Discussing These Cases With My Informants, We Came To The
Conclusion That The Red Light In The Human Eye Is
Probably
always a pathological condition, a danger signal; but it is
not perhaps safe to generalize on these few instances,
And I
must add that all the medical men I have spoken to on the
subject shake their heads. One great man, an eye specialist,
went so far as to say that it is impossible, that the red
light in the eye was not seen by my informants but only
imagined. The ophthalmoscope, he said, will show you the
crimson at the back of the eye, but the colour is not and
cannot be reflected on the surface of the iris.
Chapter Sixteen: In Praise of the Cow
In spite of discontents I might have remained to this day by
the Otter, in the daily and hourly expectation of seeing some
new and wonderful thing in Nature in that place where a
crimson-eyed carrion-crow had been revealed to me, had not a
storm of thunder and rain broken over the country to shake me
out of a growing disinclination to move. We are, body and
mind, very responsive to atmospheric changes; for every storm
in Nature there is a storm in us - a change physical and
mental. We make our own conditions, it is true, and these
react and have a deadening effect on us in the long run, but
we are never wholly deadened by them - if we be not indeed
dead, if the life we live can be called life. We are told
that there are rainless zones on the earth and regions of
everlasting summer: it is hard to believe that the dwellers in
such places can ever think a new thought or do a new thing.
The morning rain did not last very long, and before it had
quite ceased I took up my knapsack and set off towards the
sea, determined on this occasion to make my escape.
Three or four miles from Ottery St. Mary I overtook a cowman
driving nine milch cows along a deep lane and inquired my way
of him. He gave me many and minute directions, after which we
got into conversation, and I walked some distance with him.
The cows he was driving were all pure Devons, perfect beauties
in their bright red coats in that greenest place where every
rain-wet leaf sparkled in the new sunlight. Naturally we
talked about the cows, and I soon found that they were his own
and the pride and joy of his life. We walked leisurely, and
as the animals went on, first one, then another would stay for
a mouthful of grass, or to pull down half a yard of green
drapery from the hedge. It was so lavishly decorated that the
damage they did to it was not noticeable. By and by we went
on ahead of the cows, then, if one stayed too long or strayed
into some inviting side-lane, he would turn and utter a long,
soft call, whereupon the straggler would leave her browsing
and hasten after the others.
He was a big, strongly built man, a little past middle life
and grey-haired, with rough-hewn face - unprepossessing one
would have pronounced him until the intelligent, kindly
expression of the eyes was seen and the agreeable voice was
heard. As our talk progressed and we found how much in
sympathy we were on the subject, I was reminded of that
Biblical expression about the shining of a man's face: "Wine
that maketh glad the heart of man" - I hope the total
abstainers will pardon me - "and oil that maketh his face to
shine," we have in one passage. This rather goes against our
British ideas, since we rub no oil or unguents on our skin,
but only soap which deprives it of its natural oil and too
often imparts a dry and hard texture. Yet in that, to us,
disagreeable aspect of the skin caused by foreign fats, there
is a resemblance to the sudden brightening and glory of the
countenance in moments of blissful emotion or exaltation. No
doubt the effect is produced by the eyes, which are the
mirrors of the mind, and as they are turned full upon us they
produce an illusion, seeming to make the whole face shine.
In our talk I told him of long rambles on the Mendips, along
the valley of the Somerset Axe, where I had lately been, and
where of all places, in this island, the cow should be most
esteemed and loved by man. Yet even there, where, standing on
some elevation, cows beyond one's power to number could be
seen scattered far and wide in the green vales beneath, it had
saddened me to find them so silent. It is not natural for
them to be dumb; they have great emotions and mighty voices
- the cattle on a thousand hills. Their morning and evening
lowing is more to me than any other natural sound - the melody
of birds, the springs and dying gales of the pines, the wash
of waves on the long shingled beach. The hills and valleys of
that pastoral country flowing with milk and honey should be
vocal with it, echoing and re-echoing the long call made
musical by distance. The cattle are comparatively silent in
that beautiful district, and indeed everywhere in England,
because men have made them so. They have, when deprived of
their calves, no motive for the exercise of their voices. For
two or three days after their new-born calves have been taken
from them they call loudly and incessantly, day and night,
like Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be
comforted; grief and anxiety inspires that cry - they grow
hoarse with crying; it is a powerful, harsh, discordant sound,
unlike the long musical call of the cow that has a calf, and
remembering it, and leaving the pasture, goes lowing to give
it suck.
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