I have said the cow has not been of much service to the poets, and yet I remember that Jean Ingelow could hardly have managed her “High Tide” without “Whitefoot” and “Lightfoot” and “Cusha!  Cusha!  Cusha! calling;” or Trowbridge his “Evening at the Farm,” in which the real call of the American farm-boy of “Co’, boss!  Co’, boss!  Co’, Co’,” makes a very musical refrain.

Tennyson’s charming “Milking Song” is another flower of poesy that has sprung up in my divinity’s footsteps.

What a variety of individualities a herd of cows presents when you have come to know them all, not only in form and color, but in manners and disposition!  Some are timid and awkward, and the butt of the whole herd.  Some remind you of deer.  Some have an expression in the face like certain persons you have known.  A petted and well-fed cow has a benevolent and gracious look; an ill-used and poorly fed one, a pitiful and forlorn look.  Some cows have a masculine or ox expression; others are extremely feminine.  The latter are the ones for milk.  Some cows will kick like a horse; some jump fences like deer.  Every herd has its ringleader, its unruly spirit,—­one that plans all the mischief, and leads the rest through the fences into the grain or into the orchard.  This one is usually quite different from the master spirit, the “boss of the yard.”  The latter is generally the most peaceful and law-abiding cow in the lot, and the least bullying and quarrelsome.  But she is not to be trifled with; her will is law; the whole herd give way before her, those that have crossed horns with her and those that have not, but yielded their allegiance without crossing.  I remember such a one among my father’s milkers when I was a boy,—­a slender-horned, deep-shouldered, large-uddered, dewlapped old cow that we always put first in the long stable, so she could not have a cow on each side of her to forage upon; for the master is yielded to no less in the stanchions than in the yard.  She always had the first place anywhere.  She had her choice of standing-room in the milking-yard, and when she wanted to lie down there or in the fields the best and softest spot was hers.  When the herd were foddered from the stack or barn, or fed with pumpkins in the fall, she was always first served.  Her demeanor was quiet but impressive.  She never bullied or gored her mates, but literally ruled them with the breath of her nostrils.  If any new-comer or ambitious younger cow, however, chafed under her supremacy, she was ever ready to make good her claims.  And with what spirit she would fight when openly challenged!  She was a whirlwind of pluck and valor; and not after one defeat or two defeats would she yield the championship.  The boss cow, when overcome, seems to brood over her disgrace, and day after day will meet her rival in fierce combat.