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Updated: June 12, 2025
Before eleven o'clock Mis' Mayor Uppers tapped at my back door, with two deep-dish cherry pies in a basket, and a row of her delicate, feathery sponge cakes and a jar of pineapple and pie-plant preserves "to chink in." She drew a deep breath and stood looking about the kitchen. "Throw off your things an' help, Mis' Uppers," Calliope admonished her, one hand on the cellar door.
We could have worried along without Kipling, but her deep-dish pie with whipped cream on it was a poem that won our hearts. I must be fair. Hunka-munka's cooking was all good, as to taste, and if her vision had been a bit more extended it might have been of better appearance. I suppose the steam collected on her super-thick glasses and she had to work somewhat by guess.
Not that he's one of these human sausage machines; but he has a good hearty Down East appetite and a habit of attendin' strictly to business at mealtime. But when he's finished off with a section of deep-dish apple pie and a big cup of coffee he sighs satisfied, unhooks the napkin, lights up a perfecto I've ordered for him, and resumes where he left off. "It's a heap of money ain't it?" says he.
But his hostess wasn't capable of an answering smile; she gazed despairingly, tragically, at the desecrated confection. "I took such pains with it," she almost wailed. "It was a deep-dish peach pie I made it specially for Mr. MacGill." "Well, I'm not particularly fond of peach pie, anyway," said the minister, meaning to be soothing. "Oh, but I know you ARE! Mrs.
I do not know what she said to him, at last, but there came a day when he vanished from our sight and knowledge, and the kitchen after dinner was silent. I suppose the change was too much for Hunka-munka, for she saddened and lost vigor. Her deep-dish pies became savorless, the whipped cream smeary and sad of taste.
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