But there was one calculation forgotten both by Miss Lucinda and Israel:  the pig would grow,—­and in consequence, as I said before, Miss Lucinda came to grief; for when the census-taker tinkled her sharp little door-bell, it called her from a laborious occupation at the sty,—­no more and no less than trying to nail up a board that Piggy had torn down in struggling to get out of his durance.  He had grown so large that Miss Lucinda was afraid of him; his long legs and their vivacious motion added to the shrewd intelligence of his eyes, and his nose seemed as formidable to this poor little woman as the tusk of a rhinoceros:  but what should she do with him?  One might as well have proposed to her to kill and cut up Israel as to consign Piggy to the “fate of race.”  She could not turn him into the street to starve, for she loved him; and the old maid suffered from a constancy that might have made some good man happy, but only embarrassed her with the pig.  She could not keep him forever,—­that was evident; she knew enough to be aware that time would increase his disabilities as a pet, and he was an expensive one now,—­for the corn-swallowing capacities of a pig, one of the “racer” breed, are almost incredible, and nothing about Miss Lucinda wanted for food even to fatness.  Besides, he was getting too big for his pen, and so “cute” an animal could not be debarred from all out-door pleasures, and tantalized by the sight of a green and growing garden before his eyes continually, without making an effort to partake of its delights.  So, when Miss Lucinda indued herself with her brown linen sack and sun-bonnet to go and weed her carrot-patch, she was arrested on the way by a loud grunting and scrambling in Piggy’s quarter, and found to her distress that he had contrived to knock off the upper board from his pen.  She had no hammer at hand; so she seized a large stone that lay near by and pounded at the board till the twice-tinkling bell recalled her to the house, and as soon as she had made confession to the census-taker she went back,—­alas, too late!  Piggy had redoubled his efforts, another board had yielded, and he was free!  What a thing freedom is! how objectionable in practice, how splendid in theory!  More people than Miss Lucinda have been put to their wits’ end when “Hoggie” burst his bonds and became rampant instead of couchant.  But he enjoyed it; he made the tour of the garden on a delightful canter, brandishing his tail with an air of defiance that daunted his mistress at once, and regarding her with his small bright eyes as if he would before long taste her and see if she was as crisp as she looked.  She retreated forthwith to the shed and caught up a broom with which she courageously charged upon Piggy, and was routed entirely; for, being no way alarmed by her demonstration, the creature capered directly at her, knocked her down, knocked the broom out of her hand, and capered away again to the young carrot-patch.

“Oh, dear!” said Miss Manners, gathering herself up from the ground,—­“if there only was a man here!”