"Devlin wasn't a bad man, a respected churchman.... I spoke to certain grown-ups, but did not get the sense of tragedy that was mine. No one criticised Devlin. It was the custom, they said.... Even the butcher had heard of old Mary.... You see how ungrippable, how abstract the tragedy was for a child—but you never can know what it showed me of the world. None of us who wept that day ate meat for many days. I have not since. I cannot."
Her story reminded me sharply of a recent personal experience. I had been thinking of buying a cow. It appears that there are milch-cows and beef-cows. Country dealers prefer a blend, as you shall see. I said I wanted butter and milk, intimating the richer the better; also I wanted a front-yard cow, if possible.... There was a gentle little Jersey lady that had eyes the children would see fairies in——
"Yes, she's a nice heifer," the man said, "but now I'm a friend of yours——"
"I appreciate that. Isn't she well?"
"Yes, sound as a trivet."
"A good yielder?"
"All of that."
"What's the matter?"
"Well, a cow is like a peach-tree, she doesn't last forever. After the milktime, there isn't much left for beef——"
"But I don't want to eat her."