The cow, as distinct from the bull, is in its wild state a timid animal, and it is somewhat singular that although she has lost much of that timidity, she largely inspires the feeling among the female sex. Next to the mouse, the ordinary woman fears the cow. The dog, a really more alarming animal, she is not afraid of; the horse inspires her with no terror; but the sight of two or three cows in a lane throws her off her balance. On such an occasion a woman will perform feats of activity quite beyond her at ordinary times: she will climb a five-barred gate, or squeeze herself through a gap in a hedge, regardless of rents or scratches, with as much speed and alacrity as she would manifest in leaping on a chair in the presence of that ferocious animal the mouse. We believe that this unreasoning terror has its origin in the pernicious nursery legend of the cow with the crumpled horn. It is true that that animal is related to have suffered the maiden all forlorn to milk her, but she afterwards tossed the dog; and it is the pictorial representations of her while performing this feat that have impressed the juvenile mind. The mere fact that there are few precedents for a woman being tossed by a cow goes for nothing, nor that the animal’s disposition is peaceable in the extreme; it can, therefore, be hardly questioned that the timidity excited in the female mind by the cow must be founded upon some lost legend of antiquity. It may be that Eve had trouble in her first efforts to procure lacteal fluid from the cow, or that the specimen chosen to perpetuate the race in the Ark was rendered savage and dangerous from its long imprisonment there; but no legend that would give favour to either theory has come down to us.

In her wild state the cow is compelled to take considerable exercise in order to obtain a sufficient amount of sustenance; the domesticated animal, having no need to do so, has developed habits of laziness. She has become constitutionally averse to exertion; but Providence, by sending the fly, has done much to counteract the effects of this tendency. It has been calculated by mechanical engineers that the amount of energy required to switch away flies with a cow’s tail is equivalent to that which would raise a weight of seven pounds one foot. Intelligent observers estimate that upon a hot day when the flies are troublesome, a cow will switch her tail thirty times in the course of a minute, thus expending an amount of energy per hour sufficient, if otherwise employed, to lift nearly six tons’ weight one foot from the ground; so that, considering the number of cows in Great Britain, it is clear that an amount of power in comparison to which that of Niagara is as nothing is being wasted. The thoughtful agriculturist will surely perceive that as an expenditure of energy means loss of flesh and decreased production of milk, it would be to his interest to envelop his cattle in mosquito curtains during the summer months.

The cow is best seen in a state of repose. Either as lying down or standing in the shade of a tree, dreamily chewing the cud, and vaguely wondering whether beet or turnips will form the staple of her supper, there are few animals more taking to the eye. She can walk, too, without forfeiting our respect, but she is a lamentable spectacle when she runs. The poetry of motion does not exist in the case of the cow, and yet it is clear that she takes the greatest pains about her running, and puts her whole heart into it; personally, then, she is not to blame in that the result is, as an exhibition, a failure. The fault lies in nature rather than in the individual. In the course of the Darwinian process of transforming, let us say a mole into a cow, it was clearly in the creature’s mind that the day would come when she would be milked. Each of the countless generations required to bring her to her present form kept this contingency steadily in view, and practised kicking sideways. The result is, so far as the milkmaid is concerned, a superb success, and the cow is able to kick sideways in a manner that excites the envious admiration of the horse; but, as was to be expected, with the acquisition of the sideway motion the cow’s leg lost the power possessed so pre-eminently by the horse and mule of delivering a good, fair, square kick backwards; and even in running, what may be called the side action predominates over the fore and aft. Doubtless the cow knew her own business, and deliberately sacrificed gracefulness of action to the joy of being able to kick over a milkmaid. The lover of grace may regret that it should be so, but has no right to complain of the cow pleasing herself. The original mole probably foresaw that her far-off descendant would be a creature of few active enjoyments, and of a steady and tranquil nature, and considered that she was perfectly justified in making some sacrifice in order to enable the cow of the future to enjoy at least one piece of lively fun.

On the whole, however, the cow may fairly claim to be an eminently worthy and respectable animal, and to be of great importance to man. Some may feel inclined to say, of vital importance; but this may be disputed. It is due in a great degree to the attention that man has bestowed upon her that she has developed her capacity for putting on flesh, and her abnormal secretion of milk. Had man not found her ready to his hand, and foreseen her capacity in this direction, he might have turned his attention to the mastodon, which in that case would now be grazing in vast numbers among the woods planted for his sustenance, and would be affording mountains of flesh and tuns of milk, while mastodon butter might have been able to hold its own against margarine and other fatty compounds. The cow deserves great credit for developing herself into her wild type from some wandering germ or other, but for her progression to her present status she has to thank the care and attention she has received from man.