Hidden Treasures | Page 6

said his uncle, and handing him the pails,
they started for the barn.
"You're right, Uncle Joe," replied Bob. "I always milked our cow at
home so mother wouldn't have to do it; besides, it doesn't take so very
long."
Bob had been taught to take good care of the family cow--a well-bred
Guernsey, whose stable had a good cement floor and was neatly
whitewashed. Once or twice a week he would curry-comb and brush
her from nose to tail. Nothing gave him greater pride than to have his
father bring some one unexpectedly into the stable to look at his charge
and comment on the clean manner in which both stable and cow were
kept. His mother sold the milk they did not need for their own use, and
had no trouble in getting two cents a quart more than the regular
price--partly on account of the cow being so well bred and giving rich
milk, but principally on account of the reputation the clean stable had
made in the village.
The cow barn that Bob now entered was built under a portion of the
main barn, adjacent to the thrashing floor, and was dark, even in the
daylight. The earthen floor was foul with neglect. The cows, instead of
being secured in separate stalls with stanchions, were chained up in a
row to a long, old-fashioned manger.

Upon entering, Bob's uncle hung up the lantern; then, seeing Bob look
around and hesitate, asked:
"What are you looking for, Bob?"
"I was looking for a fork to clean the stable. I always clean the stable
and brush off the cow at home before milking," he replied.
"Well, I guess you're a little late to start that here," laughed his uncle.
"Never mind the floor; we'll back the wagon in here after breakfast and
give it a good cleaning."
"All right, Uncle Joe; but where's the brush?" asked Bob.
"Brush! What brush?" asked his uncle.
"Why, don't you brush off the cows each morning before you milk
them?" asked Bob. "Father always insisted that I brush Gurney each
morning."
"Well, your father's not a farmer and you've only one cow, while we
have eight, and, besides, I've lots of other work to do without curry-
combing cows," replied his uncle in a sarcastic tone, angered at Bob's
reference to his father's greater knowledge of farm work.
"Better hurry up with your milking, Bob, while I feed the horses," he
added, as he left him staring at the cows.
He could not remember ever having seen such dirty cows or so dirty a
stable before. Then he suddenly thought that he had always visited the
farm in the summer time, when the cattle were kept in the fields and
milked in the open barn yard.
He finished the milking as best he could, and was not surprised to find
that instead of getting forty quarts from the eight cows, he received
only fifteen quarts--about three times as much as he got from Gurney
alone. He now remembered the answer he once heard his father give a
visitor at Gurney's stable.

"But, Mr. Williams," the visitor had said, "a purebred cow must be
considerably more expensive in upkeep than an ordinary one."
"That's where you're mistaken," his father had replied, "for a well- bred
cow eats no more than a common one--in fact, Gurney eats less, and the
difference in the amount and quality of the milk soon pays for the
difference in the first cost. Then, there's the pleasure that Bob gets out
of the care he gives to an animal that is worth while, and assuredly
that's something not to be lightly lost sight of."
Dawn was breaking when Bob finished. On the way to the house he
met his uncle coming out of the yard, a huge pail of swill for the pigs in
each hand.
"Thought I'd feed the pigs for you this morning," he said, as Bob set
down his milk pails and held the gate open for his uncle to pass through.
"It will take you a day or two to get your hand in," he added.
Bob made no reply, but he noticed the swill was full of broken ice, like
the rain barrel from which he had taken the water to wash that morning,
and he was wondering how much good a cold breakfast like that would
do even for a pig.
He carried the milk pails into the kitchen, where he found his
grandmother busy preparing breakfast. "Shall I take the milk to the
cellar?" he asked, as he set the pails on the floor to rest his arms.
"No, thank you, Bob; I usually strain it here in the kitchen before taking
it down," she replied; "but you may feed the calves--that's their warm