I got a candle, though it was broad daylight, and peeped into a hole
beneath my wigwam, and there was Hoggie sure enough, smooth little brow,
black little eyes, bristles and fur and all.
Hoggie came out that same night.
"I've been hibernating," he seemed to say, "and ain't I hungry, just!
Got any bread and milk? Got any worms, any slugs, any anything?"
You may be sure we fed him well.
And Hoggie goes and comes, and comes and goes, at his own sweet will.
But his home is underneath the wigwam floor, where he has one companion,
at all events--a pet toad of mine, a very amusing old fellow, whose
history I will tell you some day, if our kind friend the editor will
give me leave.
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The following two stories were told by Frank and me on this same breezy
cliff-top at Dunbar, the most interested portion of our audience being
apparently Ida, Hurricane Bob, and Mysie, the caravan cat.