"But if I wanted you to, could n't you?"
"I don't see how I could if there are n't any to dig."
"But won't you go look—dig up a few hills—you can't tell until you look. You said you did n't leave the key outside in the door yesterday when we went to town, but you did. And as for a lot of pigs—"
"I don't want a lot of pigs," I protested.
"But you do, though. You want a lot of everything. Here you 've planted five hundred cabbages for winter just as if we were a sauerkraut factory—and the probabilities are we shall go to town this winter—"
"Go where!" I cried.
"And as for pigs, your head is as full of pigs as Deerfoot Farm or the Chicago stockyards—
Mullein Hill Sausages
Made of Little Pigs
that's really your dream"—spelling out the advertisement with pea-pods on the porch floor.
"Now, don't you think it best to save some things for your children,—this sausage business, say,—and you go on with your humble themes and books?"