All the signs seem to be right for doing a bulletin on the farm live stock. During the past week three correspondents have asked me about Sheppy and old Fenceviewer, and last night at milking time the whole aggregation forced themselves on my attention. It happened this way: In the afternoon two little pigs that are taking the rest cure and fattening for winter pork, managed to break out of their pen in the orchard and raid the shed where the chop feed and skim-milk are kept. As no one had time to fix their pen they were put in the cow-stable for safe keeping. That started the whole chain of circumstances. When it came milking time we couldn't put in the cows because of the pigs. We had to milk in the field. While the milking was in progress the colts came galloping up to nose around for salt and they scared the cows. I started to throw clods and sticks at the colts to drive them away, and that started the turkey gobbler swearing at me. By the time I got the colts scattered and the cows gathered again I found that a titled cat was helping himself from the pail of milk that I had incautiously placed on the ground. Just because there was a nail loose in the pigpen I got in trouble with all the live stock. Hence this article. I have a feeling that there is a moral connected with that—let me see. Isn't there an improving tale about the horseshoe nail that was lost which caused the horseshoe to be lost, which caused the horse to be lost, which caused the man to be lost, etc.? Anyway, I didn't stop to puzzle out the moral. I simply kicked the cat in the wishbone and resumed the task of milking a fly-bitten cow with an active tail. In the humour I was in she was mighty lucky that I didn't kick her, too.

I don't like to accuse cows of being interested in politics, but they are acting very much like it. For the past week they have been doing a lot of bawling, both by day and by night, and I can't for the life of me make out what they are bawling about. That sounds as if they were indulging in political discussions, doesn't it? Besides, one day last week Fenceviewer II. bolted the convention. Word was brought to the house that she was missing from the pasture field. As I was busy at something else I sent the two littlest boys to hunt for her. Not being versed in the guile of cows and being full of youthful pity they went to the well in the woods to see, if by any chance, she had fallen in. When I got through with my chore I joined the hunt, but I didn't go to look in the well. No, indeed. I headed straight for the oat field. I didn't know how she could get in, but as the oat field was the nearest point where she could get into mischief I knew she would be there. And I was not disappointed. As soon as I reached the field I saw her horns and the red line of her back above the waving heads. A hurried investigation showed that she had entered by the Government drain. The last time the drain had been flooded a lot of grass got caught on the barbed wires that served as a water fence, and not only covered the barbs, but weighed down the wires so that she could step through. Calling the boys to help me, we drove her out and fixed the fence. Now, wouldn't you regard the action of that cow as having a political colouring? She left the others to get into a place where the pasture was better—a customary political move. But I hope the cows do not become too political, for I have noticed that political leaders are so confused that they no longer favour us with illuminating interviews, and I am afraid that if the cows get too much mixed up they will not give down either.

Of course, I may be wrong in accusing the turkey gobbler of cursing, but I do not think so. No matter what language man uses, if he speaks as earnestly as that gobbler and in the same tone of voice, it is perfectly safe for a policeman to run him in on a charge of using "profane and abusive language," and the court interpreter will show that he was right. Moreover, the gobbler has had family troubles to try his temper this summer. Two flocks of his children were raised by hens, and in spite of his strutting and blandishments they refuse to have anything to do with him. Instead they obey the clucking of the mother hen, and "tweet" disdainfully at their haughty sire. In addition, his lawful spouse doesn't seem to care to have him around while she is looking after her flock. She is apparently a suffragette and quite competent to look after her own affairs. Even when a thunderstorm comes up the youngsters do not turn to the old man for protection. That led to a rather pathetic picture a short time ago. A sudden storm roused the paternal instinct in the old fellow. Taking his place near the little flock he spread out his tail and ample wings so that they touched the ground and offered an excellent shelter, but the ungrateful creatures refused to notice him. No wonder his temper seems to have gone bad. He is forced to flock by himself and the lonely life leads him to brood on his wrongs. Since the beginning of the hay harvest he has roosted on the front ladder of the hayrack, and when either man or beast has passed him he has gobbled viciously and "cursed them by their gods." If there is any truth in the old saying that curses, like chickens, come home to roost, that turkey will have a terrible time of it if the curses he has uttered this summer ever decide to hold an old home week. Though he is a big bird, only a small percentage of them will be able to find a roosting place.

Even though Sheppy did not figure in the rumpus when I was chasing away the colts that scared the cows and led to my kicking the titled cat, he was in the offing, with his tongue hanging out. He had done his work of bringing the cows to the pasture gate, and was in a position to watch the disturbance with the air of one who had done his work properly and did not need to concern himself with vulgar rows. At the present time Sheppy lacks something of his customary steam owing to a rather serious blood-letting. One afternoon he came to the door with blood dripping freely from the end of his tail. I thought he would be competent to look after his wounds, but I was mistaken. When next I looked at him the blood was still flowing freely. On catching him I found that he had somehow severed an artery in his tail, and I had to improvise a tourniquet to stop the flow. Everything was satisfactory until next day, when the tight cord seemed to hurt him. He worried it off with his teeth, and the blood started to spurt again. After I had bound up his wound again I started to investigate to find out how the accident occurred. Happening to remember that the mowing machine was standing in the barnyard, with the mowing-bar in the air, I examined it. Between a guard and a blade of the knife I found a bunch of Sheppy's hair. Evidently when passing the mower he had wagged an affable tail against the knife and it had got caught. In getting away he almost clipped a couple of inches off the end of his tail. He hasn't seemed so spunky since losing so much blood, but if there is anything in ancient medical lore, he probably stands the heat better.