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While I was suffering from it, I wrote some sadly desponding poems, and a theological essay which took a very melancholy view of creation. When I got better I labelled them all "Pie-crust," and laid them by as scarecrows and solemn warnings.
My pleasure in these led to my being passed on to a row of "antique" shops filled with relics of the days of whaling and also with genuine pie-crust tables, genuine flint-lock muskets, genuine Liverpool pitchers. I coveted especially old-time engravings of the whalers, and was told at Hatchardson's book-store on the main street others could be found in profusion.
The streamers dig this mud up and wash it through sieves, and so they get the tin. There was enough of it, my father said, in Luxulyan Couse to keep a captain and twelve men in good wages and pay for a feast once a year at the Rising Sun Public House. The supper took place some time in the week before Christmas, and they called it Pie-crust Night, though I can't tell you why.
It did not take long, for they washed it down with sips of milk, and ate as fast as possible, glancing round all the while to see if the queer dog was coming again. "There! now I'd like to see any one take my cake away," said Bab, defiantly crunching her half of the pie-crust B. "Or mine either," coughed Betty, choking over a raisin that wouldn't go down in a hurry.
And then, suppose you were to die first, Winifred, why I should have to starve, just for want of a little Winifred flavour in the pie-crust. Now I don't want to starve, and you sha'n't cook. 'Oh, Hal, you dear, dear fellow! shrieked Winifred, in an ecstasy of delight at this nonsense.
It was not hard; for when she was going to make a mistake a spark flew out of the fire and burnt her in time to remind her to look at the receipt, which was a sheet of gingerbread in a frame of pie-crust hung up before her, with the directions written while it was soft and baked in.
She was a good-natured, sweet-tempered little puss, most times, and possessed of a very sunny disposition. "Why did she salt her pie-crust with tears, then?" I hear you ask. Ah, "Why?" And wait till I tell you. The most curious part of it all was that it was a Thanksgiving crust. There, now. The worst is out.
"There's one thing about it, we'll have some fun out of her, for she's going to stay to lunch, and she's so funny at the table. She minces so, and she never refuses anything to eat without telling just why she doesn't like it. One time, mamma offered her some pie, and she said, 'Oh, my, no! I never eat it. Pie-crust is grease packed in flour. I'm so glad you are here to-day."
But I do not think I will ever take to cooking for a permanence; broiling and frying are all right, and making pie-crust is rather pleasant; but saucepans and kettles blister your hands. There is a charm in making a stew, to the unaccustomed cook, from the excitement of wondering what the result will be, and whether any flavour save that of onions will survive the competition in the mixture.
'Where is the rest? asked the gentleman. 'Have you spent it? 'Yes. 'And nothing to show for it? Nothing? and the gentleman looked at the boy more narrowly. 'Nothing, said he again, 'except a few crumbs of pie-crust on your waistcoat? Oh, Geoffrey! There was a short silence, and the boy colored a good deal; at last he said, 'It was my own money.
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