a very infantine and unweaned pig. It was all properly arranged for
us, and, making up a good fire, we proceeded to cook the little
monster.

Hours passed by; all the rest of the dinner got itself properly
cooked at the right time, but the pig presented exactly the same
appearance at dewy eve as it had done in the early morn. We looked
rather crest-fallen at its pale condition when one o'clock struck,
but I said cheerfully, "Oh, I daresay it will be ready by supper!"
But it was not: not a bit of it. Of course we searched in those
delusive cookery books, but they only told us what sauces to serve
with a roasted pig, or how to garnish it, entering minutely into a
disquisition upon whether a lemon or an orange had better be stuck
into its mouth. We wanted to know how to cook it, and why it would
not get itself baked. About an hour before supper-time I grew
desperate at the anticipation of the "chaff" Alice and I would
certainly have to undergo if this detestable animal could not be
produced in a sufficiently cooked state by evening. We took it out
of the oven and contemplated it with silence and dismay. Fair as
ever did that pig appear, and as if it had no present intention of
being cooked at all. A sudden idea came into our heads at the same
moment, but it was Alice who first whispered, "Let us cut off its
head." "Yes," I cried; "I am sure that prevents its roasting or
baking, or whatever it is." So we got out the big carving knife and
cut off the piggy's head. Far be it from me to offer any solution
of the theory why the head should have interfered with the baking
process, but all I know is, that, like the old woman in the nursery
song, everything began to go right, and we got our supper that
night.