But you know, when you cannot read or write you never do know how your dough will turn out.  Do you?  So, cook took the funny looking dough, if it was dough, and rolled it out first thick and then real thin.  "It still looks funny.  Did I forget to put something in?  Or maybe I put too much in.  Ah well --"

Then she took the square tins out of a drawer and powdered them up so good that powder went everywhere.  Next Cook cut out some square cakes for the little boys, and with some round tins she cut out some round cakes for the little girls, and then she said, “You know what I think I'm going to do?  I’m going to make a little gingerbread man for little Bobby.”

So she took a nice round lump of the funny looking dough for the body of the GingerBread Man, and a smaller lump for his head, which she pulled out a little for the neck. Two other lumps were stuck on beneath the body to make the legs, and they were pulled out into proper shape, with feet and teeny weeny little toes all complete, and last of all -- two still smaller pieces of the funny looking dough were made into arms, with dear little hands and fingers.

But Cook's sweetest work was applied to the head, for the top was frizzed up into a pretty sugary hat; on either side was made a dear little ear, and in front, after the nose had been carefully molded, a beautiful mouth was made out of a big prune, and two bright little eyes were made with burnt almonds and out of her spice rack came what might have been some caraway seeds.

Then the gingerbread man was finished, ready for baking, and a very jolly little man he was. In fact, he looked so sly that the cook was suddenly afraid he was plotting some mischief, and when the batter was ready for the oven, she put in the square cakes and she put in the round cakes; and then she put the little gingerbread man in a far back corner, where she couldn’t see him grin.

Then she went up to sweep the parlor, and she dusted and she swept so much she opened the back door to let the dust out, then she swept till the clock struck eleven, or was it twelve?  Cook couldn't count because she had skipped school so much, so she always had to guess how many times the clock struck. 

So, the thirty nine year old cook that could not count, read or write because she had skipped school so much dropped her broom in a hurry, and exclaimed, “Lawks! If that clock was striking twelve then the potatoes are supposed to be done and I haven't even peeled them yet -- Oh NO! the gingerbread will be baked all to a cinder.”

Cook kicked the broom out of her way and then she ran into the kitchen, and yanked the oven door open. But maybe it was only eleven after all because the square cakes were all done, nice and hard and brown, and the round cakes were all done, nice and hard and brown too.  But where in the dickens was the gingerbread man? 

There he was!  Standing up and hiding in the corner with his little caraway-seed eyes sparkling, and his split prune mouth was just bubbling over with mischief. 

As soon as he decided Cook had seen him he darted to the left and he darted to the right.  Then, with a hop, and a skip, and a jump, he sailed right over the square cakes made for the boys and ran around the round cakes made for the girls, then he gathered up speed and jumped right over the cook’s arm. Before she could say “Drot the Luck anyway” he was skidding across the kitchen floor just as fast as his teeny weeny little legs would carry him towards the back door, which was still standing wide open, and through which he could see the open garden path.

But, NO, it wasn't.  Cook was too excited and she began to order the cat around instead of saying PLEASE; as we all know, cats don't take orders very well.

“Mouser, Mouser,” Cook cried, “stop the gingerbread man! I want him for little Bobby.” When the cook first called, Mouser pretended it was only some one calling in her dreams, and she simply rolled over lazily.  One eye twitched open a teeny weeny little bit, then it closed and Mouser went back to sleep.

But when Cook called again, “Mouser, Mouser!” the old cat sprang up with a jump, but just as she turned round to ask the cook what all the noise was about, the little gingerbread man cleverly crawled under her twitching tail, and in an instant he was trotting down the garden walk as if nothing at all were happening, he even whistled a jaunty little tune as he trotted along.

When the gingerbread man saw the dog coming, he jumped down on the farther side of the wall, and began running across the field. Now in the middle of the field was a tree, and at the foot of the tree was lying Jocko, the monkey. He wasn’t asleep—monkeys never are—and when he
saw the little gingerbread man running across the field and heard the cook calling, “Jocko, Jocko, stop the gingerbread man,” he at once gave one big jump. But he jumped so fast and so far that he went right over the gingerbread man, and as luck would have it, he came down on the back of Towser, the dog, who had just scrambled over
the wall, and whom he had not noticed before.

Towser was naturally taken by surprise by the monkey landing on his back, so he snapped his head around and promptly bit off the end of the monkey’s tail. With a fierce chattering Jocko quickly jumped off again, chattering his indignation.

So he pulled himself up
hand over hand until he had got to the topmost branch.

But the monkey had leaped onto the lowest branch in a single spring, and in an instant he also was all the way up at the top of the tree.

The gingerbread man crawled out to the furthermost end of the branch, and hung by one hand, but the monkey swung himself under the branch, and stretching out his long arm, he pulled the gingerbread man in. Then he held him up and looked at him so hungrily that the little split prune mouth began to pucker down at the corners, and the caraway-seed eyes filled with tears.

And then what do you think happened? Why, little Bobby himself came running up. He had been taking his noon-day nap upstairs, and in his dreams it seemed as if he kept hearing people call “Little Bobby, little Bobby!” until finally he jumped up with a start, and was so sure that some one was calling him that he ran down-stairs, without even waiting to put on his shoes.

Then Bobby held him up and looked at him, and the little plum mouth puckered down lower than ever, and the tears ran right out of the caraway-seed eyes.

But Bobby was too hungry to mind crocodile tears falling from a gingerbread man, and he gave one big bite, and swallowed down both legs and a piece of the body.

“OH!” said the gingerbread man,
“ONE-THIRD OF ME IS GONE!”