During Leslie's illness I strolled down to the mill one Saturday evening. I met George tramping across the yard with a couple of buckets of swill², and eleven young pigs rushing squealing³ about his legs, shrieking⁴ in an agony of suspense⁵. He poured the stuff into a trough with luscious⁶ gurgle, and instantly ten noses were dipped in, and ten little mouths began to slobber. Though there was plenty of room for ten, yet they shouldered and shoved and struggled to capture a larger space, and many little trotters dabbled⁷ and spilled the stuff, and the ten sucking, clapping snouts twitched⁸ fiercely, and twenty little eyes glared askance, like so many points of wrath⁹. They gave uneasy, gasping¹⁰ grunts¹¹ in their haste. The unhappy eleventh rushed from point to point trying to push in his snout, but for his pains he got rough squeezing, and sharp grabs on his ears. Then he lifted up his face and screamed screams of grief and wrath unto the evening sky.

 

But the ten little gluttons¹² only twitched their ears to make sure there was no danger in the noise, and they sucked harder, with much spilling and slobbing. George laughed like a sardonic¹³ Jove, but at last he gave ear, and kicked the ten gluttons from the trough, and allowed the

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