I stood listening among the alders, in the deep cool shade.  Here and there a ray of sunshine came through the thick foliage:  I could see it where it silvered the cobweb ladders of those moist spaces.  Somewhere in the thicket I heard an unalarmed catbird trilling her exquisite song, a startled frog leaped with a splash into the water; faint odours of some blossoming growth, not distinguishable, filled the still air.  It was one of those rare moments when one seems to have caught Nature unaware.  I lingered a full minute, listening, looking; but my brown cow had not gone that way.  So I turned and went up rapidly to the road, and there I found myself almost face to face with a ruddy little man whose countenance bore a look of round astonishment.  We were both surprised.  I recovered first.

“Have you seen a brown cow?” I asked.

He was still so astonished that he began to look around him; he thrust his hands nervously into his coat pockets and pulled them out again.

“I think you won’t find her in there,” I said, seeking to relieve his embarrassment.

But I didn’t know, then, how very serious a person I had encountered.

“No—­no,” he stammered, “I haven’t seen your cow.”

So I explained to him with sobriety, and at some length, the problem I had to solve.  He was greatly interested and inasmuch as he was going my way he offered at once to assist me in my search.  So we set off together.  He was rather stocky of build, and decidedly short of breath, so that I regulated my customary stride to suit his deliberation.  At first, being filled with the spirit of my adventure, I was not altogether pleased with this arrangement.  Our conversation ran something like this: 

STRANGER:  Has she any spots or marks on her?

MYSELF:  No, she is plain brown.

STRANGER:  How old a cow is she?

MYSELF:  This is her first calf.

STRANGER:  Valuable animal?

MYSELF:  (fencing): I have never put a price on her; she is a promising young heifer.

STRANGER:  Pure blood?

MYSELF:  No, grade.

After a pause: 

STRANGER:  Live around here?

MYSELF:  Yes, half a mile below here.  Do you?

STRANGER:  Yes, three miles above here.  My name’s Purdy.

MYSELF:  Mine is Grayson.

He turned to me solemnly and held out his hand. “I’m glad to meet you,
Mr. Grayson,” he said.  “And I’m glad,” I said, “to meet you, Mr. Purdy.”

I will not attempt to put down all we said:  I couldn’t.  But by such devices is the truth in the country made manifest.

So we continued to walk and look.  Occasionally I would unconsciously increase my pace until I was warned to desist by the puffing of Mr. Purdy.  He gave an essential impression of genial timidity:  and how he did love to talk!

We came at last to a rough bit of land grown up to scrubby oaks and hazel brush.