Democratic Sentinel, Volume 12, Number 45, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 30 November 1888 — A PIECE OF PUMPKIN PIE. [ARTICLE]

A PIECE OF PUMPKIN PIE.

A Thanksgiving Story.

BY SIDNEY KNOX.

In a down-town restaurant in Chicago John Gilmore sat at dinner. With a very discontented expression of countenance he was “jabbing” with his fork a piece of pumpkin pie which he had just ordered, seemingly determined that that particular piece should never know another victim. His thoughts ran somewhat on this wise: “Call that pumpkin pie! A yel- ! low skin over a piece of soggy dough!” Then, Ihrough the association of ideas, JiisAfercmghts turned to that home in Omo where his mother, at this season of the year, always served daily the luscious pie, rich as new milk, fresh eggs and golden pumpkin could make it. But that home was broken up, and all its inmates scattered; none of the numerous kinfolk near the old place but Aunt Sally Penrose, while he, after Jen years of struggle in this modern Babylon—Chicago—at the age of thirty, was only just beginning to catch a ,glimpse of the way to fortune; famelie never expected, Then his mind rejverted to the stabbed pie, and he said .to himself, for he never condescended !to scold waiters about things for which Ithey were not responsible, being a gentleman: “I can’t eat this; it’s more |than human stomach can endure. I believe I will go back to Brookville and Isee the old place and dear old Aunt Hally. Next week is Thanksgiving, land I can manage to get oft' two or .three days,/ I’ll never marry until I ' >citn find a woman who can make pumpr Skin pies as my mother could.” With a final critical glance at the offending food, he took his hat and departed. That evening he wrote to his iaunt telling her of his intended visit, ;and in due time received a reply so [kind and cordial that it warmed his irather lonely heart and touched his for not having gone before. * * * * *

v Thanksgiving morning John Gilmore !waa wakened by the unwonted sound of crowing cocks and lowing cows. For a few moments he was dazed, then he remembered that the night before he had reached Brookville, had been met at the station uncle James and taken to the, farm on the edge of the little village, had sat late talking to his aunt, and Anally, when suugly onseonsed between the white sheets, had fallen into such a dreamless sleep as he had not known in years. After breakfast Aunt Sally said: "John, it’s union service to-day, and will be held in the Methodist Church. Our preacher will preach— the Presbyterian. You’ll go, won’t you?” John hesitated, and then said, “Yes.” He had some thought of taking a long walk through the leafless wood, where in boyhood he had known every nook and corner. The day was so bright, the air so crisp, that it was a great piece of self-denial to give it up. But, as he had to stay till the fast express Sunday night, he concluded to spend an orthodox Thanksgiving preaching, dinner, and all. He hadn't heard any old-fashione'd preaching lately. To be sure, he had every Sunday heard Pi'olessor Rope discuss ilia questions, political and secular, which had interested the public during the preceding week, but, barring the text, it bora very little relation to its antiquated relative, the “gospal sermon.” Arrived at the church, he found himself seated well up in front. His aunt bowed and smiled to many; he saw no familiar face. His manhood had been employed in the great struggle for foothold, so that his old friends had been dropped, and he had not formed many new acquaintances. In this atmosphere of homely, cheery friendliness lie lelt like an intruder. Just back of the preacher was seated the choir, coml>osed of the members of all the different churches in the village, He was pleased with the sensation of interest the pretty, fresh faces of the girls gave him. He joined in the singing of “Coronation” and other old hymns, and listened to the sermon, apparently as interested as any one there. It was a simple effort, suited to the occasion and the hearers, but, by its absence of 'pretension, it refreshed”him. At tlje close a, general hand-shaking was indulged in ; and he was introduced to many persons Who had known, his father and mother. “John,” said Aunt Sallyq “it’s our turn this year to go to, Mrs. Grav’s to lujiya-. Jf f take year about”’ the

Grays, Steels, and our folks: so, if you will, you may just walk over with the other young folks through the meadow and we will take Uncle Billy Gregg home in your place. I was so flurried last night I forgot to tell you.” John, when he found it was an established custom, made no demur, but said: “Certainly, aunt. I would be delighted to walk through the meadow, but you must introduce me to my companions. I don't know them, even by sight.” “To be sure yon don't!” exclaimed Aunt Sally. “Ruth, lluth,” she called, and a nice, quiet-looking girl stepped forward and said, holding oat her hand: “How do you do, Aunt Sally? You are going over to dinner, aren't you? Mother is expecting you.” “Oh, yes; but here, I want to introduce you to my nephew, John Gilmore. John, this is llulh Gray. It is to her house we are going,” she explained to him; “she will take care of you, and make you acquainted with the other young folks.” John, who was unaccustomed to the society of young ladies, instead of m iking complimentary speeches about her guardianship, bowed gravely, and walked by her side across the road to the big gate which led into the meadow. He opened it and let her through, and found himself, with her, following a small procession, which proved to he the “other young folks.” lluth at first felt sliy of him, as he was a city man, hut soon concluded he was bashful; and then, being naturally kind-hearted, set herself to entertaining him by talking of the sermon, the weather, and other commonplace topics, until they reached the old-fashioned farm-house. The dinner was a brave affair. The guests, some twen'y or thirty, sat at one long table, graced with turkey, of course, cranberry sauce, potatoes, white and light as a snow-mound, half a dozen kin Is of vegetables, stands of plumy celery, luscious jelly, preserves of every kind, and cakes; in fact, all the prodigal, profusion of a country Thanksgiving dinner. To John the crowning glory was a goodly array of pumpkin pies which graced the sideboard. Ruth, with two of her young friends, waited on them all, handing the coffee, heaping the plates, and cutting the pie. This last operation John watched with interest, for pumpkin pie cannot be out properly by a careless hand. Ruth cut it with two quick strokes, leaving a clean edge of delicious custard and an unbroken crust. After the repast John, \yhose reserve had thawed under the influence of flip good things of which he had partaken, said to Mrs. Gray: “You must let me thank you for that delicious pumpkin pie. It was as good as my mother’s, and that is the highest praise I could bestow.”

.. Mrs. Gray looked pleased and said : ‘*l’m glad you liked it. Ruth made it; she was up at five o’clock so as to have them fresh. She says if there is anything detestable it is a pumpkin pie with crust soaked till it is soggy.” The older folks had assembled in the parlor, but the younger people who had eaten remained in the dining-room for the fun of waiting on the “waiters,” which John soon discovered, and thought he would like to try. He found his wav back, and was soon busy filling the plate of Ruth, whom he had elected to serve, so full that she laughed and said: “Mr. Gilmore, you must have a great opinion of my powers of digestion.” He looked a little teased as he contemplated the pyramid lie had just constructed, took the vacant seat at her side and said to her: “I thought you might have an appetite; making pies at six o’clock in the morning is hungry work.” “Did mother tell you that?” she asked:

“No; I asked her, in a manner.” “I had my breakfast afterwards,” said Ruth, “but you may bring me a piece o: pie now, if you please.” He went to the sideboard to do her bidding. As ill luck would have it, there was none cut, so he took the knife in liis unskillful hand and held fast to the plate, but not to the pie, which went slipping to the fiorr spattering him well in its descent. Ruth, who had been watching him, saw the mishap, which none of the others had noticed, came quickly to the rescue, and soon had the pie deftly cleaned up and in the kitchen, where she indulged in the laugh, which her po iteness and sympathy for his discomfiture forbade, and no one the wiser.

“You miv be a good lawyer, but you are a poor butler,” remarked Rutli. * The rest of the afternoon was spent in walking about the fields, eat ng nuts and drinking cider around the fire. But the best part of the day was the evening, for it was the custom of these good people to stay till ten o’clock. The long kitchen was cleared, and every one, old and young, played games—“ Puss in the Corner,” “Blind Man’s Butt',” and such like. Ruth was blindfolded. Such scampering and giggling, as she dashed wildly around the room! With arms uplifted, she brought them down on the shoulders of John, who, to tell the truth, made no great effort to escape. With on 9 hand she clasped his heck affectionately, while the other slid down his nose till it struck his mustache. This sbttled thd question of his identity, as he was the only person present so adorned. With her hand still unconsciously about his neck, she took the* bandage off her while he, with an audacity new to him, said, softly, “A delightful situation, if it could only last longer.” Ruth, becoming conscious of it, blushed brightly and withdrew her hand. ,“Tu?udaround; you are caught; have to be ‘it,’ ” quoth Ruth.

“Yes, and by you,” he softly answered, as he tuned to have the handkerchief b mnd over his eyes, enjoying the sensation of making a pretty girl blush, and his own uewly acquired boldness. The nex( day, as in duty bound, John called on his lata hostess, found Ruth at home, and persuaded her to walk with him through the leafless woods, which, to a true lover of nature, are almost as pleasurable as in their early loafing. He showed her where he had played in his boyhood, told her oj liis childish pranks, and something of his present mode of life. In the inter change of confidences she told him that she taught in the little white school lious' at the forks of the Madisonvill * road: of her experiences at Norm il School, and of her home life. In tiiat one short afternoon they learned more of each other’s tastes and habits thai; they could have done in a dozen casual meetings. On their return John had obtained Ruth’s premise to go with him to the old red bridge, the scene of many p former fishing bout. On Sunday John dutifully went to. church, where he saw Ruth in the choir and, as it sat just back of the preacher, he got great credit for paying strict attention to the sermon. At the close he walked again with heo through the meadow, and, c*n parting at her own door, thus addressed her: “Who would think we met for the first time only three days ago? It seems to me I’ve known you a year.” “And I you,” rejoined Ruth, holding out her hand in parting. “As you’ll not come in—good-by.” If kissing hands had not been so long obsolete that hand would have received a goodly number, but John contented himself with a squeeze, painful to Ruth,, hut borne heroically. That night, aa the midnight train whistled at the station, one sweet country maiden said to herself: “I wonder if I will ever see him again. ” And then, having formed this good habit, fell soundly asleep among her pillows. And John, the long night through, made plans to see her again, till the train drew into the station at Chicago, and business replaced sentiment.

A few days later Ruth received by mail a letter and small package. The package proved to be a book; the letter, an apology for sending the former. John wrote: “I saw r this little look, and the poem where the leaf is turned dowii reminded me so strongly of our delightful walks together that I ventured to send it. Will you assure me of your forgiveness by one line, telling me you received it ?” The poem was Lucy Larcom’s “ November.” The first verse of it brought smilqip and blushes to Ruth's face:

"Who said Novemhar’s face was grim? Who said her voice was h ivdh and sad ? 1 heard her sing iii wood-paths dim, I mot hor on the shore, so glad, so smiling, I could kiss her feet! There never was a uicnth so sweet.” The letter of |j)rgiveness was duly sent, daintily seated with wax showing the “Forget me not,” above the initials “R. G.” This injunction John followed sc faithfully that the mail at Brookville increased to such an extent that it has hopes of becoming a fourtli-class office. Before the “frost was on the punkin” the next year Ruth was mistress of a cozy flat in Chicago, and John the head of that same establishment.