of the herd.  Sight is only partial recognition.  The question can only be settled beyond all doubt by the aid of the nose.  The fox, alert and cunning as he is, will pass within a few yards of the hunter and not know him from a stump.  A squirrel will run across your lap, and a marmot between your feet, if you are motionless.  When a herd of cattle see a strange object, they are not satisfied till each one has sniffed it; and the horse is cured of his fright at the robe, or the meal-bag, or other object, as soon as he can be induced to smell it.  There is a great deal of speculation in the eye of an animal, but very little science.  Then you cannot catch an animal’s eye; he looks at you, but not into your eye.  The dog directs his gaze toward your face, but, for aught you can tell, it centres upon your mouth or nose.  The same with your horse or cow.  Their eye is vague and indefinite.

Not so with the birds.  The bird has the human eye in its clearness, its power, and its supremacy over the other senses.  How acute their sense of smell may be is uncertain; their hearing is sharp enough, but their vision is the most remarkable.  A crow or a hawk, or any of the larger birds, will not mistake you for a stump or a rock, stand you never so still amid the bushes.  But they cannot separate you from your horse or team.  A hawk reads a man on horseback as one animal, and reads it as a horse.  None of the sharp-scented animals could be thus deceived.

The bird has man’s brain also in its size.  The brain of a song-bird is even much larger in proportion than that of the greatest human monarch, and its life is correspondingly intense and high-strung.  But the bird’s eye is superficial.  It is on the outside of his head.  It is round, that it may take in a full circle at a glance.

All the quadrupeds emphasize their direct forward gaze by a corresponding movement of the ears, as if to supplement and aid one sense with another.  But man’s eye seldom needs the confirmation of his ear, while it is so set, and his head so poised, that his look is forcible and pointed without being thus seconded.

XIII

I once saw a cow that had lost her cud.  How forlorn and desolate and sick at heart that cow looked!  No more rumination, no more of that second and finer mastication, no more of that sweet and juicy reverie under the spreading trees, or in the stall.  Then the farmer took an elder and scraped the bark and put something with it, and made the cow a cud, and, after due waiting, the experiment took, a response came back, and the mysterious machinery was once more in motion, and the cow was herself again.

Have you, O poet, or essayist, or story-writer, never lost your cud, and wandered about days and weeks without being able to start a single thought or an image that tasted good,—­your literary appetite dull or all gone, and the conviction daily growing that it was all over with you in that direction?  A little elder-bark, something fresh and bitter from the woods, is about the best thing you can take.