THE PICNIC
"I hardly think there will be any left, after the picnic," says Betsy, and that she had about used up the crop.
That finished me. Gooseberry pies—Betsy's kind—with molasses instead of sugar in—was my besetting sin from my youth up. The boy's mother used to set 'em up for me when I went to see her nights, to catch me. Well, they done it—notwithstanding many a colic—and the Jamaica ginger she gave me for the way home. And she had taught Betsy to make 'em her way. So I went on that picnic just to get a last piece of gooseberry pie! And it was the last for years to come. Eight miles going and eight miles coming for three—no four, pieces of pie—and a pain! What do you think of that for an old fool! But I wasn't so old then as I am now—though even now—I fall to gooseberry pie!
The hireland filled the hay wagon with straw, and we all sat on the bottom. I never saw Dave so happy. He just stretched out in the hay with his back against the seat aside of
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