Az the white rose wakens intu buty, so dus the white Pig cum tu gladden us.

Hiz ears are like the lilac leaf, played upon bi the young zephurs at eventide, his silkaness is the woof ov buty, and his figger is the outline ov lovlaness.

His food is white nectar, drawn from the full fountain ov affecshun.

He waxes fatter, and more slik, evra da, and hangs from the buzzum ov his muther like an image ov alabastur.

He laffeth at forms, and curleth his tale still clusser, as his feast goeth on, then he riseth with gladness, and wandereth with his kindred, beside the still waters.

His brothers and sisters are az like him as flakes ov snow, and all the day long, amung the red klover, and beneath the white thorn, he maketh his joy, and leadeth a life arkadian.

His words are low musik, and his language the untutored freshness ov natur.

His pastime is the history ov innersence, and his lessure is elaganse.

He walketh whare grase leadeth, and gambles tew the dallianse ov dewy fragranse.

He gathereth straws in his mouth, and hasteneth awa on errants ov gladness.

He listeneth tu the reproof of hiz parent; his ackshuns are the laws ov perliteness, and his logick is the power ov instinkt.

His datime is pease and his evening is gentle forgitfullness.

As he taketh on years, he loveth kool plases, and delveth in liquids, and stirreth the arth tew a fatness, and painteth hisself in dark cullors, a reffuge from flize, and the torments ov life.

He forgetteth his parent, and bekumeth his own master, and larneth the mistery ov food, and groweth hugely.

Men gaze at his porkyness, and kount his vallu bi pounds, 381 and la in wate for him, and sacrifise him, and give his flesh salt for its safety.

This is Pig life.