"Yes," said Eleanor's brother Bob. "Yes; knowing the greatness of the present oc-ca-sion, I have written a poem, en-ti-tled, 'Ode to the Cook' (bowing to Mary Frances), which, with your kind indulgence, I will now read:"
"Begin!" laughed Mary Frances.
Bob cleared his throat and began:
"Mary Frances is a girl
Who cooks for you and I;
She can boil a fancy cake
Or stew a cherry pie.
"Once she made a pot of soup
And served it for our dinner;
We thought that we were like to die,
It made us so much thinner."
"Time to weep?" asked Billy, pa-thet-i-cal-ly.
"Now, this, our cook will save expense,
For when she is your baker,
You may save your doctor's bill—
Just get an undertaker."
