trust.

Have you a cow? People who live in cities very seldom indeed have one; but in the country, many, who are not rich, contrive to keep one; and a more gentle, quiet, patient animal is not to be found. Jack’s mother was a poor Irishwoman, but she had two cows, and sold their milk to support her family. I have often met her, stepping so stately and steadily, because she had a brim-full pail of milk balanced on her head, and never even put up her hand to support it. Jack was very fond of his mother; and next after his parents, brother, and sisters, he certainly loved the cows. It was his business, when quite a little fellow, to serve up to them the pail of hot potatoes in winter; and many a walk he took to the green fields where they pastured in summer, to see that all was safe and right about them. Three years after his leaving home, we also kept a cow; and Jack insisted on having the care of it, and milking it himself. It was quite a lesson to see how kind and thoughtful the dumb boy was about the poor cow: and what a happy life she led under his management might be easily known by her being always good-tempered and fearless. Often, when standing on the lawn, feeding my chickens, I have been surprised by finding her gently rubbing her horns against my shoulder, and asking to be petted, as every animal will ask when encouraged. She gave a great deal more milk than any one expected—for kind usage is a wonderful help in making any creature thrive; and I never shall forget the joyful looks of Jack, when, one morning, he came jumping and skipping to me, spelling as fast as he could, “Cow baby—cow baby.” He did not know the right name for a calf, and our cow had a very pretty one, born in the night.

Then Jack’s sweet disposition showed itself farther in the care that he took not to distress the poor creatures more than was necessary. He did not ill-use the cow for being unwilling to leave her young one, and very eager to return to it again; nor did he frighten or hurt the tender little calf for crying and struggling to get to its mother. In all these things there is opportunity for being merciful and kind: and because Satan knows that the Lord hates cruelty, and will punish those who afflict his helpless creatures, there he chooses these occasions to tempt people into the wanton wickedness of offending the Most High by the abuse of such power as he has intrusted them with. Jack knew it. I have seen the colour rise to his face, with the effort that he made to overcome the impatience that was provoked by the eagerness of the animals to break through the fence which separated them; but he did overcome it, and said with a smile, “Poor baby cow! Jack not hurt—no; God see!” Ah, it is a happy and a blessed thing to be able to rejoice that God sees us! Less than three years after that, Jack was called to appear before the Lord; and I am sure the recollection of having purposely given pain to others never disturbed the quietness of his death-bed. He felt the blessedness of having been merciful. For my own part, I never can see a man or boy driving cattle with sticks and goads; torturing the poor creatures for being tired, and lame, and thirsty, and faint; and cruelly punishing them for wishing to rest, or do drink, or to crop the green grass; or for being confused and frightened in the noisy, crowded streets of a city, after the quiet country places that they were reared in; I say, I never see such things without a feeling of horror and dread: for the Lord God will surely call to a terrible account those who act as if there were no just, holy, and merciful Creator, to hear the cry of his tormented creatures, and to prove before men and angels that they did not cry to him in vain.

The next animal that I shall talk to you about is the sheep. People call them “silly sheep,” because they are so easily frightened, and show very little sense of judgment when running away. This is owing to their being driven about. We seem to think it right to make every creature afraid of us, and by that means we weaken their faculties; or, to speak in common words, we frighten them out of their wits. In eastern countries it is quite different. There the flocks are not driven, but led. You will remember that beautiful description in the tenth chapter of John, where our blessed Lord Jesus Christ compares himself to a shepherd, and his people to sheep. It is now above eighteen hundred years since He spoke those words; but travellers tell us that it is exactly the same at this day. Speaking of the shepherd, our Lord says, “The sheep hear his voice: and he calleth his own sheep by name, and leadeth them out. And when he putteth forth his own sheep, he goeth before them, and the sheep follow him: for they know his voice. And a stranger will they not follow, but will flee from him: for they know not the voice of strangers.” Only fancy what a different sight it must be from what we often witness! Instead of a poor, frightened, agitated crowd of panting creatures, running here and there, with perhaps a man or boy shouting after them, outspreading his arms to increase their terror, and a rough dog jumping and barking among them, to see a quiet-looking, happy flock walking after their shepherd, pressing forward to get near him, and each coming readily when called by its name. Of course, not being taught to run away from man, they are not flurried and thrown into confusion so easily as ours are. But sheep are always timid, weak, defenceless creatures, and therefore the Lord often speaks of his disciples as sheep; because we are all as little able to protest ourselves from our enemy, Satan, as a flock of sheep is to defend itself from a wolf, or a lion; and he would have us keep close to him for protection as the eastern sheep do to their careful shepherd.

There is nothing to prevent our sheep from being as manageable as any others. I once had a lamb given to me, because its mother could not nurse it; and I kept it in some nice hay in a large basket, and fed it with warm milk from the spout of a teapot. As it gained strength, I let it run about the house, and it was a droll sight to see the big lamb come bouncing and scampering into a room full of company, hunting the cat about, leaping over chairs, and playing just like a frolicsome kitten. If I walked out, it would, like the eastern sheep, follow me. I have taken it for miles along the public road, and never saw it appear frightened. It was stolen and killed before it became quite a sheep; but I have no doubt it would have continued as tame, and as bold, and as happy. If you look into the faces of a flock of sheep, you will see a great variety of countenances among them, and some are very intelligent. There is a field near me, where I often go to walk; and a number of young sheep in it have taken such a fancy to Bronti, that when he stands still they will come almost close to him, the ram foremost, as if wishing to play with him; but if he goes towards them, off they trot, poor things, to the other end of the field.

Not long ago, I saw something that made me quite unhappy; and indeed it was one reason for my writing this little book. A boy was driving a few sheep, and he got them into a corner, on some very high ground, from which they could not possibly get away without jumping down where they must have broken their necks, or limbs. Then this bad boy called another, and they both took up large stones that were lying about the road, and threw them at the innocent sheep—or rather lambs, for they were not full grown. I saw them hit on their heads and eyes, and nearly mad with pain and terror. I never saw a more cruel thing: I thought Bronti would have