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Betty is an artist in her own line. See 

 how deftly, with what dainty touch, she 

 washes the udder clean, wipes it dry, bathes 

 her two hands, sets a big tin pail on the 

 ground, and begins to play a tune in it with 

 thick, white, foamy streams. Brandy stands 

 throughout, the sum and pattern of mild- 

 eyed patience. Once she turns her head, 

 as if minded to lick Betty as she licked her 

 calf. Evidently she thinks better of it, and 

 looks straight away into the sunset, through 

 the steam of her fragrant breath. Soon the 

 big white udder hangs limp and wrinkled. 

 Betty takes her head out of the hollow of 

 Brandy's flank to say, as she lifts her brim- 

 ming pail, "A pound er butter down weight 

 every day of de week, dat whut my cow's 

 good for an' raise her calf too. Butter 

 yaller as gole at dat. Tell me 'bout Jersey- 

 cow much as you please ; ef any Jersey beat 

 dat, I wish dey wus fotcht ter dis neck er 

 de woods. I heap ruther see it 'an hear 

 talk on it." 



