6 ROBERT DAWSON.

_ milk for our berries, butter fot our bread, to say nothing
of occasional cheeses made by my mother in an anti-
quated cheese-press, an heirloom of her family. Next
to Cuff, the cow might have been called the pet, at
least in the esteem of ‘Jane,. Mary, and myself.

a4 And who is going to drive the cow to pashire
father?” I-asked, as he put her into ine yard on the
first evening after her arrival.

“You, my son ;” and: his answer imparted to me a,
new sense of responsibility : and for some tiie this
duty was discharged with great alacrity. The weather *
was fine, ‘our cow” was still a novelty, and above all,
my friend, Charley Frazier, had his cow to drive a
mile in the same direction. One difference in our
cow-driving duties soon became manifest, and it was
not long before it sorely afflicted me. Charley only
_ drove his cow in pleasant weather, while I had to drive
mine in all weathers, just as it happened, rain or shine.
Now Charley was a stout boy, and nearly two years
older than myself, and I did not see any reason why.

he should not drive his cow when I could mine. No: