XXXI, A Pig Bath 



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 barn- 

 yard. 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 content- 

 ment. She wandered into the field where the plough- 

 ing 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 



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