CHEATED IN A COW--A GOOD AND A BAD ONE--THE SAINT OF THE BARNYARD.
Both myself and wife had always coveted a cow. All of the family were
extravagantly fond of milk. Where so many children were about, it seemed
indispensable to have one; besides, were we not upon a farm? and what
would a farm be without having upon it at least one saint of the
barnyard? As soon as we came on the place, I made inquiries of two or
three persons for a cow. The news flew round the neighborhood with
amazing rapidity, and in the course of two weeks I was besieged with
offers. They haunted me in the street, as I went daily to the
post-office; even in the evening, as we sat in our parlor. It seemed as
if everybody in the township had a cow to sell. Indeed, the annoyance
continued long after we had been supplied.
Now, though I knew a great deal of milk, having learned to like it the
very day I was born, yet I was utterly ignorant of how to choose a cow,
and at that time had no friend to advise with. But I suspected that no
one who had a first-rate animal would voluntarily part with it, and so
expected to be cheated. I hinted as much to my wife, whereupon she
begged that the choice might be left to her; to which I partially
consented, thinking that if we should be imposed on, I should feel
better if the imposition could be made chargeable somewhere else than to
my own ignorance. Besides, I knew that she could hardly be worse cheated
than myself.
One morning a very respectable-looking old man drove a cow up to the
door, and called us out to look at her. My wife was pleased with her
looks the moment she set eyes on her, while the children were delighted
with the calf, some two weeks old. I did not like her movements--she
seemed restless and ill-tempered; but the old man said that was always
the way with cows at their first calving. Still, I should not have
bought her. But somehow my wife seemed bewitched in her favor, and was
determined to have her. This the old man could not fail to notice, and
was loud in extolling her good qualities, declaring that she would give
twenty quarts of milk a day. After some further parley, he inadvertently
admitted that she had never been milked. My wife did not notice this
striking discrepancy of a cow giving twenty quarts daily, when as yet no
one had ever milked her; but the lie was too bouncing a one to escape my
notice. As I saw my wife had set her heart upon the cow, I said nothing,
and finally bought cow and calf for thirty dollars, though quite certain
they could have been had for five dollars less, if my wife had not so
plainly shown to the old sinner that she was determined to have them. I
do not think she will ever be up to me in making a bargain. But as it
had been agreed that she should choose a cow, so she was permitted to
have her own way.
At the end of the week the calf was sold for three dollars--a low
price; but then my wife wanted the milk, and she and Kate were anxious
to begin the milking. I am sure I was quite willing they should have all
they could get. When they did begin, there was a great time. Now, most
women profess to understand precisely how a cow should be milked, and
yet comparatively few know any thing about it. They remind me of the
Irish girls who are hunting places. These are all first-rate cooks, if
you take their word for it, and yet not one in a hundred knows any thing
of even the first principles of cooking.
The first process in the operation of milking is to fondle with the cow,
make her acquaintance, and thus give her to understand that the man or
maid with the milking pail approaches her with friendly intentions, in
order to relieve her of the usual lacteal secretion. It will never do to
approach the animal with combative feelings and intentions. Should the
milker be too impetuous; should he swear, speak loud and sharp, scold or
kick, or otherwise abuse or frighten the cow, she will probably prove
refractory as a mule, and may give the uncouth and unfeeling milker the
benefit of her heels,--a very pertinent reward, to which he, the uncouth
milker, is justly entitled. Especially in the case of a new milker, who
may be a perfect stranger to the cow, the utmost kindness and
deliberation are necessary.
Before commencing to milk, a cow should be fed, or have some kind of
fodder offered her, in view of diverting her attention from the
operation of milking. By this means the milk is not held up, as the
saying is, but is yielded freely. All these precautions are more
indispensable when the cow has just been deprived of her calf. She is
then uneasy, fretful, and irritable, and generally so disconsolate as to
need the kindest treatment and the utmost soothing. The milker should be
in close contact with the cow’s body, for in this position, if she
attempt to kick him, he gets nothing more than a push, whereas if he
sits off at a distance, the cow has an opportunity to inflict a severe
blow whenever she feels disposed to do so.
All milkers of cows should understand that the udder and teats are
highly organized, and consequently very sensitive; and these facts
should be taken into consideration by amateur milkers, especially when
their first essay is made on a young animal after the advent of her
first calf, and that one just taken from her. At this period, the hard
tugging and squeezing to which many poor dumb brutes have to submit in
consequence of the application of hard-fisted, callous, or inexperienced
fingers, is a barbarity of the very worst kind; for it often converts a
docile creature into a vicious one, from which condition it is extremely
difficult, if not impossible, to wean her.
Of every one of these requisites both wife and daughter were utterly
ignorant. They went talking and laughing into the barn, one with a
bright tin pail in her hand, an object which the cow had never before
seen, and both made at her, forgetting that they were utter strangers to
her. Besides, she was thinking of her absent calf, and did not want to
see any thing else. Their appearance and clamor of course frightened
her, and as they approached her, so she avoided them. They followed, but
she continued to avoid, and once or twice put down her head shook it
menacingly, and even made an incipient lunge at them with her sharply
pointed horns. These decided demonstrations of anger frightened them in
turn, and they forthwith gave up the pursuit of milk in the face of
difficulties so unexpected. We got none that night. In the morning we
sent for an experienced milker, but she had the utmost difficulty in
getting the cow to stand quiet even for a moment. My wife was quite
subdued about the matter. It would never do to keep a cow that nobody
could milk. She said but little, however--it was _her_ cow. Longer trial
produced no more encouraging result, as she seemed untamable, and my
wife was glad to have me sell her for twenty dollars, at the same time
resolving never again to buy a cow with her first calf.
It was voted unanimously that another should be procured, and that this
time the choice should be left to me. Now, I never had any idea of
buying poor things of any kind merely because they were cheap. When
purchasing or making tools or machinery, I never bought or made any but
the very best, as I found that even a good workman could never do a good
job with poor tools. So with all my farm implements--I bought the best
of their kind that could be had. If my female gardeners had been
furnished with heavy and clumsy hoes and rakes, because such were cheap,
their mere weight would have disgusted them with the business of hoeing
and weeding. So with a cow. It is true, I had become the owner of a
magnificent thirty-dollar horse; but it was the only beast I could get
hold of at the moment when a horse must be had. Besides, he turned out
to be like a singed cat, a vast deal better than he looked.
I had repeatedly heard of a cow in the neighboring town, which was said
to yield so much milk as to be the principal support of a small family
whose head was a hopeless drunkard. She had cost seventy-five dollars,
and had been a present to the drunkard’s wife from one of her relatives.
By careful inquiry, I satisfied myself that this cow gave twenty quarts
daily, and that five months after calving, and on very indifferent
pasture. I went to see her, and then her owner told me she was going to
leave the place, and would sell the cow for fifty dollars. I did not
hesitate a moment, but paid the money and had the cow brought home the
same evening. My wife and daughter had not the least difficulty in
learning to milk her. Under their treatment and my improved feeding, we
kept her in full flow for a long time. She gave quite as much milk as
two ordinary cows, while we had the expense of keeping only one. This I
consider genuine good management: the best is always the cheapest.
The cow was never permitted to go out of the barnyard. A trough of water
enabled her to drink as often as she needed, but her green food was
brought to her regularly three times daily, with double allowance at
night. I began by mowing all the little grass-plots about the house and
lanes, for in these sheltered nooks the sod sends up a heavy growth far
in advance of field or meadow. But this supply was soon exhausted,
though it lasted more than a week: besides, these usually neglected
nooks afforded several mowings during the season, and the repeated
cuttings produced the additional advantage of maintaining the sod in
beautiful condition, as well as getting rid of numberless weeds. When
the grass had all been once mowed over, we resorted to the clover. This
also was mowed and taken to her; and by this treatment my little
clover-field held out astonishingly. Long before I had gone over it
once, the portion first mowed was up high enough to be mowed again.
Indeed, we did secure some hay in addition. In this way both horse and
cow were soiled. When the clover gave out, the green corn which I had
sowed in rows was eighteen inches to two feet high, and in capital
condition to cut and feed. It then took the place of clover. Both horse
and cow devoured it with high relish. It was the extra sweet corn now so
extensively cultivated in New Jersey for market, and contained an excess
of saccharine matter, which made it not only very palatable, but which
sensibly stimulated the flow of milk.
The yield of green food which this description of corn gives to the
acre, when thus sowed, is enormous. Not having weighed it, I cannot
speak as to the exact quantity, but should judge it to be at least seven
times that of the best grass or clover. Even without cutting up with a
straw-knife, the pigs ate it with equal avidity. In addition to this,
the cow was fed morning and night with a little bran. The unconsumed
corn, after being dried where it grew, was cut and gathered for winter
fodder, and when cut fine and mixed with turnips which had been passed
through a slicer, kept the cow in excellent condition. She of course
got many an armful of cabbage-leaves during the autumn and all through
the winter, with now and then a sprinkling of sliced pumpkins, from
which the seeds had first been taken, as they are sure to diminish the
flow of milk.
Thus I was obliged to lay out no money for either horse or cow, except
the few dollars expended for bran. By this treatment I secured all the
manure they made. By feeding the barnyard itself, as well as the
hog-pen, with green weeds and whatever litter and trash could be
gathered up, the end of the season found me with a huge manure pile, all
nicely collected under a rough shed, out of reach of drenching rain, hot
sun, and wasting winds. I certainly secured thrice as much in one season
as had ever been made on that place in three. In addition to this, the
family had had more milk than they could use, fresh, rich, and buttery.
Even the pigs fell heir to an occasional bucket of skim-milk.
When our city friends came to spend a day or two with us, we were able
to astonish them with a tumbler of thick cream, instead of the usual
staple beverages of the tea-table. My wife evidently felt a sort of
pride in making a display of this kind, and Kate invariably spread
herself by taking our visitors to the barnyard, to let them see how
expert she had become at milking. When they remarked, at table, on the
surpassing richness of the cream, as well as the milk, my wife was very
apt to reply--
“Yes, but when your turn comes to go in the country, be particular not
to buy a cheap cow.”
This remark generally led to inquiry, and then Kate was brought out
with the whole story of our first and second cow, which she accordingly
gave with illustrations infinitely more amusing than any I have been
able to introduce. Indeed, her power of amplification sometimes
astonished me. She told the story of our having been cheated by the old
sinner, with such graphic liveliness, my wife now and then interposing a
parenthesis, that the company invariably concluded it was by far the
better policy to give a wide berth to cheap cows. I am not certain
whether the fun occasioned by Kate’s narratives was not really very
cheaply purchased by the small loss we suffered on that occasion.
This abundance of milk wrought quite a change in our habits as to tea
and coffee. At supper, during the summer, we drank milk only; but
insensibly we ran on in the same way into cold weather. In the end, we
found that we liked coffee in the morning only. This was a clear saving,
besides being quite as wholesome. Our city milk bill had usually been a
dollar a week. I am quite sure it did not cost over sixty cents a week
to keep the cow. Then we had puddings and other dishes, which milk alone
makes palatable, whenever we wanted them; and at any time of a hot
summer’s day a full draught of cold milk was always within reach. Then
the quality was much superior, exceeding any thing to be found in city
milk. I must admit that keeping a cow, like most other good things,
involves some trouble; but my family would cheerfully undertake twice as
much as they have ever had with ours, rather than dispense with this yet
uncanonized saint of the barnyard.