One of the best things in the world to be is a boy; it requires
no experience, though it needs some practice to be a good one. The
disadvantage of the position is that it does not last long enough; it is
soon over; just as you get used to being a boy, you have to be something
else, with a good deal more work to do and not half so much fun. And
yet every boy is anxious to be a man, and is very uneasy with the
restrictions that are put upon him as a boy. Good fun as it is to yoke
up the calves and play work, there is not a boy on a farm but would
rather drive a yoke of oxen at real work. What a glorious feeling it
is, indeed, when a boy is for the first time given the long whip and
permitted to drive the oxen, walking by their side, swinging the long
lash, and shouting “Gee, Buck!” “Haw, Golden!” “Whoa, Bright!” and all
the rest of that remarkable language, until he is red in the face, and
all the neighbors for half a mile are aware that something unusual is
going on. If I were a boy, I am not sure but I would rather drive the
oxen than have a birthday.
The proudest day of my life was one day when
I rode on the neap of the cart, and drove the oxen, all alone, with a
load of apples to the cider-mill. I was so little that it was a wonder
that I didn't fall off, and get under the broad wheels. Nothing could
make a boy, who cared anything for his appearance, feel flatter than to
be run over by the broad tire of a cart-wheel. But I never heard of one
who was, and I don't believe one ever will be. As I said, it was a great
day for me, but I don't remember that the oxen cared much about it. They
sagged along in their great clumsy way, switching their tails in my face
occasionally, and now and then giving a lurch to this or that side of
the road, attracted by a choice tuft of grass. And then I “came the
Julius Caesar” over them, if you will allow me to use such a slang
expression, a liberty I never should permit you. I don't know that
Julius Caesar ever drove cattle, though he must often have seen the
peasants from the Campagna “haw” and “gee” them round the Forum (of
course in Latin, a language that those cattle understood as well as ours
do English); but what I mean is, that I stood up and “hollered” with all
my might, as everybody does with oxen, as if they were born deaf, and
whacked them with the long lash over the head, just as the big folks did
when they drove. I think now that it was a cowardly thing to crack the
patient old fellows over the face and eyes, and make them wink in their
meek manner. If I am ever a boy again on a farm, I shall speak gently
to the oxen, and not go screaming round the farm like a crazy man; and I
shall not hit them a cruel cut with the lash every few minutes, because
it looks big to do so and I cannot think of anything else to do. I never
liked lickings myself, and I don't know why an ox should like them,
especially as he cannot reason about the moral improvement he is to get
out of them.
Speaking of Latin reminds me that I once taught my cows Latin. I don't
mean that I taught them to read it, for it is very difficult to teach
a cow to read Latin or any of the dead languages,--a cow cares more
for her cud than she does for all the classics put together. But if you
begin early, you can teach a cow, or a calf (if you can teach a calf
anything, which I doubt), Latin as well as English. There were ten cows,
which I had to escort to and from pasture night and morning. To these
cows I gave the names of the Roman numerals, beginning with Unus and
Duo, and going up to Decem. Decem was, of course, the biggest cow of the
party, or at least she was the ruler of the others, and had the place of
honor in the stable and everywhere else. I admire cows, and especially
the exactness with which they define their social position. In this
case, Decem could “lick” Novem, and Novem could “lick” Octo, and so on
down to Unus, who couldn't lick anybody, except her own calf. I suppose
I ought to have called the weakest cow Una instead of Unus, considering
her sex; but I didn't care much to teach the cows the declensions of
adjectives, in which I was not very well up myself; and, besides,
it would be of little use to a cow. People who devote themselves too
severely to study of the classics are apt to become dried up; and you
should never do anything to dry up a cow. Well, these ten cows knew
their names after a while, at least they appeared to, and would take
their places as I called them. At least, if Octo attempted to get before
Novem in going through the bars (I have heard people speak of a “pair
of bars” when there were six or eight of them), or into the stable,
the matter of precedence was settled then and there, and, once settled,
there was no dispute about it afterwards. Novem either put her horns
into Octo's ribs, and Octo shambled to one side, or else the two locked
horns and tried the game of push and gore until one gave up. Nothing
is stricter than the etiquette of a party of cows. There is nothing
in royal courts equal to it; rank is exactly settled, and the same
individuals always have the precedence. You know that at Windsor Castle,
if the Royal Three-Ply Silver Stick should happen to get in front of the
Most Royal Double-and-Twisted Golden Rod, when the court is going in to
dinner, something so dreadful would happen that we don't dare to think
of it. It is certain that the soup would get cold while the Golden Rod
was pitching the Silver Stick out of the Castle window into the moat,
and perhaps the island of Great Britain itself would split in two. But
the people are very careful that it never shall happen, so we shall
probably never know what the effect would be. Among cows, as I say, the
question is settled in short order, and in a different manner from what
it sometimes is in other society. It is said that in other society there
is sometimes a great scramble for the first place, for the leadership,
as it is called, and that women, and men too, fight for what is called
position; and in order to be first they will injure their neighbors by
telling stories about them and by backbiting, which is the meanest kind
of biting there is, not excepting the bite of fleas. But in cow society
there is nothing of this detraction in order to get the first place at
the crib, or the farther stall in the stable. If the question arises,
the cows turn in, horns and all, and settle it with one square fight,
and that ends it. I have often admired this trait in cows.
Besides Latin, I used to try to teach the cows a little poetry, and it
is a very good plan. It does not do the cows much good, but it is very
good exercise for a boy farmer. I used to commit to memory as good short
poems as I could find (the cows liked to listen to “Thanatopsis” about
as well as anything), and repeat them when I went to the pasture, and as
I drove the cows home through the sweet ferns and down the rocky slopes.
It improves a boy's elocution a great deal more than driving oxen.
It is a fact, also, that if a boy repeats “Thanatopsis” while he is
milking, that operation acquires a certain dignity.