"And I guess you are hungry, too, and want something to eat," the boy
went on. "I will feed you!"
"Squee! Squee! Squee!" squealed Squinty. If there was one word in
man-talk that he understood very well, it was "feed." He had often heard
the farmer say:
"Well, now I must feed the pigs."
And right after that, some nice sour milk would come splashing down into
the trough of the pen. So when Squinty heard the word "feed" again, he
guessed what was going to happen.
And he guessed right, too.
The boy picked Squinty up, box and all, and carried him to the back
yard.
"Now I'll give you more room to run about, and then I'll have a nice
supper for you," the boy said, talking to his little pig just as you
would to your dog, or kittie.
With a hammer the boy knocked off some of the slats of the small box in
which Squinty had made his journey. Then the boy lifted out the comical
little pig, and Squinty found himself inside a large box, very much like
the pen at home. It had clean straw in it, and a little trough, just
like the one at his "home," where he could eat.
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