"Woof! woof! woof!"

Translated and properly censored, this means that Beatrice presents her compliments to the Food Board and announces the arrival of nine hungry little bacon producers.

"Woof! woof! woof!"

She also announces that she is food controller for her family and doesn't care a "woof" for regulations that are made at Ottawa. She recognises only the law of supply and demand, and if she doesn't get her full rations of swill, bran and similar necessities she is not afraid to express her opinions of everything and everybody, including the censorship. She now has to do the eating for ten, and the job is one for which she is fitted by both personal inclinations and hereditary instincts.

"Woof! woof! woof!"

She furthermore announces that she is ready to bite the head off any one who lays a finger on any member of her family. She stands ready to fight for them instead of expecting them to fight for her. Good for Beatrice!

"Woof! woof! woof!"

In spite of her high state of belligerency, Beatrice is evidently very proud of her interesting family. Others may be able to boast larger families, but none can boast a plumper or lustier brood. (Nine seems to be the right and mystic number with swine. Hasn't Shakespeare something about a sow and "her nine farrow"?) They were ready to fight for their rights and squeal their protests for fair play before they were an hour old. Every one who has approached the pen to have a peep at them acknowledges that they are little beauties. They have the irresistible charm of youth—which can make even the young of a rattlesnake interesting if not lovable. Beatrice has every reason to be proud of them, though there doesn't seem to be any reason for being so gruff about it. A couple of weeks ago The Globe accused me editorially of being lacking in love for Beatrice. I admit the charge, but claim that this is a merciful provision of nature. Pigs are only lovable when they are small and plump and roly-poly. Our love for them does not endure.

If it were not so we would not have the heart to slaughter our pigs and turn them into necessary bacon. By the time they are full-grown they have developed their piggish instincts to such an intolerable degree that we are glad to be rid of them. Instead of berating me for being lacking in affection, the editor should have drawn a lesson from the fact that when the time comes to turn our hogs into bacon we are mercifully enabled to do it without any wrench to our finer feelings. I protest that at the present time I view the little pigs with tenderness and affection, but when they are finally fattened I shall have no compunctions about loading them into a car and shipping them to Toronto—the place where every good Ontario pig goes when he dies.