Freeland tribune. (Freeland, Pa.) 1888-1921, 1892-11-24
THAT PUMPKIN PIE.


was 'jabbing" with his fork piece of
pumpkin pie which he had just ordered,
seemingly determined that that particular
piece should never know another victim.
His thoughts ran somewhat on this wise:
Call that pumpkin piel A yellow skin
over piece of soggy doughr' Then,
through the association of ideas, his
thoughts turned to that home in Ohio
'here his mother, at this season of the year,
always served daily the luscious pie, rich
as new milk, fresh eggs and golden pump
kin could make it.
But that home was broken up, and all
its inmates scattered; none of the numer-
GUS kinfolk near the old place but Aunt
Sally Penrose, while he, after ten years of
at the age of thirty, was only just begin
ming to catch glimpse of the way to for
tune. Fame he never expected. Then his
mind reverted to the stabbed pie, and he
said to himself, for he never condescended
to scold walters about things for which
they were not responsible, being a gentle
man: 81 can't eat this: it's more than hu-
man stomach can endure | believe | will
go back to Brookvile and see the old place
and dear old Aunt Sally. Next week is
Thanksgiving, and can manage to get off
two or three days. I'll never marry
until can find woman who can make
pumpkin pies as my mother could"
With final critical glance at the Of
Tending food, he took his hat and departed.
That evening he wrote to his aunt telling
her of his intended visit, and in due time
received reply so kind and cordial that it
warmed his rather lonely heart and touched
his conscience for not having gone before.
Thanksgiving morning John Gilmore
was awakened by the unwonted sound of
growing cocks and lowing cows. For IL few
moments he was dazed; then he remem-
bered that the night before he had reached
Brookville, had been met at the station by
his uncle James and taken to the farm on
the edge of the little VILLAGE, had sat late
talking to his aunt, and, finally, when
snugly ensconsed between the white sheets,
had fallen into such dreamless sleep as
he had not known in years.
After breakfast Aunt Sally said: "John,
it's union service today, and will be held
in the Methodist church. Our preacher
will preach-the Presbyterian. You'll go,
won't youp'
John hesitated, and then said eyes" He
had some thought of taking a long walk
through the leaf1ess wood, where in boy
hood he had known every nook and corner.
The day was so bright, the air so crisp
that it was great piece of self denial to
give it up. But as he had to stay till the
fast express Sunday night he concluded to
spend an orthodox Thanksgiving-preac
ing, dinner and all. He hadn't heard any
old fashioned preaching lately. To be
sure, he had every Sunday heard Professor
Rope discuss the questions-political and
secular-which had interested the public
during the preceding week, but, barring
the text, it bore very little relation to it's
antguated relative, the Gospel sermon"
Arrived at the church, he found himself
seated well up in front His aunt bowed
and smiled to many; he saw no familiar
face. His manhood had been employed in
the great struggle for foothold, so that his
old friends had been dropped, and he had not
formed many new acquaintance. In this
atmosphere of homely, CHEEKY friendlness
he felt like an intruder. Just back of the
preacher was seated the choir, composed
of the members of all the different churches
in the village. He was pleased with the
sensation of interest the pretty, fresh faces
of the girls gave him. He joined in the
singing of Coronation" and other old
hymns and listened to the sermon, appar-
emily as interested as any one there. 1t
was simple effort, suited to the occasion
and the hearers, but by its absence of pre-
tension it refreshed him.
At the close a general handshaking was
INDUCED in, and he was introduced to
many persons who had known his father
and mother.
"John," said Aunt Sally, 'it's our turn
this year to go to Mrs. Gray's to dinner.
We take year about-the Grays, Steels and
our folks-so if you will you may just walk
over with the other young folks through
the meadow and we will take Uncle Billy
Gregg home in your place. | was so fur
ried last night forgot to tell you"
John, when he found it was an estab-
lished custom, made no demur, but said:
Certainly, aunt. would be delighted to
walk through the meadow, but you must
introduce me to my companions. / don't
know them even by sight"
"To be sure you don'tr' exclaimed Aunt
Sally. Ruth, Ruth" she called, and
nice, quiet looking girl stepped forward
and said, holding out her hand: How do
you do, Aunt Sally2 You are going over
to dinner, aren't you? Mother is expect
ing you"
"Oh, yes, but here want TO introduce
you to my nephew, John Gilmore John,
this is Ruth Gray. 1t is to her house we
are going" she explained tc him; "she
will take care of you, and make you ac-
quainted with the other young folks"
John, who was unaccustomed to the So
ciety of young ladies, instead of making
complimentary speeches about her guar
dianship, bowed gravely and walked by her
side across the road to the big gate which
led into the meadow. He opened it and let
her through, and found himself with her
following small procession, which proved
to be the "other young folks"
Ruth at first felt shy of him, as he was
city man, but soon concluded he was bash
full, and then, being naturally kind heart
ed, set herself to entertaining him by talk
ing of the sermon, the weather and other
commonplace topics until they reached the
old fashioned farmhouse.
The dinner was a brave affair. The
guests, some twenty or thirty, sat at one
long table, graced with turkey, of course,
cranberry sauce, potatoes, white and light
as snow mound, half a dozen kinds of
,aoa+ohlas etanda of nlumv celery lus-