A Day No Pigs Would Die by Robert Newton Peck

Rob?”
    “Please,” I said.
    We all sat around the lammis table in the kitchen, eating blackberry pie, and hearing me talk about Rutland Fair. I told all I could tell and made up the rest, and never left out a word about the two main events: the showing of Bob and Bib, and the blue ribbon for Pinky.
    I never let on that I got a touch of the vapors andlost all my breakfast on the judge’s shoe. A tale like that would only distress Mama and Aunt Carrie, so why tell people what they don’t cotton to hear? Besides, they was enough good things to jaw on. Like when the whole state of Vermont watched me work the oxen in the show ring, and how the man shouted my name. I stood up and gave a real close copy of just how he done it. Even marched around the kitchen in a circle. Three times, just like at Rutland.
    “Rutland,” said Papa. “I never went there, boy or man. And here
you
go, all that way by your lonesome with the neighbors.”
    “It’s not
so
big,” I said. “What sets you back is the noise. It was as noisy at night as it was in the morning. And during Fair week, I guess it’s like a big brass band that can’t stop playing. Goes all the while.”
    “Just like a mouth I know,” said Papa, “that’s got blackberry all
over
it.”
    We all got a good laugh on that, before I went over to the sink pump and washed off. It sure was good to be home, and it was hard to believe that I was gone less than a day. It felt like I’d been to a star.
    I’d a talked on about Rutland for the whole night through, but Mama chased me upstairs to bed. Once I was under the covers, she came into my room andkissed me goodnight I was just about near asleep by the time she tiptoed out and shut the door.
    “How’s the traveler?” I heard Papa ask.
    “Back,” Mama said. “Back from a dream.”
    During the night, there was noise outside in the hen coop. I heard the hens cackle and scold. I saw a lit lantern in the upstairs hall, and then all was quiet. I tried my holy best to wake up, but I just couldn’t.
    Right after I shut my eyes it was chore time. Daisy had to be milked and watered and fed. Solomon the same. Except only a fool would put a pail under him. I was pouring the milk for separating (to get the cream off) when I saw Papa leaving the hen coop with a dead hen.
    “Weasel,” Papa said. “And hardly no mark on her.”
    “Chicken for supper, Papa?”
    “Yup. Say, you want to see something?”
    “Sure.”
    Papa took me into the tackroom. Hanging on a peg was a burlap sack that moved around a bit. Quite a bit, the closer we got.
    “What you got, Papa?”
    “What I got is that weasel. First one I ever could corner and sack. He’s really got a mouthful of mean teeth.”
    “Can I look?”
    “Later. When I reason out what to do with him. He’s caused me too much grief to kill without a ceremony.”
    “You aim to let that weasel go free?”
    “Not likely.”
    “Papa, I was at Mrs. Bascom’s last week.”
    “So?”
    “You know her hired man, Ira Long?”
    “Heard his name.”
    “Well, he’s got a bitch terrier. I seen her when I went to thank Mrs. Bascom for asking the Tanners to take me to Rutland.”
    “Full growed?”
    “I’d say so, Papa. But real young.”
    “After we breakfast, boy, you run down there and tell Brother Long that we got a weasel to try his dog on. And he’s welcome to it.”
    “Sure will. I never see a dog get weaseled.”
    An hour later, a horse and rig pulled into our lane. On it was Ira Long and me and his dog, Hussy. She was a sweet little dog, and all the way home, as I was holding her, I wondered how well she’d fare against a weasel.
    Papa was there to meet us, and he gave Ira his hand.
    “Haven Peck,” he said. “We’re glad you could pay us call, Brother.”
    “Ira Long. I already know your son.”
    “Most folks do.” Both the men laughed. I don’t know why but I laughed, too.
    “He’s a good ’un,” said Ira.
    Papa looked at the small gray-and-white terrier that