THE RED COW 



barn the old pig-pen was torn down and this year's 

 pen is a makeshift of the kind that you find among 

 backward farmers — a small pen for them to sleep in 

 and a larger pen built of rails, where they get their 

 feed and take the air. The trough is a light affair 

 made of a couple of boards, and they have no trouble 

 in rooting it all over the pen, so that it has to be 

 pulled around and turned right side up every time 

 the brutes are fed. Things were not so bad until 

 the pigs grew up, but now I dread feeding them 

 more than any chore on the place. They can see 

 me mixing the chop feed and the whole neighbour- 

 hood can hear the abuse they heap on me for being 

 so slow. The remarks that they make in hog lan- 

 guage about the Food Controller on this farm would 

 not look well in print. When I start towards the 

 pen with their rations my two fat friends are always 

 standing up with their front feet hooked over the top 

 rail of their pen and their mouths wide open and 

 squalling. I have a club handy so that I can beat 

 them back while I pull the trough into shape, but I 

 have to drop it when I go to put the feed before them. 

 This job is a regular fight. I have to hold the pail 

 as high as I can and try to tilt a little of the feed 

 into one end of the trough, in the hope of occupying 



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