"You're a story-teller," Peggy said, "and for a punishment you've got to tell us a real story as soon as you've had your party."
"Nothing ever tasted so good to me in my life," Elizabeth said, as they were brushing off the crumbs.
"That's what she says after every meal she eats," her grandfather chuckled.
"But it's always true. Now here's your pipe and here's your baccy, and while you're filling it, you've got to be thinking of a story to tell us."
"I can't tell stories," he protested. "I'd sing a song if I knew any. There was a song my grandfather used to sing to us when we were children, but I can't remember it. The chorus went like this," he made a great pretence of getting the pitch, and then, rocking himself gently, sang in a solemn, sing-song voice:
"Injun pudding and pumpkin pie The gray cat scratched out the black cat's eye."
I never knew the rights of it, or what the trouble was. Some kind of a disagreement they had."
"But where did the injun pudding and pumpkin pie come in?" Peggy asked. "And what is injun pudding?"
"Don't show your ign'rance, as Moses says," Elizabeth put in. "It's Indian pudding, and you make it out of Indian meal and molasses, and it cooks all day and makes whey, and eaten with ice-cream it's perfectly heavenly. Grandma is going to show me how to make it. I made a cake, you know."