Pig-wig put back the sticky peppermints into her pocket; “Sing something,” she demanded.

“I am sorry. . .  I have tooth-ache,” said Pigling much dismayed.

“Then I will sing,” replied Pig-wig, “You will not mind if I say iddy tidditty?  I have forgotten some of the words.”

Pigling Bland made no objection; he sat with his eyes half shut, and watched her.

She wagged her head and rocked about, clapping time and singing in a sweet little grunty voice—­

 “A funny old mother pig lived in a stye,
     and three little piggies had she;
 “(Ti idditty idditty) umph, umph,
     umph! and the little pigs said wee,
     wee!”

She sang successfully through three or four verses, only at every verse her head nodded a little lower, and her little twinkly eyes closed up—­

 “Those three little piggies grew peaky
     and lean, and lean they might very
     well be;
 “For somehow they couldn’t say umph,
     umph, umph! and they wouldn’t
     say wee, wee, wee! 
 “For somehow they couldn’t say—­

Pig-wig’s head bobbed lower and lower, until she rolled over, a little round ball, fast asleep on the hearth-rug.

Pigling Bland, on tiptoe, covered her up with an antimacassar.

He was afraid to go to sleep himself; for the rest of the night he sat listening to the chirping of the crickets and to the snores of Mr. Piperson overhead.

Early in the morning, between dark and daylight, Pigling tied up his little bundle and woke up Pig-wig.  She was excited and half-frightened.  “But it’s dark!  How can we find our way?”

“The cock has crowed; we must start before the hens come out; they might shout to Mr. Piperson.”

Pig-wig sat down again, and commenced to cry.

“Come away Pig-wig; we can see when we get used to it.  Come!  I can hear them clucking!”

Pigling had never said shuh! to a hen in his life, being peaceable; also he remembered the hamper.

He opened the house door quietly and shut it after them.  There was no garden; the neighborhood of Mr. Piperson’s was all scratched up by fowls.  They slipped away hand in hand across an untidy field to the road. 
 “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!’”

“Come Pig-wig, we must get to the bridge before folks are stirring.”

“Why do you want to go to market, Pigling?” inquired Pig-wig.

The sun rose while they were crossing the moor, a dazzle of light over the tops of the hills.  The sunshine crept down the slopes into the peaceful green valleys, where little white cottages nestled in gardens and orchards.

“That’s Westmorland,” said Pig-wig.  She dropped Pigling’s hand and commenced to dance, singing—­ presently.  “I don’t want; I want to grow potatoes.”  “Have a peppermint?” said Pig-wig.  Pigling Bland refused quite crossly.  “Does your poor toothy hurt?” inquired Pig-wig.  Pigling Bland grunted.