We had locked up the house and were just going upstairs to bed when Jack exclaimed:
“Mother, you know the mince pie you baked to-day? We must take it up to bed with us!”
“A pie, a mince pie to bed with us?” I cried in amazement, as I thought of the spicy delicious thing safely stowed away on the pantry shelf.
“Yes, Mother, you know there is a mouse. It ate up my gingerbread doll; didn’t leave even a crumb. How would we feel if it ate up our mince pie!”
That was true. There had been a mouse spying about of late, and so I said all right, we would.
I carried it up very carefully, and we stood in the middle of the room looking about for a good place to put it.
It was a bitter night. The maid had built a grand fire of logs, and they crackled and snapped a Christmas greeting as we stood seeking a resting place for the pie.
“I see a fine spot!” cried Jack, as he ran to the big grandfather clock, and sure enough it was. A shelf just under the pendulum that seemed made on purpose for a pie. We placed it there and covered it carefully with a napkin.
“The pie is going to bed, too,” I said, as I snuggled it up under its cover.
Jack shouted over this, and we both had a merry time undressing before the jolly fire.