n needed a wife to
patch the seat of his pants, it's Caleb Kimball! I guess it's the only
part of his clothes he ever wears out. He wa'n't like that before his
mother died; the wheels seemed to stop in him then an' there. He was
queer an' strange an' shy, but I never used to think he'd develop into
a reg'lar hermit. She'd turn in her grave, Mis' Kimball would, to see
him look as he does. I don't s'pose he gets any proper nourishment.
The smartest man in the world won't take the trouble to make pie for
himself, yet he'll eat it 's long 's he can stan' up! Caleb's mother
was a great pie-baker. I can see her now, shovelin' 'em in an' out o'
the oven Saturdays, with her three great black lanky boys standin'
roun' waitin' for 'em to cool off.--'Only _one_, mother?' Caleb used
to say, kind o' wheedlin'ly, while she laughed up at him leanin'
against the door-frame.--'What's one blueb'ry pie amongst me?'"

"He must 'a' had some fun in him once," smiled Amanda.

"They say women-folks ain't got no sense o' humor," remarked Mrs.
Benson, with a twitch of her thread. "I notice the men that live
_without_ 'em don't seem to have any! We may not amount to much, but
we're somethin' to laugh _at_."

"Why don't you bake him a pie now an' then, an' send it up, Susan?"
asked Amanda.

"Well, there, I don't feel I hardly know him well enough, though
William does. I dare say he wouldn't like it, an' he'd never think to
return the plate, so far away.--Besides, there never _is_ an extry pie
in a house where there's a man an' three boys; which reminds me I've
got to go home an' make one for breakfast, with nothin' to make it out
of."

"I could lend you a handful o' dried plums."

"Thank you; I'll take 'em an' much obliged. I declare it seems to me,
now the rhubarb's 'bout gone, as if the apples on the trees never
would fill out enough to drop off. There does come a time in the early
summer, after you're sick of mince, 'n' squash, 'n' punkin, 'n'
cranberry, 'n' rhubarb, 'n' custard, 'n' 't ain't time for currant, or
green apple, or strawb'ry, or raspb'ry, or blackb'ry--there does come
a time when it seems as if Providence might 'a' had a little more
ingenuity in plannin' pie-fillin'!--You might bake a pie for Caleb now
an' then yourself, Mandy; you're so near."

"Mrs. Thatcher lives half a mile away," replied Amanda; "but I
couldn't carry Caleb Kimball a pie without her knowin' it an' makin'
remarks. I'd bake one an' willin' if William 'd