Just as I got to the gate at the end of the lane, I met him riding over to take tea with us.
"What's the matter--what have you got there, and where are you going at this time of the day?" asked he, somewhat startled by my singular appearance.
"Oh, uncle!" said I, "I'm _so_ glad you've come.--Why it's my little pig, and he fell down the cistern and broke his leg, and I was just coming for you to mend it."
"You had better let me open his carotid," said he.
"Yes," said he, "it'll take all his pain away, and he won't know his leg's broken two minutes after I do it."
"Oh, I'm so glad you can do that!" said I.
At this, my uncle laughed heartily, for he had been making fun of me all the time--the carotid being one of the most important arteries of the body. It supplies the brain with blood, and if he had opened it, poor piggy would have bled to death in a minute; that's what my uncle meant by saying it would take away all his pain.
In spite of his joking, my uncle was a very kind-hearted man, and after he had finished laughing at my simplicity and ignorance, he got off his horse and put the bridle over his arm, saying--"Your pig's too heavy for you; besides, you should carry him with his legs up,--it will lessen the flow of blood to the wounded one, and so save him a good deal of pain,--let me take him."
He seized hold of the little fellow, who had lain perfectly quiet since I had taken him, except now and then a low, piteous moaning, which always started my tears afresh; but the instant my uncle touched him, he began to squeal terribly, and struggle, till uncle said that if I could carry him, may be I had better, for the struggling would irritate the broken leg. So he let go of him, and he was quiet again in a moment, except that plaintive moaning which seemed almost like human sobbing.
About half-way up the lane, we met Horace, whom my mother had sent out to see what had become of me. My uncle told him to get some little thin pieces of hickory, and showed him how to make some splints. He then told him to take little piggy, thinking I would not be strong enough to prevent his struggling; but he squealed and took on so in Horace's hands that I insisted on holding him, and to the surprise of all, he only squealed once during the whole operation. There seemed to be a magnetism in my affection which soothed and lessened his suffering; just as you may remember when you were sick, if your dear mother or aunt laid her hand on your forehead, or stroked your hair back, or smoothed your pillow, it seemed to quiet your pain, and drive it away almost entirely for the time. I think little pigs can feel this as well as little folks, and my little pet understood that I loved and would let no harm or hurt come to him that I could prevent; and that is why he did not squeal when I held him.