"Or blackberry pie?"
"Or greens cooked wi' bacon?"
"Or chicken pie?"
"Or catfish, rolled in cornmeal and fried in ham fat?"
"Or guineas stewed in cream, with hard-boiled eggs in the gravy?"
"Oh, stop!" cried the delighted Mary. "It makes me dead tired
thinkin' how I'll iver be cookin' all you'll want. Sure, have him
come, and both of you can pick out the things you like the best,
and I'll fix thim for him. Pure, fresh stuff might be a trate to a
city man. When Dolan took sister Katie to New York with him, his
boss sent them to a five-dollar-a-day house, and they thought they
was some up. By the third day poor Katie was cryin' for a square
male. She couldn't touch the butter, the eggs made her sick, and
the cold-storage meat and chicken never got nearer her stomach than
her nose. So she just ate fish, because they were fresh, and she
ate, and she ate, till if you mintion New York to poor Katie she
turns pale, and tastes fish. She vows and declares that she feeds
her chickens and hogs better food twice a day than people fed her
in New York."
"I'll bet my new milk pail the grub we eat ivery day would be a
trate that would raise him," said Jimmy. "Provided his taste ain't
so depraved with saltpeter and chalk he don't know fresh, pure food
whin he tastes it. I understand some of the victims really don't."
"Your new milk pail?" questioned Mary.
"That's what!" said Jimmy." The next time I go to town I'm goin' to
get you two."
"But I only need one," protested Mary.
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