“I'm in love with Myra Menke,” Elya confessed. “But Igor Barkov has offered to trade his fattest pig for her.
I can't compete with that.” “Good,” said Madame Zeroni. “You're too young to get married.
You've got your whole life ahead of you.” “But I love Myra.” “Myra's head is as empty as a flowerpot.”
“But she's beautiful.” “So is a flowerpot. Can she push a plow? Can she milk a goat?
No, she is too delicate. Can she have an intelligent conversation? No, she is silly and foolish.
Will she take care of you when you are sick? No, she is spoiled and will only want you to take care of her.
So, she is beautiful. So what? Ptuui!” Madame Zeroni spat on the dirt.
She told Elya that he should go to America. “Like my son. That's where your future lies. Not with Myra Menke.”
But Elya would hear none of that. He was fifteen, and all he could see was Myra's shallow beauty.
Madame Zeroni hated to see Elya so forlorn. Against her better judgment, she agreed to help him.
“It just so happens, my sow gave birth to a litter of piglets yesterday,” she said.
There is one little runt whom she won't suckle. You may have him. He would die anyway.
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