Pig-wig ate the peppermint herself, and followed the opposite side of the road.  “Pig-wig! keep under the wall, there’s a man ploughing.”  Pig-wig crossed over, they hurried down hill towards the county boundary.

Suddenly Pigling stopped; he heard wheels.

Slowly jogging up the road below them came a tradesman’s cart.  The reins flapped on the horse’s back, the grocer was reading a newspaper.

“Take that peppermint out of your mouth, Pig-wig, we may have to run.  Don’t say one word.  Leave it to me.  And in sight of the bridge!” said poor Pigling, nearly crying.  He began to walk frightfully lame, holding Pig-wig’s arm.

The grocer, intent upon his newspaper, might have passed them, if his horse had not shied and snorted.  He pulled the cart crossways, and held down his whip.  “Hallo?  Where are you going to?”—­Pigling Bland stared at him vacantly.

“Are you deaf?  Are you going to market?” Pigling nodded slowly.

“I thought as much.  It was yesterday.  Show me your license?”

Pigling stared at the off hind shoe of the grocer’s horse which had picked up a stone.

The grocer flicked his whip—­ “Papers?  Pig license?” Pigling fumbled in all his pockets, and handed up the papers.  The grocer read them, but still seemed dissatisfied.  “This here pig is a young lady; is her name Alexander?” Pig-wig opened her mouth and shut it again; Pigling coughed asthmatically.

The grocer ran his finger down the advertisement column of his newspaper—­“Lost, stolen or strayed, 10S. reward;” he looked suspiciously at Pig-wig.  Then he stood up in the trap, and whistled for the ploughman.

“You wait here while I drive on and speak to him,” said the grocer, gathering up the reins.  He knew that pigs are slippery; but surely, such a very lame pig could never run!

“Not yet, Pig-wig, he will look back.”  The grocer did so; he saw the two pigs stock-still in the middle of the road.  Then he looked over at his horse’s heels; it was lame also; the stone took some time to knock out, after he got to the ploughman.

“Now, Pig-wig, now!” said Pigling Bland.

Never did any pigs run as these pigs ran!  They raced and squealed and pelted down the long white hill towards the bridge.  Little fat Pig-wig’s petticoats fluttered, and her feet went pitter, patter, pitter, as she bounded and jumped.

They ran, and they ran, and they ran down the hill, and across a short cut on level green turf at the bottom, between pebble beds and rushes.

They came to the river, they came to the bridge—­they crossed it hand in hand—­then over the hills and far away she danced with Pigling Bland!

GINGER AND PICKLES

[Dedicated With very kind regards to old Mr. John Taylor, Who “thinks he might pass as a dormouse,” (Three years in bed and never a grumble!).]