"I am sorry," said Rose, "I was trying to learn how you made that crust—how much butter is there there, Aunt Dolly?"
"Why, those two pieces, don't you see? what silly questions you ask."
"I am afraid I shall never learn," said the bewildered Rose, "I don't believe I could do it."
"I dare say you couldn't; you are just as stupid about that as you are about every thing else. You are just like your mother, ex-actly."
"What did you do that for?" asked Rose, as Dolly, having made her paste, put a small dab of dough in the mouth of the oven.
"'Cause I felt like it," said Dolly, "it don't look like a pudding, does it, and it isn't a pie; I dare say you'd stare at it till the millennium, without ever guessing what it was for; come, stone your raisins; you won't get done till next Christmas; of course, if you had any sense, you'd know that it was a piece of dough put there to try the heat of the oven—you are the tiresomest little young one I ever saw; you always talk at me, till I'm all gone at the stomach."
"Why did you stand some of the pies up on bricks in the oven, and set others on the oven floor?" asked Rose, a short time after.
"Well," exclaimed Dolly, "that goes ahead of any thing you have said yet; if it wasn't for letting my oven cool, I could hold my sides and laugh an hour; a smart cook you'd make; don't you see that there's either too many pies or too small an oven, and that by standing bricks endways between the plates, and putting pies on top of 'em, I can get lots more room, you born fool! Did you ever see such a stupid thing?" asked Dolly, turning to Daffy.
"But it's all new to her, you know," said Daffy, apologetically.