Finally, a pig is the only animal friend with whom I am able to part at an appropriate time without bitter grief and self-reproaches. It is not that I am not sincerely attached to him by the subtlest ties of kinship, but there seems to be only one logical finale of our life together. If the parting is delayed too long, the relationship loses something of its old-time zest, the flower is fading, and dull and apathetic habit replaces the first sweet fervor of fellowship. It is well to let the parting come in proper season without vain regrets. And even after the parting there is opportunity for affectionate remembrance. Your breakfast takes on a new and interesting significance. As the delicate morsel rests before you, you inhale its subtle aroma, you see the slender stripes of delicate color, and you wonder—you wonder—
The pig has a secure niche in the Temple of Letters. The gentle Elia has enshrined him for all time. But by a curious chance even Elia emphasized the gastronomic aspect of his fame without reference to his waggish quality. It is well that the benign Dr. Dolittle has placed before us his true picture in Gub-Gub, beloved of children.
And now, my friend, the fever of the day is over. The twilight hour has come with its suggestion of peace and contemplation. Come with me and we will rest awhile. Let me introduce you to a friend of mine, a person of importance in local financial and social circles. He will amuse you.
And when you reach that time in your life when you begin to suffer from the chronic irritability of the man over fifty, when you begin to get a bit queer, and quarrel with your neighbor simply because he wears expensive and becoming raiment, when you need a solace and an unfailing source of understanding fellowship, when you begin to feel the need of occasional soul-communings with Nature’s subtlest humorist and most perfect clown, apply to me; I will sell you a pig. And, having dined at your table, I know he will “do” well.
BLESSED BE THE HEN
BLESSED BE THE HEN
There dawns a day when the big rock to the south of the stable looms black against the shrinking snowdrifts. A crumbling Gibraltar stands beneath the apple trees, its turrets wasted by the sun, its massive walls fast melting to decay. Gone is its grandeur; gone are its brave defenders; no sign of them remains save one scarlet gauntlet, lost in repelling the last desperate sally of a departed foe, now the sodden and solitary reminder of an epic winter.
A strange new life is stirring within the little house. Steps are quicker, voices gayer; new tasks come with every hour. A joyous restlessness sets life a-tingle; windows open, and mops are shaken. Curious caps appear over familiar female faces. All is bustle, eagerness, and mirth.