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.