The Portland daily press., 1872-01-01
A Pie Factory.

A reporter of the New York Times gives
ry:
Walking along one of the avenues there
was pleasant odor. 1t recalled the long-lost
ambrosial fragrance which once greeted our
youthful senses, long, long ago. Like a
sleutt-hound on trail we instinctively fol-
lowed our nose. If it was not the smell of
baked PIES, what was it? With faculties
strained to the utmost, amid a din and clat-
ter of chopping and pounding, there came a
rattle of tin pans, all proceeding from large
building. In front of it stood innumerable
wagons and vans, blocking the street, and
boys and men with pies in baskets, boxes and
trays were rushing in and out in the most de-
lirious way, as if life depended upon their Sc
curing given quantity of pies.
''Why," we asked OF a driver, why DO you
have two horses to one pie-wagonp' We
could understand two horses to load of pay
ing stones, but not for load of pies.
"Why, you see," said the driver, ga pie The
said poy) is kind of delicate thing, and has
got to be kept faky. The heft of pie is two
and a half pounds, and as we carry 500 of
them, and they is got to be carried along easy,
a steady wagon with no shake is the thing.
We loads up mostly with 500, but as we are
driven most mad just now, we piles in all the
pies the horses can pull
"You don't mean to say that all those wag-
ons full of pies are sold in day, do you?
we inquired.
give hundred-eight hundred-to load,
amt no circumstance. I'll be back here to-
day two or three times for more. Why, it
amt a mouthful-hardly bite"
''What kind are the most in demandr'
s'They is running desperut on minces just
now, and is hot on cranberries. Jim, what's
your load," he inquired of another driver.
''Three hundred minces, one hundred ap-
Piles, and the rest of the load is pumpkins
and cranberries. Bless me, if there isn't one
street Pm almost ateered to go to, seein I've
had to dissapint 'em three days hand running
on minces. 1t don't do to fool with women
folks just now who has made up their minds
to have mince pies for their Christmas din
ners."
Without much trouble we made our en-
trance into the pie factory. Pies! We new
er saw so many in our life. Pies were stack
ed up fifty deep, all around you higher than
your head. Pies were as walls-pes were
coming and going all the time. There whiz-
zed a steam engine, turning machinery adapt
ed to pie-making, and there, with their
mouths wide open, their capacious maws
cram full of pies, the glare OF the furnace
throwing its ruddy glare on the golden pies,
acres of pies were getting baked. Men were
rolling the pie crust into sheets, pricking and
marking them with an H., flor Harry, evil
dently,) like in the-Mother Goose story,
while scores Of women were ladleing out good
| things and cramming apples in the pies.
| There stood hogsheads of sugar-one man
| distributing it around in the most reckless
way with shovel. On one side hissed and
| sputtered huge watts, with cranberries getting
| cooked by steam. Was it possible that all the
men, women, and children in the world could
eat that stack of pumpkins piled up in the
corner there? What is that awful looking
machine, grinding aud rumbling away? 1t is
| the mince-meat-maker, the crowning master
| piece of the whole.
''What?" we asked, 'are all those watts
full of mince-meat ?"
eyes," replied the proprietor, ''and we are
dreadfully short, and can hardly keep up with
the demand. That poor machine is worked
beyond itslcapacity."
''How many pies do you turn out in
week?' we asked, aghast.