Going after the cows was a serious thing in my day. I had to climb ahill, which was covered with wild strawberries in the season. Couldany child pass by those ripe berries? And then in the fragrant hillpasture there were beds of wintergreen with red berries, tufts ofcolumbine, roots of sassafras to be dug, and dozens of things good toeat or to smell, that I could not resist. It occasionally even lay inmy way to climb a tree to look for a crow's nest, or to swing in thetop, and to try if I could look at the steeple of the village church. Itbecame very important occasionally for me to look at that steeple; and inthe midst of my investigations the tin horn would blow a great blastfrom the farmhouse, which would send a cold chill down my back in thehottest days. I knew what it meant. It had a frightfully impatientquaver in it, not at all like the sweet note that called us to dinnerfrom the hay-field. It exclaimed, "Why on earth does n't that child comehome? It is almost unlit, and the cows ain't watered!" And that wasthe time the cows had to start into a brisk pace and make up for losttime. I wonder if any child ever drove the cows home late, who did notsay that the cows were at the very farther end of the pasture, andthat "0ld Brindle" was hidden in the woods, and he couldn't find herfor ever so long! The brindle cow is the child's scapegoat, many atime.