“Jerusalem, what is this!” bellowed a voice, and Joe Griffin leaped out from the midst of the burning pile; the brands rolled off the back of his woollen shirt, which was thoroughly singed, while a fox-skin cap he wore was scorched to a crisp, as was his hair; he ran round and round, as though he was mad, blowing his fingers (which where slightly burned), and slapping them on his thighs, while on his face was a mingled expression of pain, arising from the burn, and anger at being outwitted.
“Pig, pig, pig-e-e!” screamed Charlie, rattling the corn, and laughing as though he would split between every word.
“Shut up, you little brat!” cried Joe, flinging a pitch knot at him with a good will, that, if he had not dodged, would have broken his head.
Roused by the uproar, and smelling the smoke, the whole family ran to see what was the matter. They could not help laughing to see the figure Joe made dancing about, and blowing his fingers.
“What is the matter, Joe?” asked Ben.
“The pig has bit him,” cried Charlie. “O, I wish John was here.”
Joe ran off to the beach to cool his fingers.
“What in the world,” said Ben, “is the reason, that when all of us have always known what a mimic Joe is, that we couldn’t have thought it was him squealing, and making such fools of us. How did you know it was him, Charlie?”
“John told me; and I don’t believe he’ll try to be pig in the brush again.”
“Father,” said Ben, “do you know whether Uncle Isaac has been on any of the islands gunning?”