It was quite an ordinary-looking farm-yard and quite an ordinary-looking Cow, but she stared so earnestly up at Davy that he felt positively certain she had something to say to him. "Every creature I meet _does_ have something to say," he thought, as he felt about for the window-fastening, "and I should really like to hear a Cow"--and just at this moment the window suddenly flew open, and he pitched head-foremost out upon a pile of hay in the farm-yard, and rolled from it off upon the ground. As he sat up, feeling exceedingly foolish, he looked anxiously at the Cow, expecting to see her laughing at his misfortune, but she stood gazing at him with a very serious expression of countenance, solemnly chewing, and slowly swishing her tail from side to side. As Davy really didn't know how to begin a conversation with a Cow, he waited for her to speak first, and there was consequently a long pause. Presently the Cow said, in a melancholy, lowing tone of voice, "The old gray goose is dead." "I'm very sorry," said Davy, not knowing what else to say. "She is," said the Cow, positively, "and we've buried her in the vegetable garden. We thought gooseberries would come up, but they didn't. Nothing came up but feathers." "That's very curious," said Davy. "Curious, but comfortable," replied the Cow. "You see, it makes a feather-bed in the garden. The pig sleeps there, and calls it his quill pen. Now _I_ think that pigpens should be made of porcupine quills." "So do I," said Davy, laughing. "What else is there in the garden?" "Nothing but the bean-stalk," said the Cow. "You've heard of 'Jack and the Bean-stalk,' haven't you?" "Oh! yes, indeed!" said Davy, beginning to be very much interested. "I should like to see the bean-stalk." "You can't _see_ the beans talk," said the Cow, gravely. "You might _hear_ them talk; that is, if they had anything to say, and you listened long enough. By the way, that's the house that Jack built. Pretty, isn't it?" Davy turned and looked up at the house. It certainly was a very pretty house, built of bright red brick, with little gables, and dormer-windows in the roof, and with a trim little porch quite overgrown with climbing roses. Suddenly an idea struck him, and he exclaimed:-- "Then you must be the Cow with a crumpled horn!" "It's not crumpled," said the Cow, with great dignity. "There's a slight crimp in it, to be sure, but nothing that can properly be called a crump. Then the story was all wrong about my tossing the dog. It was the cat that ate the malt. He was a Maltese cat, and his name was Flipmegilder." "Did you toss _him_?" inquired Davy. "Certainly not," said the Cow, indignantly. "Who ever heard of a cow tossing a cat? The fact is, I've never had a fair chance to toss _anything_. As for the dog, Mother Hubbard never permitted any liberties to be taken with _him_." "I'd dearly love to see Mother Hubbard," said Davy, eagerly.