Snythergen dreamed that he was sitting on a pier, dangling his feet in the water. Little fishes were nibbling his toes, when suddenly a large one darted up and took a bite that hurt. Raising both feet quickly, he woke up.

“You don’t need to be so rough,” said the pig, who had been bowled over by the raising of Snythergen’s feet and lay on his back, waving his legs in the air.

“It’s you, is it! Up to your favorite trick of biting my toes! Well, it serves you right. Of course I am glad you like me, but I wish you would show your affection in some other way!”

“Oh,” cried the pig. “So you were the strange tree that kicked me and spoke to me! I recognize you by the taste of your toes. But how was I to know that the last time I nibbled you, you were a tree,—unless I nibbled you again to find out?”

“In that case, I’ll forgive you,” said Snythergen, “and I hope you’ll overlook the fright I gave you.”

They lay on the ground side by side and gazed up at the stars.

“Tell me, how did you learn to talk?” asked Snythergen.

“The farmer’s wife taught me,” said the pig.

“Why did she do that?”

“Because I was hungry.”

“That’s no reason. They give people food when they are hungry—they don’t teach them to talk.”

“This woman did. She would not give me anything to eat until I learned to ask for it. And as I was nearly starving I learned rapidly,” said the pig. “As soon as I could ask for things I gained in weight, and when the farmer saw I was getting fat he asked his wife to keep right on feeding me so that—”

“Yes,” said Snythergen.

“So that they could eat me for dinner!” faltered the pig, dashing a tear from his eye.

“Then what did you do?” asked Snythergen.

“I ate as little as possible until the farmer’s wife saw I was getting thin again. Then she told me to eat all I wanted and not to worry. She said she would manage somehow so—they would not have to—eat—me for dinner! I trusted her and after that enjoyed three good meals a day. You see she had taken a fancy to me because I kept myself looking neat, and tried to be gentlemanly. She called me ‘Squeaky’ and treated me like a child of her own. Little by little I began to understand what she said, and learned to talk.

“One day the farmer’s wife was sitting by the window sewing. The farmer had gone to town. I trotted up as usual for a chat, but instead of chatting—

“‘You must go away,’ she said, with a catch in her voice, ‘for my husband says we must have you—for—dinner—to-morrow!’

“She could hardly say the words. We looked at each other sadly. Then she took me in her arms and squeezed me so tightly I thought she would break my bones; and I would not have cared much if she had. To die in her arms would have been a happier lot than leaving her.

“‘But surely I may come back some day,’ I managed to say, ‘or send for you when my fortune is made.’

“‘I’m afraid not,’ she faltered.

“I cannot tell you any more about our parting. It was too sad. Somehow I survived it—I suppose because I was young and the world lay before me.

“A farmer’s buckboard approached in the rough lane, thumping over the frozen ruts, announcing its coming long in advance. I hid in the cabbage-patch. The farmer’s wife stopped the vehicle and gossiped with the driver, to give me a chance to climb into the back and hide.

“It was not easy to scramble up into the vehicle, for I was fat, and could not get a foothold. I tried using the spokes of the wheel as a ladder, but kept slipping and falling back. I knew one side of the wheel would go up and the other down when the wagon started, but could not figure out which side did which. However, I decided to take a chance. Taking a firm grip on one of the lower spokes I braced my feet on the one below it. It happened to be the right side of the wheel. So when the vehicle started the spoke I was holding to began to rise, carrying me up nearly to the top of the wagon. Bracing my legs, I gave a leap that landed me in the buckboard upon some empty potato sacks. Hurriedly selecting one I crawled into it.

“The farmer thought he had heard something fall into the wagon, and stopping his horses, he glanced back. I was hidden by this time but he saw a bulging under the pile of sacks and was about to poke into them when I said, ‘Please, Mr. Smythers, let me stay here until we get by those boys in the road. I am hiding from them.’

“When he heard my voice Mr. Smythers, of course, took me for a boy and he answered: ‘No, you cannot stay there. You will smother. Come out and I will protect you from the boys.’

“Receiving no reply he poked about among the sacks until he found the one I was in.

“‘Why, it’s a pig in the bag instead of a boy!’ he cried in great surprise. ‘Well, I’ll soon fix him so he can’t get away!’ and he tied up the opening with a string. ‘But where is that boy that spoke to me just now?’

“Mr. Smythers looked under the wagon, searched both sides of the road, and even the trees, but of course found no one. Greatly perplexed he got into his buckboard and drove on, glancing back every few minutes to see if there wasn’t a boy around somewhere. After he had driven about a mile he ceased looking around, and as we were going through a dense forest, I decided to try to escape. The bag I was in had a hole in it (that is why I had chosen it), and it was not difficult to make the opening larger by tearing the rotten threads. Little by little I squeezed myself out, and dropping off the back of the buckboard, fell in a heap in the road.

“‘Now I am free,’ I thought, and I wandered deeper and deeper into the woods until I found you.”