“What dirty creatures pigs are,” remarked Mary with a shudder.
“They ain't dirty,” said Della reprovingly. “Pigs are clean. Men are dirty, 'cause they don't give them clean bedding.”
“But they are playing in such black stuff,” said Mary.
“That stuff is nice sods from the meadow,” said Della. “They have to work it over. Don't you know 'Root hog or die?'”
Mary said she did not, and Della went on. “Pigs like to play in the dirt, but my pa says a pig always wants a clean bed. Sometimes we keep pigs out in the pasture, and they make lovely clean beds for themselves of leaves and grass.”
“How do they do that?” asked Mary.
“They carry the stuff in their mouths,” replied Della, “and when it's going to rain they run fast and hurry to make a fresh bed. You can always tell when a storm is coming by the pigs.”
Mary looked doubtfully at the boys, but they nodded their heads as if to say, “Our sister is right.”
Della went from one pen to another. I looked through the cracks in the board fence about the pens. The pigs were nice-looking, and although each one was playing in the black earth, there was a clean bed of straw in the corner for them.
At the last pen Della opened the little gate leading to it and let a pig out. He was a pet pig called Bobby, and he was as pleased to see her as a dog would have been. He grunted with delight, and tried to rub himself against her, and she leaped and danced to get out of his way, for he was all covered with mud, and the more she sprang in the air the harder the boys and Mary laughed.