A MONOLOGUE OF THE COW-PEN
By RUTH McENERY STUART
Umh! Fur Gord sake, des look at dem cows! All squez up together ‘g’ins’ dem bars in dat sof’ mud—des like I knowed dey gwine be—an’ me late at my milkin’! You Lady! Teck yo’ proud neck down f’om off dat heifer’s head! Back, I tell yer! Don’t tell me, Spot! Yas, I know she impose on you—yas she do. Reachin’ her monst’ous mouf clair over yo’ po’ little muley head. Move back, I say, Lady! Ef you so biggoty, why don’t you fool wid some o’ dem horn cows? You is a lady, eve’y inch of yer! You knows who to fool wid. You is de uppishes’ cow I ever see in all my life—puttin’ on so much style—an’ yo’ milk so po’ an’ blue, I could purty nigh blue my starch clo’es wid it. Look out dar, Peggy, how you squeeze ‘g’ins’ Lady! She ain’ gwine teck none o’ yo’ foolishness. Peggy ain’t got a speck o’ manners! Lady b’longs ter de cream o’ s’ciety, I have yer know,—an’ bless Gord, I b’lieve dat’s all de cream dey is about her. Hyah! fur Gord’s sake lis’n at me, passin’ a joke on Lady!
I does love to pleg dem cows—dey teck it so good-natured. Heap o’ us ‘omans mought teck lessons in Christianity f’om a cow—de way she stan’ so still an’ des look mild-eyed an’ chaw ‘er cud when anybody sass ‘er. Dey’d be a heap less fam’ly quar’lin on dis plantation ef de ‘omans had cuds ter chaw—dat is ef dey’d be satisfied ter chaw dey own. But ef dey was ter have ‘em ‘twouldn’t be no time befo’ dey’d be cud fights eve’y day in de week, eve’y one thinkin’ de nex’ one had a sweeter moufful ‘n what she had. Reckon we got ‘nough ter go to law ‘bout, widout cuds—ain’t we Lady? Don’t start pawin’ de groun’ now, des caze yer heah me speculatin’ at yo’ feed-trough. I kin talk an’ work too. I ain’t like you—nuver do n’air one.
I ain’t gwine pay no ‘tention ter none o’ y’ all no mo’ now tell I git yo’ supper ready. Po’ little Brindle! Stan’ so still, an’ ain’t say a word. I’m a-fixin’ yo’ feed now, honey—yas, I is! I allus mixes yo’s fust, caze I know you nuver gits in till de las’ one an’ some o’ de rest o’ de greedies mos’ gin’ally eats it up fo’ you gits it.
She’s a Scriptu’al cow, Brindle is—she so meek.
Yas, I sho’ does love Brindle. Any cow dat kin walk in so ‘umble, after all de res’ git done, an’ pick up a little scrap o’ leavin’s out’n de trough de way she do—an’ turn it eve’y bit into good yaller butter—dat what I calls a cow! Co’se I know Lady’ll git in here ahead o’ yer, honey, an’ eat all dis mash I’m a-mixin’ so good fur you. It do do me good to see ‘er do it, too. I sho’ does love Lady—de way ‘er manners sets on ‘er. She don’t count much at de churn—an’ she ain’t got no conscience—an’ no cha’acter—but she’s a lady! Dat’s huccome I puts up wid ‘er. Yas, I’m a-talkin’ ‘bout you, Lady, an’ I’m a-lookin’ at yer, too, rahin’ yo’ head up so circumstantial. But you meets my eye like a lady! You ain’t shame-faced, is yer! You too well riz—you is. You know dat I know dat yo’ po’ measly sky-colored milk sours up into mighty fine clabber ter feed yo’ng tukkeys wid—you an’ me, we knows dat, don’t we?
Hyah! Dar, now, we done turned de joke on all you yaller-creamers—ain’t we, Lady?
Lordy! I wonder fo’ gracious ef Lady nod her head to me accidental!
Is you ‘spondin’ ter me, Lady? Tell de trufe, I spec’s Lady ter twis’ up ‘er tongue an’ talk some day—she work ‘er mouf so knowin’!
Dis heah cotton-seed ought ter be tooken out’n her trough, by rights. Ef I could feed her on bran an’ good warm slops a while, de churn would purty soon ‘spute her rights wid de tukkeys!
A high-toned cow, proud as Lady is, ought ter reach white-folk’s table somehow-ma-ruther. But you gits dar all the same, don’t yer Lady? You gits dar in tukkey-meat ef dey don’t reco’nize yer!
Well! I’m done mixin’ now an’ I turns my back on de trough—an’ advance ter de bars. Lordy, how purty dem cows does look—wid dat low sun ‘g’ins’ dey backs! So patient an’ yit so onpatient.
Back, now, till I teck out dese rails!
Soh, now! Easy, Spot! Easy, Lady! I does love ter let down dese bars wid de sun in my eyes. I loves it mos’ as good as I loves ter milk.
Down she goes!
Step up quick, now, Brindle, an’ git yo’ place.
Lord have mussy! Des look how Brindle meck way fur Lady! I know’d Lady’d git dar fust! I know’d it!
An’ dat’s huccome I mixed dat feed so purtic’lar.
I does love Lady!