But I never heard of one who was, and I don’t believe one ever will be.  As I said, it was a great day for me, but I don’t remember that the oxen cared much about it.  They sagged along in their great clumsy way, switching their tails in my face occasionally, and now and then giving a lurch to this or that side of the road, attracted by a choice tuft of grass.  And then I “came the Julius Caesar” over them, if you will allow me to use such a slang expression, a liberty I never should permit you.  I don’t know that Julius Caesar ever drove cattle, though he must often have seen the peasants from the Campagna “haw” and “gee” them round the Forum (of course in Latin, a language that those cattle understood as well as ours do English); but what I mean is, that I stood up and “hollered” with all my might, as everybody does with oxen, as if they were born deaf, and whacked them with the long lash over the head, just as the big folks did when they drove.  I think now that it was a cowardly thing to crack the patient old fellows over the face and eyes, and make them wink in their meek manner.  If I am ever a boy again on a farm, I shall speak gently to the oxen, and not go screaming round the farm like a crazy man; and I shall not hit them a cruel cut with the lash every few minutes, because it looks big to do so and I cannot think of anything else to do.  I never liked lickings myself, and I don’t know why an ox should like them, especially as he cannot reason about the moral improvement he is to get out of them.

Speaking of Latin reminds me that I once taught my cows Latin.  I don’t mean that I taught them to read it, for it is very difficult to teach a cow to read Latin or any of the dead languages,—­a cow cares more for her cud than she does for all the classics put together.  But if you begin early, you can teach a cow, or a calf (if you can teach a calf anything, which I doubt), Latin as well as English.  There were ten cows, which I had to escort to and from pasture night and morning.  To these cows I gave the names of the Roman numerals, beginning with Unus and Duo, and going up to Decem.  Decem was, of course, the biggest cow of the party, or at least she was the ruler of the others, and had the place of honor in the stable and everywhere else.  I admire cows, and especially the exactness with which they define their social position.  In this case, Decem could “lick” Novem, and Novem could “lick” Octo, and so on down to Unus, who could n’t lick anybody, except her own calf.  I suppose I ought to have called the weakest cow Una instead of Unus, considering her sex; but I did n’t care much to teach the cows the declensions of adjectives, in which I was not very well up myself; and, besides, it would be of little use to a cow.  People who devote themselves too severely to study of the classics are apt to become dried up; and you should never do anything to dry up a cow.  Well, these ten cows knew their names after a while, at least they appeared