Ole Man Pumpkin
by
It was October, and the cornfield was deserted and bare. Jehosophat and Marmaduke could remember it as a more beautiful picture. For there, in the Summer, an army had camped, the great army of the corn, with tassels and tall yellow spears, and bright green banners waving and tossing in the wind. But when Fall had come, Father and the Toyman had come, too, with their sickles like swords, to attack and cut down that brave army. And now the corn soldiers were all laid away, stiff and cold, in the barn, or else in the silo–to be pickled in juice!
Marmaduke and Jehosophat looked over the field. It was covered with little hills, and there the feet of the corn soldiers still stood, all that was left of them, for they had been “swished by those swords,” just at the ankles.
Between the hills shone the last of the pumpkins, big, round and yellow–red-yellow like an orange. Most of them had gone in the wagon, long ago, but the largest of all had been left. My, but he was a big fellow! “The biggest in the world!” they declared.
He had been saved for the great day–or night, we should say–Hallowe’en.
But let’s hurry the clock–over three days–to the morning before the celebration.
The three children were watching Mother in the kitchen. She was busy with the big pumpkin, but the Toyman had to help her with it–it was so huge. He lifted it on the table–then–what do you think?
He took a sharp knife and scalped that Pumpkin–just like an Indian–cut a great hole in his head. Then Mother scooped out his insides and chopped them up fine. Ole Man Pumpkin was very brave, just stood it and said never a word.
“Why, he doesn’t holler a bit!” exclaimed Marmaduke. “I would, if anybody scalped me and took my insides out!”
Next, Mother brought out the big pot, filling it part with water, and part with Ole Man Pumpkin’s yellow insides. And the fire roared angrily and boiled them, boiled them all up. It took quite a long time, but the children didn’t grow tired–it was such a mysterious, such an interesting process.
At last Mother decided it had been cooked long enough, and she poured the water into the sink, the nice yellow stuff into a bowl. Then she mashed the lumps till it looked like golden mush.
Now the flour was sifted on the pastry board, and the dough rolled until it was as smooth and flat as a sheet or counterpane. Then quickly and neatly the dough counterpanes were placed in the pans, hanging over the edges like covers overlapping a bed. Taking a knife, Mother cut off these edges even with the pan, then, for decoration, made little marks in the dough all around, like the flutings of the Fairy Lamp.
Of course, the insides of Ole Man Pumpkin wouldn’t taste quite right as they were, so Mother broke some eggs over them, adding some milk and a pinch of spice for seasoning, and the delicious mess was stirred till all was thoroughly mixed.
Soon it was ready, a fine filling for pies and pans or little boys or kings, for that matter, and she scraped it into the pans until the white crust was covered up, all but the fluted edges. Then into the oven went the pies, on the top shelf, and the door was closed to keep the heat in.
Meanwhile the children had been so busy watching Mother and those pies; and their mouths had watered so as they watched, that they hadn’t noticed the Toyman at all–until they heard him say,–
“Good mornin’, Jack!”
Jack Who? Not Jack Holmes or Jack Frost–no, it was someone much handsomer, although he had a hole in the top of his head, a fat face, big round eyes, a large flat nose, and a wide, wide mouth with lots of square teeth in it.