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Updated: May 19, 2025
Young Robin set his teeth and made another struggle, but quite in vain, for he was no match in strength for his adversary. "What! Hold still! Wo ho, kicker! Quiet, will yer!" snarled the boy. "If yer don't leave off I'll drag yer through all the worst brambles and pitch yer to my tigs. D'yer hear?" he shouted. Robin paused breathlessly, and stood gazing wildly at his enemy.
He took a handful of acorns from a dirty satchel, and held them out, Robin catching at them eagerly, putting one between his white teeth, and biting it, but only to make a face full of disgust. "It's bitter," he said. "It's not good to eat." "Makes our tigs fat," said the boy; "look at 'em." "But I'm not a pig," said Robin. "I want some bread and milk. Where can I get some?"
"None of that," he cried. "See this here stick? If you was to try to run away I should send it spinning after you, and it would break your legs and knock you down, and I could send the tigs after you, and they'd soon bring you back." Robin drew a deep breath; he felt hot, and his hands clenched as he longed to strike out at his tyrant.
But the blow broke the piece of dead wood in two, and the fierce little animals were coming on again, when a voice cried: "Hi! you! knocking our tigs about!" And a rough boy about a couple of years older than Robin rushed into the middle of the herd, kicking first at one and then at another, banging them with a long hooked stick he held, and making them run squealing in all directions.
"What are you knocking our tigs about for?" cried the boy sharply, as he stared hard at the strange visitor to the forest, his eyes looking greedily at the little fellow's purple and white jerkin and his cap with a little white feather in it. "They were coming to bite me," said Robin quickly, while it struck him as funny that the boy should knock the pigs about himself.
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