rs I
could discover no trace at all. Yes, after all, these are prosaic
details, and only show how incompetent a novelist I should prove to be.
I grovel when I ought to soar. John and Mary were very fond of Birdie,
and Birdie was very fond of them. He came trotting up when he was
called, wagging his long tail as though it were proof positive that he
was still a lamb. It was scarcely a triumph of logic on Birdie's part,
and yet it was just about as good as the artistic subterfuges by which
lots of us try to convince the world and his wife that we are still in
the charming stage of lamb-like simplicity. And then there was Lily.

The old couple were very fond of Lily. How carefully they made her bed
on cold nights! How considerately they fed her on boiled potatoes,
skim milk, and other wondrous delicacies! She, too, came shambling up
whenever she heard her name, and, with a grunt, acknowledged their
bounty. 'Dear old Lily,' poor Mary exclaimed fervently, as Lily lifted
her snout to be rubbed, and looked with queer, piggish eyes into those
of her doting mistress.

Yes, Lily was a pig, but she was none the worse for that; and if any
ridiculous person objects to my taking a pig for my heroine, I shall
take offence and write no more novels. Lily, I repeat, was none the
worse for being a pig. And I am sure that John and Mary were none the
worse for loving her. It is always safe to love, for if you love that
which cannot profit by your love, your love comes back to you, like
Noah's dove, and you yourself are none the poorer. But I am not at all
sure that affection was wasted on Lily. Why should it be? There is no
disgrace in being born a pig. It did not even show bad taste on Lily's
part, for Lily was not asked. She came; and found, on arrival, that
she was what men called a pig; and as a pig she performed her part so
well that those who knew her grew very fond of her. What more can the
best of us do? And, after all, why this squeamishness? Why this
revulsion of feeling when I announce that my heroine is a pig? I aver
that it is a species of snobbery--a very contemptible species of
snobbery. Booker Washington used to declare that a high-grade
Berkshire boar, or a Poland China sow, is one of the finest sights on
this planet. And one of our own philosophers has gone into rhapsodies
over the pig. 'Pigs,' he says, 'always seem to me like a fallen race
that has seen better days. They are able, intellectual, i