He was heavily armed—an air rifle in one hand, a wooden dagger in the other.
“What’s that?” he demanded. “What’s Fern got?” “She’s got a guest for breakfast,” said Mrs. Arable.
“Wash your hands and face, Avery!” “Let’s see it!” said Avery, setting his gun down.
“You call that miserable thing a pig? That’s a fine specimen of a pig—it’s no bigger than a white rat.”
“Wash up and eat your breakfast, Avery!” said his mother. “The school bus will be along in half an hour.”
“Can I have a pig, too, Pop?” asked Avery. “No, I only distribute pigs to early risers,” said Mr. Arable.
“Fern was up at daylight, trying to rid the world of injustice. As a result, she now has a pig.”
“A small one, to be sure, but nevertheless a pig. It just shows what can happen if a person gets out of bed promptly.”
“Let’s eat!” But Fern couldn’t eat until her pig had had a drink of milk.
Mrs. Arable found a baby’s nursing bottle and a rubber nipple.
She poured warm milk into the bottle, fitted the nipple over the top, and handed it to Fern.
“Give him his breakfast!” she said. A minute later, Fern was seated on the floor in the corner of the kitchen
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