Cora, Cora, I adore you,
And for home I hate to start,
But the beans are ready, Cora,
And the best of friends must part.
_Confessions of a Bride_
_A Daily Newspaper Raving_
“Call up a steeple-jack today and get him to paint the flag pole on the
garage,” said Warren as he finished his sixth helping of ham and eggs,
and folded the morning paper preparatory to leaving for the office. “Why,
Warren,” Helen exclaimed, “I can do the job as well as a steeple-jack,
and the money saved can be used to buy a new worm for our still; the old
one is almost worn out.”
Since Warren’s salary had been reduced from $3,000 to $2,984 a month
Helen had watched every dollar, and the thought of paying a man 50 or 75
cents to paint the flag pole caused big tears to form in her eyes and
run down her cheeks into the platter of fried mock turtle, which was her
favorite breakfast dish.
“There, there, little wife, don’t cry,” pleaded Warren, placing an arm
on her shoulder and gently kicking her back of the right ear, “We’ll say
no more about the matter today, but if I hear of you trying to climb
that flag pole I’ll cave in half a dozen of your ribs” and flinging her
a kiss he dashed blithely out of the house and hailing a passing whisky
runner’s car, was soon out of sight on his way to work.
Helen busied herself around the house and tried to keep her mind off of
the painting job. Since they had dispensed with the services of three
maids and there was no one to assist her with the house work except
Bridget, the Japanese house girl, there was much for her to do. Getting
Baby Winifred ready for school was the biggest task, and this morning the
little girl was more unruly than ever. Only by giving her a large glass
of potato whisky mixed with snuff, of which the child was intensely fond
could Helen induce her to stop breaking the cut glass decanters on the
sideboard, and allow herself to be dressed.
Making out the order for the butcher shop occupied three hours, and when
that was done it was time for her music lesson, for Helen never allowed
anything to interfere with her musical education, and at ten o’clock she
seated herself at the Victrola and under the skillful tutelage of her
teacher she was soon able to play the overture from “Lily of the Alley.”
From eleven until two was spent in eating a light lunch, and then
Jacquiline Olson dropped in to complain about Mabel, Helen’s pet cobra,
biting her little boy. The Olson woman was always distasteful to Helen
and when she requested that the snake be kept tied up during the summer
months, Helen arose majestically and with a deft uppercut knocked her
over three chairs into the wood-box, where she lay moaning feebly and
offered no resistance when Helen carried her over to the window and
dropped her with a crash into the alley.
Most women would have considered their day wrecked after such an
incident, but Helen, after draining a dipperful of hemlock wine,
dismissed the affair from her mind and started to repair one of the
dining room chairs she had broken in a friendly argument with Warren the
evening before. After several futile attempts to make the glue stick she
gave it up as a bad job and flung the chair in the bath tub where she was
certain Warren would not see it for months. Then the telephone rang and
a deep bass voice informed her that Baby Winifred had been arrested for
throwing rocks at the statue of Benedict Arnold in front of the city hall.
“Well, there’s nothing I can do till Warren comes home,” said Helen as
she hung up the receiver and went out in the back yard to dig a hole to
bury the neighbor’s bull dog which Pussy Purr-mew had just dragged in
the house. “I wish the dear thing wouldn’t bring home all the dogs she
kills,” sighed Helen, “but I suppose she wants to show me what a good
fighter she is.”
After burying the dog, Helen went back to the house and picking up the
latest issue of Naughty Stories, soon was so interested that she did not
hear the voices of the men at the front door when they brought Warren
home from the office, drunk, and dumped him on the front porch, where he
lay until she stumbled over him an hour later.
By this time Warren was sober enough to eat supper, which he did in a
silence only broken when he inhaled the soup and drank his coffee.
“Why don’t you talk to me?” Helen demanded toward the end of the meal.
“Don’t sit there like a dummy and never say a word. Men are such brutes!”
And throwing herself behind the kitchen stove she wept bitterly.
* * * * *
Too Fast!
The Victor Dog sat on a talking machine and the record ran so fast, that
the dog’s head caught up with his tail, and he didn’t have room to pass
“His Master’s Voice.”
* * * * *
_Olaf had a little dog,_
_’Twas free from fleas and sins;_
_One day it squeezed right through the fence,_
_And barked—its little shins._
—_Shakespeare._
* * * * *