Alexandra was sitting on one of the wooden chairs, her arms resting
on the table. Ivar was sitting on the floor at her feet. "Ivar,"
she said suddenly, beginning to trace the pattern on the oilcloth
with her forefinger, "I came to-day more because I wanted to talk
to you than because I wanted to buy a hammock."

"Yes?" The old man scraped his bare feet on the plank floor.

"We have a big bunch of hogs, Ivar. I wouldn't sell in the spring,
when everybody advised me to, and now so many people are losing
their hogs that I am frightened. What can be done?"

Ivar's little eyes began to shine. They lost their vagueness.

"You feed them swill and such stuff? Of course! And sour milk?
Oh, yes! And keep them in a stinking pen? I tell you, sister,
the hogs of this country are put upon! They become unclean, like
the hogs in the Bible. If you kept your chickens like that, what
would happen? You have a little sorghum patch, maybe? Put a fence
around it, and turn the hogs in. Build a shed to give them shade,
a thatch on poles. Let the boys haul water to them in barrels,
clean water, and plenty. Get them off the old stinking ground, and
do not let them go back there until winter. Give them only grain
and clean feed, such as you would give horses or cattle. Hogs do
not like to be filthy."

The boys outside the door had been listening. Lou nudged his
brother. "Come, the horses are done eating. Let's hitch up and
get out of here. He'll fill her full of notions. She'll be for