|
||||||||
Springtime À la Carte It was a day in March. Never, never begin a story this way when you write one. No opening could possibly be worse. It is unimaginative, flat, dry and likely to consist of mere wind. But in this instance it is allowable. For the following paragraph, which should have inaugurated the narrative, is too wildly extravagant and preposterous to be flaunted in the face of the reader without preparation. Sarah was crying over her bill of fare. Think of a New York girl shedding tears on the menu card! To account for this you will be allowed to guess that the lobsters were all out, or that she had sworn ice- cream off during Lent, or that she had ordered onions, or that she had just come from a Hackett matinée. And then, all these theories being wrong, you will please let the story proceed. The gentleman who announced that the world was an oyster which he with his sword would open made a larger hit than he deserved. It is not difficult to open an oyster with a sword. But did you ever notice anyone try to open the terrestrial bivalve with a typewriter? Like to wait for a dozen raw opened that way? Sarah had managed to pry apart the shells with her unhandy weapon far enough to nibble a wee bit at the cold and clammy world within. She knew no more shorthand than if she had been a graduate in stenography just let slip upon the world by a business college. So, not being able to stenog, she could not enter that bright galaxy of office talent. She was a free-lance typewriter and canvassed for odd jobs of copying. The most brilliant and crowning feat of Sarahs battle with the world was the deal she made with Schulenbergs Home Restaurant. The restaurant was next door to the old red brick in which she hall-roomed. One evening after dining at Schulenbergs 40-cent five-course table dhôte (served as fast as you throw the five baseballs at the coloured gentlemans head) Sarah took away with her the bill of fare. It was written in an almost unreadable script neither English nor German, and so arranged that if you were not careful you began with a tooth-pick and rice pudding and ended with soup and the day of the week. The next day Sarah showed Schulenberg a neat card on which the menu was beautifully typewritten with the viands temptingly marshalled under their right and proper heads from hors duvre to not responsible for overcoats and umbrellas. Schulenberg became a naturalized citizen on the spot. Before Sarah left him she had him willingly committed to an agreement. She was to furnish typewritten bills of fare for the twenty-one tables in the restauranta new bill for each days dinner, and new ones for breakfast and lunch as often as changes occurred in the food or as neatness required. In return for this Schulenberg was to send three meals per diem to Sarahs hall-room by a waiteran obsequious one if possibleand furnish her each afternoon with a pencil draft of what Fate had in store for Schulenbergs customers on the morrow. Mutual satisfaction resulted from the agreement. Schulenbergs patrons now knew what the food they ate was called even if its nature sometimes puzzled them. And Sarah had food during a cold, dull winter, which was the main thing with her. And then the almanac lied, and said that spring had come. Spring comes when it comes. The frozen snows of January still lay like adamant in the cross-town streets. The hand-organs still played In the Good Old Summertime, with their December vivacity and expression. Men began to make thirty-day notes to buy Easter dresses. Janitors shut off steam. And when these things happen one may know that the city is still in the clutches of winter. |
||||||||
|
||||||||
|
||||||||
Copyright: All texts on Bibliomania are © Bibliomania.com Ltd, and may not be reproduced in any form without our written permission. See our FAQ for more details. | ||||||||