with horses. I am sure father's horse knows more than some men, and feels more, too. When I go into the stable, he turns his head and gives me a look that all but says, 'How d'ye do, Will?' and he will lay his head against me just as our baby does; that must be feeling, John: he don't do so to a stranger. He knows, as well as I do, the places he is in the habit of stopping at; and if you could see how impatient he is to get home to his stable at night, you would own he had hope or expectation, and there must be thought for that—thought of the rest and food that's coming. I don't know the truth of what Mr. Barlow says, about the superior intelligence of horses in Asia, where they are treated like companions and friends; but I believe it, for, as far as I have seen, whatever thinks and feels is the better for being well treated."
"That's true, I believe, William," said Sam M'Elroy; "Mr. Birt has a little heifer among his cows that is the crossest, soarlingest thing you ever saw: not one of the boys or men either can milk her, but she'll stand as patient as a lamb to Nannie Smith. I told you. about Nannie: she is the girl that is so kind to everybody; and she always speaks softly to the heifer, and pats her, and strokes her, and the men kick her and beat her."
"Well, then, Sam," resumed John Miner, "I suppose you think cows have feelings?"
"Cows have feelings!—to be sure I do. You should see a cow meet her calf after they have been apart a day; and you should hear her moanings when the calf is taken away from her. Ah," added the poor boy, sighing, as some painful recollections pressed on him, "cows have a great deal more feeling than some mothers."
