_Peabody._ Nothing to me at all; he merely smiled and nodded, and kept all his discourse for the cattle. Well, it was very odd, but in a minute every four-footed thing seemed to know the presence of their great interpreter, Æsop. _Nosebag._ How could they see him? Was the gas burning? _Tickle._ Not at all. But don’t you know it’s a rule with ghosts always to appear with their own lights? _Peabody._ All’s one for that. I tell you they all knew him: and the heaviest oxen there, though wellnigh broken-backed with fat, rose upon its four legs; and its loose velvety skin seemed to quiver and wrinkle with pleasure; and its eyes glowed with a mild and almost human light; and it bent its head in token of veneration and acknowledgment of the immortal Æsop. And the sheep--those packs of breathing wool--they softly baaed, and shook their tails; and---- _Mrs Nutts._ And the pigs?--the Prince’s pigs? _Peabody._ They couldn’t fail to support the dignity of their breeding, and made more noise to welcome even the ghost of genius than all the rest; indeed it was delightful, wonderful, to see how the great master was acknowledged. _Mrs Nutts._ And didn’t he say a syllable to you? _Peabody._ Not a word: there was better company for him. But he walked from class to class, and from pen to pen; and as he looked upon the misshapen mountains of vitality, he shook his head, and, with a mild melancholy upon his face, heaved a frequent sigh. _Nutts._ Not to be wondered at; he was always such a friend to pigs.