Then she went into details, expatiating eloquently on the joys of those pies so dear to English children,—gooseberry pie in the early summer, cherry pie later on, plum and apple pie still later, and at Christmas those peculiar pies that bear the name of mince.
But the babies sat unmoved.
Then she took down The Fairchild Family from her bookshelves, an old children's book that your grandmothers used to read and whose pages bristle with pies, and she read out the descriptions of all the pies the Fairchild Family ate, still hoping to bring fire into the babies' eyes and water into their mouths. The Fairchild Family ate a great many pies. As a rule they were made of raspberries and currants, and sometimes they were hot, and sometimes they were cold, and sometimes they were only apple; but the family was so fond of them that if one appeared on the table in front of him, Mr. Fairchild would cry out, on catching sight of it, 'What blessings we have about us, even in this world!' or something equally surprised and delighted. 'They all sat down,' read out the mother, with great expression and one eye on the babies,—'they all sat down, full of joy, to eat roast fowl and some boiled bacon, with a nice cold currant and raspberry pie.'
But the babies remained blank.
'I shall send to England for a pie-dish, babies,' she rashly promised, in her effort to get a spark of enthusiasm out of them, 'and we'll make all the pies I have told you about.'
But the babies didn't turn a hair.
'Or, what would be still nicer,' she went on, even more rashly, 'I'll take you all to England on purpose to eat pies!'
But the babies sat like stones.
The mother gave it up.
This is the tune:—