LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
This boyhood bird, so strangely reappearing in Tom’s later life, seemed to afford him such genuine pleasure that I decided to accept it as a flag of truce, and suspend hostilities over the problem of the cows. In about another week the novice mastered the art of milking, the cows suddenly began to “give down,” and from that time on we had abundance of milk.
Mary assured me they had had about the same experience at their place. I have not told you that Bert took possession of their new home the day after the late “round-up.” Following the last load of goods was Bert, leading the big spotted cow,—more correctly speaking, the big spotted cow leading Bert. Not quite liking her tricks and manners, I was glad to learn that she was his property and not ours. She had already acquired the name of “Medusa.” It came, Bert said, as an inspiration; watching me standing motionless so long, facing her, he believed I had been turned into stone.
The cows had no special names; all alike had been called “bossy.” Now, surely a good cow is entitled to the distinction of a name. Anyway, we believe in naming them, and everything else on the place that is alive. We fancy, in our isolation, that with names they seem more human and companionable. We see so few people up here in the woods that we have to talk a good deal to the animals, lest we forget the habit of speech and all become mutes. So our two cows were named Dolly Varden and Maud Muller; but after a
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