[XXXI.—A Pig Bath]
Beatrice, like myself, was inclined to rush the season. She seemed to think as I did that spring, or even summer, was back. On the perfect day I have been talking about she hunted up a sunlit puddle and indulged in the first wallow of the season. I am afraid it must have been a rather cold bath, for there is still ice in the bottom of all the puddles around the barnyard. But Beatrice must have felt the heat, for she made a thorough job of her mud-bath. When she got through she was just about as piggy a pig as you would want to see. She was plastered with black mud from head to foot, and the tone of her grunting expressed about the top note of contentment. She wandered into the field where the ploughing had commenced and began to root in a hopeful spirit. As her nose has never been restrained with a ring she was able to throw her whole vigour into the work, but I imagine that it was merely a spring rite rather than a food conserving effort. She might be able to find a reddock root that would be good for her blood, but I doubt if there was anything else available. She didn't stick to the job long, probably coming to the conclusion that it is more profitable to stick around the granary door. A while later I saw her sunning herself on the south side of the strawstack, where the mud could dry on her sides. Now that she has had her bath she looks surprisingly fresh and clean. The mud must have scaled off as soon as it was dry, and when it crumbled away it took with it all the winter's accumulations. She may have done some rubbing against the gate post or other convenient object, but I did not see her at it. Anyway her mud bath has left her whiter than she has been all winter, with a tinge of pink showing that suggests a proper tubbing. The spring seems to have an improving effect on her temper. Of course she is always hungry, but she is not so clamorous about it.
[XXXII.—In Extenuation]
Letters that reach me these days usually conclude with a word of solicitude for Beatrice. Tender-hearted people appear to be shocked by my references to kicking her out of the way when passing through the barnyard. I really wish they would tell me what to do when she comes over the top at me when I am carrying a pail of swill to which the chop-feed has not been added. It is entirely useless to try to explain to her that if she will wait a minute she will get a much better dinner. She wants it right away or sooner, and my kicks simply make her say, "Whoof! whoof!" As soon as I lower my guard she rushes to the attack again, and it takes skilful work to get into the granary with the pail of swill without having it spilled. At present the net result of our combats is that I have a stubbed toe. I haven't managed to make any impression on her, mentally or physically. One correspondent urges that I am doing injury to the "keep-a-pig" campaign by expatiating on her undesirable qualities. I don't think it is quite so bad as that. I merely show that pigs should be interned. No one has a deeper appreciation of a pig as a public duty or as a possible source of profit, but I don't think I need be blamed if I wish she had better table manners. I think the littlest boy hit the nail on the head when he confided to me: "I guess folks call pigs pigs because they are so piggish." As we have never gone in for hog-raising he had learned the meaning of piggishness before he learned anything about pigs. Consequently he thought the name very appropriate. Although Beatrice raises a "pathetic plaint and wailing cry" whenever there is food in evidence that she can't get at, she is still a highly esteemed member of the live stock. The trouble is that I have not learned enough about Froebelism to be able to "punish her in love."
[XXXIII.—Beatrice Announces]
"Woof! woof! woof!"