The Boar-Pig (adapted), Saki
The Boar-Pig (adapted)
Saki
Category: Short Stories
Genres: Humor,Satire
Level 3.380:12 h4.0 mb
Mrs. Stossen and her daughter are determined to attend the most important garden party of the season—even though they haven’t been invited. Sneaking in through a back entrance, they think their plan is perfect—until they run into trouble. A locked door and a huge boar-pig named Tarquin block their way. This is an adapted version of the story, simplified to a 3rd grade (A2) reading level so English learners can enjoy this witty and mischievous classic.

The Boar-Pig

[adapted]

by
Saki

The Boar-Pig (adapted)

“There is a back way onto the lawn,” said Mrs. Philidore Stossen to her daughter. “We can go through a small grass paddock, then into a walled fruit garden full of gooseberry bushes. I explored the whole place last year when the family was away. There is a door from the fruit garden that leads into a shrubbery. Once we step out from there, we can mix with the guests as if we arrived through the front entrance. It is much safer than going in through the main door and risking an awkward meeting with the hostess—especially when she hasn’t invited us.”

“Isn’t that a lot of trouble just to get into a garden party?”

“For a normal garden party, yes. But for the most important garden party of the season, definitely not! Everyone important in the county has been invited to meet the Princess—except us. It would be much harder to explain why we weren’t there than to just sneak in another way. I spoke to Mrs. Cuvering on the road yesterday and made sure to mention the Princess. If she didn’t take the hint and send me an invitation, that’s not my fault, is it? Now, here we are—just cross the grass and go through that little gate into the garden.”

Mrs. Stossen and her daughter, dressed perfectly for an important county garden party, walked gracefully through the narrow grass paddock and the gooseberry garden. They moved like grand royal barges sailing through a quiet country stream.

However, mixed with their elegance was a sense of urgency, as if searchlights might suddenly catch them. And, in fact, they were being watched.

Matilda Cuvering, a sharp-eyed thirteen-year-old, had been sitting high up in a medlar tree. From her perfect view, she had seen everything and knew exactly where the plan would fail.

“They’ll find the door locked, and they’ll have to go back the way they came,” she thought. “That’s what they get for sneaking in instead of using the proper entrance. What a shame Tarquin Superbus isn’t loose in the paddock. Since everyone else is having fun, I don’t see why Tarquin shouldn’t have an afternoon out too.”

Matilda was at an age where thoughts quickly turned into actions. She slid down from the medlar tree, and by the time she climbed back up, Tarquin, the huge white Yorkshire boar-pig, had been freed from his pen and now had the entire paddock to roam.

Meanwhile, the Stossen ladies, frustrated after discovering the locked door, were forced to turn back. Just as they reached the gate leading back to the gooseberry garden, they suddenly stopped—because Tarquin was waiting for them.

“What an awful-looking animal,” exclaimed Mrs. Stossen. “It wasn’t here when we came in.”

“Well, it’s here now,” said her daughter. “What are we going to do? I wish we had never come.”

The boar-pig had moved closer to the gate, wanting to inspect the intruders more closely. He stood chewing his jaws and blinking his small red eyes in a way that was clearly meant to be intimidating—and for the Stossens, it certainly worked.

“Shoo! Hish! Hish! Shoo!” the ladies shouted together.

“If they think they can scare him away by listing the kings of Israel and Judah, they’re going to be disappointed,” Matilda commented from her seat in the medlar tree. Hearing the unexpected voice, Mrs. Stossen suddenly noticed Matilda for the first time. A moment ago, she would have been unhappy to learn that the garden was not as empty as it seemed. But now, she felt relieved to have someone else there.

“Little girl, can you find someone to chase away—” she started to say hopefully.

“Comment? Comprends pas,” Matilda answered, pretending not to understand.

“Oh, are you French? Êtes-vous française?” asked Mrs. Stossen.

“Pas du tout. ‘Suis anglaise,” Matilda replied. “Not at all. I’m English.”

“Then why not speak English? I want to know if—”

“Let me explain. Permettez-moi expliquer,” said Matilda. “You see, I’m in trouble right now. I’m staying with my aunt, and she told me I had to behave very well today because lots of people were coming for a garden party. She also told me to act like Claude—that’s my young cousin, who never does anything wrong (except by accident) and is always very sorry when he does. But at lunch, they thought I ate too much raspberry trifle. They said Claude never eats too much raspberry trifle. Well, Claude always takes a nap for half an hour after lunch because he is told to. So, I waited until he was asleep, tied his hands, and force-fed him a whole bucket of raspberry trifle that they were saving for the party. A lot of it got on his sailor suit, some of it spilled on the bed, but a good amount went down his throat. Now they can’t say anymore that Claude has never eaten too much raspberry trifle. That is why I was not allowed to go to the garden party. And, as an extra punishment, I have to speak only French all afternoon. I had to tell you all this in English because I don’t know the French words for things like ‘force-feeding’. Of course, I could have made them up, but if I had said nourriture obligatoire, you wouldn’t have understood what I meant. But now, we speak French. Mais maintenant, nous parlons français.”

“Oh, very well, très bien,” said Mrs. Stossen, though she was not happy about it. When she was nervous, her French was even worse than usual.

“Over there, on the other side of the gate, is a pig—”

“A pig? Oh, how adorable! Un petit charmant!” cried Matilda excitedly.

“No, no! Not at all small, and not at all adorable. It is a ferocious beast—”

“Une bête,” Matilda corrected her. “A pig is masculine as long as you call it a pig, but if you get angry and call it a ferocious beast, it suddenly becomes feminine. French is a terribly confusing language!”

“For goodness’ sake, let’s just speak English then,” said Mrs. Stossen. “Is there any other way out of this garden, besides going through the paddock where the pig is?”

“I always climb over the wall using the plum tree,” said Matilda.

“Dressed like this, we could hardly do that,” said Mrs. Stossen. It was hard to imagine her doing it in any outfit.

“Do you think you could go and find someone to chase the pig away?” asked Miss Stossen.

“I promised my aunt I would stay here until five o’clock,” said Matilda. “It’s not even four yet.”

“I’m sure that, under these circumstances, your aunt would allow—”

“My conscience would not allow it,” Matilda said firmly, with a cold and serious expression.

“We can’t stay here until five o’clock!” exclaimed Mrs. Stossen, growing more frustrated.

“Shall I recite something to help pass the time?” Matilda asked politely. “‘Belinda, the Little Breadwinner’ is my best performance. Or, if you prefer, I could do something in French. The only thing I really know is Henri Quatre’s speech to his soldiers.”

“If you go and find someone to chase that animal away, I will give you money to buy yourself a nice present,” said Mrs. Stossen.

Matilda climbed down a little from the medlar tree.

“That is the most useful idea you’ve had so far for getting out of the garden,” she said cheerfully. “Claude and I are collecting money for the Children’s Fresh Air Fund, and we’re competing to see who can collect the most.”

“I would be very happy to give half a crown, very happy indeed,” said Mrs. Stossen, digging deep into a small bag that was part of her outfit.

Matilda ignored the offer and continued, “Claude is way ahead of me right now. You see, he’s only eleven and has golden hair—those are big advantages when collecting money. Just the other day, a Russian lady gave him ten shillings. Russians are much better at giving than we are. I think Claude will get at least twenty-five shillings today. He has no competition, and after the raspberry trifle incident, he can easily act pale and fragile, like he’s not long for this world. Yes, by now, he’s probably a full two pounds ahead of me.”

With a lot of searching through their belongings and many murmurs of regret, the trapped ladies managed to find seven shillings and sixpence between them.

“I’m afraid this is all we have,” said Mrs. Stossen.

Matilda showed no interest in coming down from the tree or accepting their offer.

“I could not go against my conscience for anything less than ten shillings,” she said firmly.

Mother and daughter muttered angrily under their breath. The word “beast” was heard more than once, and it probably was not about Tarquin this time.

“I found another half-crown,” said Mrs. Stossen, her voice shaking with frustration. “Here you are. Now, please find someone quickly.”

Matilda slid down from the tree, took the money, and then picked up a handful of overripe medlars from the grass. Then, she climbed over the gate, turned toward Tarquin, and spoke sweetly to him.

“Come on, Tarquin, my dear old boy. You know you can’t resist medlars when they’re nice and soft.”

Tarquin couldn’t resist. By throwing the soft fruit in front of him one at a time, Matilda led him back to his pen, while the freed ladies rushed across the paddock.

“Well, I never! That little trickster!” exclaimed Mrs. Stossen once they were safely back on the main road. “The pig wasn’t even dangerous! And as for the ten shillings, I don’t believe the Fresh Air Fund will get a single penny of it!”

But there, she was being too harsh. If you look at the records of the fund, you will find this entry:

“Collected by Miss Matilda Cuvering, 2s. 6d.”