been on a farm in her first youth, was to be the milkmaid. But when she began operations, she did no more than begin. Milk as industriously as she might, she got no milk.
“This is a queer cow,” said Pomona.
“Are you sure that you know how to milk?” asked Euphemia anxiously.
“Can I milk?” said Pomona. “Why, of course, ma'am. I've seen 'em milk hundreds of times.”
“But you never milked, yourself?” I remarked.
“No, sir, but I know just how it's done.”
That might be, but she couldn't do it, and at last we had to give up the matter in despair, and leave the poor cow until morning, when Pomona was to go for a man who occasionally worked on the place, and engage him to come and milk for us.
That night as we were going to bed I looked out of the window at the barn which contained the cow, and was astonished to see that there was a light inside of the building.
“What!” I exclaimed. “Can't we be left in peaceful possession of a cow for a single night?” And, taking my revolver, I hurried down-stairs and out-of-doors, forgetting my hat in my haste. Euphemia screamed after me to be careful and keep the pistol pointed away from me.
I whistled for the dog as I went out, but to my surprise he did not answer.
“Has he been killed?” I thought, and, for a moment, I wished that I was a large family of brothers—all armed.
But on my way to the barn I met a person approaching with a lantern and a dog. It was Pomona, and she had a milk-pail on her arm.
“See here, sir,” she said, “it's mor'n half full. I just made up my mind that I'd learn to milk—if it took me all night. I didn't go to bed at all, and I've been at the barn fur an hour. And there ain't no need of my goin' after no man in the mornin',” said she, hanging up the barn key on its nail.
I simply mention this circumstance to show what kind of a girl Pomona had grown to be.
We were all the time at work
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