"Oh dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Pig. "You are just too late for supper. It is
all eaten up. We did not see that you were not here until too late. It's
too bad!"

Squinty thought so himself, for the smell of the sour milk that had been
in the feeding trough made him more hungry than ever.

Squinty walked over and tried to find a few drops in the bottom of the
wooden trough. These he licked up with his red tongue. But there was not
nearly enough.

"Ha! I guess that little pig must be hungry," said the farmer looking
down in the pen, after he had put some more stones and a board over the
hole where Squinty had gotten out. "I guess I'll have to feed him, for
the others have had their supper."

And how glad Squinty was when the farmer went over to the barrel, where
the pigs' feed was kept, and mixed a nice pailful of sour milk with some
corn meal, and poured it into the trough.

"Squee! Squee!" cried Squinty as he made a rush over to get his supper.

"Squee! Squee!" cried all the other little pigs, as they, too, made a
rush to get more to eat.

"Here! Hold on! Come back!" cried Mr. Pig. "That is Squinty's supper.
You must not touch it. You have had yours!" and he and Mrs. Pig would
not let Squinty's brothers and sisters shove him away from the trough.
For sometimes pigs are so hungry that they do this, you know. Being pigs
they know no better.