The cow has evidently come down to us from a wild or semi-wild state;
perhaps is a descendant of those wild, shaggy cattle of which a small
band still exists in the forests of Scotland. Cuvier seems to have been
of this opinion. One of the ways in which her wild instincts still crop
out is the disposition she shows in spring to hide her calf--a common
practice among the wild herds. Her wild nature would be likely to come
to the surface at this crisis if ever; and I have known cows that
practised great secrecy in dropping their calves. As their time
approached they grew restless, a wild and excited look was upon them,
and if left free, they generally set out for the woods or for some other
secluded spot. After the calf is several hours old, and has got upon its
feet and had its first meal, the dam by some sign commands it to lie
down and remain quiet while she goes forth to feed. If the calf is
approached at such time, it plays "'possum," assumes to be dead or
asleep, till on finding this ruse does not succeed, it mounts to its
feet, bleats loudly and fiercely, and charges desperately upon the
intruder. But it recovers from this wild scare in a little while, and
never shows signs of it again.

The habit of the cow, also, in eating the placenta, looks to me like a
vestige of her former wild instincts--the instinct to remove everything
that would give the wild beasts a clue or a scent, and so attract them
to her helpless young.

How wise and sagacious the cows become that run upon the street, or pick
their living along the highway. The mystery of gates and bars is at last
solved to them. They ponder over them by night, they lurk about them by
day, till they acquire a new sense--till they become _en rapport_ with
them and know when they are open and unguarded. The garden gate, if it
open into the highway at any point, is never out of the mind of these
roadsters, or out of their calculations. They calculate upon the chances
of its being left open a certain number of times in the season; and if
it be but once and only for five minutes, your cabbage and sweet corn
suffer. What villager, or countryman either, has not been awakened at
night by the squeaking and crunching of those piratical jaws under the
window or in the direction of the vegetable patch? I have had the cows,
after they had eaten up my garden, break into the stable where my own
milcher was tied, and gore her and devour her meal. Yes, life presents
but one ab