away from the pen longer than that. But many things can happen in a few
hours, as you shall see.

"I won't eat any pig weed just yet," thought Squinty, as he went softly
on between the rows of potato vines. "To pull up any of it, and eat it
now, would make it wiggle. Then Don or the farmer might see it wiggling,
and run over to find out what it was all about. Then I'd be caught. I'll
wait a bit."

So, though he was very hungry, he would not eat a bit of the pig weed
that grew near the pen. And he never so much as dreamed of taking any of
the farmer's potatoes. He did not yet know the taste of them. But, let
me tell you, pigs who have eaten potatoes, even the little ones the
farmer cannot sell, are very fond of them. But, so far, Squinty had
never eaten even a little potato.

On and on went the little pig, looking back now and then toward the pen
to see if any of the other pigs were coming after him. But none were.

And there was no sign of Don, the barking dog, nor the farmer, either.
There was nothing to stop Squinty from running away. Soon he was some
distance from the pen, and then he thought it would be safe to nibble at
a bit of pig weed. He took a large mouthful from a tall, green plant.

"Oh, how good that tastes!" thought Squinty. "It is much better and
fresher than the kind the farmer throws into the pen to us."

Perhaps this was true, but I imagine the reason the pig weed tasted so
much better was because Squinty was running away.