Il8 MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN. 



the garden, but especially because of her voice. 

 She has the most melancholy " moo " I ever 

 heard. It is like the wail of one un-infallible, 

 excommunicated, and lost. It is a most distress- 

 ing perpetual reminder of the brevity of life and 

 the shortness of feed. It is unpleasant to the 

 family. We sometimes hear it in the middle of 

 the night, breaking the silence like a suggestion 

 of coming calamity. It is as bad as the howling 

 of a dog at a funeral. 



I told the man about it ; but he seemed to 

 think that he was not responsible for the cow's 

 voice. I then told him to take her away ; and 

 he did, at intervals, shifting her to different parts 

 of the grounds in my absence, so that the deso- 

 late voice would startle us from unexpected quar- 

 ters. If I were to unhitch the cow, and turn her 

 loose, I knew where she would go. If I were to 

 lead her away, the question was, Where ? for 

 I did not fancy leading a cow about till I could 



