In our talk I told him of long rambles on the Mendips, along
the valley of the Somerset Axe, where I had lately been, and
where of all places, in this island, the cow should be most
esteemed and loved by man. Yet even there, where, standing on
some elevation, cows beyond one's power to number could be
seen scattered far and wide in the green vales beneath, it had
saddened me to find them so silent. It is not natural for
them to be dumb; they have great emotions and mighty voices
--the cattle on a thousand hills. Their morning and evening
lowing is more to me than any other natural sound--the melody
of birds, the springs and dying gales of the pines, the wash
of waves on the long shingled beach. The hills and valleys of
that pastoral country flowing with milk and honey should be
vocal with it, echoing and re-echoing the long call made
musical by distance. The cattle are comparatively silent in
that beautiful district, and indeed everywhere in England,
because men have made them so. They have, when deprived of
their calves, no motive for the exercise of their voices. For
two or three days after their new-born calves have been taken
from them they call loudly and incessantly, day and night,
like Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be
comforted; grief and anxiety inspires that cry--they grow
hoarse with crying; it is a powerful, harsh, discordant sound,
unlike the long musical call of the cow that has a calf, and
remembering it, and leaving the pasture, goes lowing to give
it suck.
Pages:
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197