I was ushered into the private room of the superintendent of the Orphan
Home. After a few moments' introductory talk he brought me down to the
kitchen--a large, spacious room with all the modern cooking
paraphernalia. The cook presided over the stove, on which were a dozen
pots. Three pale little girls were peeling potatoes.
From there we went to the dressmaking room, where half a dozen girls
under the supervision of an expert were making dresses, shirts, sheets
and all the other linen of the house. Though it was a beautiful spring
day they had to use gas light, the room was so dark. The superintendent
noticing my gaze fixed on the burning light, explained:
"It is not too dark here, but you can't make them understand that
artificial light is bad for the eyes. It's a pity to waste money on gas,
but you can't do everything just right."
From the dressmaking room he led me to the dining room, which was a very
large, light room, with one big white marble table in the centre.
Little girls were busy setting the table for the noon meal. Soon the
bell rang and a hundred pair of tripping feet followed the call to
lunch. In a few moments they were all sitting around the table. A big
cauldron of soup was brought and the bowls filled with the steaming
food. A hundred little mouths munched and chattered and whispered, the
older girls supervising the younger ones, the stronger ones often
getting the slice of bread belonging to the weaker.
One of the "old ones" approached the superintendent and told him: "Clara
Morris does not eat."
"Why?" he asked.
"She cries, sir," the girl answered.
"Bring her to my office," he ordered.
Then he turned to me and explained: "The new ones don't assimilate
readily. There is especial difficulty in the matter of food. Their taste
has been spoiled with spicy food and they can't eat the simple,
wholesome food we give them here. The first few days they don't eat at
all, but when they get good and hungry they fall to it like the rest.
And they eat--oh! they eat. If you could see the bills for food for a
month you would gasp. A fortune is spent. The fruit bill alone is above
three hundred dollars a month. They get all the fruits of the season,
but they would prefer pickles and sour tomatoes. I tell you for some of
them it's lucky their parents died. I shudder to think what would have
become of them." As he was speaking the office girl called him to the
telephone. I went straight to the child who refused to eat and asked her
why she refused the food. It was the child of an applicant and she knew
me.
"I can't eat it--it tastes bad. See for yourself."
I took a spoonful of the supposed lentil soup and tasted. It smelt and
tasted like dishwater. Of lentils it had only the colour and the name.
Then I tasted the meat and the pudding, and understood why they had to
be hungry for a few days before they could touch it. I looked at the
faces of the children. All ghastly pale, with bent shoulders and
fallen-in chests and toothpick legs--only the eyes were living, the
feverish, longing eyes of the people of woe.
The children ate the bread, some chewed a bone, alternating with a bite
from a quarter of an apple, the fruit of the season, and as an extra
treat, because I was there, two dates were given to each. Once in a
while a little tragedy would happen. A big one would take away a slice
of bread from a small one, and the protests of the robbed were stilled
with threats and pinches.
"When is your happiest time here?" I asked one of the girls.
"Every six weeks," she answered.
"Why so?"
"Because then I am in the kitchen for two days and can eat as much as I
want."
Soon the superintendent came again, and as he insisted on my visiting
the classes while at work he invited me to lunch with his family. I was
introduced to the lady of the house--who in turn introduced me to their
daughter, a young Miss of twenty, with round, healthy body and rosy
cheeks and stupid eyes. Mr. Marcel talked all the time, explaining to me
how ungrateful the children of the poor are. I was seated directly
opposite him at table and had an opportunity of studying him at close
range. For the first time I remarked his gluttonous lips and round,
protruding belly. He followed every plate with his eyes and
ceremoniously pushed his sleeves back before he carved, as though
officiating at a holy rite. The more he ate the more he wanted, and
seeing such a luncheon and the fruit at the table I quite believed that
"The fruit bill alone was three hundred dollars a month."