86 THE FALL OF THE YEAR 



ing? Isn't it fun to do anything that your heart does 

 with you — even though you do it for a pig? 



Just watch the pig as we shake out the bags of 

 leaves. See him caper, spin on his toes, shake him- 

 self, and curl his tail. That curl is his laugh. We 

 double up and weep when we laugh hard ; but the 

 pig can't weep, and he can't double himself up, so 

 he doubles up his tail. There is where his laugh comes 

 off, curling and kinking in little spasms of pure pig 



joy! 



Boosh ! Boosh ! he snorts, and darts around the 

 pen like a whirlwind, scattering the leaves in forty 

 ways, to stop short — the shortest stop! — and fall 

 to rooting for acorns. 



He was once a long-tusked boar of the forest, — 

 this snow-white, sawed-off, pug-faced little porker 

 of mine — ages and ages ago. But he still remem- 

 bers the smell of the forest leaves ; he still knows 

 the taste of the acorn-mast ; he is still wild pig in his 

 soul. 



And we were once long-haired, strong-limbed sav- 

 ages who roamed the forest hunting him — ages and 

 ages ago. And we, too, like him, remember the smell 

 of the fallen leaves, and the taste of the forest fruits 

 — and of pig, roast pig! And if the pig in his heart 

 is still a wild boar, no less are we, at times, wild 

 savages in our hearts. 



Anyhow, for one day in the fall I want to go 

 " leafing." I want to give my pig a taste of acorns, 



