The Bridgeport evening farmer., 1914-10-09
BESSIE AND HER
 THANKSGIVING PIES
By David M. Cory.

Little Bessie Gray looked up from her story book with a sigh, and as she looked up she caught the refec- ton of her face in mirror over the table. and sighed again.
 tfOh, dear! If I were only slender and graceful, and a grown-up young lady, or a princess, and lived in palace, and had heaps of money, and could carry punches of flowers to sick pkople But hero I am. nothing but Bessie Gray, short and stout and tassNvide mouth, and not exactly poor, but then I have to work rather hard for little girl; and as for the trou- blesgof this world, sonenow con feel so badly about them as I ought to. or else the people around here don't have any to speak Of.
 ssNovv's Your Chanceir
 ssrJovv,s your cIance,'. said a little squeaking voice Where did 1t come from? There was nothing in sight but a heap of pumpkins on a board just outside the win and little coiored girl passing the garden fence scantily clad, and shivering in the cold November sunshine. All that Bessie know of her was that her name was @Poppy,, and she belong ed to a family that were very shift less it appeared from their unwill- ingness to work and their ignorant do.
 But it could not be this little girl who spoke; she was hurrytng on, without turning a glance toward the house, eager, no doubt, to reach her miserable shelter from the cold. Bessie Discovers the
 Owner of the Voice
 Bessie's curiosity was fully aroused. She went out and stood upon the <1-l of sight. and everything was still but the wind, and that hardly whispered through the IeafIess boughs of the pear trees. But there was the voice., close to her now. Help me down. 2 it said. And Bess1es mouth opened wider than ever,i as she saw the top most pumpkin Of the pile at her side, moving itself without aid of hands. She took hold of it's stem and, all though it was one Of the heaviest of the lot, she scarcely felt it's weight at all
 .sCarry me in!'' said the voice again. pantingly.
 Bessie had not believed her own ears until now. A pumpkin taIking!s That was more wonderful than shouldn't it speak, as we'll as the brambles and oak trees and brass ket- ties So she turned the great thing over upon it's side and rolled it, or rather let it roll itself, up the steps into the kitchen.
 Cook me- said the little, panting, squeaking voice again. Cook me-
 Pumpkin Pies.
 Just then her mother came in Mother, may make some pumpkin pies?'' said Bessie.
 Well, I don't care" was the an swer of the busy woman. None of us seem to be so very fond of them But you can make them, if you'll only promise to get somebody to eat thenn..
 But the pumpkin began to squeak impatiently, Gut me upl cut me upl' and Bessie obeyed without more ado, Determined to have her pies as nice out her milk, stirred in spice and sweetening, and made the crust light wondering. while she rolled it out, who. would eat. them when they were done.
 But the pumpkin told her as it boiled in the kettle; no longer with that low musical rumble, as if laugh ing with joy over it's own fate. Black Poppy's people; black Pop pys people, and why shouldn't a pumpkin rejeice in the sacrifice of its own life for benevolent pur- pose?
 An Angel of Mercy.
 And Bessie, herself, when she car ried the pies to Poppy's wretched home. having first set one aside in the cupboard, that her mother might see that she could bake pies worth any body's eating, looked almost beauti- full with the excitement of. doing kindly deed. Her sun-browned hands and stout arms were just fitted for the healthfu1 work they had been doing, and she had as much reason to be proud of them as any lady of !, l 4 fofT 71T1i those are the prettiest hands that do most willingly the work they were made for.
 And black Poppy's people could not have received one of the graceful ministering spirits of the story-books with more eloquent gratitude than they did the home1y little girl and her heavy basket of pies Indeed, to those half-starved beings she was vision of loveliness@a real angel of