"You won't let the boy eat and I know he is starving," and so he was,—and so were all of us. We ate right through a long table d'hôte dinner, ordering every thing in sight from blue points to café noir. Wherever there was a choice of dainties we took both, much to the amusement of the very swell waiter, whose black face shone with delight in anticipation of the handsome tip he knew by experience was forthcoming when Jeffry Tucker gave his girls a party.
"Pink ice cream for me!" exclaimed Father, when the question of dessert arose.
"And me! And me!" from Mary and Annie and me.
"Don't stop with that," begged Dee. "Dum and I always get everything on the menu for dessert except pumpkin pie. We can't go that."
"Now pumpkin pie is all I want," put in the dear old Judge. "I feel sure you do not know the delights of pumpkin pie or you would not speak so slightingly of it. Do you happen to know this piece of poetry?
"'Ah! on Thanksgiving Day
When from East and from West,
From North and from South
Come the pilgrim and guest;
When the care-wearied man
Seeks his mother once more;
And the worn matron smiles
Where the girl smiled before:
What moistens the lip,
And what brightens the eye,
What brings back the past
Like the rich pumpkin pie?'"
"Brava! Brava! Bring me some pumpkin pie along with the pink ice cream," cried Father.
"And me!"
"And me!"
"And me!"