long the road stops the whole procession; and they stare fixedly at
the intruder till he is well on his way. And then, with no attempt to
make up for lost time, they jog along at the same old pace once more.
It is good to watch them. When the whirl of life is too much for me;
when my brain reels and my temples throb; when the hurry around me
distracts my spirit and disturbs my peace; when I get caught in the
tumult and the bustle and the rush--then I like to throw myself back in
my chair for a moment and close my eyes. I am back once more in the
dear old lane among the haws and the filberts. I catch once more the
smell of the brier. I see again the squirrel up there in the oak and
the rabbit under the hedge. I listen as of old to the chirp of the
grasshopper in the stubble, to the hum of the bees among the foxgloves,
to the song of the blackbird on the hawthorn, and, best of all--yes,
best of all for brain unsteadied and nerve unstrung--I see the cows
coming home.

It is a great thing to be able to believe the whole day long that, when
evening comes, the cows will all come home. That is the faith of the
milkmaid. As the day drags on she looks through the lattice window and
catches occasional glimpses of Cherry and Brindle, Blossom and Darkie,
Beauty and Crinkle, Daisy and Pearl. They are always wandering farther
and farther away across the fields; but she keeps a quiet heart. In
her deepest soul she cherishes a lovely secret. She knows that, when
the sunbeams slant through the tall poplar spires, the cows will all
come home. She does not pretend to understand the mysterious instinct
that will later on turn the faces of Cherry and Brindle towards her.
She cannot explain the wondrous force that will direct Blossom and
Darkie into the old lane, and guide them along its folds to the white
gate down by the byre. But where she cannot trace she trusts. And all
day long she clings to her sunny faith without wavering. She never
doubts for a moment that the cows will all come home.

Is there anything in the wide world more beautiful than the confidence
of a good woman in the salvation of her children? For years they
cluster round her knee; she reads with them; prays with them; welcomes
their childish confidences. Then, one by one, away they go! The heat
of the day may bring waywardness, and even shame; but, like the
milkmaid watching the cows through the lattice, she is sure they will
all come home. Think of S