LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
“that she had not known Cicero, and talked with him in his retirement at Tusculum, beautiful Tusculum.” Rather than risk the revival of this Arcadian dream, I pretended to believe that Tom could milk.
After an absence of about an hour he came in, and from where I stood I could see nothing in the pail.
“Haven’t you milked?”
“Sure!” he answered, waving the pail before me.
“Good gracious! Is that all?”
“Of course. How much did you expect?”
“Well, I should think two cows ought to give more than a pint of milk.”
“No; this is just about right when the calves are with them.”
In a day or two stalls were made for those voracious calves, and they were put on half rations. Then I ventured to remark, “Now you will get milk galore.”
“Well, yes; I ought to get a little more.” The increase, however, was scarcely noticeable, which he explained by saying the cows wouldn’t “give down,”—“they never do when first separated from their calves.” I believed this to be a bit of suddenly inspired fiction to cover his own shortcomings, but managed to hold my peace. I kept hoping and waiting for several days, and then one morning when he appeared with the usual quart, I quite forgot myself, and blazed forth with, “Tom Graham, I don’t believe you know how to milk!”
You should have seen his look of indignant surprise!
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