Evening Republican, Volume 17, Number 131, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 2 June 1913 — SLOW WITH WIDOWS [ARTICLE]

SLOW WITH WIDOWS

But Mrs. Crabtree’s Lemon Pies Were Good and She Was Coy.

By CARL JENKINS.

Of course Deacon Hartley, widower, knew that there was such a person in the Tillage of Dalton as Mrs. Crabtree, . - . / -. ... He knew that she was a -widow. He knew thgt she attended hi* church. , In fact he passed her house at least ten times a weblt ' The Deaeon knew things and would not have denied them, but he was going slow on widows. During the eight years he had been a widower four different attempts had been made to lasso him for another trip in the saddle of matrimony—two by widows and two by old maids. The Deacon was a sly old bird of sixty. He was comfortably well off. the days passed peacefully, and he wasn’t taking any risks. And the four attacks on him by the four women had made him so suspicious of the sex that If a woman stopped him on the sidewalk and asked the time of day there seemed to be a hidden motive somewhere.

The widow Crabtree had never sought to advance herself in the attention of the Deacon. If he bowed as they encountered each other at the church door she bowed. If he remarked that it was a fine morning she agreed. On one occasion he asked whether old Mrs. Thompson was dead or not, and she had replied that she guessed-not, as she had seen her out mending the stable door the afternoon before. It cannot be said that Mrs. Crabtree was either sixty years old or a sly bird, but she may have had thoughts and plans. It’s just possible that she may have picked up a hint from a remark dropped by a neighbor one day. The Deacon’s *name happened to come into the conversation, and the neighbor said: “Isn’t it queer about the Deacon’s appetite?”

“How do you mean?” "Why, he's a regular fiend for lemon pie. He wants one at every meal." "You don’t say!” “And that’s about all he does want He’s had about three housekeepers a year since his wife died, and has let them all go because they couldn’t make good lemon pies. Aunt Sally Smith is there now, but she was telling me the other day that she don’t expect to stay long. He says her lemon pies would kill a dog.” Nothing further was said, but there was a germ of a big Idea. The Deacon always went to the postofflce after supper. Sometimes he passed the widow’s and sometimes he went the other way. She took her chances the afternoon of the conversation and baked a lemon pie. Mrs. Crabtree had never boasted of her skill as a pie-maker, but when it came to a lemon pie she had a twist of the wrist that turned them out for a king. At six o’clock on that summer evening the Deacon came walking down Spruce street He had just got up from the table, and on that table had been lemon pie. Aunt Sally Smith had done her level best The Deacon had cut the pie in halves and lifted half up -in his hand and taken a bite of it and exclaimed:

“Take the darn thing off!” “But It’s a fine pie, Deacon.” “It tastes like a raw carrot!” “Mercy on me!” “Feed It to the pig!" “Deacon, you must surely have eaten green cherries and got a bad taste in the mouth. I never took such pains with a lemon pie.” “You never knew how to make one, and you are too old now to learn. By jinks, I wish I knew of a woman within a hundred miles of here that knew how to make a lemon pie—a real lemon pie!”

Aunt Sally started to the kitchen with quivering chin, and Deacon Hartley shoved back from the table and got his hat and cane and started for the postoffice. The widow Crabtree was watching for him. He came down Spruce street with a scowl on his face, and as he reached a point opposite her gate she opened the door and called: “Just a minute, please, Deacon.** "Well, what Is It?" “I am going to ask you rather a funny question. Do you like pies?’* “I don’t care for mince or apple.” “But lemon F’ “I can eat three a day If they are made right,’* said the Deacon as his mouth began to water. “I made one this afternon, and I should like your opinion of It. Will you come in and sample it?** “Bless me, yes.” That pie was on the table waiting for him. His eyes began to dance at the first look. It was a noble looking pie. It seemed to smile in his face.

There was Juice there. There was a crust there as flaky as the hark on a spring willow. At last he had found the hope of his heart. The widow cut the pie in quarters and passed him one of them. He ate this standing up, and with great gusto. Then he ate the next section sitting down and he smacked his .lips just seven times. “Have another?*’ He would. “And don’t leave this piece to be lonesome.” He didn’t It followed the other three, with many a smack and grunt, and then the Deacon stood up to any ■' L • "Widow Crabtree, 1 never tasted

“Thank you. Deacon." “I never tasted aa good." "You are so kind.” "If I could only have such pies every day—yum! yum!” On the next day Aunt Sally determined to suit the Deacon’s taste for lemon pie or break a leg. She went to no less than five of the neighbors for advice, and she was as careful as she would have been with the works of a watch, but when the good man came to sample it he shook his head and said: “There’s a leetle improvement—jest a leetle. I could tell it from dried pumpkin, but that’s about all!" "But what can be the matter with it?” asked Aunt Sally in despair. “ 'Tain’t lemon pie.” "But I put in two lemons.” “Guess they crawled out again!" “You know they couldn’t, Deacon. Doctor Sholes says that too many lemon pies will destroy the stomach.” “But I don’t want but three a day!” “It’s so funny that I can’t suit you. You must get a peculiar taste in the mouth jest before your meals. You don't chaw tobacco, do you?” "You know better.” “You don’t eat sorrel?" “Course not” “Nor pucker your mouth up with green plums’” “Humph!” “Well, I see that I may as well commit suicide first as last!” she wailed as he left the. house. .. It was down Spruce street again, and again the widow came to the door. This time she said: “Deacon, I just happened to make another lemon pie today.” “Good!” "And if you will step in—" ‘Why, of course.”

The pie was devoured and pronounced even better than the one before, if possible. He lingered for a few minutes this time, but their conversation was only friendly. He was bland and the widow was coy, just as should be. It got to be the thing for the Deacon to stop and eat a lemon pie every evening, and sometimes he remained for an hour afterwards. This can’t be done in a village without gossip. By and by, without the principals having heard a whisper, the parson of the Deacon’s church called him to the study and said: “Deacon, they say you are courting widow Crabtree?” "Haln't even thought of it, parson." “But you call there every evening." “Parson, do you like lemon pie?” was asked. "Why, yes." “Well, the widder Crabtree makes the best in the land. That’s what I stop for—-to eat one of her fresh-baked lemon pies.” The parson leaned back and thought for a minute and then said: "If I was a widower—” * "Yes?" “And I knew a nice widow—” “Yes?” “Who could make the best lemon pie in Davis county—” “Yes?” “I’d fall in love with and marry her within three months!” “And darn my old hat if I don’t do it!" And he dia, and at last accounts he was eating his three lemon pies a day, and the couple was very happy. XCopyright, 1913, by the McClur* -Newspaper Syndicate.)