shoulder and read with me.

He was a yeoman born. I can just remember--when I was not three years
old and he was barely four--the fright our mother got from his fearless
familiarity with the beasts about the homestead. He and I were playing
on the grass-plat before the house when Dolly, an ill-tempered dun cow
we knew well by sight and name, got into the garden and drew near us. As
I sat on the grass--my head at no higher level than the buttercups in
the field beyond--Dolly loomed so large above me that I felt frightened
and began to cry. But Jem, only conscious that she had no business
there, picked up a stick nearly as big as himself, and trotted
indignantly to drive her out. Our mother caught sight of him from an
upper window, and knowing that the temper of the cow was not to be
trusted, she called wildly to Jem, "Come in, dear, quick! Come in!
Dolly's loose!"

"I drive her out!" was Master Jem's reply; and with his little straw
hat well on the back of his head, he waddled bravely up to the cow,
flourishing his stick. The process interested me, and I dried my tears
and encouraged my brother; but Dolly looked sourly at him, and began to
lower her horns.

"Shoo! shoo!" shouted Jem, waving his arms in farming-man fashion, and
belabouring Dolly's neck with the stick. "Shoo! shoo!"

Dolly planted her forefeet, and dipped her head for a push, but catching
another small whack on her face, and more authoritative "Shoos!" she
changed her mind, and swinging heavily round, trotted off towards the
field, followed by Jem, waving, shouting, and victorious. My mother got
out in time to help him to fasten the gate, which he was much too small