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.
"Mr. Jehosophat Green," said the Toyman very politely, "let me make
you acquainted with Jack, or, as he is sometimes called, 'Ole Man
Pumpkin.'"
Jehosophat bowed low.
"Pleased to meet you," he said, just like grownup folks.