Pumpkin Pies

There’s many a song and many a tale

     Of the good old pumpkin pie,

Of the kind that “mother used to make”

     In the days that have gone by.

There’s never a good New England yarn

     Of the holiday time of year,

But what it tells of the pumpkin pies

     New Englanders hold so dear.

Now what is this “good old pumpkin pie”,

     That poets are raving o’er?

That cuts so much ice “down on the farm”,

     And everyone wants some more?

I’ve seen my mother in days gone by

     Stand rolling the pie crust out,

Then stir the juice, a gallon or more

     With a ladle long and stout.

I’ve seen her carry them to the stove,

     A dozen, sometimes a score,

And bake them all to a rich, red brown,

     Then carry them back once more

And stow them away on the pantry shelves,

     With a look of pride in her eyes,

Then call my father to see the row

     Of the new-made pumpkin pies.

Then father would kiss her plump, red face,

     And give a peculiar laugh,

Then coax a pie from its resting place,

     And lessen it more than half.

And we would manage to follow suit,

     Praising mother up to the skies;

And in a few days she’d have to bake

     Another big batch of pies!

Thanksgiving or Christmas, and good pumpkin pie,

     A subject the gods to inspire;

A cold winter’s night on a wayback farm,

     A cracking big log on the fire!

Why wouldn’t some other pie take its place?

     I wonder you people don’t try,

And thus do away with the old idea

     There’s nothing like pumpkin pie.

A pie is a pie, whatever the name,

     Be it apple to apricot;

They all look the same to a man who’s blind,

     And all reach the self-same spot.

But pumpkin gets lauded above them all,

     A mixture of flour and paste;

And tho’ I prefer it I say right here,

     It’s only a matter of taste!

c. Sept. 22, 1902