Foam—A Razor-Backed Hog 
Foam’s mane stood up, his eyes flashed with 
green fire, his jaws went “chop, chop” with deep, 
portentous sound. The Bear rose up and growled. 
He should have felt ridiculous, for he was coated 
with mud from his neck to the tip of his tail, black, 
sticky, smelly mud, the muddiest of mud. He must 
have wallowed there for hours. Yes, the Red Squir- 
rel could have told you for hours on many different 
days. He was taking the cure that the wild beast 
takes: the second course, the one that follows the 
purge. 
But Foam thought not of that. Here was the 
thing he hated and one time feared, but now feared 
less and less. Still he was not minded to risk a 
fight—not yet. The Bear, too, remembered the 
day of his mangled paw and the gaping wounds 
in his side, given by a lesser foe than this, and sul- 
lenly with growl or grunt, each slowly backed, and 
went his divers way. 
THE WILDCAT 
You see That turkey-buzzard a mile up yonder? 
He seems a speck to you, you poor blind human 
thing, but he has eyes, he can watch you as he 
swings, he can see your face and the way you are 
looking, and also he can see the Deer on the moun- 
tain miles away. 
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