e, too, used to have his vogue at
holiday times. Because the gods did love him he died young--died young
and tender and unspoiled by the world--and then everybody else did love
him too. For he was barbered twice over and shampooed to a gracious
pinkiness by a skilled hand, and then, being basted, he was roasted
whole with a smile on his lips and an apple in his mouth, and sometimes
a bow of red ribbon on his tail, and his juices from within ran down his
smooth flanks and burnished him to perfection. His interior was crammed
with stuff and things and truck and articles of that general nature--I'm
no cooking expert to go into further particulars, but whatever the
stuffing was, it was appropriate and timely and suitable, I know that,
and there was onion in it and savory herbs, and it was exactly what a
sucking pig needed to bring out all that was good and noble in him.

You began operations by taking a man's-size slice out of his midriff,
bringing with it a couple of pinky little rib bones, and then you ate
your way through him and along him in either direction or both
directions until you came out into the open and fell back satiated and
filled with the sheer joy of living, and greased to the eyebrows. I
should like to ask at this time if there is any section where this brand
of sucking pig remains reasonably common and readily available? In these
days of light housekeeping and kitchenettes and gas stoves and electric
cookers, is there any oven big enough to contain him? Does he still
linger on or is he now known in his true perfection only on the magazine
covers and in the Christmas stories?

[Illustration: "THOSE WHO IN THE GOODNESS OF THEIR HEARTS MAY UNDERTAKE
A SEARCH FOR THE SUCKING PIG"]

As a further guide to those who in the goodness of their hearts may
undertake a search for him in his remaining haunts and refuges, it
should be stated that he was no German wild boar, or English pork pie on
the hoof, and that he was never cooked French style, or doctored up with
anchovies, caviar, _marrons glaces_, pickled capers out of a
bottle--where many of the best capers of the pickled variety come
from--imported truffles, Mexican tamales or Hawaiian poi. He was--and
is, if he still exists--just a plain little North American baby-shoat
cooked whole. And don't forget the red apple in his mouth. None genuine
without this trademark.

But, shucks! what's the use of talking that way? Patriotism is not dead
and a democratic fo