The feast was a noble feast, as has already been said. There was an elegant ingenuity displayed in the form of pies which delighted my heart. Once acknowledge that an American pie is far to be preferred to its humble ancestor, the English tart, and it is joyful to be reassured at a Bowden reunion that invention has not yet failed. Beside a delightful variety of material, the decorations went beyond all my former experience; dates and names were wrought in lines of pastry and frosting on the tops. There was even more elaborate reading matter on an excellent early-apple pie which we began to share and eat, precept upon precept. Mrs. Todd helped me generously to the whole word _Bowden_, and consumed _Reunion_ herself, save an undecipherable fragment; but the most renowned essay in cookery on the tables was a model of the old Bowden house made of durable gingerbread, with all the windows and doors in the right places, and sprigs of genuine lilac set at the front. It must have been baked in sections, in one of the last of the great brick ovens, and fastened together on the morning of the day. There was a general sigh when this fell into ruin at the feast’s end, and it was shared by a great part of the assembly, not without seriousness, and as if it were a pledge and token of loyalty. I met the maker of the gingerbread house, which had called up lively remembrances of a childish story. She had the gleaming eye of an enthusiast and a look of high ideals. “I could just as well have made it all of frosted cake,” she said, “but ’twouldn’t have been the right shade; the old house, as you observe, was never painted, and I concluded that plain gingerbread would represent it best. It wasn’t all I expected it would be,” she said sadly, as many an artist had said before her of his work. There were speeches by the ministers; and there proved to be a historian among the Bowdens, who gave some fine anecdotes of the family history; and then appeared a poetess, whom Mrs. Todd regarded with wistful compassion and indulgence, and when the long faded garland of verses came to an appealing end, she turned to me with words of praise. “Sounded pretty,” said the generous listener. “Yes, I thought she did very well. We went to school together, an’ Mary Anna had a very hard time; trouble was, her mother thought she’d given birth to a genius, an’ Mary Anna’s come to believe it herself. There, I don’t know what we should have done without her; there ain’t nobody else that can write poetry between here and ’way up towards Rockland; it adds a great deal at such a time. When she speaks o’ those that are gone, she feels it all, and so does everybody else, but she harps too much. I’d laid half of that away for next time, if I was Mary Anna. There comes mother to speak to her, an’ old Mr. Gilbraith’s sister; now she’ll be heartened right up. Mother’ll say just the right thing.”