"Hi! you! knocking our tigs about!" And a rough boy about a couple
of years older than Robin rushed into the middle of the herd,
kicking first at one and then at another, banging them with a long
hooked stick he held, and making them run squealing in all
directions. "What are you knocking our tigs about for?" cried the
boy sharply, as he stared hard at the strange visitor to the
forest, his eyes looking greedily at the little fellow's purple and
white jerkin and his cap with a little white feather in it.

"They were coming to bite me," said Robin quickly, while it struck
him as funny that the boy should knock the pigs about himself.

"What are you doing here?" said the boy.

Robin told of his misfortune, and finished by saying:

"I'm so hungry, and I want to go home. Where can I get some
breakfast?"

"Dunno," said the boy. "Have some of these?"

He took a handful of acorns from a dirty satchel, and held them
out, Robin catching at them eagerly, putting one between his white
teeth, and biting it, but only to make a face full of disgust.

"It's bitter," he said. "It's not good to eat."

"Makes our tigs fat," said the boy; "look at 'em."