PIG’S MEASLES
Jean had come to market to sell his pig; Mathieu, on his part, had gone
thither to buy one. Jean’s animal pleased him. After some talk in which
all sorts of finesse were employed on the part of the seller to
heighten the value of his merchandise, on the part of the buyer to
lower it, they came to an agreement on the price and shook hands to
bind the bargain.
But before taking out his purse and counting out the crowns Mathieu
wished, as was his right, to make sure that the pig was sound. A man
was called whose business it was to decide such questions. He took the
animal by the legs and threw it over on its side. Whereas Jean and
Mathieu stood in some awe of the animal, he made no ceremony about
forcing a stick, as a sort of lever, between the pig’s teeth and prying
the jaws apart. Then he plunged his hand in between those terrible jaws
and felt about with his fingers to the right, to the left, and
especially under the tongue. Meanwhile the pig was giving forth
heartbreaking cries, and with raucous grunts all its companions in the
market voiced their sympathy in its distress. The whole square was in
an uproar. The ordeal over, the animal was let loose and immediately
everything became quiet again. The pig was found to be in good
condition.
Emile was passing at the time of this performance. What are they doing
to that poor animal with the big stick thrust between its jaws? Why are
they feeling in its mouth? Couldn’t they leave the creature in peace
instead of making it squeal worse than if they were slaughtering it?
Such were the questions that passed through Emile’s mind as he found
himself almost seized with terror at the piercing cries of the animal
and the chorus of alarmed grunts from its companions. In the evening
the conversation turned upon this event.
“The man who felt with his hand in the pig’s mouth,” Uncle Paul
explained, “while the stick kept the formidable jaws apart, had a
definite purpose, which was to assure himself that the animal was free
from measles. For the pig is subject to a strange disease thus named,
which makes its flesh unwholesome and even dangerous. When the animal
is afflicted with this malady, its flesh is filled with a multitude of
round white granules from the size of a pinhead to that of a pea, or
larger; these granules are called hydatids. Their number is sometimes
so great that in a piece of fat no larger than the five fingers of my
hand they can be counted by hundreds. To determine whether a pig is
thus affected, it is of course out of the question to explore the flesh
of the living body. What do they do then? They feel the soft parts
accessible to the hand—the walls of the mouth and especially the under
side of the tongue, a favorite haunt of the hydatids. If hard granules
are felt by the fingers, the pig is affected and its market value
greatly lowered; if no such granules are found, the animal is healthy
and will bring its full price. That is the reason of the operation that
so puzzled Emile this morning in the market. The man that was feeling
of the animal’s tongue was an inspector. His office is to examine all
pigs offered for sale and to determine from the feeling of the tongue
whether the animal has the measles. Hence he is commonly called a
tongue-tester, a word that will now explain itself to you.”
“I see very well,” Jules interposed, “how the word came to be used in
connection with the examination of the pig’s tongue, but I don’t yet in
the least understand how those hard white granules that the
tongue-tester looks for, those hydatids as you call them, can make the
meat unwholesome and dangerous.”
“You will soon see. Each of those granules is a lodge, a cell, a little
chamber if you like, in which lives a sort of worm, richly fed by the
pig’s animal substance. You are familiar with the worm that inhabits
the juicy pulp of cherries, with the one that gnaws the kernel of nuts,
with the one that makes its home in the heart of the pear and apple,
and with countless others in fact that I told you about when we were on
the subject of harmful insects. Well, fruit is not the only thing to
harbor such troublesome guests; every animal has its parasites to
devour it while it is still alive. The pig in its turn has a great
many, especially when its gluttonous habits lead it to feed on
excrement. One of these parasites is the worm I have mentioned.
“It is the most curious creature one could possibly imagine. Picture to
yourselves a little bladder full of liquid as clear as water; on this
bladder a very short and wrinkled neck; finally, at the extremity of
this neck a round head bearing on the sides four suckers and at the end
thirty-two hooks arranged in the shape of a crown in a double ring.
That is the worm, the hydatid. Each one is enclosed in a sort of little
pouch, a firm and semi-transparent cell which derives its substance
from the flesh of the pig itself. Commonly the tiny creature is
entirely hidden in its snug retreat; at other times, through an opening
in the pouch, it stretches its neck and pushes its head out a little,
doubtless to feed on the adjacent fluid matter by means of its four
suckers. As to the little bladder forming the other part of the worm,
it never leaves its cell, the cavity of which it fills exactly. Hence
the animal never changes its place.”
“That must be a very dull sort of life,” was Emile’s comment. “No
exercise for the little worm except occasionally sticking its head out
of the bag that holds it, and then drawing it in again and shutting the
door. Is this bag very large?”
“There are different-sized ones, according to the worm’s degree of
development, for as it grows its dwelling also becomes larger. The
usual shape of these cells is that of a small egg, the greatest
dimension of which might be as much as two centimeters, and the
smallest five or six millimeters.
“Hydatids live in the flesh of a live pig; they live there by thousands
and thousands, in such multitudes that sometimes not a piece of fat the
size of a nut could be found free from these little parasites. Each
one, snugly ensconced in its retreat, its strongly-walled cell, grows
in peace, sheltered from all attack, and makes predatory raids in the
immediate vicinity with its crown of hooked claws and its four
suckers.”
“What a miserable fate is the pig’s,” Emile exclaimed, “to be eaten up
alive like that, all full of the ravenous vermin and unable to get rid
of them! The poor animal must soon succumb.”
“Not exactly. It wastes away, it is true, but it resists for a long
time, being very tenacious of life.”
“I can’t think without horror,” said Jules, “of the terrible itching
such an army of vermin must cause, biting and boring into the
creature’s flesh all over its body.”
“Your horror would redouble if you knew that this vermin only awaits a
favorable opportunity to emigrate to our bodies even, and to ravage us
in our turn.”
“What! Those horrid pig worms have designs on us?”
“And designs, alas, too often accomplished, if we are not careful. That
is what we are now about to consider.”