Today of all days Carley made an inspiring listener. Even the shiny, muddy,
suspicious old sow in no wise daunted her fictitious courage. That filthy
pen of mud a foot deep, and of odor rancid, had no terrors for her. With an
arm round Glenn's shoulder she watched the rooting and squealing little
pigs, and was amused and interested, as if they were far removed from the
vital issue of the hour. But all the time as she looked and laughed, and
encouraged Glenn to talk, there seemed to be a strange, solemn, oppressive
knocking at her heart. Was it only the beat-beat-beat of blood?
"There were twelve pigs in that litter," Glenn was saying, "and now you see
there are only nine. I've lost three. Mountain lions, bears, coyotes, wild
cats are all likely to steal a pig. And at first I was sure one of these
varmints had been robbing me. But as I could not find any tracks, I knew I
had to lay the blame on something else. So I kept watch pretty closely in
daytime, and at night I shut the pigs up in the corner there, where you see
I've built a pen. Yesterday I heard squealing--and, by George! I saw an
eagle flying off with one of my pigs. Say, I was mad. A great old
bald-headed eagle--the regal bird you see with America's stars and stripes
had degraded himself to the level of a coyote.
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