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Az the white rose wakens intu buty, so dus the
white Pig cum tu gladden us. His ears are like
the lilac leaf, played upon bi the young zephurs at
eventide, his silkaness is the woof ov buty, and his
figger is the outline ov lovlaness. His food is white
nectar, drawn from the full fountain ov affecshun.
He waxes fatter, and more slik, evra da, and hangs
from the buzzum ov his muther like an image ov
alabastur. He laffeth at forms, and curleth his tale
still clusser, as his feast goeth on, then he riseth
with gladness, and wandereth with his kindred, beside
the still waters. His brothers and sisters are
az like him as flakes ov snow, and all the day long,
amung the red klover, and beneath the white thorn,
he maketh his joy, and leadeth a life arkadian.
His words are low musik, and his language the untutored
freshness ov natur. His pastime is the

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history ov innersence, and his lessure is elaganse. He
walketh whare grase leadeth, and gambles tew the
dallianse ov dewy fragranse. He gathereth straws
in his mouth, and hasteneth awa on errants ov gladness.
He listeneth tu the reproof of hiz parent;
his ackshuns are the laws ov perliteness, and his
logick is the power ov instinkt. His datime is
pease and his evening is gentle forgitfullness. As
he taketh on years, he loveth kool plases, and delveth
in liquids, and stirreth the arth tew a fatness,
and painteth hisself in dark cullers, a reffuge from
flize, and the torments ov life. He forgetteth his
parent, and bekumeth his own master, and larneth
the mistery ov food, and groweth hugely. Men
gaze at his porkyness, and kount his vallu bi pounds,
and la in wate for him, and sacrifise him, and give
his flesh salt for its safety. This is Pig life.

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