Aunt Pettitoes turned to the other—­“Now son Alexander take the hand”—­“Wee, wee, wee!” giggled Alexander—­“take the hand of your brother Pigling Bland, you must go to market.  Mind—­” “Wee, wee, wee!” interrupted Alexander again.  “You put me out,” said Aunt Pettitoes—­“Observe signposts and milestones; do not gobble herring bones—­” “And remember,” said I impressively, “if you once cross the county boundary you cannot come back.  Alexander, you are not attending.  Here are two licenses permitting two pigs to go to market in Lancashire.  Attend Alexander.  I have had no end of trouble in getting these papers from the policeman.”  Pigling Bland listened gravely; Alexander was hopelessly volatile.

I pinned the papers, for safety, inside their waistcoat pockets; Aunt Pettitoes gave to each a little bundle, and eight conversation peppermints with appropriate moral sentiments in screws of paper.  Then they started.

Pigling Bland and Alexander trotted along steadily for a mile; at least Pigling Bland did.  Alexander made the road half as long again by skipping from side to side.  He danced about and pinched his brother, singing—­

     “This pig went to market, this pig stayed
          at home,
     “This pig had a bit of meat—­

let’s see what they have given us for dinner, Pigling?”

Pigling Bland and Alexander sat down and untied their bundles.  Alexander gobbled up his dinner in no time; he had already eaten all his own peppermints—­“Give me one of yours, please, Pigling?” “But I wish to preserve them for emergencies,” said Pigling Bland doubtfully.  Alexander went into squeals of laughter.  Then he pricked Pigling with the pin that had fastened his pig paper; and when Pigling slapped him he dropped the pin, and tried to take Pigling’s pin, and the papers got mixed up.  Pigling Bland reproved Alexander.

But presently they made it up again, and trotted away together, singing—­

     “Tom, Tom the piper’s son, stole a pig
          and away he ran! 
     “But all the tune that he could play, was
          `Over the hills and far away!’”

“What’s that, young Sirs?  Stole a pig?  Where are your licenses?” said the policeman.  They had nearly run against him round a corner.  Pigling Bland pulled out his paper; Alexander, after fumbling, handed over something scrumply—­

“To 2 1/2 oz. conversation sweeties at three farthings”—­“What’s this? this ain’t a license?” Alexander’s nose lengthened visibly, he had lost it.  “I had one, indeed I had, Mr. Policeman!”

“It’s not likely they let you start without.  I am passing the farm.  You may walk with me.”  “Can I come back too?” inquired Pigling Bland.  “I see no reason, young Sir; your paper is all right.”  Pigling Bland did not like going on alone, and it was beginning to rain.  But it is unwise to argue with the police; he gave his brother a peppermint, and watched him out of sight.