Anyway, my wife engaged her, because what good is a hearty appetite when the kitchen is empty. Ollie said that she was a first-class cook, but when we dared her to prove it she forgot my wife was a lady and threw the coal-scuttle at her. A day or two after Ollie arrived I decided to find out what merit there is in a vegetarian diet. "All right," I said to the cook, after the last plate of hash with all its fond memories had disappeared, "this house is going on a diet for a few days, and henceforth we are all vegetarians, including the dog. Please govern yourself accordingly." Ollie smiled Swedefully and whispered that vegetarianisms was where she lived. Ollie said she could cook vegetables so artistically that the palate would believe them to be _filet Mignon_, with Pommery sauce, and then she started in to fool the Beef Trust and put all the butchers out of business. Dinner time came and we were all expectancy. The first course was mashed potatoes, which we just dabbled with gingerly. The second course was potato chips, which we nibbled slightly while we looked eagerly at the butler's pantry. The next course was French fried potatoes with some shoestring potatoes on the side, and I began to get nervous. This was followed by a dish of German fried potatoes, some hash-browned potatoes and some potato _saute_, whereupon my appetite got up and left the room. The next course was plain boiled potatoes with the jackets on, and baked potatoes with the jackets open at the throat, and then some roasted potatoes with a peek-a-boo waist effect, cut on the bias. I was beginning to see the delights of being a vegetarian and at the same time I could feel myself fixing my fingers to choke Ollie. The next course was a large plate of potato salad, and then I fainted. When I got back Ollie was standing near the table with a sweet smile on each side of her face waiting for the applause of those present. "Have you nothing else?" I inquired, hungrily. "Oh, yes!" said Ollie. "I have some potato pudding for desert." When I got through swearing Ollie was under the stove, my wife was under the table, the dog was under the bed, and I was under the influence of liquor. No more vegetarianism in mine. Hereafter I am for that lamb chop thing, first, last and always. But let's get back to that Thanksgiving dinner. My wife invited Mr. and Mrs. William T. Hodge, Joe Coyne and his wife, and their daughter, Cuticura; Mr. and Mrs. Frank Doane, and their son, Communipaw; Mr. and Mrs. Jack Golden, and their niece, Casanova; and Mr. and Mrs. Riley Hatch. Charlie Swayne was the referee. My wife was so worried about the cook that before dinner time arrived she had an attack of nervous postponement. As a matter of fact, we were both in fear and trembling that Ollie would send a tomato salad from the kitchen and before it reached the table it would become a chop suey.