o find my divinity duly celebrated, but he passes her by and
contemplates the bovine qualities only as they appear in the ox and the
bull.

Neither have the poets made much of the cow, but have rather dwelt upon
the steer, or the ox yoked to the plough. I recall this touch from
Emerson:

The heifer that lows in the upland farm,
Far heard, lows not thine ear to charm.

But the ear is charmed nevertheless, especially if it be not too near,
and the air be still and dense, or hollow, as the farmer says. And
again, if it be spring time and she task that powerful bellows of hers
to its utmost capacity, how round the sound is, and how far it goes over
the hills.

The cow has at least four tones or lows. First, there is her alarmed or
distressed low, when deprived of her calf, or separated from her
mates--her low of affection. Then there is her call of hunger, a
petition for food, sometimes full of impatience, or her answer to the
farmer's call, full of eagerness. Then there is that peculiar frenzied
bawl she utters on smelling blood, which causes every member of the herd
to lift its head and hasten to the spot--the native cry of the clan.
When she is gored or in great danger she bawls also, but that is
different. And lastly, there is the long, sonorous volley she lets off
on the hills or in the yard, or along the highway, and which seems to be
expressive of a kind of unrest and vague longing--the longing of the
imprisoned Io for her lost identity. She sends her voice forth so that
every god on Mount Olympus can hear her plaint. She makes this sound in
the morning, especially in the spring, as she goes forth to graze.

One of our rural poets, Myron Benton, whose verse often has the flavor
of sweet cream, has written some lines called "Rumination," in which the
cow is the principal figure, and with which I am permitted to adorn my
theme. The poet first gives his attention to a little brook that "breaks
its shallow gossip" at his feet and "drowns the oriole's voice":

But moveth not that wise and ancient cow,
Who chews her juicy cud so languid now
Beneath her favorite elm, whose drooping bough
Lulls all but inward vision, fast asleep:
But still, her tireless tail a pendulum sweep
Mysterious clockwork guides, and some hid pulley
Her drowsy cud, each moment, raises duly.

Of this great, wondrous world she has seen more
Than you, my little brook, and cropped its store
Of succulent grass