"What ails her! why, she's got the lung disease."

"But what it is that? said I.

"What's that! why, it's what kills lots of cows; takes 'em off in two
or three days. You must sell her for what she'll fetch. Perhaps you
may get $10 for her. I'll get rid of her for you."

"But," said H., "if she has the 'lung disease' you talk of, you tell
us she must die."

"Yes; she'll die, sure enough."

"Well, then, who will buy a cow that is sure to be dead to-morrow or
next day?"

"Oh, that's no concern of yours! _You_ get rid of her, that's all."

To this dictum we rather demurred, and resolved to send for a
cow-doctor, and see if she could be cured; if not, to take care she
was not converted after her death into "country sausages," for the
benefit of London consumers of those dainties. Our friendly counsellor
was very indignant at our perversity in not getting rid of a cow with
"the lung disease," and stumped out of the yard in a fit of virtuous
indignation. With proper treatment the cow soon got well.

We still had occasional trouble with our butter-making; sometimes it
would come in half an hour, sometimes we were hard at work with the
churn for two or three hours, and then the butter was invariably bad.