CHAPTER VIII.

PUDDING AND PIES.

“THERE’S that dreadful little Pancake ringing again. She comes every morning, Preston, and you must stop it,” said cousin Lucy, waving away half a dozen flies from the sugar-bowl, with as much vehemence as she could throw into her napkin.

“Troublesome flies,” said Preston, without heeding his cousin’s request. “They say a barn-swallow will eat a thousand a day; wish _we_ had a barn-swallow.”

Lucy went to the door a trifle crossly, bread-knife hard in hand, as if she meant to charge it at the foe.

“And _now_ what do you want?”

For it seemed as if the little gipsy must have exhausted all the errands that could possibly be thought of.

“Could I borry a piece o’ stovepipe—’bout _so_ long—I’ll fetch it back to morry.”

“A piece of stovepipe!”

Lucy would not have smiled on any account.

“Yes, mammy’s sick, and our stovepipe’s rusted off. I’ll fetch it home to morry.”

And before Lucy had time to prevent it, the little try-patience had rushed past her, and effected an entrance into the breakfast room. And, as if her own presence were not unwelcome enough, she was followed by a large, formidable-looking bee.

“Don’t you be scared,” said Pecielena, as the children all screamed. “I’ll catch him and kill him.”

“No, no,” cried Mary. “I belong to the society for cruelty to animals. I can’t let you kill him.”

But Pecy had already caught the bee and crushed him against the table-cloth with the broom-handle.

Sadie looked at Lucy, the “lady abbess,” to see how long she meant to allow such behavior to go on; but Lucy had become discouraged, and was retreating to the kitchen.

“I must go and pick over the rice for dinner. I suppose _you_ don’t know, Sadie, whether three pounds will make pudding enough for six people?” said she, putting the rice in the only kettle the house afforded, and pouring over it two quarts of water. No, Sadie did not know.

The unbidden guest, forgetting that her cow had not been milked, stood looking on, as saucy as an English cuckoo in a hedge-sparrow’s nest. It would not appear that she intended the least harm; she was simply a little half-starved, wild creature, and the sight of the raisins gave her a hungry longing, which Lucy was unable to comprehend, or she would have admired the poor thing’s self-denial in not teasing, and would have given her gladly a handful of the coveted sweets.

Camp Comfort, with its merry, careless child-tenants and abundance of food, seemed an earthly paradise to wretched little Pecy. She had never ventured so boldly into any other house, even the humble Browns and Pecks, as into this one, which had no responsible grown people in it; nobody really old enough to command her to leave.

“Is this here your dog, Lucy?” said she, caressing the pug. “His nose turns up some like yours. I never see such a queer dog.”

“And I never saw such a queer girl,” said Lucy, reddening. “Are you the protector of this family, Preston Gray? General Townsend told mother he felt easy about us with you here; but if you haven’t authority enough to keep tramps away, perhaps we’ll have to call on Bert or Jack.”

This sarcasm aroused Preston.

“Miss Pancake,” said he solemnly, “do you see this gun?” taking it from the corner. “Perhaps you may not know that I am a soldier in the regular army; and when people do not behave well it is my business to shoot them.”

Pecielena was a shrewd child, and only laughed.

“You wouldn’t _dass_ shoot me,” said she confidently.

“Ah, you needn’t be so sure of that. Wait and see. Now I’m going to ask you six questions; and do you step toward the door every time you answer one. And if you are not out of the door by the time the last one is answered——”

The sentence was left unfinished, but there was an awful gleam of spectacles, a threatening wave of the gun, and Preston’s appearance was most military and imposing.

“Do you know how to read, little girl?”

“No.”

“Then step.”

She slowly obeyed.

“Do you ever go to church?”

“No.”

“Do your father and mother ever go to church?”

“No,”—moving forward now of her own accord, with some haste toward the door.

“O you’re gone, are you? Well, little girl, you needn’t call again. Do you hear?”

“There, that’s splendid,” said Sadie admiringly. “To think what a little heathen she is! Do you suppose it’s safe to live near such people?”

“We shan’t have any more trouble from _her_, I’m thinking,” returned the “protector of the family,” feeling that he had vindicated his character.

But little Mary was not quite satisfied. This behavior was hardly in accordance with the daily precepts and examples of her parents, who had taught her that she ought to pity and try to help the poor, ignorant, and unfortunate.

She pondered on the subject at intervals all the morning, as she sat in the hammock, amusing her devoted little friend, Kittyleen. Pecy looked as if she never had a good time in her life. Was it fair to drive her away? Could she herself do anything for the child? If so, what, and how?

Fanny and Blanche were off in the meadow making daisy-wreaths as a pretty surprise for to-night’s ice-cream party. In the house Sadie arranged pond lilies in a cracked bowl, repeating to Preston the stanza,—

“From the reek of the pond, the lily Has risen in raiment white, A spirit of air and water, A form of incarnate light.”

“Sadie is too hifalutin’ for anything,” thought Lucy, who had the rice pudding on her hands. Ah, that pudding!

Lucy had forgotten, or did not know, that rice has a habit of swelling. Before long it had risen to the top of the kettle and was overflowing it, like an eruption of lava down the sides of a volcano.

“Oh, look, look,” cried Sadie, “it’s like the genius in the Arabian Nights, that flew out when the bottle was opened, and grew to a great steam giant!”

“Can’t stop to talk fairy stories. Get the spider!” cried Lucy.

She filled the spider from the bubbling, dripping kettle.

“The pudding dish! Big platter!”

The white-hot spirit of the mischievous rice was just beginning his frolic.

“The pitcher!”

The steam giant was still rising, growing, dancing ever upward.

“Sugar bowl! Pour out the sugar on the table! All the plates.—O, dear, all the cups and saucers!”

“Don’t you want the teaspoons? Here, let’s stop this nonsense,” said Preston. And coming to the rescue, he swung off the kettle and poured the bewitched contents upon the grass at the back door.

“Oh, you extravagant creature! You’ve wasted three pounds of rice and half a pound of raisins, and killed the grass!”

Preston gazed in inward consternation at the ruinous white flood; but he was not going to confess his sins to cousin Lucy.

“That’s the proper way to serve rice pudding,” said he. “Always serve hot, and make it go as far as you can. Now let the children pick out the plums.”

“But our pudding’s gone.”

“I’ll cook a pie,” replied he, with alacrity. “I cooked ’em last summer at the lakes fit to set before a king.”

Laughing was the very mainspring of life at Camp Comfort; but the girls had never laughed yet as they did now, to see Buttons in full swing preparing to “cook a pie.” Lucy kindly summoned every member of the family to witness the performance. The taking-off of his coat, the pinning-up of his sleeves, the tying-on of an apron, the swathing of the head in a towel, the cleansing of hands with sand-soap and nail-brush; and Buttons was ready for action.

“Now,” said he, drawing a long breath and looking authoritatively through his spectacles. “Now, bring on the flour and things, and butter some plates.—Lard, butter, knife, spoon.—Where’s your milk? No, water won’t do. I prefer milk. Bring me half a cup.—Where’s your salt?”

He carefully measured out a half-cup of equal parts of butter and lard, and rubbed it into a pint of flour.

“Now, cream tartar and soda.”

The girls brought them with a growing feeling of respect. He stirred two teaspoonfuls of cream tartar into the flour, dissolved half as much soda in the milk, mixed all together rapidly, and rolled the mass on the board.

“I hope ’twill be better than the pie we had yesterday, that was baked in the spider,” said Mary, not heeding Lucy’s frown.

“How tough that was,” said Blanche. “What did Lucy put in to make it so tough?”

“She didn’t put in much of anything,” replied Fanny. “Jack said you could have cut it with a pair of scissors, ’twas so thin.”

“Hush, children, the rest of us couldn’t have done as well,” said Sadie, leaning over the table, watching Preston’s efforts. “What shall you fill it with?”

The question startled him: he had not thought of the inside of the pie.

“Oh, almost anything,” said he, carefully trimming the edges of the lower crust.

“Are there any lemons?”

“No, Jack used a dozen yesterday for one pitcher of lemonade,” said Lucy.

“But we have some very green apples if the children haven’t eaten them all.”

“Fly round then and slice ’em.”

“How impertinent!” cried the whole family. “Take notice, _this_ is the way Buttons makes pies.”

But they “flew round,” all five of them, and picked some very green currants off the bushes in the back yard with merry good will.

“Now, behold me fill my pies,” said Preston, slowly sifting a cup of sugar over the bottom crust before he put in the currants.

“May I behold, too?” asked the grocer, who stood at the side door. He had heard the laughing half a mile away.

“Yes, sir, this is my cooking school.”

“Well, go on with your lecture. You make a real pretty picture standing there with that rig on.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, I was about to remark, it’s truly lamentable, the ignorance of girls and women! They put the currants in first and _then_ the sugar, and the juice spills out all over the oven.—See, here is the oven ready. What have you been thinking of, girls, to let that fire go out?”

“You see how he acts, Mr. Fowler,” said Sadie, as Lucy put wood in the stove.

“But, as I was saying—sugar first, _then_ currants, and the juice stays in. Bring some water to pour in, Flaxie.”

“Can’t I hire you to come and show my women folks how to cook?” said the grocer, laughing at the notion of placing sugar below currants.

But there was reason in the “notion,” as the event proved, for the juice did “stay in,” and the pie would have done Preston great credit, if it had not been trifled with in the oven, like all the Camp Comfort baking. But it was far superior to Lucy’s spider-pie, and a vote was taken on the spot for a change of cooks.

Preston was jubilant, for was not this his second victory for the day?

The weather was sultry, and after dinner everybody would gladly have reclined in the hammocks under the shade, if Lucy had not suddenly remembered that ice-cream always suggests cake. Lemon-cake was made and burned; but the ice-cream party did not come off on account of a heavy shower which rose about six o’clock.

In the midst of it arrived the incorrigible Pecielena Pancake with a new errand. Preston was chagrined. Had he inspired her with no real awe after all?

“Have you got an ambril?”

An umbrella was useless now, for she was thoroughly soaked and dripping with rain.

“I want to take it to the paster,” said she, “so’s to keep the _milk_ dry!”

“Go a-_way_!” exclaimed the campers in concert; and at a signal from Preston they all clapped hands, and pursued the astonished little vagrant to the door. Everybody but Mary. Somehow, as she looked at the poor, wild creature, with the bright, restless, unhappy eyes, a feeling of pity moved her.

“Be ye kindly affectioned one toward another.” Did that mean tramps, too? She had been thinking of it all day. She was not sure. Of course, nobody wanted gipsy children coming around to bother, especially after they had been forbidden the house; and Preston was a very, very good boy, every body said so, and not likely to do anything cruel. Still, it could not be denied that Pecy Pancake was a human being, and that it was raining. On the whole, Mary thought she had done well not to help “clap her out.”