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, then it went on: He had an engine that he loved With all his heart and soul, And if he had a wish on earth It was to keep it whole.
One day--my friends, prepare your minds; I'm coming to the worst-- Quite suddenly a screw went mad, And then the boiler burst! With gloomy face he picked it up And took it to his Mother, Though even he could not suppose That she could make another; For those who perished on the line He did not seem to care, His engine being more to him Than all the people there.
And now you see the reason why Our Peter has been ill: He soothes his soul with pigeon-pie His gnawing grief to kill.
He wraps himself in blankets warm And sleeps in bed till late, Determined thus to overcome His miserable fate.
And if his eyes are rather red, His cold must just excuse it: Offer him pie; you may be sure He never will refuse it.
Father had been away in the country for three or four days.