It was the cow that woke me the first morning.  I did not know it was our cow—not at the time.  I didn’t know we had a cow.  I looked at my watch; it was half-past two.  I thought maybe she would go to sleep again, but her idea was that the day had begun.  I went to the window, the moon was at the full.  She was standing¹ by the gate, her head inside the garden; I took it her anxiety was lest we might miss any of it.  Her neck was stretched out straight, her eyes towards the sky; which gave to her the appearance of a long-eared alligator².  I have never had much to do with cows.  I don’t know how you talk to them.  I told her to “be quiet,” and to “lie down”; and made pretence³ to throw a boot at her.  It seemed to cheer her, having an audience; she added half a dozen extra notes.  I never knew before a cow had so much in her.  There is a thing one sometimes meets with in the suburbs—or one used to; I do not know whether it is still extant, but when I was a boy it was quite common.  It has a hurdy-gurdy fixed⁴ to its waist and a drum strapped⁵ on behind, a row of pipes hanging from its face, and bells and clappers from most of its other joints⁶.  It plays them all at once, and smiles.  This cow reminded me of it—with organ effects added.  She didn’t smile; there was that to be said in her favour.