“Well then” said I, “I believe I’ll take it.”

“There! there!” exclaimed Mammy, pointing her finger at me, “See the greedy girl!  Now you shall not have it, just for asking for it.”  The disputed piece was immediately deposited on Fred’s plate; and from that day forth I gave up all hopes of the largest piece of pie.

O, that Fred was an imp!  There was nothing in the shape of mischief, which he would not do.  If left to amuse the baby, he often amused himself by tying a string to its toe, and every now and then giving it a sudden pull.  The child would cry, of course, and, on the approach of any one, Master Fred sat looking as demure as possible, while trying to keep his little brother quiet.  The string would then be twitched again for his own private edification; and it was sometime before the trick was discovered.  My brother Henry had at one time several little chickens, of which he became very fond.  Day after day he fed, admired, and caressed them; and Fred, who never could bear to see others happy long, began to revolve in his own mind certain plans respecting the chickens.  One by one they disappeared, until the number decreased alarmingly; but no traces of them could be found.  We were questioned, but, as all denied the charge, the culprit remained undiscovered, although strong suspicions rested on Fred. At last the indignant owner came upon him one day, as he stood quietly watching the struggles of two little chickens in a tub of water.  Henry bitterly exclaimed against this cruelty, but Fred innocently replied that “he had no hand in the matter; he had thought, for some time, how much prettier they would look swimming like ducks, and therefore tried to teach them—­but the foolish things persisted in walking along with their eyes shut, and so got drowned.”

But one of Fred’s grand coup-d’oeils was the affair of the cherry-pie.  In those days ladies attended more to their household affairs than they do at present; and my mother, an excellent housekeeper, was celebrated for her pastry—­cherry-pies in particular.  It was the Fourth of July; the boys were released from school, and roaming about in quest of mischief as boys always are—­and, as a rare thing, we had no company that day, except my aunt, who had come from a distance on a visit to my mother, while my father had gone to return one of the numerous visits paid him.  Cherry-pie was a standing dish at our house with which to celebrate the Declaration of Independence.  The servants had all gone out for a holiday, no dinner was cooked, and the sole dependence was on the cherry-pie.

They sat down to dinner, and I heard my mother say:  “Now, sister Berthy, I really hope you will enjoy this pie, for I bestowed extra pains upon it, and placed it up in the bed-room pantry out of the boys’ reach, who are very apt to nibble off the edge of the crust.  This time, I see, they have not meddled with it.”