OUR RURAL DIVINITY 117 
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, specially 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 writ- 
ten 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 shal- 
low 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 clock-work 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 on many a mead and lawn ; 
And strayed to distant uplands in the dawn, 
And she has had some dark experience 
Of graceless man’s ingratitude; and hence 
Her ways have not been ways of pleasantness, 
Nor all her paths of peace. But her distress 
And grief she has lived past; your giddy round 
Disturbs her not, for she is learned profound 
In deep brahminical philosophy. 
