Glenn led her around the clearing and up to the base of the west wall,
where against a shelving portion of the cliff had been constructed a
rude fence of poles. It formed three sides of a pen, and the fourth side
was solid rock. A bushy cedar tree stood in the center. Water flowed
from under the cliff, which accounted for the boggy condition of the red
earth. This pen was occupied by a huge sow and a litter of pigs.
Carley climbed on the fence and sat there while Glenn leaned over the
top pole and began to wax eloquent on a subject evidently dear to his
heart. Today of all days Carley made an inspiring listener. Even the
shiny, muddy, suspicious old sow in no wise daunted her fictitious
courage. That filthy pen of mud a foot deep, and of odor rancid, had
no terrors for her. With an arm round Glenn's shoulder she watched the
rooting and squealing little pigs, and was amused and interested, as if
they were far removed from the vital issue of the hour. But all the time
as she looked and laughed, and encouraged Glenn to talk, there seemed to
be a strange, solemn, oppressive knocking at her heart. Was it only the
beat-beat-beat of blood?
"There were twelve pigs in that litter," Glenn was saying, "and now
you see there are only nine. I've lost three. Mountain lions, bears,
coyotes, wild cats are all likely to steal a pig. And at first I was
sure one of these varmints had been robbing me. But as I could not find
any tracks, I knew I had to lay the blame on something else. So I kept
watch pretty closely in daytime, and at night I shut the pigs up in
the corner there, where you see I've built a pen. Yesterday I heard
squealing--and, by George! I saw an eagle flying off with one of my
pigs. Say, I was mad. A great old bald-headed eagle--the regal bird you
see with America's stars and stripes had degraded himself to the level
of a coyote. I ran for my rifle, and I took some quick shots at him as
he flew up. Tried to hit him, too, but I failed. And the old rascal hung
on to my pig. I watched him carry it to that sharp crag way up there on
the rim."
"Poor little piggy!" exclaimed Carley. "To think of our American
emblem--our stately bird of noble warlike mien--our symbol of lonely
grandeur and freedom of the heights--think of him being a robber of
pigpens!--Glenn, I begin to appreciate the many-sidedness of things.
Even my hide-bound narrowness is susceptible to change. It's never too
late to learn. This should apply to the Society for the Preservation of
the American Eagle."