WHEN THE LION ROARED At daybreak on September 26, if I remember aright, we started to drive from the old farm to Portland with eighteen live hogs.

There was a crisp frost that morning, so white that till the sun rose you might have thought there had been a slight fall of snow in the night.
We put eight of the largest hogs into one long farm wagon with high sideboards, drawn by a span of Percheron work horses, which I drove; the ten smaller hogs we put into another wagon that Willis Murch drove.

By making an early start we hoped to cover forty miles of our journey before sundown, pass the night at a tavern in the town of Gray where the old Squire was acquainted, and reach Portland the next noon.

Since we wished to avoid unloading the hogs, we took dry corn and troughs for feeding them in the wagons and buckets for fetching water to them.

The old Squire went along with us for the first fifteen miles to see us well on our way, then left us and walked to a railroad station a mile or two off the wagon road, where he took the morning train into Portland, in order to make arrangements for marketing the hogs.
Everything went well during the morning, although the hogs diffused a bad odor along the highway.