Dear Miss Blue,

This very day, as I was tramping about in the Village, I wandered into my favorite butcher shop. You might remember the place, I've told you about it many times, the one with sawdust covering the wooden floors. Well, strangely enough, Miss Blue, there, among the slabs of ice and large red and orange apples, lay the pig! My friend, the butcher, explained that this was no ordinary pig, if that was what I was thinking. He went on to say these words: This is a Wild Russian Pig. Can you believe it, Miss Blue? Is this not a serendipitous moment? Your letter describing the summer home in the woods outside St. Petersburg and the Wild Russian Pig there in the showcase of my butcher shop. I was, and continue to be, astounded and overwhelmed at the fateful ways of the world!

With no Louise on hand, I decided to have the butcher make up a pound of sausage, 3 lbs of bacon and one 3-lb roast, having to return on the morrow for the complete package. Please advise Louise, will you? She might want me to send her some of the sausage and bacon for a few meals.

Write and tell me more about your days there in the woods. Give my love to Melba, Fanny, and Louise and Linguini.

Love from Pearl

Sadness of the Poultry, so true. They need insects and dandelions and sardine cans filled with fresh Kentucky well water. That is true, Pearl says.