She stood beside Miss Laura for a
long time, watching the calves, and laughing a great deal at their
awkward gambols. They wanted to play, but they did not seem to know how
to use their limbs.
They were lean calves, and Miss Laura asked her aunt why all the nice
milk they had taken had not made them fat. "The fat will come all in
good time," said Mrs. Wood. "A fat calf makes a poor cow, and a fat,
small calf isn't profitable to fit for sending to the butcher. It's
better to have a bony one and fatten it. If you come here next summer,
you'll see a fine show of young cattle, with fat sides, and big, open
horns, and a good coat of hair. Can you imagine," she went on,
indignantly, "that any one could be cruel enough to torture such a
harmless creature as a calf?"
"No, indeed," replied Miss Laura. "Who has been doing it?"
"Who has been doing it?" repeated Mrs. Wood, bitterly; "they are doing
it all the time. Do you know what makes the nice, white veal one gets in
big cities? The calves are bled to death. They linger for hours, and
moan their lives away. The first time I heard it, I was so angry that I
cried for a day, and made John promise that he'd never send another
animal of his to a big city to be killed.
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