ne a chicken pie as ever came out of an oven.

Mr. 'Coon had a piece on his plate, too, and they were saying what a
fine pie it was, and Mr. Turtle and Mr. Rabbit said so, too, and that
Mr. Crow was certainly the finest cook in those parts.

THE STORY OF THE C. X. PIE

CONTINUED

WHAT HAPPENS TO MR. CROW AND HIS PIE

Poor Mr. Crow! You never saw anybody look as sickly and foolish as he
did. He thought that he had made a dreadful mistake in marking the pies,
and that now he had got to eat or pretend to eat the mess of old leaves
and sticks that filled up the C. X. pie clear to the top. He never
thought of Mr. 'Possum's changing the crust, and even if he had, he
wouldn't have felt any better.

[Illustration: I DON'T SUPPOSE YOU'LL EVER KNOW JUST HOW BAD MR. CROW
DID FEEL.]

I don't suppose you'll ever know just how bad Mr. Crow did feel, unless
you get into a fix like that some time yourself. First he got hot and
then he got cold, and the sweat began to break out on his bill like dew
drops. He began to eat a little of the crust first, and then he was
afraid if he ate the crust away the others would see what was inside of
it, so he put his fork in and got a rolled up leaf with gravy on it and
whisked it into his mouth and chewed and tried to swallow till his eyes
stuck out and the tears ran down in a stream. He was glad that nobody
seemed to be looking at him, for everybody else was too busy eating the
nice pie, and Mr. 'Possum was just saying that he liked Mr. Crow's
surprises, for he always surprised them by having something better than
they expected.

Then he told how once, when they were snowed in, Mr. Crow had kept them
all from starving by making a kind of bread called Johnnie cake, and
some chicken gravy, and how they could never get him to tell where he
got the things to make it of.[1] He said he thought maybe Mr. Crow would
tell pretty soon, though, now. Then they all looked at Mr. Crow and
begged him to tell his great secret, and when they looked they saw he
wasn't eating his pie, but was just sitting there picking at it with his
fork a little. They all told him not to be afraid to eat some of his own
nice pie, for they were sure there'd be plenty, and Mr. Crow said in a
weakly voice that when he cooked he never could eat very much. He said
he guessed he'd take a biscuit and some syrup because he didn't feel
quite well, anyway. So he pushed the C. X. pie away and ate a biscuit
with butter and sy