BLESSED BE THE PIG
My neighbor has many broad acres upon which he pays the taxes and over which I ride and walk—an admirable arrangement. He likes to pay taxes and I like to ride where the footing is soft and the paths are shaded. This is only one of the many advantages which I possess in having so amiable and excellent a man for a neighbor.
To be sure, his orbit is a bit more extended than mine, and we meet but seldom. He nevertheless adds enormously to my pleasure, for his manner of life is ornamental and leisured. He does things suavely and without hurry. His surroundings suit him admirably, and when he takes tea in the garden, dressed in spotless riding-togs, he is every inch the picture he thinks he is.
My somewhat covert admiration of his sartorial perfection has been a bit marred, however, by a suspicion that his life was not one of full-flavored and perfect rusticity. It seemed too perfect in detail, just a bit studied. A tumble-down stone wall separates my entire estate from one corner of his domain. It is not a well-preserved or suburban looking wall. I know it is my duty to repair it. I mean to sometime. Over this wall on rare occasions we hold conversation, and it was while thus engaged that I unwittingly discovered his secret. I had said something about pigs and, not wishing to appear superior or improperly proud of my worldly possessions, I inquired as to how his pigs “did”—pigs are one of the few animals who “do.” To my surprise, he told me that he did not keep pigs, not even a pig; in fact, he would not tolerate one on his place. Then I knew his secret, I realized the flaw in his pretentious rusticity.
I turned and walked sadly away. There are times when people reveal themselves so shamelessly and in such bland innocence of the awful revelations they make that the kindest thing you can do is to leave them in ignorance of their guilt.
Then a disquieting thought came to me: if Midas dislikes pigs so much, perhaps he dislikes mine, and wishes them removed. Perhaps he meant to go on and make the suggestion. It was well that I left him. I hastened my step lest he call me back.
Presently I found myself in earnest contemplation of the creatures held in so low esteem by my neighbor. I looked tenderly at them. I recognized the mood: it was the familiar one that is experienced when you hold in your hand a most unflattering report from your eldest’s preceptor, and the tiny culprit stands before you waiting the utterance of reprimand or sentence. This mood, by some strange twist in my mind, always prompts immoderate and boisterous laughter, which must be restrained in the family circle; but to-day I was safely out of hearing. My neighbor was taking tea by now in an ornate and inaccessible garden, and I found myself shaken with Homeric laughter as I leaned over the low wall and shared my merriment with two most astonished pigs.
Of course Midas would not keep a pig! I might have known it. Midas chops trees in a silk shirt. That in itself is not inherently base or sordid, but he grunts (it is not a pretty word, but he does) when his axe strikes the tree or log he is man-handling in an utterly inaccurate imitation of a real chopper with a real axe striking real blows. He fails to synchronize properly and betrays the amateur. I have even heard him describe a pack of hounds as “dogs”! I was not thinking pleasant thoughts of Midas. I did not try to; I knew I was through with him. Our wives might continue to exchange biennial calls, we might even exchange a word or two over the wall, but for all intents and purposes I knew I was through with Midas. How silly I had been—of course Midas would not keep a pig.
And what a pity! By one of those wise provisions of a benign Providence this crowning glory of rusticity is within the reach of the humblest, except those unfortunates who dwell in congested districts where a perverse public opinion has legislated against this highly useful animal. But then, no self-respecting person would live in such a place anyway.