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And in the forenoon we took it down to the woods, but it wouldn’t go into
the pie. Being made of a whole sheet, that way, there was rope enough for
forty pies if we’d a wanted them, and plenty left over for soup, or sausage,
or anything you choose. We could a had a whole dinner.
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We took the rope down to the woods the next morning, but it wouldn’t fit
in the pie. Because it was made from an entire sheet, we had enough rope to
fill forty pies if we’d needed, and we still would have had enough left over
for soup or sausage or whatever else we chose. We could’ve made an entire
fake dinner.
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But we didn’t need it. All we needed was just enough for the pie, and so
we throwed the rest away. We didn’t cook none of the pies in the
wash-pan—afraid the solder would melt; but Uncle Silas he had a noble brass
warming-pan which he thought considerable of, because it belonged to one of
his ancesters with a long wooden handle that come over from England with
William the Conqueror in the Mayflower or one of them early ships and was
hid away up garret with a lot of other old pots and things that was
valuable, not on account of being any account, because they warn’t, but on
account of them being relicts, you know, and we snaked her out, private, and
took her down there, but she failed on the first pies, because we didn’t
know how, but she come up smiling on the last one. We took and lined her
with dough, and set her in the coals, and loaded her up with rag rope, and
put on a dough roof, and shut down the lid, and put hot embers on top, and
stood off five foot, with the long handle, cool and comfortable, and in
fifteen minutes she turned out a pie that was a satisfaction to look at. But
the person that et it would want to fetch a couple of kags of toothpicks
along, for if that rope ladder wouldn’t cramp him down to business I don’t
know nothing what I’m talking about, and lay him in enough stomach-ache to
last him till next time, too.
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But we didn’t need it. We only needed enough rope for one pie, so we threw
the rest away. We didn’t cook any of the pies in the wash pan because we
were afraid the metal would melt. But Uncle Silas had a perfect brass
warming pan
with a long wooden handle that he liked a lot—it had apparently
belonged to one of his ancestors who’d come over from England with
William the Conquerer
in the Mayflower or one of those early ships. It was hidden up in
the attic with a lot of other old pots and valuables, not because they were
important or anything—becasuse they weren’t—but because they were relics. We
snuck it out and brought it to the woods. But it didn’t work at first
because we didn’t know what we were doing. We made a great pie on our last
try, though. We lined the pan with dough, and set it in the coals. Then we
filled it with the rag rope and put dough on top. Then we put the lid on and
put some of the embers from the fire on the top and stood back about five
feet or so. We held onto the long handle, which was still cool, and in
fifteen minutes we had a great-looking pie. Anyone who ate it, though, would
need to have a couple of barrels of toothpicks handy because if that rope
ladder inside wouldn’t be hard to swallow, then I don’t know anything. It’d
give whoever ate it a pretty bad stomachache too.
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Nat didn’t look when we put the witch pie in Jim’s pan; and we put the
three tin plates in the bottom of the pan under the vittles; and so Jim got
everything all right, and as soon as he was by himself he busted into the
pie and hid the rope ladder inside of his straw tick, and scratched some
marks on a tin plate and throwed it out of the window-hole.
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Nat didn’t look over when we put the witch pie in Jim’s pan. We also put
three tin plates in the bottom of the pan under the food. Jim got
everything, and as soon as he was by himself he broke into the pie and hid
the rope ladder inside of his straw mattress. Then he scratched some marks
on one of the tin plates and threw it out of the window-hole.
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