“Caleb, he’s a queer man,” Rowena had said. She was seen churning the cream in a rocking churn, her moist hands soft on the handle as she tilted it forward and back. She worked on the stone-paved terrace at the back of the house, in the north shade of the early morning, not far from the milk house where the cream was kept. Often Lester Weakley came to speak to her there, looking into her soft face. She was moist and fresh, was but more of the sweet butter she churned, garnered fat become flesh. “Caleb, he’s queer. I don’t know another like Caleb.” “Well, I’ll tell you about Caleb,” West had said as he passed, stopping a little on the stones to talk. “I’ll tell you how he is. He don’t make clear much money, maybe, but he makes mighty good Shorthorns, mighty good.” “In his talk he’s queer,” Rowena said. “He says out loud anything that might come into his head. He says out all those little things that come in your head, things you never heard about, or heard anybody speak about, or never read about in a book.” “He raises mighty good Shorthorn cows, now,” the other said. “I don’t know anybody raises better. In debt, he is, they say, and it’s true, and he may go broke yet. Makes no mint of money, but by golly he makes mighty good cows.” “It’s not because he’s got book-sense, either,” Rowena said, following her own. “Old Mr. Tumey, he’s got book-sense, and he’s not a thing on earth like Caleb Burns. Caleb, it seems like he says out all those little things that come in head, that you wouldn’t think to say. That nobody else says. That lay in your mind, you might say. He’s queer like that. I never saw another like him. You’re bound to give in he’s queer. But I reckon he does raise right good stock.” To the small gallery, the voices. Fine milk and beef cattle, that they are. Three times a day we milk. Twice a day for us is enough.... Oh, tirra-lirra, joy come thither.... Betty Hawthorne, 17,768.6 pounds of milk in a twelve months and out of it 581.4 pounds of butter fat. How about Queen?... 16,990-and-over pounds of milk, or Mollie, 14,000 pounds and over.... Or Princess.... Betty Hawthorne and Princess carry the blood of Julia 16, and so does Good Boy 11, and there never was a better transmitten sire than Good Boy.... Their names all written in the Shorthorn Herd Book, registered cows.... Pure-bred Shorthorns are a good stock, as fine as there is, I reckon. We ship the cream and let the calves and pigs take up the skim.... Did you notice the papers today? What’s the quotation?... I always keep the run of the market.... I could almost tell you her registered number, Betty Hawthorne’s, three six six five eight nine something, I forget the exact figures. Or Mollie.... My aim is to people the pasture with good cows.... Her name written in the Shorthorn Book of Herds.... Or there’s Prudence. I expect you’ll get big figures out of Prudence.... When she comes to the milken age. Second calf of Mollie’s. Mollie’s first was a bull and we butchered it.