A collection of the Davis family papers contains surviving records of the farm’s operations. These documents include the farm’s finances, wills, records of investments and blueprints describing the construction of dairy barns in the 1930s. Some of the most striking documents in this collection are a series of cow registration forms. Not unlike modern vehicle registrations, these certificates of registry, showed that the cow was entered in the Holstein-Friesian book. The front of the certificates included sections to input the cow’s name, breeding facility, owner, birth date, parents’ names, and registration number. It also included a section for brief physical descriptions. The description of one cow, Stelaris, from 1893 reads: “stripe up right shldr over on left, patch on left hind qtr, spot on left side, spot on right hind qtr, left of brisket, belly flanks, legs except part of forearms, 2-3 tail, white.” The back of the certificate included two pre-outlined cows facing opposite directions. The owner was supposed to sketch the relative position of the cow’s spots on these diagrams. The features outlined both in the description and picture space of the certificates were the cow’s spots. During this time it was believed that a cow’s milking and breeding capacity corresponded with the placement of birth marks. Early on, we see how the features rendered most visible are those associated with productive capacities. These early breeding stages erected a mode of viewing the bodies of dairy cows.

In her essay, “The Animal Voice Behind the Animal Fable,” Naama Harel argues against reading the animals in such children’s books as “absent referents” or metaphors that do not point to any authentic behavior. While many aspects of the animal protagonist in a fable can be mapped onto human experience, Harel argues that there is a “differential gap” that prevents us from completely reducing the nonhuman condition to the human condition. This gap contains those surplus spaces that construct the animal beyond its mere function as a trope. The adult reader loses (or excludes) certain features in the transition of the animal protagonist to its interpretation as allegory. The insistence on an allegorical reading represses the more subtle ways in which animal subjects are displayed to children.

If we extract the political undertones of Click, Clack, Moo the story reads as a tale of a troubled farmer dealing with animals that are too smart for the farm. The story opens with Farmer Brown’s face and he emerges as our protagonist that “has a problem. His cows like to type” (Cronin 1). We hear the sounds of the typing and clicking echoed in the phrase Farmer Brown overhears: “Click, clack, moo. / Click, clack, moo. / Clickety, clack, moo” (Cronin 2)

The repetition of the onomatopoetic phrase click, clack, moo combines the sounds of the cow with the sounds of the typewriter, blending the antiquated image of the cow with an antiquated writing device. The title and plot of the story rearticulate the mechanistic view of cows by linking the robotic responses of the typewriter with the sounds of the cow. Indeed, the story repeatedly formulates the cows as machines. The moment the cows go on strike, they leave a note to Farmer Brown saying, “Sorry. / We’re closed. / No milk / today” (Cronin 8). The phrasing suggests that the cows, and not the barn, are contained factories or stores that open and close. It is not that the cows provide labor to the farmer. They are the very machines that produce raw goods. When the farmer rejects the cows’ request for blankets, he leaves them a note: “There will be no electric blankets. / You are cows and hens. / I demand milk and eggs” (Cronin 17). This statement makes a dual argument about the absurdity of cows desiring the luxury of warm blankets and the inherent feature of cows and hens to produce milk and eggs. Although Cronin groups hens in the category with cows, she does not make the essentialist argument for birds and eggs as strong as the association between cows and milk. Cronin’s use of the feminine noun hens shows dissociation between the entire species and egg laying. Conversely, the cows are not separated by gender, showing that milk production is an essential feature of their species.

In her insistence on a symbolic reading of Click, Clack, Moo, the adult reader may collapse the figures of cows onto labor workers entirely. This reading would disregard the precise way the animal subjects are portrayed to children. Although the book may teach children about social reform processes and farm life, it makes more prominent and urgent arguments about animal behavior. To the early child readers who have not yet built strong associations with cow symbols, the book works to unquestioningly regard them as milk producers. Learning to read (that is, to read as Jack’s anticipated adult reader) is about learning to re-read these symbols without the first associations.

Although the Cartesian view of animals has been dismissed by science, its ideological imprints leave indelible traces on many animal populations. In his article “Picture Book Animals: How Natural a History,” Leonard S. Marcus draws on Berger to attribute Descartes’ creation of the human-machine dualism as the moment when animals were pushed into the machine category and thereafter excluded from the human domain. This division from machines created nostalgia for the paradisal pre-industrial world (Marcus 129-130). Marcus writes, “As the innocence of childhood was asserted by Rousseau and others, childhood came to be sentimentalized. Adults, especially of the middle class, began to regard their own childhoods with nostalgic longing. Thus increasingly animals and children seemed natural companions for each other” (Marcus 129-130). Berger fittingly describes how both animals and children were used as machines in the first stages of the industrial revolution (Berger 13).

This mechanistic view of animals still resonates most profoundly with regards to dairy cows. The cow operates as a machine. Unlike meat animals, dairy cows are not raised for slaughter and consumption. Dairy cows are raised to perpetually pump milk. Instead of functioning as products in themselves, dairy cows have the mechanisms necessary to manufacture products. Each dairy mother is a self-contained bodily factory. This mechanistic view of cows develops itself in the slow-moving, expressionless depiction of cows in children’s literature.

Citing Rousseau, Berger makes a passing suggestion that the first metaphor was of an animal. He writes, “if the first metaphor was animal, it was because the essential relation between man and animal was metaphoric. Within that relation what the two terms—man and animal—shared in common revealed what differentiated them. And vice versa” (Berger 7). This tautological argument—Berger at once assumes and proves that the first metaphor was an animal—is weak, but it draws out an important feature of the psychological and social work of metaphors. Regardless of whether animals constituted the first known metaphors, the metaphoric transference of an animal into a situation that calls for a human sheds light on the usefulness of animals in understanding human characteristics. Metaphoric transference often works by including an object that is more familiar than the one intended. Perhaps his argument goes to the root of the language as inherently metaphoric. We can assume a distinction between those moments that position animals as metaphors in the structural or literary sense of “metaphor” and those other functionally metaphoric moments that more subtly codify animals. The notion of a metaphor needs to be complicated with the observation of how it’s impossible to escape the realms of metaphor within language. N. Katherine Hayles’ article “ ‘A Metaphor of God Knew How Many Parts’: The Engine that Drives The Crying of Lot 49,” describes the strict constructivist position as asserting that “whatever we can speak or know is always already a representation, not reality as such” (97). This idea of an original, authentic referent of metaphor is broken down when that loaded Marxist-Hegelian adverb “always already” positions any referent as necessarily conceived through the metaphoric symbol that is language.

Berger says that this capacity for symbolic thought is simultaneously what links and distances the human from the nonhuman. He writes,

“What distinguished man from animals was the human capacity for symbolic thought, the capacity which was inseparable from the development of language in which words were not mere signals, but signifiers of something other than themselves. Yet the first symbols were animals. What distinguished men from animals was born of their relationship with them” (Berger 9).

Within Berger’s liberal appropriation of Rousseau, learning animal symbols is a pivotal part of learning language itself. While we do not need to follow Berger or Rousseau’s assertion along historical lines to imagine a state of nature, we can follow this argument along the development of a child to see how animal symbols create the space in which children learn symbolic substitution.

The milking scene provides many such porous openings. At this point in the book, Bob and Betty have shed their pristine urban clothing. No longer wearing gold-button jackets, Betty is down to her dress and Bob a simple white shirt and slacks. They have transitioned from passive urban spectators to active rural participants. Bob is at eye-level with the farmer on his low-wooden stool, his body hunched forward as though he’s ready to take the place of the farmer. Betty, on the other hand, stands beside her brother with her shoulders pulled back and her hands tied up in front of her. Betty’s frame is positioned at the latitudinal level of the cows, which subtly aligns her with their position. The relative stances of Bob and Betty correspond with the gendered divide between male and female duties on the farm. While milking was formerly a task delegated to women, the late 1800s shifted that role. Milking was done by men, while churning was done by women. The reprinted version of The Farm Book revises the gendered language of the 1910 edition. Instead of the original line “Betty, like a little woman, learned to churn,” the reprinted book simply says, “Betty learned to churn.” While the words of the text were susceptible to revision with subsequent publications, the images remain unchanged. The picture of the stanchions and milking reveals several aspects of milk production that offend our modern sentiments.

Although not concerned primarily with questions of the nonhuman, contemporary feminist theorists follow a line of inquiry that grasps at an answer to these questions. Judith Butler’s inaugural text, Gender Trouble, interrogated the alliance between sex, gender, and sexual orientation. When Butler uses sex she refers to the anatomical features that have come to define male and female subjects. Butler draws on political feminist discourse to show how sex is often mistakenly viewed as a prelinguistic structure containing ontological truth. She draws on Wittig, Irigaray, and Beauvoir to show how this prelinguistic state is an impossibility. Since sex is only visible through the linguistic signifier that nominates it, the body cannot be conceived of prediscursively. The prelinguistic possibility of the body is irreparably lost at its moment of enunciation.

Gender, then, is the unifying principle by which these bodily spaces are organized. When Butler describes gender as “culturally constituted” (Butler, GT, 17) she argues that gender is the means by which bodily spaces are organized. This organizing principle attributes sex as the cause of gender and sexuality, suggesting a seamless transition of body and identity. To explain this point, Butler misappropriates the term “metaphysics of substance” from Nietzsche. This idea conflates “Being” with “Substance” in a way that assumes an ontological truth to material spaces. A subject is rendered coherent through the heterosexual matrix that assumes a causal link between sex, gender, and sexuality. A female body produces a woman subject who desires a man.

This cultural interpretation depends on the repeated performance of gender, which makes this interpretation appear natural. The material spaces of the body are imbued with cultural truth through the sedimented effect of iterated gender performances. Butler writes, “Gender is the repeated stylization of the body, a set of repeated acts within a highly rigid regulatory frame that congeal over time to produce the appearance of substance, of a natural sort of being” (Butler, GT, 33). Much has been written about the role children’s literature plays in the formation of subjectivity. The structuring process of the child is dependent on repetition—repetition of particular books, repetition of images, repetition of narrative associations. Countless contemporary children’s books, including Andy Cutbill’s The Cow That Laid an Egg, Doreen Cronin’s Click Clack Moo, and Phyllis Root’s Kiss The Cow, reiterate the bovine image as an illustrated subject. Butler’s theory of the performative is about internalizing a set of constraints such that the performance of gender, when done repeatedly, gives the subject a sense of its naturalness and makes it feel prediscursive. This notion of repetitive gender performance is critical for Butler, both in terms of how gender is constructed and how it can be subverted.

Gender is a necessary precondition to enter visibility within linguistic and social structures. Butler’s theory of the linguistic and social construction of gender is as concerned with the bodies that appear within the realm of possibility as she is with those that appear outside it—that is, those excluded spaces that constitute the necessary outside. In Bodies that Matter, often regarded as Butler’s revision and rearticulation of Gender Trouble, Butler argues that the “humanness” of “those abjected beings” who are not properly gendered comes into question (Butler, BTM, 9). She adds that it is “as important to think about how and to what end bodies are constructed” as it is to “think about how and to what end bodies are not constructed” (Butler, BTM, 16). The bodies that do not materialize “provide the necessary ‘outside,’ if not the necessary support, for the bodies which, in materializing the norm, qualify as bodies that matter” (Butler, BTM, 16). She says that this process of naming something “marks a boundary that includes and excludes, that decides, as it were, what will and will not be the stuff of the object to which we then refer” (Butler, BTM, 11). For Butler, this linguistic inscription has “some normative force, and indeed, some violence, for it can construct only through erasing” (Butler, BTM, 11). With the linguistic codification of animals, the body is erased as some symbolic ideal is extracted. The bodies of animals are specifically and deliberately not constructed. At the precise moment of enunciation, they are positioned as commodities—machines that emphasize the utility of their spaces. It is this principle of selectivity that produces their invisibility.

In her account of the rise of dairying, American History Professor Sally McMurry points to the early 1820s as that decade in which some of the most formative technological and ideological approaches to dairying emerged. Prior to this time, dairy production in the southern United States was the product of native free-roaming cows. As such, very little dairy was produced and little emphasis was placed on maximizing output. The “milk her for all she’s worth” idiom had not yet been added to the repertoire of metaphors that configure animals as machines. Soon a shift occurred wherein cattle were bought, sold, and bred with a new focus on productive capacities. As McMurry writes, “farmers employed a range of criteria for selecting milch cows. They judged according to elaborate, traditional notions about how a cow’s external features corresponded to her productive capabilities.” As the body of dairy cows became a site of economic concern, certain features were inscribed with excessive import. Among the features McMurry tracked that suggested a highly-productive cow were a large mouth, thick and strong lips, soft skin, temperament (docility and contentedness), wide-apart horns, thin heads, broad back, full breast, large udder, long teats, broach buttocks, and a long tail (McMurry 20-21). The cow’s body materialized with this conception of the features that mattered.

Soon, however, questions of productivity encouraged farmers to look for the way a cow’s physical characteristics affected milk output. During the tentative breeding period in which dairy farmers were trying to establish the precise physical characteristics that optimized breeding, several predominant ideologies seeped into the predictions. Many farmers imported contemporary notions of gender into their breeding taxonomies. As McMurry says, “The ideal milch cow, docile and contended, with her small head and large udder, reflected a larger pattern of thinking about female capability” and the Victorian-era theorists who posited an inverse relationship between the womb and the mind (McMurry 22).

Fittingly, dairy farms were sites that where labor was divided along gender lines. During the early 1800s, women were the primary milkers of cows. Many argued that women had soft, gentle hands that were better suited to milk than calloused male hands (McMurry 78). The practice of female milking drew upon the early British images of a sexualized milkmaid—“invariably robust, often physically large,” representing “fecundity and its accompaniment, lactation” (McMurry 77). This association between femininity and milking created an idyllic, romantic image in which milk extraction was associated with nature (McMurry 79).

Around 1860, the female habits of milking—unscheduled sessions on free-ranging cows—were replaced with more systemized processes. Correspondingly, milking entered the domain of man’s work and the metaphor surrounding the image of a cow shifted from a gendered to a mechanistic approach. McMurry writes,

By the 1860s the connections between female nurturance, lactation, and the milking of cows were replaced by suggestions on milking technique and procedure that increasingly showed a concern for discipline and system. This shift paralleled the rise of the notion of the cow as a machine: if cows were machines, then according to prevalent cultural canons they were properly men’s province. (McMurry 80)

The Farm Book simultaneously produces gender through the prism of its animals. The characteristics of a good dairy cow are aligned with the characteristics of a good milk churner. Femininity is produced as a structure that is as essential to the operations of a farm as the truck that transports the milk to the town. How is the early animality of the dairy cow a prism that established and fixed our current notions of gender identity? Further, how do our specific instantiations of anthropomorphism work to prop up gender roles? Does the insistence on gendered children and animals convey a sense of innate gender roles? Do both point to an ideal Roussean view of the state of nature with regard to gender?

William Blake's "Little Lamb"

The alliance between children, animals, and the pastoral as tropes of innocence is not a novel or culturally-specific association. What is interesting, however, is the way certain types of animals are evoked with strikingly different connotations. Domesticated farm animals retain an innocence that is lost with their wild counterparts. This distinction was epitomized and prodded and William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience, which frequently evoked the image of a lamb as a symbol of innocence, childhood, and purity. “Little Lamb” appropriates the symbolic weight of this lamb; Its plate contains a stereotypically pastoral scene.

As though an image straight out of Eden, this quaint world contains a naked child and little lambs frolicking under the protection of trees and vines. The lamb is an image of the untouched, unblemished countryside. The text of the song hints at the precise material features that make the lamb good, primarily its soft fur, bright color, and tender voice. The song begins with a creation question— “Little Lamb who made thee”—and ends with an answer the binds lambs to Christ and children:

“Little Lamb I’ll tell thee;
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb:
He is meek & he is mild,
He became a little child:
I am’ child & thou a lamb,
We are called by his name,”

These lines also show a reverse causality. It is not that god creates lambs and children to embody the Christ-like, virtuous characteristics of mildness and meekness. Instead, Christ becomes these things, imitating the behavior of children and lambs. This alternate creation story suggests that man must practice innocence. This song evokes an association between lambs, children, and Christ, simultaneously producing the innocence of the child and the lamb. Unlike the lamb, who is biologically and molecularly constituted to be meek and mild, the human must depart from his natural disposition to develop these qualities.

William Blake's "The Tyger"

“Little Lamb” is often read alongside “The Tyger,” its complementary piece in Songs of Experience. Like “Little Lamb,” the song is addressed to its main subject, the tiger. Unlike the little lamb, however, the tiger does not have a qualifying adjective. The address can only repeat his symbolic name like a mantra that gains force and momentum with repetition. The descriptive phrase, “Little Lamb,” stands in opposition to the repetitive chant of “Tyger Tyger.” The latter is almost accusatory. The tiger’s “fearful symmetry” is a peculiar phrase that draws attention both to the divine order of the tiger and to the questioned goodness of the tiger’s creator. The bright clothing of the lamb is revalued here. The coat of the tiger illuminates darkness, which should have a positive association with God’s performative speech act, “let there be light.” Instead, this illumination is described as “burning.” This song takes us out of the cool, pastoral domain of streams and valleys to the underworld of fire and destruction.

The difference between “The Tyger” and “The Lamb” represents the difference between the wild animal and the domesticated animal. In contrast to many tales of pastoral innocence that figure culture and civilization as the antithesis of innocence, the lamb-tiger distinction evokes symbols that point to domesticity as a feature of innocence.

“They welcomed the idea with pleasure, for this promised to be more exciting fun than watching the chickens. Off they scampered for the big barn. Here they climbed about in the hay, Reuben, being more used to it than Bob and Betty, boldly showing the way. Betty felt rather timid as the loose hay would slide with her down toward mysterious corners, and there were so many corners and dark holes in the barn. But as Bob and Rueben were doing the same and shouting gleefully, she soon enjoyed the fun. One after the other would triumphantly cry out as he found a nest. And occasionally a startled hen would rush off with a wild squawk of alarm.”

Alienated from her male counterparts, Betty’s fears of the “dark holes” and “mysterious corners” stand in opposition to the bold behavior of Bob and Reuben. The passage begins using the third-person plural pronoun that shows a uniform image of the children. As it progresses, it distinguishes them from one another, describing Reuben’s skills and Betty’s fear. When Betty overcomes her fear and “enjoyed the fun,” the passage does not work to include her in its image. Instead it employs the masculine singular noun to show that each would “cry out as he found a nest.” Despite Betty’s sense that she has reclaimed the masculinity of child play, the passage excludes her from the triumphs of the boys.

It is not coincidental that this fear emerges during a game that confronts the egg-laying hens. While the boys see possibility in the unexplored dark corners, Betty dreads the unknown. While we could push this symbolic image to explore its suggestions of genital spaces, the passage presents a possible identification of Betty with the female chickens. Her fear of the dark corners is emblematic of her fear of being in the place of the hens. Vulnerable to attack from the boys’ game, the hens are unaware of the transparency of their hiding places. In order to overcome her identification with the hen’s vulnerable position, Betty must become the aggressor. Betty overcomes her feminine timidity with childhood play.

Betty’s gender, in a sense, precedes her childhood; She must grow out of her feminine fear in childhood and back into it in adulthood. The book later shows another division between Bob and Betty when they are doing domestic chores. Smith writes, “Betty, like a little woman, learned to churn.” This eventual return to her feminine sphere of domestic work shows Betty’s growth out of childhood to the labor of adulthood.

Though Bob and Betty come into the farm with fascinated wonder, they are born into the blinded world of New York City. Following the book’s description of milk production and distribution, the book pans out to view the consumers:

“The next morning the milk would be in the great cities and towns, for sale at the grocery stores, and delivered at the doors. The milkman, before daybreak would get it from the cars and make his rounds, –to  the stores, where people through the day could come and buy, and also from house to house, leaving the bottles on the doorsteps, while inside little girls and boys were still fast asleep. When they did wake up and come to the table to have their breakfasts, they drank this nice fresh milk without ever knowing where it came from.”

In this passage, the sleeping children function as a point of identification for Smith’s child reader, who presumably has no knowledge of a farm’s operations. Though the book works to take these children behind the scenes of the farm, this moment points to them as culpably ignorant and still outside the experienced realm of Bob and Betty. The milk appears effortless and unmediated to the child, who does not know the labor and distance behind it. Like the child consuming Smith’s painstakingly-detailed pictures, which appear an unmediated image to the child, the milk consumer is alienated from the source and labor of the good.

One of the most striking details of The Farm Book is its frequent disjuncture between image and text. In one picture of a milking parlor, the picture contains a detail that is entirely overlooked in the text: a dairy calf. The image contains six dairy mothers in stanchions and a single tethered male calf looking at the milking. This detail is one of the most overlooked aspects of milk production; That is, in order to produce milk, the dairy cow must birth calves, from whom this milk is taken. This picture’s acknowledgment of the calf displays Smith’s acute awareness of the process and deliberate omission of it within the text. The book often illuminates in pictorial detail what it omits in words.

A recent New York Times article reported on the looming death of picture books, which have seen decreased sales as parents push their children to read text-heavy books at an earlier age. The article acknowledged that parents often overlook the critical thinking skills that develop when children are forced to create associations with images and bridge logical gaps from text to image. The Farm Book contains an instant of this, where the image forces a question that is unacknowledged by the text.