Foam—A Razor-Backed Hog 
hyena mane. When he walked there was spring 
in his feet, alertness in his poise, and the logy 
porkers seemed downladen with themselves as 
they slowly heaved aside to let him pass. The 
joy of life was on him, and he tossed a heavy trough 
up in the air, and curveted like a stallion. Then 
a distant sound made him whirl and run like a 
mustang. It was Lizette’s whistle. They had 
come very close together that winter, and clear- 
ing the low wall like a Deer, Foam reached the 
door to get a special dish of things he loved, to 
have his back scratched, and, last, to hold up his 
forefeet for a rubbing, if not indeed each time for a 
coat of polish. 
“That Foam, as ye call him, Lizette, is more 
dawg than hawg,”’ Farmer Prunty used to say as 
he watched the growing Razor-back following the 
child or playing round her like a puppy—a puppy 
that weighed 150 pounds, this second springtime 
of his life. But Foam was merely reviving the 
ways of his ancestors, long lost in sodden prison 
pens. 
GRIZEL SEEKS HER FORTUNE 
It’s a long dusty road from Dan River Bridge 
to Mayo, yet down its whole length there trotted 
a sleek young Razor-back. She was barely full 
