“Now this won’t be a very good pie,” said Grandma, as she began to mix the pie crust.
Dear Grandma always said that about her pies, even the one that won the prize at the big fair.
“These apples are too sweet. But your grandfather can never wait. He has to have an apple pie the minute the first apple ripens.”
“So do I,” announced Sunny Boy. “What’s in this little can, Grandma?”
“Cinnamon, lambie,” answered Grandma. “Don’t sniff it like that—you’ll sneeze.”
Sunny Boy munched his apple and watched her as she rolled out the crust.
“How many, Grandma?” he asked.
Araminta, peeling apples over by the window, laughed.
“He’s just like his grandfather,” she said. “Mr. Horton always says, ‘How many pies are you going to make, Mother?’ doesn’t he?”
“Why does Grandpa call you Mother?” inquired Sunny Boy of Grandma. “You’re not his mamma.”