"Ter bodatiss iss all".

This remark was made by a rosy-cheeked, black-eyed dining room girl in a most excellent Pennsylvania Dutch inn, in a Lancaster county village. I had just called for another baked potato.

"Is all!" said the dining room girl with a smile and a shake of her head.

"All," said I, "all what?"

"Ter bodatiss iss all," answered the girl, impatiently, and with a suspicion of contempt in her tone, "iss all".

A native, with the whiskers of a patriarch, came to my rescue.

"She means ter haind't no more alretty. Ter all".

And thus I learned that the Pennsylvania Dutch never say anything is "gone." If the bar runs out of beer, the beer is "all." When the sauerkraut barrel is empty, the kraut is "all." But there is one thing that is never "all." That is pie. If some thrifty and hearty Dutch citizen should ever ask for pie, and word should go back to him that there was no pie, the relations between him and his host would at once become strained. But the necessity of asking for pie seldom exists, either at tavern or farm house. At a Pennsylvania Dutch inn the waiter doesn't disturb your tympanum with:

" Mincerapplepierpud'n?"

She fetches in the pie at the proper time and places it before you. Not only pie, but a whole pie; and not only one whole pie, but sometimes three or four whole pies, all of different kinds. The black-eyed girl with rosy cheeks who knocked me out by telling me that the potatoes were "all," placed four uncut pies on the table immediately afterward. There was a cheese custard, a cranberry tart, a sweet potato custard and a snitz pie. No matter how many pies there are on the table every guest is expected to help himself to each one as his inclination and capacity prompt him. There is always enough. The only thing that is short about Pennsylvania Dutch pies is the crust.