It has a hurdy-gurdy fixed
to its waist and a drum strapped on behind, a row of pipes hanging
from its face, and bells and clappers from most of its other joints.
It plays them all at once, and smiles. This cow reminded me of it--
with organ effects added. She didn't smile; there was that to be
said in her favour.
I hoped that if I made believe to be asleep she would get
discouraged. So I closed the window ostentatiously, and went back to
bed. But it only had the effect of putting her on her mettle. "He
did not care for that last," I imagined her saying to herself, "I
wasn't at my best. There wasn't feeling enough in it." She kept it
up for about half an hour, and then the gate against which, I
suppose, she had been leaning, gave way with a crash. That
frightened her, and I heard her gallop off across the field. I was
on the point of dozing off again when a pair of pigeons settled on
the window-sill and began to coo. It is a pretty sound when you are
in the mood for it. I wrote a poem once--a simple thing, but
instinct with longing--while sitting under a tree and listening to
the cooing of a pigeon. But that was in the afternoon. My only
longing now was for a gun. Three times I got out of bed and "shoo'd"
them away. The third time I remained by the window till I had got it
firmly into their heads that I really did not want them. My
behaviour on the former two occasions they had evidently judged to be
mere playfulness.
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