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Updated: June 26, 2025
The air was cold and bracing; sound carried far, and the musical chime of cowbells came from a distant bluff. There were not many cattle in the neighborhood, but the Government was trying to encourage stock-raising and had begun to build creameries. Helen meditatively studied her husband. Festing had been plowing since sunrise and looked tired.
Neither was it a dead morning. The far-off tinkle of cowbells reached him now and then, the cheery crow from one farm-yard to another, even children's voices calling, and at last a slow, sweet chime of churchbells. "They told me it was Christmas morning," he said, pulling off the old cap again. Yarrow's chin had sunk on his breast, as his eager eyes drank all this morning in.
There was another use made of empty jam-tins: they were tied to our barbed wire so that if any Turk tried to get through he would make a noise like the cowbells at milking-time. Talking about barbed wire, Johnny Turk played a huge joke on us on one occasion. The Turks had sneaked out and tied ropes to them and hauled them over to protect themselves.
Then among the grassy paths, under the oaks, it was easy to find the little stone that bore Josephine's name. It was an April day, but far more like June. There was a wonderful silence in the air that set in crystal the liquid notes of the lark, and carried for miles the softened click of cowbells, far up on the ridges.
For a few minutes there was a deep silence, intensified by the musical clash of cowbells in the distance, and then a measured, drumming sound rose softly from behind the trees. "Guess that's your friends," Leslie said to Jernyngham. "Jim's made pretty good time." The beat of hoofs grew nearer until the listeners could hear the rattle of wheels.
They arrive at the foot of Salt Trace just as the lively tinkling of cowbells, as well as their own appetites, and the setting sun, suggests supper time; and their chafed buttocks, more used to a swivel chair than a saddle, pleaded for the comfort of an altered position.
As we dipped down below the summit of the mountain, we stepped from under the snow-fog, as if it had been a great white, hanging nightcap. The air smelled like early winter, and was vibrant with the melody of cowbells. On snow-covered eminences near and far, dark, sentinel larches watched us, weeping slow tears from every naked spine.
He had no longer, it is true, the magnificent landscapes of his youth; the fields of maize, the steppes, dotted here and there with clumps of wild roses; the Carpathian pines, with their sombre murmur; and all the evening sounds which had been his infancy's lullaby; the cowbells, melancholy and indistinct; the snapping of the great whips of the czikos; the mounted shepherds, with their hussar jackets, crossing the plains where grew the plants peculiar to the country; and the broad horizons with the enormous arms of the windmills outlined against the golden sunset.
Very far away the first cowbells chimed; and, over the dark heights, we saw the thin, sinking moon, looking like the white horns of some devotional beast watching and waiting up there for the god of light.
There is a gentle tinkling of cowbells on the Ohio shore, and on both are human voices confused by distance. All pervading is the deep, sullen roar of a great wing-dam, a half mile or so down-stream. The camp is gypsy-like. Our washing lies spread on bushes, where it will catch the first peep of morning sun.
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