And grief she has lived past; your giddy round
        Disturbs her not, for she is learned profound
        In deep brahminical philosophy. 
        She chews the cud of sweetest revery
        Above your worldly prattle, brooklet merry,
        Oblivious of all things sublunary.”

The cow figures in Grecian mythology, and in the Oriental literature is treated as a sacred animal.  “The clouds are cows and the rain milk.”  I remember what Herodotus says of the Egyptians’ worship of heifers and steers; and in the traditions of the Celtic nations the cow is regarded as a divinity.  In Norse mythology the milk of the cow Andhumbla afforded nourishment to the Frost giants, and it was she that licked into being and into shape a god, the father of Odin.  If anything could lick a god into shape, certainly the cow could do it.  You may see her perform this office for young Taurus any spring.  She licks him out of the fogs and bewilderments and uncertainties in which he finds himself on first landing upon these shores, and up onto his feet in an incredibly short time.  Indeed, that potent tongue of hers can almost make the dead alive any day, and the creative lick of the old Scandinavian mother cow is only a large-lettered rendering of the commonest facts.

The horse belongs to the fiery god Mars.  He favors war, and is one of its oldest, most available, and most formidable engines.  The steed is clothed with thunder, and smells the battle from afar; but the cattle upon a thousand hills denote that peace and plenty bear sway in the land.  The neighing of the horse is a call to battle; but the lowing of old Brockleface in the valley brings the golden age again.  The savage tribes are never without the horse; the Scythians are all mounted; but the cow would tame and humanize them.  When the Indians will cultivate the cow, I shall think their civilization fairly begun.  Recently, when the horses were sick with the epizootic, and the oxen came to the city and helped to do their work, what an Arcadian air again filled the streets!  But the dear old oxen,—­how awkward and distressed they looked!  Juno wept in the face of every one of them.  The horse is a true citizen, and is entirely at home in the paved streets; but the ox,—­what a complete embodiment of all rustic and rural things!  Slow, deliberate, thick-skinned, powerful, hulky, ruminating, fragrant-breathed, when he came to town the spirit and suggestion of all Georgics and Bucolics came with him.  O citizen, was it only a plodding, unsightly brute that went by?  Was there no chord in your bosom, long silent, that sweetly vibrated at the sight of that patient, Herculean couple?  Did you smell no hay or cropped herbage, see no summer pastures with circles of cool shade, hear no voice of herds among the hills?  They were very likely the only horses your grandfather ever had.  Not much trouble to harness and unharness them.  Not much vanity on the road in those days.