stay there. Mother began to be afraid that he might be sickening for measles, when suddenly he sat up in bed and said:—

"I hate gruel—I hate barley water—I hate bread and milk. I want to get up and have something real to eat."

"What would you like?" Mother asked.

"A pigeon-pie," said Peter, eagerly, "a large pigeon-pie. A very large one."

So Mother asked the Cook to make a large pigeon-pie. The pie was made. And when the pie was made, it was cooked. And when it was cooked, Peter ate some of it. After that his cold was better. Mother made a piece of poetry to amuse him while the pie was being made. It began by saying what an unfortunate but worthy boy Peter was, and then it went on:—