I like to watch the cows in winter crunching the succulent, fragrant millet, or feeding upon clover hay, or eating their corn fodder. Sometimes snow gets mingled with it from the stacks. But how they love it! How they toss it, and put their noses down into the wisps and stalks, and slash the great corn leaves about! The milking is generally attended to while they eat, and that, too, is always an interesting process—that is, to outsiders. Swish, swosh! swish, swosh! swish, swosh! goes the milk into the buckets, in a kind of rough purring rhythm.
Around an Old Homestead: A Book of Memories
By Paul Griswold Huston