keep a fly alive," remonstrated
old Miss Baker, when her son declined a second doughnut; "and what ails
the child?" she continued; "ha' n't he got no appetite? Why, when you
wuz his age, Lute, seemed as if I could n't cook doughnuts fast enough
for you!"

Lute explained that both he and his little boy had eaten pretty
heartily on the train that day. But all the time of their visit there
poor old Gran'ma Baker wondered and worried because they did n't eat
enough--seemed to her as if western folks had n't the right kind of
appetite. Even the plump pullets, served in a style that had made Miss
Baker famed throughout those discriminating parts--even those pullets
failed to awaken the expected and proper enthusiasm in the visitors.

Home again in Chicago, Lute drew his chair up to the table with an
eloquent sigh of relief. As for little Moses, he clamored his delight.

"Chicken pie!" he cried, gleefully; and then he added a soulful "wow!"
as his eager eyes fell upon a plateful of hot, exuberant, voluptuous
doughnuts.

"Yes, we are both glad to get back," said Lute.

"But I am afraid," suggested Em, timidly, "that gran'ma's cooking has
spoiled you."

Little Moses (bless him) howled an indignant, a wrathful remonstrance.
"Gran'ma can't cook worth a cent!" said he.

Em expected Lute to be dreadfully shocked, but he was n't.

"I would n't let her know it for all the world," remarked Lute,
confidentially, "but mother has lost her grip on cooking. At any rate,
her cooking is n't what it used to be; it has changed."

Then Em came bravely to the rescue. "No, Lute," says she, and she
meant it, "your mother's cooking has n't changed, but _you_ have. The
man has grown away from the boy, and the tastes, the ways, and the
delights of boyhood have no longer any fascination for the man."

"May be you 're right," said Lute. "At any rate, I 'm free to say that
_your_ cooking beats the world."

Good for Lute! Virtue triumphs and my true story ends. But first an
explanation to concinnate my narrative.

I should never have known this true story if Lute himself had n't told
it to me at the last dinner of the Sons of New England--told it to me
right before Em, that dear, patient little martyred wife of his. And I
knew by the love light in Em's eyes that she was glad that she had
endured that martyrdom for Lute's sake.

JOEL'S TALK WITH SANTA CLAUS

One Christmas eve Joel Baker was in a most unhappy mood. He was