First, my hostess, Mrs. Fennel, could not leave to take a ride with me a few mornings ago, because “we are entirely out of--pies.” Mrs. Fennel, poor woman, is far from well, and what with husband, grown-up boys, and two small children, not to mention myself as boarder, she has a large family to cook for, and only her daughter Martha to help do the work. That breezy morning-ride would have raised her spirits; it would have put new life into her: but--pies. (This is one time.) Then Miss Martha, who is fond of reading, declined the loan of my library-book the other day on account of having to help her mother make--pies. (Two times.) Last evening she could not run up on the hill to see the sun set, because they were trying to get the meat and apple ready over night for--pies. (Three times.) When poor Mrs. Fennel was taken off her work the other day by one of her frequent ill-turns, Mrs. Melendy came in with offers of assistance. [Illustration] “Now I can stay just two hours by the clock,” said Mrs. Melendy in her sprightly way; “and what shall I take hold of first? Shall I tidy up the room, read to you, bathe your head, make you some good gruel? Or, else, shall I take hold of the mending, or see to the dinner, or what?” Mrs. Fennel raised her languid lids, and faintly murmured, “Out of pies.” “Dear me!” cried breezy Mrs. Melendy, “I know what that feeling is well enough; and ’tis a dreadful feeling! Why, I should no more dare to set out a meal’s victuals without pie than I should dare to fly! For my husband, he must have his piece o’ pie to top off with, whatever’s on the table.” And the sympathizing sister bared her willing arms, and wrestled womanfully with the rolling-pin, I know not how long. The fifth time was this morning. While sitting in the room adjoining the kitchen, the doors being open between, I heard Martha ask her mother why they could not take a magazine. “I do long for something to read!” said she; “and all we have is just one newspaper a week.” “Oh! we couldn’t get much reading-time,” said Mrs. Fennel. “If ’tisn’t one thing, ’tis another, and sometimes both. There’s your father, now, coming with the raisins. These pies will take about all the forenoon.” Miss Martha afterward spoke to her father about the magazine. “We can’t afford to spend money on readin’,” he answered, in his usual drawling monotone: “costs a sight to live. Now, if we didn’t raise our own pork, we should be hard pushed to git short’nin’ for our pies.” Such constant reiteration had made me desperate. I strode to the doorway. “And why _must_ we have _pies_?” I demanded in tones of smothered indignation. “Why not bread and butter, with fruits or sauce, instead? Why not drop pies out of the work altogether? Yes, drop them out of the world.” Miss Martha was the first to recover from the shock of this startling proposition. “Our men-folks couldn’t get along without pies, Mr. McKimber,” she said.