Words could not express the admiration which we all felt for the procession.  It was really accomplished in a masterly manner, especially taking into consideration the shortness of the time for preparation; but that paled beside the wonders of the old Shaw house.  I was obliged to be in the kitchen all during that hour of inspection and social intercourse, but I could hear the loud bursts of admiration.  The house seemed full of exclamation-points.  Flora Clark said for her part she could not see why folks could not look at a thing and think it was pretty without screaming; but she was tired, and probably a little vexed at herself for working so hard when Mrs. Jameson had gotten up the centennial.  It was very warm in the kitchen, too, for Mrs. Jameson had herself started the hearth fire in order to exemplify to the utmost the old custom.  The kettles on the crane were all steaming.  Flora Clark said it was nonsense to have a hearth-fire on such a hot day because our grandmothers were obliged to, but she was in the minority.  Most of the ladies were inclined to follow Mrs. Jameson’s lead unquestionably on that occasion.  They even exclaimed admiringly over two chicken pies which she brought, and which I must say had a singular appearance.  The pastry looked very hard and of a curious leaden color.  Mrs. Jameson said that she made them herself out of whole wheat, without shortening, and she evidently regarded them as triumphs of wholesomeness and culinary skill.  She furthermore stated that she had remained up all night to bake them, which we did not doubt, as Hannah Bell, her help, had been employed steadily in the old Shaw house.  Mrs. Jameson had cut the pies before bringing them, which Flora Clark whispered was necessary.  “I know that she had to cut them with a hatchet and a hammer,” whispered she; and really when we came to try them later it did not seem so unlikely.  I never saw such pastry, anything like the toughness and cohesiveness of it; the chicken was not seasoned well, either.  We could eat very little; with a few exceptions, we could do no more than taste of it, which was fortunate.

I may as well mention here that the few greedy individuals, who I fancy frequent all social functions with an undercurrent of gastronomical desire for their chief incentive, came to grief by reason of Mrs. Jameson’s chicken pies.  She baked them without that opening in the upper crust which, as every good housewife knows, is essential, and there were dire reports of sufferings in consequence.  The village doctor, after his precarious drive in the ancient sulky, had a night of toil.  Caleb—­commonly called Kellup—­Bates, and his son Thomas, were the principal sufferers, they being notorious eaters and the terrors of sewing-circle suppers.  Flora Clark confessed to me that she was relieved when she saw them out again, since she had passed the pies to them three times, thinking that such devourers would stop at nothing and she might as well save the delicacies for the more temperate.