Chapter I: Cows

“What a delightful morning!” exclaimed little Arthur Benson on opening his eyes, and seeing the sun shine bright into his room; “Charles, Charles,” continued he, turning to his brother, who was still asleep, “let us get up directly, and we shall have time for a little walk before grandpapa and grandmamma come down stairs.” Charles obeyed the summons, and they were soon dressed. They then went into the garden, and from the garden into the field adjoining; both highly pleased with all they saw, for they had never slept out of London before, and the country was quite a new scene to them. “See,” said Charles, “how all the cows are gathered together by that gate; and here comes a man they call old Ralph with a pail on his arm. Pray, Ralph, what do the cows want there?” “They want to be milked,” said Ralph, “and through that gate is the way to the farm yard.” “Are _you_ going to milk them, and may we come with you?” inquired Arthur.

Leave being given, they tripped along by the side of the good old servant; but both stood at some distance behind when they came near the cows, as they felt rather afraid of going close to such large animals. “Why, now, masters, what is there to be afraid of?” said Ralph, who found they had left off talking and suddenly shrunk back. “The cows will not hurt you, if you do not hurt them.” “Don’t they sometimes toss people with their great horns?” asked Charles. “Here and there you may meet with a vicious one,” replied the man, “but in common they are very gentle.”

_Arthur._ I remember my papa told me never to run in the way of the cows that we meet in London streets.

_Ralph._ Aye, that is a very different thing. The poor cattle are not used to be there, so sometimes they may be frightened; and then, the butchers are often cruel, and will beat and drive them about, as I have heard, so that for what I know it may be best to keep out of their way; but here there is nothing of the sort. I do not ill use them, and they are always quiet with me.

The little Bensons then recovered from their fears, and wanted to milk the cows themselves. The trial was made, and they were surprised to find that they were not able to do it as well as Ralph. Had they been older, they would have known that there are many things which are easy to those who are accustomed to do them, that one who had never tried would find difficult.

“Pray, Ralph,” asked Arthur, “why has the young calf that thing full of spikes round his mouth? See, he wants to suck the black cow, and she will not let him. Cannot you take it off?”

“Oh no, master Arthur, it is time the calf should be weaned. He is old enough now to eat grass, and we want the milk for the dairy; so we put the spikes on him, and because of them, as they would hurt her, the mother will not let him suck any more.”

“Is he to be killed?” inquired Charles.

“Not at present,” replied the old man. “Master means to keep him to draw in the team.”

“To draw in the team!” said Charles with some surprise.

“Yes,” returned Ralph; “we have always a team of oxen. You may see them ploughing in that field yonder; just there,” continued he, pointing with his finger, “beyond the holly hedge.”

“I see them; I see them,” said Arthur. “Poor creatures! how slow they go! Are not they tired, Ralph?” “No, sir,” replied Ralph, “they do not move so quick as horses; but they are vastly stronger. And though it is not always quite so easy to manage them, yet on the whole they answer very well.”

Ralph had now finished milking: and taking the little boys into the stable, he showed them a baby calf, as he called it, that was to be sold to the butcher the next day.

_The baby Calf._

_London. Published by W. Darton Jun. Oct. 5, 1815._]

“O you pretty little thing!” said Arthur. “Only look, Charles, at these spots on its back. I should like to have it for my own. Why must it be killed, pray?”

_Ralph._ To serve us for food, master Arthur. If we were to suffer all the cattle to live, they would eat all the grass and corn that we could grow; and then we should be starved, and you would not like that.

_Arthur._ No, I don’t want to starve; only I do not like to have things killed.

At this moment Mr. Mansfield came into the stable.

“We were talking about this poor calf, grandpapa,” said Charles. “Ralph says it is to be killed to-morrow to make veal. I am sorry for it; it has such a pretty coat!”

“It cannot be helped, my dear,” replied his grandfather. “But when it is dead, do you know what will be done with its pretty coat?” The boys answering they did not, “It will be sold,” said he, “to the tanner, who dresses the skins of cattle, or _hides_ as they are called; and when it is properly prepared, it makes that beautiful, smooth kind of leather, that the large books you were looking at last night were bound with. It is often prepared to write upon, and is then called vellum. The skins of oxen and cows make a thick coarse leather, such as the soles of our boots and shoes.”

“And what becomes of the hair?” asked Charles.

“After the hide has been soaked for a long time,” replied Mr. Mansfield, “it comes off easily, and is put into that kind of mortar which is used to plaster walls, in order to keep them from crumbling and falling away. Did you never see in a white wall broken down in part, a heap of short hairs, and here and there perhaps a little loose piece of mortar hanging to them?”

Arthur said he had, but he did not know it was cow-hair; and added, he could not have thought it could have been of any use.

“Every thing is of use, my dear,” said Mr. Mansfield. “I doubt if you can name a part of the cow that will not turn to some account.”

“What the hoofs, grandpapa?” said Charles.

“Yes, Charles,” returned Mr. Mansfield. “The hoofs and the parings of the skin, by being boiled down to a strong jelly, make the glue which carpenters use to join things together.”

_Arthur._ The horns—Oh, I know what is done with the horns. I have seen horn lanterns, and I have got a little box at home that mamma says is made of horn.

_Mr. Mansfield._ Very well, Arthur. And you may have seen boxes, and knife-handles, and combs, and many other things, made of the bones of the ox. Even the dung is of some use. It is a good manure for land; it is used in the process for bleaching linen; and poor women pick it up when it is dry, and make fires of it, to save coals.