ucks they had for Sunday dinners
were the same pretty feathered creatures he saw walking about the farm.
Chickens and ducks one ate, thought Sunny Boy, were always the kind he
remembered hanging up in the markets at home--without any feathers or
heads. He was sure they grew that way, somewhere.

"He doesn't have to eat his duck," comforted Grandma. "I'm going to make
something he likes this afternoon. If you and Olive are going to drive
over to town, Sunny and I will be busy in the kitchen."

"Saucer pies!" cried Sunny Boy. "I can help, can't I, Grandma?"

If there was one thing Sunny Boy loved to do, it was to be allowed to
watch his grandma bake pies. He could ask a hundred questions and always
be sure of an answer, he could taste the contents of every one of the row
of little brown spice boxes, and, best of all, there was a special little
pie baked for him in a saucer that he could eat the minute it was baked
and cool. No wonder Sunny Boy kissed Mother contentedly and watched her
drive away with Grandpa for a little shopping in town. He, Sunny Boy, was
going to help Grandma bake apple pies.

"Here's your chair, and here's a pound Sweeting for you," Araminta
greeted him as he trotted into the kitchen.

Sunny Boy scrambled into his place opposite Grandma at the white table.

"Now this won't be a very good pie," said Grandma, as she began to mix
the pie crust.

Dear Grandma always said that about her pies, even the one that won the
prize at the big fair.

"These apples are too sweet. But your grandfather can never wait. He has
to have an apple pie the minute the first apple ripens."

"So do I," announced Sunny Boy. "What's in this little can, Grandma?"

"Cinnamon, lambie," answered Grandma. "Don't sniff it like that--you'll
sneeze."

Sunny Boy munched his apple and watched her as she rolled out the crust.

"How many, Grandma?" he asked.

Araminta, peeling apples over by the window, laughed.

"He's just like his grandfather," she said. "Mr. Horton always says, 'How
many pies are you going to make, Mother?' doesn't he?"

"Why does Grandpa call you Mother?" inquired Sunny Boy of Grandma.
"You're not his mamma."

"No. But you see I suppose when your daddy was a little chap around the
house, and calling me and calling me 'Mother' sixty times a day, as you
do your mamma, Grandpa got in the habit of saying 'Mother,' too. And
habits, you know, Sunny Boy, are the funny little things that stay with
us."

"Yes