Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 193, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 16 August 1915 — LINDA MAXES PIES [ARTICLE]

LINDA MAXES PIES

By CECIL THOMAS.

In the farmhouse kitchen Linda Barnard rolled out pie crust and 3ang like a bird at the top of her sweet soprano voice. “Can she make a cherry pie, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?” and so on through several verses in which were rehearsed the domestic ■virtues of Billy’s fiancee. And Linda was making cherry pies herself, but her blithe song was not addressed to any especial auditor. She sang because she was happy. Upstairs in the largest front chamber sat the first boarder of the season. He was sitting at a table drawn up to the window, and he was frowning over the pile of papers before him. He was not bothered over the work—that was an everrecurring Joy—but it was Linda’s frequently, reiterated vocal query that irritated him.

“For heaven’s sake, can’t a fellow get away from a racket?” he peeved. “Here I am isolated in Green Center because my apartment was made hideous with undesirable noises—a mechanical piano overhead, a phonograph on one side and a comet on the other —and here the maid of all work chirps like a canary all day lonfe! But her voice isn’t half bad,” he admitted grudgingly. “Can she make a cherry pie, Billy Boy?” Billy Wainright put his hsad out of the open window. “Take it from me she can make a cherry pie, Melissa!” he called down at the gingham-clad figure working the pump handle. “Ring off!” He gasped as the sunbonnet dropped back and a bewitching face was upturned to his.

"My name is not Melissa,” she said sweetly. “Who is Melissa?" Billy’s face was crimson, but his chagrin added to his temper. “I thought it was the cook,” he said snappishly. “Isn’t that funny?” gurgled Linda. “Why, I’m the cook.” “You?” he gasped. She nodded. “I’m sorry you don’t like cherry pie,” she added dolefully. “But —but I do like it,” he stammered. “It’s my favorite pie—that and lemon meringue." “You like lemon meringue pie, too? I’ll remember that —and rice pudding?”

“I loath it!” “Prune pie?” “Beastly.” . “I’m so glad to know what you like,” Linda smiled wickedly as she went into the house with a great pitcher of water. “Funny I never saw her before — certainly she wasn’t around last night when I came,” mused Billy as he went back to his work. But the papers had lost their charm. Linda’s charming face intervened and he found himself listening for the sound of her voice. But the Billy song was silent; presently there fluted up through the window the rich strains of a bird song—a mellow, throaty warble that one associated with southern fields and the call of the mocking bird. “I wonder—” gasped Billy, going inquisitively to the window that overlooked the side porch where the pump stood.

He recognized old Mr. Barnard before the kitchen door with a basket of new-laid eggs from the barn. The whistling stopped abruptly. “Whistling gals. and crowing hens never come to any good ends!” laughed the old man through the screen door.

“You haven’t any crowing hens on the farm, Uncle Ben,” said the girl merrily, "or you wouldn’t be bringing in that evidence of their industry.” “Three dozen and three,” counted Uncle Ben, now inside the kitchen. “I hope you’re giving Mr. Wainright all the eggs he wants.” “Certainly, dear,” Billy heard her answer. “Isn’t it odd, Uncle Benf, he doesn’t like cherry or lemon meringue pie and he adores rice pudding?” She laughed gleefully. Billy shook his fist. “Well,” yawned Uncle Ben “if milk puddings satisfy him, all right—there’s plenty of milk and eggs on the place—but, for goodness sake, keep the pies a-going, Linda. Um-um! Do I smell cherry pie?” “You surely do!”-she cried gayly. Hurry up, Uncle Ben, dinner’s most ready.” Billy went back to his table frowning. “If there’s cherry pie in the place, I’ll have some!” he muttered darkly. Presently came the resonant clang, of the dinner bell wielded by Linda’s strong, young arm.

Billy, scrubbed and brushed to healthy, wholesome perfection, in his gray flannels, found a small round table set for one in the middle of the big dining room. It was an oasis in the midst of a desert waste of ragcarpeted floor. It is very lonely, indeed, to be the first boarder. But Billy admitted to himself that he had yearned for solitude when he chose Green Center in which to complete his story. Linda waited upon the table, demure in white frilled apron, with her bonny brown hair breaking rebellious waves over her cars. It was a well-cooked meal, and it was daintily served. Bill enjoyed •very crumb of it until Linda’s voice

cooed in his ear, “Will you have rice pudding or prune pie, Mr. Wainright?” Billy looked up defiantly. "If you please,” be said decidedly, ‘Til take a piece of cherry pie!” “Pie?” repeated Linda. "Yes, sir,” and she tripped away. Billy’s eyes were dreaming over the roses in the garden when suddenly he dropped his glance to his plate. Before him were a cup of coffee and a piece of prune pie! It was a rather delectable looking piece of pie and the top was piled with whipped cream. Billy’s face went red; his eyes flashed angrily. Then a smile appeared at the corners of his well-cut lips. He tasted the pie. It was good —served in this fashion prune pie became a toothsome feast. Billy ate it all and then waited for Linda to reappear. There was no bell on the table and he must perforce wait patiently until she came again. When she came and saw Billy’s empty plate he surprised a puzzled gleam in her eyes. ’ "Please, may I have another piece of pie?” he pleaded. "I never tasted prune pie before. It’s simply great!" “I’m like it,” fibbed Linda, as she sped away to bring him a second piece. After that, as she flew about the kitchen, her pretty eyes flashed dangerously. “I wonder if he really liked that pie or if he ate it to tease me,” she thought. “Well, he won’t get one crumb of cherry pie while I’m here. How cross he was this morning when I sang! How surprised he was when I didn’t prove to be a servant! He called me Melissa. I suppose he thinks it’s clever to call all country girls ‘Melissa’ or ‘Hannah.’ ” After dinner, Billy tried to go on with his work, but he found it difficult. Try as he would that tantalizing, “Can she make a cherry pie?” kept obtruding itself and he could not banish it. Finally, he brushed his papers into a drawer and went out into the open. Half an hour later he had startled a blue heron from'the rushes down at the brook and was watching its awkward flight into the blue. “Green Center isn’t half bad," he admitted, “but I wish its presiding divinity were a trifle more agreeable to a lone chap like myself. Wasn’t she hateful about the cherry pie, though? I’ll bet it was good stuff if it was anything like-the prune pie. Ah! That was a dream!”

Later he strolled slowly toward the house. Nightfall was at hand, but the insistent “Can efce make a cherry pie?” was still ringing mockingly in his ears. Billy passed the kitchen, but saw nothing of Linda. He saw something else, however, that interested him not a little. The pantry window was open —there was a sliding shelf and on that shelf in plain relief was three-quar-ters of a luscious cherry pie! Beside the pie was a silver knife, as if to make the temptation complete. One brief moment he paused, and then—he fell. With a swift movement he captured the pie and the knife and bore his booty In triumph to a rustio bench under a nearby apple tree. Uncle Ben, on his homeward way, saw him thus engaged paused and eyed him humorously: “Can she make a cherry pie, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?” he quavered in a cracked voice.

"She sure can,” returned Billy unblushingly, but never for a moment halting in his work of demolition. Uncle Ben trudged on laughing, into the house, and presently Linda appeared in the kitchen door, the supper bell jingling in her hand. Billy was disposing of the last segment of the pie when she discovered him and stood motionless regarding him with an expression which was far from hostile.

Billy, his lips stained cherry red, his face perceptibly flushed, returned her gaze defiantly. Little half-re-pressed smiles crinkled her face, but presently she broke into a cascade of laughter. “I don’t suppose you will want any supper after this,” she choked at last.

“Never better prepared for a square meal in my life, he declared with amazing bravado. “But I don’t want to eat it in solitary grandeur. If someone doesn’t come in and eat at the table with me I’ll go out into that lit tie dining room with you and Uncle Ben.”

“Really!” she returned. “You seem to have what our old teacher used to call the gregarious Instinct rather largely developed.” “I’m lonely,” he confessed, “and I’m fond of cherry pie.” "I see,” said Linda, contritely. “Uncle Ben and Aunt Hannah and I usually take our meals in the little dining room when there are boarders in the house. Perhaps you will join us tonight?”

“Thank you, If I may,” he said sumbly. After supper, as they sat on the veranda, Wainright spoke again of the pie.

“I’m afraid, Miss Barnard,” he said, that it will be a hard job for me to convince you of my respectability after that pie-eating episode.” Linda flushed charmingly. • **•*•*

It was not until a year or so after her marriage that Mrs. Linda Wainright confessed to her husband that she had put that fateful cherry pie in the window of the farmhouse pantry with the hope that the new summer boarder would help himself to it.