On being released the cow lay down again in the grass and resumed its interrupted cud. As the evening had grown chill the Thin Woman and the children huddled close to the warm animal. They drew pieces of cake from their wallets, and ate these and drank happily from the vessel of milk. Now and then the cow looked benignantly over its shoulder bidding them a welcome to its hospitable flanks. It had a mild, motherly eye, and it was very fond of children. The youngsters continually deserted their meal in order to put their arms about the cow’s neck to thank and praise her for her goodness, and to draw each other’s attention to various excellences in its appearance. “Cow,” said Brigid Beg in an ecstasy, “I love you.” “So do I,” said Seumas. “Do you notice the kind of eyes it has?” “Why does a cow have horns?” said Brigid. So they asked the cow that question, but it only smiled and said nothing. “If a cow talked to you,” said Brigid, “what would it say?” “Let us be cows,” replied Seumas, “and then, maybe, we will find out.” So they became cows and ate a few blades of grass, but they found that when they were cows they did not want to say anything but “moo,” and they decided that cows did not want to say anything more than that either, and they became interested in the reflection that, perhaps, nothing else was worth saying. A long, thin, yellow-coloured fly was going in that direction on a journey, and he stopped to rest himself on the cow’s nose. “You are welcome,” said the cow. “It’s a great night for travelling,” said the fly, “but one gets tired alone. Have you seen any of my people about?” “No,” replied the cow, “no one but beetles to-night, and they seldom stop for a talk. You’ve rather a good kind of life, I suppose, flying about and enjoying yourself.” “We all have our troubles,” said the fly in a melancholy voice, and he commenced to clean his right wing with his leg. “Does any one ever lie against your back the way these people are lying against mine, or do they steal your milk?” “There are too many spiders about,” said the fly. “No corner is safe from them; they squat in the grass and pounce on you. I’ve got a twist, my eye trying to watch them. They are ugly, voracious people without manners or neighbourliness, terrible, terrible creatures.” “I have seen them,” said the cow, “but they never done me any harm. Move up a little bit please, I want to lick my nose: it’s queer how itchy my nose gets”—the fly moved up a bit. “If,” the cow continued, “you had stayed there, and if my tongue had hit you, I don’t suppose you would ever have recovered.” “Your tongue couldn’t have hit me,” said the by. “I move very quickly you know.” Hereupon the cow slily whacked her tongue across her nose. She did not see the fly move, but it was hovering safely half an inch over her nose. “You see,” said the fly.