence. A cow sticks its cold nose in my face in the dark and uses my necktie for a handkerchief.

“Where you got ’um?” I asks, peering around.

“Huh-here, Ike.”

I peers closer and finds Magpie down on his shoulders, with a cow’s head in his arms. The rest of the animal is making useless jerks, trying to get loose.

“Mum-milk it,” he stutters.

“Yes’m,” says I. “What in?”