238 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER 
February 25, 
Hope Farm Notes 
FLORIDA NOTES. No. 3. 
If you want to see a man who is full 
master of the situation go and look at a 
Florida man who has a “Jersey” to sell, 
lie gets the entire consumer's dollar and 
then tells what the dollar shall contain. 
The orange grower takes some 30 cents 
of the final dollar and accepts it as an act 
of Providence. Certainly he cannot change 
it. The man with the cow tilts his cigar 
at a sharp angle, turns a cold eye when you 
criticize the cow and merely says you don’t 
have to buy her if you don’t want to. 
Uncle Ed performed a financial miracle and 
got him down $5, but that was the limit. I 
paid for the cow. She was mine. 
It is one thing to have legal possession 
of a cow, and quite another to get her home. 
In this case the cow had never been taught 
to lead, and home was nearly seven miles 
away through the woods. A gentle rain 
had begun. The sunshine is Florida’s chief 
asset, and when that is shut off with no 
aid from the moon it is a forlorn country. 
There we were late in the afternoon, with 
darkness rapidly coming and a cow firmly 
attached to her friends and home. We got 
a rope around her horns, and Uncle Ed 
started in to show how to do it by getting 
behind the cow with the rope in one band 
and a switch in the other. They went 
round and round in a circle. Finally when 
the cow saw that we meant business she 
raised on her hind legs and struck out with 
her front feet like a prize lighter—and as 
I have seen horses fight. She struck, but 
had no aim. There was no “Jersey” about 
that. Everything she ever got from her 
gentle Island ancestors was forgotten when 
it came to a fight for home. Somewhere 
back in the woods in a lonely jungle one 
of that cow’s ancestors had fought some 
wild animal in defense of her calf. Like 
a flash my would-be milk producer forgot 
all the years of civilization, and was back 
with the spirit of the old woods cow fight¬ 
ing for freedom. I confess that I watched 
her with something of admiration—though 
Uncle Ed did not share it as he dodged 
those hoofs. It doesn’t take so much to 
send any warm blood inside of a living skin 
back to the barbarism of old ancestors. 
Now, no doubt some of you expert cow 
men will tell how you would have driven 
that cow home. I am telling how we got 
her there with a wet night falling and seven 
miles of Florida sand and swamp ahead of 
us. I got that rope around her horns firmly 
and snubbed her up reasonably close to the 
hind axle. Then 1 told Uncle Ed to drive 
on and I walked behind. That cow was 
dead game. She fought back every step of 
the way, and with her feet in the soft sand 
she had a good purchase on old Frank. It 
was slow progress. Night suddenly fell upon 
us with pitch darkness. Uncle Ed and I 
took turns escorting that cow. I feared 
that in her plunges she would throw herself 
or get her foot in the wheel. 
We crawled slowly on with frequent stops 
until, about a mile from home, the road 
rose out of the swampy ground to a dry, 
sandy ridge. It was my turn to walk, and 
I was trudging behind ankle deep in the 
sand, filled with cheerful thoughts in spite 
of the darkness and wet. For, had we not 
found a cow? Here was the foundation of 
the Southern Hope Farm herd of grade Jer¬ 
seys which would demonstrate great things 
for the dairy business. It is a good thing 
to have a cheerful imagination as you travel 
in the dark, but mine was rudely shocked 
when I ran directly into that cow. She 
had finally broken the rope and stood stock 
still in the road, obstinately refusing to 
step another foot. I got her by the horn, 
but running away was the last thing she 
dreamed of. Frank had gone off somewhere 
in the darkness and Uncle Ed with him. 
That cow was simply tired out, and abso¬ 
lutely refused to take another step. You 
might have run over her with a railroad 
train, but in her present frame of mind it 
would have been that much worse for the 
train. The horse was tired, for 800 pounds 
of Florida cow with her feet braced in the 
soft sand represents a ton of dead pull. In 
the utter darkness I could not tell whether 
either of them had been hurt. So Uncle 
Ed took the horse and -went home for a 
lantern and help, while I stayed with the 
cow. 
It is not likely that one per cent of you 
good people will ever find yourself in a 
Florida wilderness on a dark, drizzly night 
with a weary cow. If you ever do you 
would probably disregard any rules of con¬ 
duct I might lay down. Dark? The black¬ 
ness was so thick you could cut cakes of it 
and have a deeper darkness come in to fill 
lh the place. With a match I might pos¬ 
sibly have started a fire, but I had no way 
of striking a light. We had passed some 
half-mile back a little house in which lives 
a colored preacher. I would gladly have 
listened to a sermon from him on “Let there 
be light,” but even his kerosene lamp had 
gone out. All I knew was that the road 
ran north and south, so that off far away 
as I faced was the Atlantic Ocean and at 
my back the Gulf of Mexico. If it is 
possible that you will have to sit up with a 
cow or anyone else under such circumstances 
I advise you to lay in a good stock of poetry 
and cheerful thoughts. They will come in 
very handy. My thoughts would not be in¬ 
teresting. Nothing happened. I doubt if 
there was a man to do me harm within 
20 miles. I could have dropped my pocket- 
book in the sand and come back next day 
to find it safe. The cow was certainly no 
society. Now and then she shook her head 
and rattled her bell, but for the most part 
she stood with those feet still braced. As 
for ghosts—nothing could have suited me 
better than to have some Indian or some 
mailed old Spaniard step out of the brush 
and talk about his brief day. Uncle Ed 
made good time. In less than an hour I 
saw two lights bobbing up the road. I 
rattled the cowbell and the boys swung 
their lanterns. This is no story of a thril¬ 
ling rescue from danger. There was no 
danger. Charlie and the three larger boys 
ran up to find the cheerful Hope Farm 
man still holding his obstinate cow. Charlie 
carried an armful of crab grass hay. I 
felt that cow’s muscles relax when she saw 
it, and finally she stretched out her neck 
and took a mouthful. We finally got her 
going with one boy walking ahead with the 
hay under his arm, and something before 9 
o’clock we turned her into her pen and went 
in to supper. Did supper taste good? Did 
mother and the children look natural? Did 
the open fire roar and snap properly? Well, 
sir, some things in Florida do seem to stand 
on their heads as compared with the way 
we have them, but one sentiment is univer¬ 
sal all the world over, “There’s no place 
like home!” 
Of course no one expected that cow to 
give much milk that night. She didn’t— 
nor the next morning either. However, our 
folks waited in patience for the cow to 
“come back” to her gallon and a half. The 
children were more concerned in the fact 
that Uncle Ed had forgotten what her name 
was! For two days she acted like a caged 
wild creature, barely touching food and 
with eyes wild and protruding. I stayed 
by her as best I could with hay and wheat 
bran, and at last she began to eat. Mother 
will scarcely enter a contest as angel of 
patience, and when I came in the third 
night with less than a quart she felt it time 
to express her feelings. 
“I did not want a cow—I wanted milk.” 
Of course I could bring witnesses to prove 
her exact words if need be, but in spirit, 
at least, she was right. The next morning 
when I got hold of that cow I felt somehow 
that the great moment had arrived. I know 
now how the handlers of the Guernsey cow 
“Missy of the Glen” felt when she poured 
out that nine per cent milk, but I felt that 
I was close to vindication, and I was, for 
I know that I had five quarts or more in 
that pail. Unfortunately before 1 could get 
anybody there to see it that cow played 
what I call a double performance. I was 
working for the “last wrung drop” when 
suddenly she swung about, hit me in the 
ribs with her horn, and at the same time 
hit the pail with her foot. Her milk came 
from Jersey, but that double action came 
out of the woods, and as that milk rolled 
down my legs I knew that legal evidence of 
my great test was gone. I got out of that 
cow’s stall as rapidly as possible, for a 
man with such an army of children as I 
have must be careful to uphold the truth 
of the text concerning the gentleman who 
“taketh a city.” They were waiting to see 
me measure the milk, but a little over three 
quarts was all I could squeeze out! There 
was no further evidence except my wet 
clothes, and while our folks politely re¬ 
mained silent they wanted to see the milk. 
So 1 know how people figure “two-gallon 
cows” when they have an animal for sale. 
You have the milk, guess at it, the cow 
kicks the pail and you multiply the guess. 
It is just like the fish that gets away after 
you hook him. He is naturally the biggest 
one of the lot. 
I cannot get my five quarts at one milk¬ 
ing on the x-ecords even with an injunction 
or a Florida justice of the peace to help. It 
was clearly evident to all that actual milk 
was the only evidence which would satisfy. 
Mr. Taylor, the owner of those Guernsey 
cows, has my sympathy, but if my humble 
experience is worth anything he is welcome 
to it. No one will believe that my cow 
filled that pail until I make her “come 
back” and do it again. The moisture on 
my clothes might be milk, but milk in the 
pail is what counts. I got that cow up to 
nearly six quarts a day, but I could not re¬ 
peat that one “milking” unless I put water 
an the pail or only half milked the cow at 
night. Hereafter when a man sells me a 
“two-gallon” cow he’s got to get the eight 
quarts into a pail before me and let me do 
the measuring. In a much larger way the 
public has the same right to a “come back” 
with those Guernsey cows. And now with 
the cow provided let us see what else Floi’- 
ida can do. H. w. c. 
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