OUR RURAL DIVINITY 121 
peoples, to the region of the good, green grass. She 
is the true grazing animal. That broad, smooth, 
always dewy nose of hers is just the suggestion of 
greensward. She caresses the grass; she sweeps off 
the ends of the leaves; she reaps it with the soft 
sickle of her tongue. She crops close, but she does 
not bruise or devour the turf like the horse. She 
is the sward’s best friend, and will make it thick 
and smooth as a carpet. 
‘“‘The turfy mountains where live the nibbling sheep ”’ 
are not for her. Her muzzle is too blunt; then she 
does not bite as do the sheep; she has not upper 
teeth; she crops. But on the lower slopes, and 
margins, and rich bottoms, she is at home. Where 
the daisy and the buttercup and clover bloom, and 
where corn will grow, is her proper domain. The 
agriculture of no country can long thrive without 
her. Not only a large part of the real, but much 
of the potential, wealth of the land is wrapped up 
in her. 
Then the cow has given us some good words and 
hints. How could we get along without the para- 
ble of the cow that gave a good pail of milk and 
then kicked it over? One could hardly keep house 
without it. Or the parable of the cream and the 
skimmed milk, or of the buttered bread? We 
know, too, through her aid, what the horns of the 
dilemma mean, and what comfort there is in the 
juicy cud of revery. 
I have said the cow has not been of much service 
to the poets, and yet I remember that Jean Ingelow 
