Softly, softly, the milk flowed from the taut tapering teats into its own white upward-heaving froth. It flowed from the two front teats, two white columns shooting, crossing and descending with a soft swirling movement through the billowing froth. There is no soft cadence as soothing as its sound, no scent as pure as its warm smell, cow smell, milk smell, blood smell, mingling with the thousand soft smells of a summer evening.
KeywordsBlack Hair Gentle Pressure Great Thing Sunday Evening Collect Story
Unable to display preview. Download preview PDF.