The Tyro made her a low bow. "Oh, pattern of all the graces," said he, "I accept and appreciate the appellation. The pig is a praiseworthy character. The pig suffereth long and is kind. The pig is humble, pious, a home-lover and a home-stayer. You never heard of a pig changing his heart and running away across the seas on twelve hours' notice, because things didn't go exactly to suit him. Did you, now? The pig is mild of temper and restrained of speech. He always thinks twice before he grunts. To those that use him gently the pig is friendly and affectionate. Gratitude makes its home in that soft bosom. Well has the poet sung:—
| "How rarer than a serpent's tooth |
| It is to find a thankless pig! |
"The pig does not grouch nor snap nor stamp upon the feet of the defenseless. Finally and above all, he does not give way to useless tears and make red the lovely pinkness of his shapely nose. Proud am I to be dubbed the Perfect Pig."
"Oh!" said the tearful damsel, and potential murder informed the monosyllable.
"See here," said the Tyro persuasively: "tell me, why are you so cross with me?"
"Because you pitied me."
"Anybody would. You look so helpless and miserable."
"I beg your pardon. Of course you're not. Any one could see that."
"I am. But I don't care. I won't be pitied. How dare you pity me! I hate people that—that go around pitying other people."