108 MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN. 



No sooner was it done than he promptly ap- 

 peared, and raked up most of it, and carried 

 it away. He had evidently been waiting 

 that opportunity. When the grass grew 

 again, the neighbor did not appear with 

 his scythe ; but one morning I found the 

 cow tethered on the sward, hitched near 

 the clothes-horse, a short distance from the 

 house. This seemed to be the man's idea of 

 the best way to cut the grass. I disliked to 

 have the cow there, because I knew her in- 

 clination to pull up the stake, and transfer 

 her field of mowing to the garden, but es- 

 pecially because of her voice. She has the 

 most melancholy "moo" I ever heard. It 

 is like the wail of one un-infallible, excom- 

 municated, and lost. It is a most distress- 

 ing perpetual reminder of the brevity of 

 life and the shortness of feed. It is un- 

 pleasant 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. 



