His father looks up and smiles. "Your pig must have a house to live in," says he. "I can't have my meadow grass trampled."
Before noon Mephibosheth was in his new quarters. There was a parlor with two pieces of carpet on the floor; there was a chamber with plenty of straw, whereon Mephibosheth could repose; there was a dining-room, with what, in common language, might be termed a trough.
Such a life as that pig led! He was cared for tenderly. He was washed all over every morning, and put to bed every night. He was not a very brilliant pig as far as his intellect went, it must be confessed. He could do no tricks with cards; he could not be taught to jump through a hoop.
One year passed; Mephibosheth was large. Two years went by; Mephibosheth was wonderful. I would I could say he was plump; that word does not begin to express his condition. It would be pleasant to call him stout; that would not give the glimmer of an idea of his size. Corpulent would be a refined way of stating it. Alas! corpulent means nothing as far as Mephibosheth is concerned. That animal measured seven feet and twenty-two inches round his body. He weighed—truth is great, and must be spoken—he weighed five hundred and fifty and two-third pounds.
He could not walk; his legs were pipe-stems under him. He could scarcely breathe. That is the excuse for what happened.
One day Romeo Augustus came home from school. Mephibosheth's pen was empty. Mephibosheth's pen would be empty for evermore. That is a gentle way of telling the story. In vain it was explained to Romeo Augustus that Mephibosheth's life had become a burden; that common humanity demanded his departure. In vain Philemon offered three fish-hooks and a jackknife by way of solace. In vain Solomon was sure his father would present a calf to the mourner for a pet.
Elias was the only one who gave the least comfort.
"We will make a tombstone, and I will write an epitaph," said he.
Soon he brought a board, on which were drawn an urn and a couple of consumptive weeping-willows (for Elias was an artist as well as a poet), and underneath were these lines, which being written partly in old English spelling, were so much the more consoling:
Sacred to the Memorie
of
MEPHIBOSHETH.
Kinde Reader, pause and drop a teare,
Ye Pig his bodie lieth here;
Ye Auguste third of fiftie-nine
Was when his sun dyd cease to shine.
He broke two legs, which gave him wo;
He doctored was by Romeo,
Who cherished him from yeare to yeare,
As by this notice doth appeare.
He fed him till he waxed soe big
He was obliged to hop the twig.
Ye friends do sadly raise their waile,
And fondly eke preserve his tayle.