"DO grandpa's cows chew gum, like Mr. Connor's cows, mamma?" asked
Johnny, a few days ago, as he stood emptying his pockets of hay-seed on
the dining-room carpet, after a visit to the barn.
"Cuds you mean, don't you, dear?" asked mamma.
"No, gum. Mr. Connor says it's gum; and they're his cows: so he knows."
"No, grandpa's cows chew cuds, like all good grass-eating cows. Perhaps
Mr. Connor's cows do not eat grass or hay."
"Yes, they do," said Johnny. "I've seen 'em."
"Well, then," said mamma, "they must chew cuds."
"What are cuds, mamma?"
"Why, after the cow has chewed the fresh green grass or the dry hay in
her mouth, she sends it down into a large stomach, to be soaked; then
she sends it into another stomach, to be rolled into balls; then up it
goes into her mouth again, to be chewed over; and each little ball is a
cud."
"Doesn't she have any other stomach for it to go into then, mamma?"
"Yes, two more. Do you have four stomachs, like a cow?"
"No, of course I don't. I don't chew cuds."
"Well, you may get a brush and dust-pan, and brush up that hay-seed from
the carpet; then come with me, and I'll show you a picture of a giant
kangaroo with her baby in a fur bag."
"Oh! where does she live, mamma?"
"Brush up that hay-seed, then I'll tell you all about her," said mamma.
With this promise in view, Johnny hastened to brush up the litter he
had made, talking to himself the while, somewhat after this wise,--
"Chew away, old cow! You'll have to keep your big teeth going all night
to keep all those stomachs at work. One stomach, two stomachs,
three-e-e, four-r-r. All ready, mamma!"