THE YELLOW VALLEY 39 



last year s grass. Halfway up the springy 

 slope, in a little fold of the hillside, was a shim 

 mer of green vivid, wonderful. 



I forgot the wind. &quot;Oh-h! Think of being 

 a cow now and eating that! Eating spring 

 itself!&quot; 



&quot;If you were a cow,&quot; said Jonathan, with 

 the usual masculine command of applicable 

 information, &quot;they would n t let you eat it.&quot; 



&quot;They would n t! Why not? Does it make 

 them sick?&quot; 



&quot;No; crazy.&quot; 



&quot;Crazy!&quot; 



&quot;Just that. Crazy for grass. They won t 

 touch hay any more, and there is n t enough 

 grass for them and there you are!&quot; 



&quot;Did you make that up as you went along, 

 Jonathan?&quot; 



&quot;Ask any farmer.&quot; 



But I think I will not ask a farmer. He 

 might say it was not true, and I like to think 

 it is. I am sorry the cows cannot have their 

 grass, but glad they have the good taste to 

 refuse hay. I should, if I were a cow. Not 

 being one, I do not need an actual patch of 

 green nibble to set me crazy. The smell of the 



