The problem that was forcing itself upon my mind was: did Robina
know how to milk a cow? Robina, I argued, the idea once in her mind,
would immediately have ordered a cow, clamouring for it--as Hopkins
had picturesquely expressed it--as though she had not strength to
live another day without a cow. Her next proceeding would have been
to buy a milking-stool. It was a tasteful milking-stool, this one
she had selected, ornamented with the rough drawing of a cow in poker
work: a little too solid for my taste, but one that I should say
would wear well. The pail she had not as yet had time to see about.
This galvanised bucket we were using was, I took it, a temporary
makeshift. When Robina had leisure she would go into the town and
purchase something at an art stores. That, to complete the scheme,
she would have done well to have taken a few practical lessons in
milking would come to her, as an inspiration, with the arrival of the
cow. I noticed that Robina's steps as we approached the cow were
less elastic. Just outside the cow Robina halted.
"I suppose," said Robina, "there's only one way of milking a cow?"
"There may be fancy ways," I answered, "necessary to you if later on
you think of entering a competition. This morning, seeing we are
late, I shouldn't worry too much about style. If I were you, this
morning I should adopt the ordinary unimaginative method, and aim
only at results.
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