He doesn't know, sobbed Rosie. He just doesn't know no more'n a baby. And she won't let us ever be alone a minute. So he never gets a chance to find out.
The farmer scratched his head more furiously than ever. Looking at her tear-stained face, he found it hard to doubt her. On the other hand it seemed impossible that a pig should know so much and a young man should know so little. But at that moment Mary came trotting through the bushes, with an egoistical look on her face, which was well besmeared with the juice of the ripe berries.
Is this your pig? said the farmer.
Well, said Rosie, I'm just taking her for a walk.
The shrewd farmer was quick to notice the look that Rosie got from the haughty grunter when it heard the expression your pig. This, and Rosie's hurried, nervous disclaimer, convinced the worthy man that the story he had heard was well founded.
You're taking her for a walk? said he musingly. Well! Well! Well! I'll tell you what. If you'd ha' been here this time tomorrow you'd have met me taking a walk, with a number of very dear young friends of mine, all very much like her. She might have come along. Two young sows, beautiful creatures, though maybe not so beautiful as that one. Three young boars, in the prime of their health and handsomeness. Though I say it as shouldn't, him that's unattached he's a prince. Oh, what a beautiful young boar that young boar really is!
You don't say? said Rosie.
For looks and pedigree both, said the farmer, he's a prince. The fact is, it's their birthday, and I'm taking 'em over to the village for a little bit of a celebration. I suppose this young lady has some other engagement tomorrow.
She has to have her sleep just about this time, said Rosie, ignoring Mary's angry grunt.
Pity! said the farmer. She'd have just made up the party. Such fun they'll have! Such refreshments! Sweet apples, cakes, biscuits, a whole bucket full of ice-cream. Everything most refined, of course, but plenty. You know what I mean plenty. And that young boar you know what I mean. If she should be walking by
I'm afraid not, said Rosie.
Pity! said the farmer. Ah, well. I must be moving along.
With that, he bade them good afternoon, raising his hat very politely to Mary, who looked after him for a long time, and then walked sulkily home, gobbling to herself all the way.
The next afternoon Mary seemed eager to stretch out on her bunk, and, for once, instead of requiring the usual number of little attentions from Rosie, she closed her eyes in sleep. Rosie took the opportunity to pick up a pail and go off to buy the evening ration of fresh milk. When she got back Fred was still at his practice by the wayside, and Rosie went round to the back of the caravan, and the door was swinging open, and the bunk was empty.
She called Fred. They sought high and low. They went along the roads, fearing she might have been knocked over by a motor car. They went calling through the woods, hoping she had fallen asleep under a tree. They looked in ponds and ditches, behind haystacks, under bridges, everywhere. Rosie thought of the farmer's joking talk, but she hardly liked to say anything about it to Fred.
They called and called all night, scarcely stopping to rest. They sought all the next day. It grew dark, and Fred gave up hope. They plodded silently back to the caravan.
He sat on a bunk, with his head in his hand.
I shall never see her again, he said. Been pinched, that's what she's been.
When I think, he said, of all the hopes I had for that pig
When I think, he said, of all you've done for her! And what it's meant to you
I know she had some faults in her nature, he said. But that was artistic. Temperament, it was. When you got a talent like that
And now she's gone! he said. With that he burst into tears.
Oh, Fred! cried Rosie. Don't!
Suddenly she found she loved him just as much as ever, more than ever. She sat down beside him and put her arms around his neck. Darling Fred, don't cry! she said again.
It's been rough on you, I know, said Fred. I didn't ever mean it to be.
There! There! said Rosie. She gave him a kiss. Then she gave him another. It was a long time since they had been as close as this. There was nothing but the two of them and the caravan; the tiny lamp, and darkness all round; their kisses, and grief all round. Don't let go, said Fred. It makes it better.
I'm not letting go, she said.
Rosie, said Fred. I feel Do you know how I feel?
I know, she said. Don't talk.
Rosie, said Fred, but this was some time later. Who'd have thought it?
Ah! Who would, indeed? said Rosie.
Why didn't you tell me? said Fred.
How could I tell you? said she.
You know, said he. We might never have found out never! if she hadn't been pinched.
Don't talk about her, said Rosie.
I can't help it, said Fred. Wicked or not, I can't help it I'm glad she's gone. It's worth it. I'll make enough on the acrobat stuff. I'll make brooms as well. Pots and pans, too.
Yes, said Rosie. But look! It's morning already. I reckon you're tired, Fred running up hill and down dale all day yesterday. You lie abed now, and I'll go down to the village and get you something good for breakfast.
All right, said Fred. And tomorrow I'll get yours.
So Rosie went down to the village, and bought the milk and the bread and so forth. As she passed the butcher's shop she saw some new-made pork sausages of a singularly fresh, plump, and appetizing appearance. So she bought some, and very good they smelled while they were cooking.
That's another thing we couldn't have while she was here, said Fred, as he finished his plateful. Never no pork sausages, on account of her feelings. I never thought to see the day I'd be glad she was pinched. I only hope she's gone to someone who appreciates her.
I'm sure she has, said Rosie. Have some more.
I will, said he. I don't know if it's the novelty, or the way you cooked 'em, or what. I never ate a better sausage in my life. If we'd gone up to London with her, best hotels and all, I doubt if ever we'd have had as sweet a sausage as these here.
HELL HATH NO FURY
As soon as Einstein declared that space was finite, the price of building sites, both in Heaven and Hell, soared outrageously. A number of petty fiends, who had been living in snug squalor in the remoter infernal provinces, found themselves evicted from their sorry shacks, and had not the wherewithal to buy fresh plots at the new prices. There was nothing for it but to emigrate. They scattered themselves over the various habitable planets of our universe; one of them arrived in London at about the hour of midnight in the October of last year.
Some angels in like case took similar measures, and by a coincidence one of them descended at the same hour into the same northern suburb.
Beings of this order, when they take on the appearance of humans, have the privilege of assuming whichever sex they choose. Things being as they are, and both angels and devils knowing very well what's what, both of them decided to become young women of about the age of twenty-one. The fiend, as soon as he touched earth, was no other than Bella Kimberly, a brunette, and the angel became the equally beautiful Eva Anderson, a blonde.
By the essential limitation of their natures, it is impossible for an angel to recognize fiendishness on beholding it, and equally so for a fiend even to conceive the existence of angelic virtue. As a matter of fact, at such a meeting as now took place in Lowndes Crescent, St. John's Wood, the angel is innocently attracted by what seems to her the superior strength and intensity of the fiendish nature, while the devil experiences that delicious interest that one feels in a lamb cutlet odorous upon the grill.