Foam—A Razot-Backed Hog 
cess and hankering for the highest glories known 
to his kind, rushed on the duckling, tore off mouth- 
ful after mouthful of feathers from his back, 
and would in a little while have rended him in 
pieces. But another sound was heard, the short 
hoarse “Gruff, gruff, gruff” sounds that mean 
a warpath pig. We call them grunts, because 
made by a pig, but the very same sounds uttered by 
a Leopard are called short roars, and these were 
what came naturally from Foam as he bounded into 
the scene. Every bristle on his back was erect, his 
little eyes were twinkling with green light. His 
jaws, now armed with small but sharp and growing 
tusks, were chopping the malignant “‘chop, chop” 
that flecks the face with foam, proclaims the war- 
lust, and lets the wise ones know that the slumber- 
ing wild beast deep inside is roused. Not love of 
the duck, I fear, but the urge of deep-laid ancient 
hate of the Wolf, was on him: ‘‘a Wolf was raiding 
his home place.” The spirit of a valiant battling 
race was peeping from those steadfast eyes. Race 
memories of ancestral fights boiled in his blood. 
Foam charged the dog. 
Was ever bully more surprised? Gleefully the 
puppy had clutched the duckling’s wing to drag 
him forth, when the little avalanche of red rage pig 
was on him, and the heave that struck his ribs had 
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