IN the cattle-pen at Hvalpsund Fair stood an old woman with her cow. She stood off a little to one side with her solitary cow, either because she was modest or because she wanted to attract more attention. She stood there so tranquilly, her head-dress drawn slightly down over her forehead on account of the sun, and knitted on a stocking which was already long enough to be turned back into a thick roll. She was dressed in a quaint, old-fashioned style, with a blue skirt that smelled in a home-like way of the dye-pot, and a brown knitted shawl crossed over her flat chest. The head-dress was faded and wrinkled after its long sojourn in the drawer; the wooden shoes were flat-bottomed, but she had polished them. In addition to the four needles she plied so swiftly with her worn hands, she had an extra one stuck in her gray hair. She stood with one ear toward the music which came from the booths, but she also looked now and again at the people and animals that traded and crowded beside her. All about her and coming from all directions were noises and confusion: the neighing from the horsestalls, the bustle of-boats on the beach, the crashing of drums and loud cries from the clowns; but she stood there in the sunshine, oh, so calmly, and knitted on her stocking.

By her side with its head near her elbow stood the cow, bored and stiff-legged, chewing its cud. It was an old cow, but a good one, with a healthy-looking coat of hair and a really noble bearing. It was, to be sure, somewhat knobby in the hindquarters and along the back-bone, but that was the worst that could be said about it; the udder bulged soft and hairy beneath its belly, and there were not too many rings on the pretty black and white horns. It stood with moist eyes, chewing for the second time its cud. The lower jaw moved steadily from left to right and when it had swallowed, it turned its head and looked about, again to stand with motionless jaws while the next ball of cud rose through the gullet and up into its mouth. The insides of it sang vibrantly, like the deep notes of an organ, each time it breathed, and it drooled contentedly at the mouth. It was a sound, healthy cow, which had experienced what can happen to cows, and arrived at years of discretion. It had given birth to calves without even seeing them or getting a chance to lick them, and had then consumed its fodder and given its milk in good faith. And now it chewed its cud here as willingly as anywhere else and swung its tail in stiff spirals at the flies. The tether hung carefully twined about one horn, for the cow did not care to play the vagabond or run loose. The yoke was old and smooth-worn, without either iron over the nose or inturned pegs, for this cow had really no need of such contrivances. It may be noted that it wore its new rope to-day, not the old thin worn one with which it usually grazed. Old Ann wished that she, that is to say the cow, should look her best.

Since it was a good cow and obviously ripe for slaughter, it was not long before a man came over, looked at it, and ran his fingers along the wellgroomed hide—a familiarity which the cow resented, but not enough to become vexed about.

“How much for the cow, granny?” asked the man, transferring his stern look from the cow to Ann. Ann kept on knitting.

“It is not for sale,” she replied. Then, as if to put a courteous period to the conversation, she dropped the needles out of one hand and with it wiped herself industriously under the nose. The man hesitated, but at length walked away; he seemed to find it difficult to take his eyes off the cow.

Not long thereafter a dapper and smooth-shaven butcher flicks his cane against the cow’s horns and lets his plump hand glide quickly over the smooth flesh.

“How much for the cow?”

Old Ann looks first at her cow, now piouslhy regarding the cane, then turns her head and appears to find something interesting to look at far off in the distance.

“It is not for sale.”

Done. Our cattle-dealer walks off in his blood-stained duster. But almost immediately afterwards there comes another man desirous of making a purchase. Old Ann shakes her head.

“The cow is not for sale.”

When she had in this manner turned away many men, of course she became known; they began to gossip about her. A man who had once before tried to buy the cow and had been refused now returned and made a bid that was more than tempting. Old Ann said “No” in a very firm voice, but she seemed to be worried.

“Is it sold, then?” asked the man.

No, it certainly was not sold.

“Yes, but why in all the world do you stand here, then, and parade the cow?”

Old Ann hung her head, but stubbornly kept on knitting.

“What? Why do you stand here with the cow?” asked the man, who now felt himself positively insulted. “Is it your own cow?”

Yes, it certainly was that. It certainly was Ann’s cow. She added that, really, she had had it since it was a calf; yes, really she had. If talk could appease the man, thought Ann, it should not be lacking. But he interrupted her.

“Do you stand here and make fun of people?”

Mercy! Ann is silent under this blow. She knits as if she were delirious. She knows not where to look, she is so bewildered. And the man, angrily, persists—

“T say, are you come to the Fair to make fun of people?”

It is then that Old Ann stops knitting. And as she loosens the tether from the cow’s horn in preparation for the homeward trip, she fastens her wide-open eyes beseechingly on the man.

“It is such a lonely cow,” she says, confidingly. “It is such a lonely cow! It is the only one I have on my little farm, and it so very seldom gets out among other cattle. And so I thought I’d bring her to the Fair, so that she could mingle with her own kind, and enjoy herself a bit; yes, really, that’s what I thought. And I meant well; it couldn’t do any harm to any one, and—and so it was that we came here. But we aren’t for sale, and so we may as well be on our way. And I’m sorry, I should have said. And good-bye… And thank you.”