When in the mouth the undertow
Of gastric juice was strong and full,
And appetite was never dull,
That mother made with curious art
A pastry that should joy impart
To all of low degree or high,
And which she christened Vinegar Pie.
Its contents were to me unknown,
But neath that crust of fine brown tone,
There was a flavor rare for saint
And sinner, when with hunger faint,
A mingling of the sweet and sour,
That touched the spot with tickling power,
And brought stomachic ecstasy
To head and tail of family.
At high pie counters I have sat,
And tasted Lincoln thick and fat,
And apple, rhubarb, peach and mince,
And even custard, cherry, quince,
But never since my boyhood days,
With knife or fork or spoon did raise
To opening mouth such rarity
As my dear mother's vinegar pie.
__J. M. Cavaness.
J. M. Cavaness
(Chanute: Tribune Pub. Co. 1913)