Well, the letter was finished with this artful twist. It had the most brilliant and unexpected results. Not only was the schoolmaster profoundly grateful for having his attention drawn to the matter—and the pigsty really was better ever after—but he expressed his gratitude in the most effusive terms. And he and his whole family called, and we went to tea in a thunderstorm at the school-house, which apparently had been built the day before yesterday, for the plaster was so wet the whole place steamed, and Loki’s Grandmother caught the cold of her life.
RUMOURS OF THE PIG-FARM
It is a very singular thing that in Ireland, the Padrona’s native land, supposed, and with reason, to be very inferior in the matter of cleanliness, the pig should be so much better cared for. Never have we found the sweet airs of that beloved country impregnated with “bouquet de pigsty” as they are in every farm here. Of course most of the pigs in Ireland—nice, clean, intelligent, active creatures—roam cheerfully about the roads all day, and share the family domicile by night. But even on properties which own a separate habitation for the “gintleman that pays the rint” it is swept and garnished for him in a manner seldom seen over here.
In the particular region of Dorsetshire where Loki’s Great Aunt dwells there is quite a pretty house and grounds nearly always tenantless by reason of the pig-farm at the back. The farmer who kept the farm was amazed and indignant when one of the passenger tenants remonstrated with him and threatened him with the Sanitary Inspector. What if his pigs were noticeable? “Pigs ain’t pizen,” he said. I dare say, to him, by reason of associations with his bank account, they were sweeter than violets.
Personally we should never keep pigs for choice, no matter how interested we might be in farming. However we might insist on the spotless condition of their dwelling-place, however affectionately we might invite them to the frequent bath and rejoice at the clean pink of their skins, the horror of the moment of inevitable parting would always be before us.
A near relation of ours was the centre of a certain horrid little anecdote, likewise connected with pigs, that is nevertheless humorous enough. It happened in Dorset, in a picturesque manor-house, the walled gardens of which abut on a comely, prosperous farm. One April morning the air was rent with the agonizing clamours of protesting pigs; and she, whose tender heart suffered with the pain of every animal, was rent too with compassion.
“Oh, what,” she cried to her hostess, who was also her daughter, “what can Mr. Boyt be doing to the poor, poor pigs? Oh! Polly, I’m afraid he’s killing them!”
Polly was not at all sure in her own mind that this was not the case, but she was stout in asseverations to the contrary.
“Oh, dear no, darling; nobody ever kills pigs this time of year. They’re just cleaning out the sties, that’s all. You know what pigs are, darling.”