Albert Payson Terhune

“ CEPHAS was his name. He was a pig. But he was, none the less, a paladin. A porcine St. George when fate at last sounded the call for his great adventure.
Byram owned him. Byram was the man who had mortgaged his up-State farm to buy a half share in the “Trip to Mars” concession at the Pan-Universal Exposition.
Most expositions, or world's fairs, are financial failures. But most of their side-show attractions make money. And—thanks to Cephas—the Trip to Mars was one of these money-makers. ”

“ For, seldom has so much leanness been seen in conjunction with so much youth. Indeed, only the most optimistic of farmers could have hoped to sell such a rawboned and stunted baby porker at any market.
The wagon vanished around a corner, leaving the baby pig stranded and deserted; a bit of noisy jetsam on the shores of the Street of a Thousand Laughs. Byram gazed. So did every one. And a Homeric guffaw arose. The Street was for once living up to its name. The piglet retorted with an ear-racking squeal. ”

“ Such liveliness, Ophido told Crane, had now obsessed Brahma. Nor would the reptile quiet down sufficiently for transportation, or for safe handling in public, until hunger should have been appeased, and sweet reflection should bring back the snake's wonted laziness.
Pythons, Ophido prattled on carelessly, will eat nothing but live food. A half dozen kicking rabbits, a month-old kid whose horns have not yet sprouted, a lamb, or even a small dog, will serve amply for the semiyearly banquet. Or—here Ophido coughed discreetly—at a pinch a young pig might do. ”

“ Just then Byram's partner, Bud Crane, happened in,
“We aren't showing freaks,” was Bud's comment, at sight of the Little Stranger. “What good is a living skeleton to us?”
“But we're selling the dear public,” gently corrected Byram. “And I've just bought for two dollars the best barker on the Street. I'm going to tie this pig to a six-foot cord alongside of my ballyhoo bench outside there. His squeals will make every mother's son in earshot stop and listen to me.”
But Crane was dubious. Byram expounded his theory of the farm memory that lurks in the back of every one's brain. ”

“ Had Brahma been able to coil himself in his customary way, around the pig, the end might have come quickly. But Cephas' position made this impracticable. So the python merely held such hold as he had caught.
Ophido, and the lecturer, and the attendants, and every one else remained almost as moveless as the combatants; powerless to shake off the primitive spell of battle.
That was the situation when Byram—a rumor of the intended slaughter spectacle having reached him in the distant Agriculture Building—elbowed his way into the hall. ”

“ Ophido assured him. “When a python looks at the critters that's put in his cage, they just get paralyzed, all at once, with fear. Kind of hypnotized. And they don't move a muscle, but only crouch there, with their eyes popping while he gets 'em ready to eat. It's a painless death. The S. P. C. A. folks themselves says so. Some of 'em.”
An hour later the Serpent House of the Hindu Village was full to overcrowding with eagerly morbid sightseers, who had paid double rates for the dual privilege of seeing Brahma feed and Cephas die. ”

“ Brahma, the mammoth python, second largest snake in captivity, will proceed to break his eight-month fast, before your very eyes, by devouring a large and livin' pig. Please keep as quiet as you can, ladies'n gentlemen, until this wonderful exhibition is over. For pythons is very dainty about their eatin'. And if they're disturbed or distracted, why, they won't eat at all. Ready, Mr. Ophido?”
Ophido advanced from behind a screen, carrying at arm's length between his hands the struggling Cephas, whose presence had been audible throughout the entire brief “lecture.” ”

“ Whereat, the dog, which was of many breeds, checked its attack in mid-course, tucked a grubby tail between its flanks, and wheeled in flight; turning piggy's solo squeals into close harmony by the addition of a long, fear-stricken howl. ”

“ He'll live—the gaudy little scrapper.”
“Say, Byram!” hailed a freak-show manager as the rescuer bore his wounded pet, unopposed, through the excited crowd, out of the Serpent House, “I'll give you fifty dollars for that pig, for my mu-see-um. I'll bill him as the Porcine Paladin and Python Killer, and he'll be——”
“You'll buy me as easy as you'll buy Cephas,” growled Byram. “He goes back to the farm with me to-morrow, after the vet has fixed him up. And there he stays forever and ever. In clover. As Providence meant a pig to. Not ballyhooing and killing pythons for breakfast. Hey, Cephas?” ”

“ Perhaps nature did not intend that he should. Perhaps squealing for a livelihood twelve hours a day on a crowded, hot, ill-savored cement pavement, and sitting up until midnight do not tend to put flesh on little pigs. In any case, Cephas remained svelte ”