THE milkman goes his weary way before the rising of the sun; he earns a
hundred bones a day, and often takes in less than one. While lucky
people snore and drowse, and bask in dreams of rare delight, he takes a
stool and milks his cows, about the middle of the night. If you have
milked an old red cow, humped o’er a big six-gallon pail, and had her
swat you on the brow with seven feet of burry tail, you’ll know the
milkman ought to get a plunk for every pint he sells; he earns his pay
in blood and sweat, and sorrow in his bosom dwells. As through the city
streets he goes, he has to sound his brazen gong, and people wake up
from their doze, and curse him as he goes along. He has to stagger
through the snow when others stay at home and snore; and through the
rain he has to go, to take the cow-juice to your door. Through storm and
flood and sun and rain, the milkman goes upon the jump, and all his
customers complain, and make allusions to his pump. Because one milkman
milks the creek, instead of milking spotted cows, against the whole
brave tribe we kick, and stir up everlasting rows. Yet patiently they go
their way, distributing their healthful juice, and what they do not get
in pay, they have to take out in abuse.
[Illustration]
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