Foam—A Razor-Backed Hog 
sults that seemed, and were, in a sense, the very 
same. 
Is it not a curious fact that those who give up to 
a craze for some special meat always learn to prefer 
it a little “high,” and ‘‘higher,” and finally are 
not well pleased unless the food is positively tainted 
—a mass of vile corruption? And this they leam 
from the old-time animal habit of burying food 
when they have more than they need at once. 
Thus it was that Scab-face, striding dark and 
silent through the woods by the branch, led by a 
smell he loved came on the unburied body of 
Runtie. The mother was away perforce with her 
living charge. 
The Turkey-buzzard had not touched it, for it 
was fallen under brushwood. The orange and 
black sexton beetles were not there; it had not 
yet come in their department. It was a windfall 
for the Bear. 
Reaching his long scabby nose into the thicket, 
he pulled it out, carried it a little way, then digging 
a hole he buried it deep to ripen for some future 
feast. 
Wild animals usually remember their “cache,” 
as the hunters call it, and come to the place when 
they chance in the neighborhood to see if it is all 
right. Thus Kogar’s called next day. 
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