Old Wonder-Eyes, and Other Stories for Children

by L. K. Lippincott; Grace Greenwood

"Well, Mass' L——, which one's ye gwine for to choose for your'n?" said Horace, after I had sat there some minutes.

I looked at them all, except the little black one, again, and finally decided upon a pert, head-over-heels sort of a fellow, that was racing up and down the pen as furiously as though he had had a coal of fire fast to his tail, and was trying to run away from it. Every once in a while he would stop short, as if he had forgotten something, and suddenly remembered it—then he would look up at me in the most quizzical way imaginable, with his little impudent eyes, give a snort, a quick jerk of the head, and away again. He was as white as snow all over, except his tail and one ear, which were black. He seemed to understand that I was going to make a choice, and to be determined that I should choose him; and this frolicking and frisking were his ways of "showing his paces," I suppose; or else his funny little black tail was twisted up so tightly that he couldn't keep still.

Just as I was turning around to say to Horace that I chose that one, something, I did not know what, made me look down at the little black ugly one again. He was still looking up at me, with a sick, sad, hopeless, yet patient look, and at once it seemed to me that I heard that little voice again—heard it with the ears of my heart, as it were—"Choose him!"

I turned around to Horace, who seemed to be getting impatient at my taking so long to choose, and said very quietly, and somewhat sadly, perhaps, for I remember that my voice and the way I spoke seemed to astonish him as much as my choice—"I'd like to have that one for mine, Horace."

"What! Mass' L——! y'ain't gwine for to take dat ar little pigininny! Why he ain't o' no 'count, no how!—an' he look sick too—mebby he die. Let ole Horry choose for ye. I'd take de little feller wid de black tail and ear,"—pointing to the one I had fixed upon at first—"he's as peert as a jack-knife; and den, white's a mighty sight purtier color dan black—dat is, for pigs," added he, catching himself, for one of Horace's hobbies was the notion that black was "de best color in de world for folks."

But all Horace said about the little pig looking sick, and that "mebby he die," only made the little voice beg the more earnestly—"Take him! take him!" and I said to it, softly—"I will," and to Horace, aloud—

"Please let me take the little black one, Horace. I want to nurse him and make him well, like the others."

Horace looked a little displeased at what he thought was wilfulness in me, but said nothing more. He then took up the pail and poured the milk into the trough—my father being of the opinion that it was never too early to begin to feed pigs. At once the little fellows—all save mine, who lay still and alone, only turning his strangely sad eyes from me to the trough—made a furious rush towards it, crowding, squealing, and pushing like—so many little pigs as they were, and like nothing else in the world. Some plunged their heads into the milk, clear up to their eyes, which fairly twinkled and snapped with roguery, and one—the one with the black tail and ear, scrambled into the trough bodily, just as though he wanted to get more than the others, and thought he could absorb it with his legs and body, as well as take it in at his mouth; then, not satisfied with this, he went marching up and down the trough, treading on the snouts of his fellows, until they got angry, and rooted him out entirely.

I wanted to take mine up to the house and give him some warm milk and nurse him, but I saw that Horace was not much pleased with him, and I was afraid of renewing our quarrel by proposing it then.

More than a week passed, with my going down twice every day with Horace, to feed the funny, noisy little rascals, and staying there more than an hour sometimes, to watch them eat, and frolic about the pen. After the first day, I made so bold as to ask Horace to let me take some warm milk in a little old pan, for mine. He consented, and would even get over into the pen and hand him out to me, while I put him down on the ground, in the sunshine, and scratched his back and head while he ate, until he grew to know me, and Horace grew to like him and to be as anxious about him and as tender toward him as I was.