I Also Told Him Of The Cows Of A Distant Country Where I Had
Lived, That Had The Maternal Instinct
So strong that they
refused to yield their milk when deprived of their young.
They "held it back," as the
Saying is, and were in a sullen
rage, and in a few days their fountains dried up, and there
was no more milk until calving-time came round once more.
He replied that cows of that temper were not unknown in South
Devon. Very proudly he pointed to one of the small herd that
followed us as an example. In most cases, he said, the calf
was left from two or three days to a week, or longer, with the
mother to get strong, and then taken away. This plan could
not be always followed; some cows were so greatly distressed
at losing the young they had once suckled that precautions had
to be taken and the calf smuggled away as quietly as possible
when dropped - if possible before the mother had seen it. Then
there were the extreme cases in which the cow refused to be
cheated. She knew that a calf had been born; she had felt it
within her, and had suffered pangs in bringing it forth; if it
appeared not on the grass or straw at her side then it must
have been snatched away by the human creatures that hovered
about her, like crows and ravens round a ewe in travail on
some lonely mountain side.
That was the character of the cow he had pointed out; even
when she had not seen the calf of which she had been deprived
she made so great an outcry and was thrown into such a rage
and fever, refusing to be milked that, finally, to save her,
it was thought necessary to give her back the calf. Now, he
concluded, it was not attempted to take it away: twice a day
she was allowed to have it with her and suckle it, and she was
a very happy animal.
I was glad to think that there was at least one completely
happy cow in Devonshire.
After leaving the cowkeeper I had that feeling of revulsion
very strongly which all who know and love cows occasionally
experience at the very thought of beef. I was for the moment
more than tolerant of vegetarianism, and devoutly hoped that
for many days to come I should not be sickened with the sight
of a sirloin on some hateful board, cold, or smoking hot,
bleeding its red juices into the dish when gashed with a
knife, as if undergoing a second death. We do not eat
negroes, although their pigmented skins, flat feet, and woolly
heads proclaim them a different species; even monkey's flesh
is abhorrent to us, merely because we fancy that that creature
in its ugliness resembles some old men and some women and
children that we know. But the gentle large-brained social
cow that caresses our hands and faces with her rough blue
tongue, and is more like man's sister than any other non-human
being - the majestic, beautiful creature with the juno eyes,
sweeter of breath than the rosiest virgin - we slaughter and
feed on her flesh - monsters and cannibals that we are!
But though cannibals, it is very pleasant to find that many
cowmen love their cows. Walking one afternoon by a high
unkept hedge near Southampton Water, I heard loud shouts at
intervals issuing from a point some distance ahead, and on
arriving at the spot found an old man leaning idly over a
gate, apparently concerned about nothing. "What are you
shouting about?" I demanded. "Cows," he answered, with a
glance across the wide green field dotted with a few big furze
and bramble bushes. On its far side half a dozen cows were,
quietly grazing. "They came fast enough when I was a-feeding
of 'em," he presently added; "but now they has to find for
theirselves they don't care how long they keeps me." I was
going to suggest that it would be a considerable saving of
time if he went for them, but his air of lazy contentment as
he leant on the gate showed that time was of no importance to
him. He was a curious-looking old man, in old frayed clothes,
broken boots, and a cap too small for him. He had short legs,
broad chest, and long arms, and a very big head, long and
horselike, with a large shapeless nose and grizzled beard and
moustache. His ears, too, were enormous, and stood out from
the head like the handles of a rudely shaped terra-cotta vase
or jar. The colour of his face, the ears included, suggested
burnt clay. But though Nature had made him ugly, he had an
agreeable expression, a sweet benign look in his large dark
eyes, which attracted me, and I stayed to talk with him.
It has frequently been said that those who are much with cows,
and have an affection for them, appear to catch something of
their expression - to look like cows; just as persons of
sympathetic or responsive nature, and great mobility of face,
grow to be like those they live and are in sympathy with.
The cowman who looks like a cow may be more bovine than his
fellows in his heavier motions and slower apprehensions, but
he also exhibits some of the better qualities - the repose and
placidity of the animal.
He said that he was over seventy, and had spent the whole of
his life in the neighbourhood, mostly with cows, and had never
been more than a dozen miles from the spot where we were
standing. At intervals while we talked he paused to utter one
of his long shouts, to which the cows paid no attention. At
length one of the beasts raised her head and had a long look,
then slowly crossed the field to us, the others following at
some distance.
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