“As to where I come from, it would be hard to tell where I am not to be found, for I believe cows roam about over the whole world.
“You may ride on trains anywhere and everywhere; you may sail on boats; you may go up in flying machines, you will always see cows.
“I do not know of anything that seems quite as necessary as the cow, both for meat and for milk.
“I came from a certain cow that spent most of its time in a green meadow where birds sang above her head, and a near-by brook gurgled over the stones, making the sweetest music.
“Night and morning a maid came with a shiny pail on her arm; as she milked the Bossy she sang to the accompaniment of the brook.
“Often two little children came, each with a silver cup, for a drink of the warm foaming milk.
“That cow was proud indeed to know that she furnished food for the little ones.
“She loved her home. She could hear the chickens clucking, the geese cackling, the lambs baaing, and the ponies neighing.
“She stood for hours looking off at the peaceful scene before her and seemed always content.
“Suddenly she found herself no more in the meadow but hanging in juicy quarters from a hook in a butcher shop. These quarters were cut up into various parts to be used for steaks, roasts, soup bones, beef tea, and all sorts of good things.
“At this time the store was trimmed up with bunches of green leaves and bright red berries. Scarlet Christmas bells nodded on all sides.
“It seemed to be a gay and festive scene. Sleigh bells jingled, telephones rang constantly, and finally I was placed in a basket with other goodies, and the next thing I knew I was flying over the snow in a bob sled.
“My basket was presently left on a kitchen table. Thereupon I was taken from the package. A fat lady gave me a poke with her finger, and nodded her head as she said:
“‘Fine cut. Just right for my mince meat.’ What that was I did not know, but I was placed in a kettle and bubbled around in hot water for some time, then I found myself in something else that was fastened to a table. A handle twirled and twirled, and I turned into a fine bunch of stuff, waiting for I knew not what.
“I’ll have to tell you about my little brother Suet, because he never could, he is so shy.
“I always noticed that when people bought beef, they chose the parts that had creamy fat clinging to them. They said they were sweeter and more tender, and that fat is this little brother of mine, and that’s why he clings so closely to me. That’s where he belongs.
“In a moment as I lay in the dish, all ground up, I felt coming down all over me wee bits of creamy fat, so you see he still followed me.
“I was much interested to know what mince meat was, and I kept my eyes and ears open to see what would happen next.
“It was a busy scene I looked out upon. One person was stoning raisins. Another was peeling apples. All sorts of spices were being ground. Citron was being cut up very fine, also orange and lemon peel. The vinegar, molasses, and cider jugs were brought forth.
“Then everything was put into a wooden bowl, and as they were chopped they all seemed to be singing the merriest of tunes. By and by the mixture was tumbled into a crock with me, and I found I was beginning to swell and to be quite important. I was stirred and stirred, and then various people came and tasted and smacked their lips and tasted again. One said, ‘A little more sugar, don’t you think so?’ Another looking very wise said, ‘Needs more spice,’ and so I was doctored and fussed with till finally I was pronounced just right, and I knew the time had arrived.
“I felt as one does at a circus when they have the grand entrée and I fairly held my breath as I waited for the next act. I was mince meat at last.
“Suddenly I was poured into what seemed to be a round white blanket. It was so soft and cushiony I rejoiced over such a fate, but alas, another blanket was placed over me. There were no sheets on this bed, and it was as dark as a pocket. In a moment tiny eyelet holes appeared, from which I could peep through up into the eyes of the busy cook. Then a black door swung open. I was placed within a dark cavern, the door swung back, and all was still.
“I felt myself growing warmer and warmer. My bed turned from soft blankets to crispy covers. I bubbled and boiled, and presently when the cover was a golden brown the door flew open, and once more I came out into the light of day.
“I was placed in a window to cool, and the whole family came out to admire me. I felt so proud I could hardly keep still.
“I knew I was intended for some wonderful event. Mr. Cinnamon Stick, you said this pie was for the Christmas dinner to-morrow. Is it for an ornament or a decoration of some sort?”
“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!” sang the chorus, “you will soon learn when to-morrow comes what you will decorate.”
“Why?” asked the Brownie, in alarm. “What will happen? What will they do with this pie?”
“Oh!” laughed Cinnamon Stick, “it’s hard to tell; they might do any one of a number of things.
“It might be suspended on chains from the chandelier, and swing to the tune of an orchestra.
“They might start it rolling across the hardwood floor down that large hall, and wager whether it would fall upside down or downside up.
“There are many things that might be done with it, but what’s the use of worrying about to-morrow. We still have much of the night to pass away.
“Here! what’s this rolling across the floor?”
They all looked to see the pie itself rolling along mysteriously and silently. When it reached the hearth it spun round and round for a moment, then paused and began to speak.
“If you please, Mr. Chairman, and Ladies and Gentlemen, you are forgetting me, the most important part of the pie.
“I am the crust, and whoever heard of a pie of any kind without a crust? No one, of course, and so since I am really the most important member of the large family, I think I should have my turn.”
“You certainly should!” cried Cinnamon Stick. “I am sorry I neglected to call you. We are glad, indeed, to hear your story. What are you made of?”
“I am composed of flour, lard, and water—”
“You’d be ruined if you didn’t put a pinch of me in,” cried Little Salt eagerly.
“Certainly I would. Thank you for not allowing me to be spoiled.
“Of course you all know flour is made from wheat. The wheat plant is a grass which looks much like barley and rye.
“The varieties are called, bearded, and beardless or bald.
“Some are planted in spring, for spring or summer wheat. Other kinds in the fall to be ready the next season, that is winter wheat. The latter was at one time thought to be the best, but lately with improved methods of manufacture the spring wheat is equally as good.
“There are two kinds, white and red. Of the winter wheat the white is best.
“Wheat is chiefly used for flour. The finest, but not the most wholesome, is nearest pure starch. The richer parts are found nearest the skin and are secured in the graham flour.
“Wheat has been known always, is mentioned in the Bible, and is found almost everywhere.
“China wheat is a spring wheat, and this is where it came from. Once upon a time some one had a chest of tea sent to him. It was a wonderful gift to have, and was highly prized. In that tea was found a curious grain. No one knew what it was, but they decided to plant it. From that came wheat, and was called spring wheat.
“If you have been in the country you know how the wheat is cut with big machines, and taken to the barn.
“Then many men appear and they thresh it. That means to get the chaff, the outer husk, off. Then the grain is taken to the mill and ground into flour.
“The flour is used for bread, cake, pies, and almost all of the baked stuff we have.
“Lard is made from pork fat. The fat is boiled or rendered.
“Water is composed of two parts of hydrogen and one of oxygen, commonly called H_2O. Pure water can be obtained by distillation from the ocean, as is often done at sea. Some towns on the South American Coast have been supplied in this way.
“The chief source of supply for water which falls on the earth is from the ocean. The heat of the sun raises a vapour from its surface. This vapour condenses and falls as rain or snow, either on sea or land. Rain after falling for some time is almost pure and for that reason is called soft. Hard water contains various minerals.
“That’s all about the crust. It isn’t very interesting, nor funny, but it is good and everybody loves it.”
“Indeed, it is good, and most necessary to every pie,” declared the Cinnamon Doll.
“And now suppose we wish for the Story Sprite. She is a dear and we have time for just one more story.”
This wish was hardly expressed when the sound of bells was heard and there before them stood the Story Lady, bringing with her a joyous shower of bells.
“Oh, my dearies, this is the last time I can come!
“It is Christmas, as you know, and many Christmas parties are awaiting me, but I just had to keep my promise to you.
“This time I want to tell you a Christmas tale I am sure you will enjoy and love.
It is called:
“It was Christmas Eve. The younger children were snugly tucked in bed, while Jack sat staring at the empty stockings swinging from the mantel shelf in the gleaming fire-light.
“Jack was only twelve, and the man of the house. His face was very grave as he gazed alternately at the stockings, then at his mother bustling about tidying up the room.
“She finally sat down, declaring sadly: ‘It’s no use, Jack. I haven’t a penny to spare; the stockings will have to go empty.’
“The boy spoke not a word, but watched the fire sputter and crackle as though perhaps it might solve the problem.
“Of one thing he was certain: the stockings should not go empty if he could help it.
“The fire did show him the way, for suddenly the logs began to send out tiny sparks and snap for all the world like popcorn.
“‘Mother!’ he cried suddenly, ‘I have an idea. I’m going out.’
“‘Dress warm then, dear, and good luck to you.’
“The boy hurried out into the night, and such a night!
“Snowflakes were flying thick and fast, and above his head the ice-coated trees spread their friendly branches. He loved the crisp, sharp air, and raised his face that the flakes might lodge and sting.
“Soon he reached the busy street and watched keenly for a chance to earn a dime.
“Suddenly he saw a woman carrying a suitcase, running for the car, while at her side toddled a child trying in vain to keep up with her.
“‘Let me help, may I?’ asked Jack wistfully.
“‘Oh, if you only would,’ replied the woman, grateful indeed for the aid.
“As they reached the corner she slipped a silver piece into his hand. The car stopped, then whizzed on, leaving Jack staring at the quarter, hardly able to believe it.
“‘A good beginning,’ he murmured, and ran into a near-by store, where he purchased a few ears of popcorn and a small jar of molasses.
“Mother, much surprised, welcomed the gifts and boy with open arms.
“‘I earned them, Mother! Make some corn balls and candy while I try again,’ and away he went.
“This time he was not so successful. Every one seemed busy and hurried past him, not even glancing at the eager, earnest face.
“On one corner a hand-organ man was grinding out his music. Jack watched to see the people stop and drop pennies into his little cup.
“Suddenly the boy had an inspiration. He could sing like a bird. In fact he had been soloist of a boy choir in the town where they had lived before coming to the city.
“That work he loved, and was never so happy as, when clothed in his robes, walking up the aisle, singing while the great splendid organ pealed out its glorious music.
“One song, the Christmas Lullaby, was his special favourite. He always sang it at Christmas time. Why not sing it here on the street?
“It was sweeter than hand-organ music, and surely people ought to be willing to give a few pennies to hear it.
“No sooner thought than done, and Jack darted down the street a few blocks away from the hand-organ man.
“He chose the busiest corner where there was a wonderful toy store. In the window was a tree covered with gifts. The lights twinkled and danced as though cheering him on, and so there he paused and sang.
“He was a beautiful child. Indeed, in the fashionable church at home he had been called the Christ child, and now as he sang, many were attracted by his face and the clear sweet tones.
“They listened and passed on, leaving in the shabby cap many bits of silver.
“After a time the boy walked on, halting at various corners to sing, and presently found himself in front of a church.
“The music of the great organ pierced the air and as the door swung to and fro, he saw a large audience with many children gaily dressed, waiting expectantly.
“Jack was tired and cold. He longed to be enfolded in the light and warmth within and listen to the music, and he quietly crept inside up a stairway, then down to the front. No one was there and he leaned forward to see a wonderful tree. It sparkled with tinsel, while coloured lights gleamed here and there like shining jewels breathing a halo about the head of the Christmas Angel standing on the topmost branch.
“The outstretched arms seemed to pronounce a blessing on the fruit of this tree waiting to be showered on the many little ones, who stood admiring and exclaiming over this vision of beauty.
“It was an enormous tree. The top branches were fastened securely to a heavy pole which was thrown across the chancel and rested in the grooves on the hand-carved posts which stood either side of the entrance to this sacred place.
“Jack, fascinated by the scene, watched hungrily every detail, and as a thirsty flower holds up its dainty head for the first raindrops, so the boy eagerly drank in every note of the music which he knew so well.
“He longed to be a choir boy once more, but he was timid and bashful and feared to make any effort in this direction in a strange city.
“As he pondered on how to gain the coveted position, he watched the tree being stripped of its fruit and placed in many outstretched hands.
“He gazed wistfully on the joyous scene, but was suddenly startled by a flash of light, which, from his position, he saw was a thread of flame leaping upwards toward the Christmas Angel.
“There was but one thing to do, and he was the one to do it. Without a thought for himself he sprang for the pole, hung by his toes, and in an instant the flaming branch was broken from the tree and crushed in his hands.
“Below a quick cry of ‘Fire!’ rang out, then was heard the shriek of a child.
“Jack knew the impending panic must be averted instantly, and as he swung up on to the pole, he wound his limbs about it, and there perched in the topmost branches, a veritable Christ Child, he sang, as he never sang before, the Christmas Lullaby.
“The cries below ceased. The audience stared in amazement. Had he fallen from the blue skies painted on the ceiling by a master hand or had one of the Murillo angels, hovering amongst the billowy clouds, come to life?
“Those who heard never forgot the pathos of the plaintive melody.
“The choirmaster listened breathlessly, for here was the soloist he had for months been vainly seeking.
“The organist, wild with delight over the heavenly music, coming from he knew not where, followed gently with the organ accompaniment, the flute-like tones blending with the bird notes of the boy.
“Higher and higher soared the voice of the Christmas Angel, while the people gazed entranced. Such tender sweetness it had never been their privilege to hear.
“Surely the Baby Jesus was being lulled to sleep by the angelic music, which at last slowly and gently died away.
“A moment of tense silence was followed by a rustle; the tension was broken and Jack swung himself back to the gallery, to be greeted by many outstretched hands.
“He had many questions to answer and before the child realised it, he had told the story of limp stockings hanging by the chimneyside at home, and how hard he had tried to fill them.
“His pathetic tale, together with his daring efforts to quench the fire and avert a panic, moved many to tears.
“You all know what followed. How he was driven home in state in a grand sleigh drawn by a pair of prancing horses, and how his new-found friends not only filled the stockings, but then and there engaged him as soloist of the boy choir at such a salary that his mother need work no more, and they were all comfortable and happy for many a day.
“And now good-bye, and I wish you a very Merry Christmas.”
With that the Story Elf vanished, and her audience chorused:
“Wasn’t that lovely?”
“Indeed, it was,” declared Mr. Cinnamon Stick; “and now I believe we have heard from every one of this large family—”
“No, you haven’t! No, you haven’t!” cried a sprightly voice, and there appeared the queerest figure imaginable, coming apparently up from the floor like a Jack in the box.
He seemed to be a combination of every one of them, and before he had even spoken he seemed to be asking a question.
“Look at me. Guess who I am.”
“An Interrogation Point,” announced the Vinegar Doll.
“Yes, but an Interrogation Point asks a question. Who can answer it?”
The dolls leaned forward curiously examining this figure.
His head seemed made of suet, and he wore a hat adorned with tiny beef croquettes about the edge of the brim. Sprays of raisins and currants wandered over the crown, and about his neck was a necklace of allspice with dangles of cloves, cinnamon and nutmegs.
Pepper and salt sprinkled his clothing, which seemed made from orange and lemon peel. About his waist was a queer girdle from which wee sugar bowls, molasses jugs and vinegar cruets jingled together, while he tossed gay coloured apples into the air, caught them skilfully and then disposed of them in various pockets.
With a gay nod he cried, “Can no one answer the question? Let me tell you a little about myself, and then perhaps you can.
“You have all told how necessary you are. Let me tell you there would never have been a mince pie without me, nor anything else worth while.
“Let me ask of you growing things, how did you happen to grow? How did any of you happen to be? Some one had to plant the seeds. Some one had to take care of the trees, vines and shrubs after they started to grow.
“Where there was no rain, water had to be carried. The trees and vines had to be tended, trimmed, and cultivated. When the fruit was finally ready, it had to be packed and shipped all over the world.
“Even after it found its way into that kitchen, what happened? Everybody was—what—what was everybody doing? Now do tell me what this interrogation point stands for? Think!” he pleaded.
Everybody thought. They screwed up their faces and thought some more. They took one foot out from under them and thought. They put the other foot under them and thought again.
What was everybody doing to get the pie ready—chopping, grinding, baking.
Suddenly everybody beamed and chorused: “Working! Everybody was working! You are called Work!”
“To be sure I am, and a lot of work it took to make this pie. All over the world many, many people had many busy days.
“Can’t you just see them picking the raisins; sugaring the citron; grinding spice; cutting the wheat; packing the oranges; taking care of the cow; gathering the apples, and crushing them in the mill for cider?
“Oh, my dears, there is always work. Johnny Appleseed did an endless amount of work, and see what came from it.
“The one who packed that box of tea and happened to drop a grain of wheat therein, did a wonderful thing. That tiny grain brought us a kind of wheat we might never have had. Can’t you just see them planting that tiny seed? They watched it grow, tending the little sprout till it finally came to maturity, and more grains were planted. At last there was a wonderful crop of wheat, all due to your humble servant Work.”
With a sunny nod he vanished, and they looked and listened, but not even a clank of his girdle charms did they hear.
“Well! Well!” cried Cinnamon. “Wasn’t he fine? Who would ever have thought of him as belonging to mince pie. I fear we were all forgetting that most important point, and glad I am he remembered to appear. And now, my dears, the dawn is breaking, we must return.”
“But the mouse!” cried timid Allspice. “What about the mouse?”
“Oh, yes, the mouse!” chorused the audience breathlessly. “What about the mouse?”
Cinnamon Stick said no word, but pointed a long thin finger toward the clock.
The clock struck one (which was really half-past five), the mouse ran down, and the chain clinkety clanked as he hopped to the floor and ran away to his hole, and was seen no more.
His disappearance seemed a signal, and at once was heard a joyful chorus. As the dolls sang they formed a procession, and two by two marched back to the clock and wound their way about the spiral columns.
The Pie Crust was at the head and settled down in the pan, its cover upheld as by an invisible hand. The dolls jumped into their places, the cover was slowly dropping, when suddenly up popped the head of the Vinegar Cruet.
“The Gifts!” he cried. “You forgot the Gifts!”
At that up popped every other head, crying in chorus:
“The Gifts! The Gifts! You forgot the Gifts!”
“No, I didn’t forget. They are on the way.”
As Mother and Jack watched, suddenly a red-coated, white, fur-trimmed figure appeared. On his back was a basket piled high with candy. He made his way to the clock, and as he stood over the pie he cried in the jolliest of tones:
“Open your mouths and shut your eyes, and I’ll give you something to make you wise.”
Open popped the dolls’ mouths, looking like a lot of birds, each waiting for a worm, and all were filled to the brim with sweets.
They then nestled down close together. The top crust settled in place. The flames flickered and died out; then all was still.
The next day was crisp and bright. Father came, and a joyous time they all had over their gifts.
The turkey dinner was delicious, and presently the mince pie appeared in all its glory.
Such a beautiful mince pie as it was!
Jack watched Mother cut it, and listened breathlessly for the “Ha! Ha! Ha’s,” and the “Ho! Ho! Ho’s,” but not a sound did he hear, till presently at the first mouthful Father cried:
“Best pie you ever made, my dear. For once you have it sweet enough!”
Jack and his mother merely nodded and
smiled, but not a word said they!
THE END