“_High prices do not necessarily mean high living._”--H. C. OF L.
PROVERB NO. 6.
Mrs. Larry, her chin cupped in her slim competent hand, gazed at the
toe of her bronze slipper. A smile played round her lips and brightened
her eyes.
Mr. Larry, leaning back in his favorite chair, studied her with the
satisfaction of a man who has found matrimony a success, and is eager
to blazon the fact to all the world.
“Well,--and what of to-day’s adventure in thrift?” he asked.
“Oh, Larry, it ended in _such_ a mess!” she answered, leaning forward,
her hands clasped about her knees. “The day started with a perfectly
wonderful trip through the Montclair Cooperative Store. Then, because
we did not realize that we had taken in about all the information we
could absorb at one time, we went chasing off to see a cooperative
kitchen and training school for housemaids--”
She stopped abruptly, and resumed her study of the beaded bronze
slipper.
“And then,” prompted Mr. Larry in exactly the tone which he knew would
bring a response.
“Oh, Larry, I’m afraid I’m a little silly,” she sighed. “I can’t rise
to the heights of cooperation and the good of the greatest number
and all that sort of thing. Moreover, if I keep on investigating the
attempts of my own sex to solve the high cost of living problem, I
shall develop into an out and out anti-suffragist. If we women can not
solve the economic problems in our own pantries and kitchens, what
right have we to meddle with state and national economics?”
Mr. Larry flung back his head and laughed with delight.
“My dear girl,” he announced consolingly, “if every man who has shown
himself incompetent to direct the finances of his family and his
business were deprived of the ballot, the voting list in this city
would be cut down about three-fourths. But how does this bear on your
trip to Montclair?”
“Oh, in lots of ways,” replied Mrs. Larry firmly. “Now about the
kitchen. You see, dear, there is so much waste for families like ours,
who buy in small quantities. And there is waste in service when each
family keeps a maid in a small apartment like this. That’s why Teresa
Moore said we really ought to see the Montclair Cooperative Kitchen.
“Now suppose she and I had adjoining apartments. Suppose we had one
maid between us instead of two, and that the marketing was done
simultaneously for both families in larger quantities, and the cooking
and serving were done in either her apartment or mine for both
families, see?”
Mr. Larry looked alarmed.
“I see, but I don’t care for it. I like Teresa--in small doses--but
I do not relish the idea of eating my meals with her three hundred
and sixty-five days in the year. A man chooses the woman who’s to sit
opposite him at table because he loves her, not for economic reasons.
If this is what your investigations are leading to, we’ll quit here
and now. Of course, I don’t want to interfere with your friendship with
Teresa, but--”
“Larry, Larry,” chortled his wife, “do run down a minute or two and
let me explain. I was only leading up to the Montclair experience by
presenting a hypothetical case, as the lawyers do--”
“Oh, if it’s only that--” said the mollified Mr. Larry, setting down
once more to listen.
“And anyhow,” pursued his wife, “you wouldn’t have to sit opposite
anybody but me. We’d have a table of our own, one for each family.”
“Like a high-class boarding house, I suppose, with near-silk
candle-shades and a bargain counter fern dish in near-silver--”
“But you don’t have to go to the cooperative kitchen if you don’t want
to; you can have your meals sent piping hot by paying a little more,
and even a trim maid to serve the dinner for you,” finished Mrs. Larry
in triumph.
“Fine! And if you wanted a second helping of mashed potatoes, I suppose
the trim little maid would trip down three blocks and bring it back on
the run. Great on a rainy night. And suppose that I didn’t like onions
in my turkey stuffing, but Teresa’s husband did, who would win?”
Mrs. Larry shook her head at him.
“That’s why cooperative kitchens fail. You men will have the kind of
bread your mother used to bake--”
“No, the kind of pie my wife makes, lemon with meringue this high. Do
you think there’s a cooperative kitchen on earth that can bake a pie
like yours?”
“But you can’t save a lot of money and have just what you want to eat,
Larry, dear.”
“All right, then we’ll save a little less. Digestion is an important
factor in efficiency.” He said this with a twinkle in his eye, and then
turned sober. “You see, my dear, several years before I married you,
I yielded to the importunities of a chap who went in for this sort of
thing. He dragged me out to live in a cooperative home established by
Upton Sinclair in Jersey. Halcyon Hall they called it. My word, such a
site, on top of a mountain with the world at your feet! And then such
rules of organization, with the running of the plant neatly divided
between us!
“One woman tended all the babies, another did all the cooking. She
was a dietitian with a diploma, but she was no cook. To save steps,
the food was run in from the kitchen to the dining-room on a sort
of miniature railway. Sometimes it stuck, and then everybody with a
mechanical turn of mind rushed from the table to pry it loose. Of
course, by the time you got your soup or gravy it was cold, but, never
mind, the railroad was in working order again, and nobody would have to
walk from kitchen to dining-room!”
“Larry! You are hopeless!”
“So was this plan. I dropped my board money and ran for my
life--literally, because the man whose specialty was engineering let
something go amiss with the furnace in his charge, and the whole place
burned to the ground one frosty night. Several of the colonists’ were
severely injured; one claims that she has never fully recovered her
health. But, of course, such troubles would not overtake a cooperative
kitchen. That is a simpler proposition, so go ahead with your story
and I promise not to interrupt.”
“Well, the enterprise is not quite a year old--it was started by Mrs.
H. A. Leonhauser, wife of a retired army officer, who has lived in all
sorts of countries and posts and barracks and things, so she knew the
economy of cooperative living.
“We found the kitchen conveniently located at Valley Road and
Mountainview Place. You never did see such a wonderful equipment of
ranges and sinks and tables and cooking utensils outside of a hotel
kitchen. There was everything to do with and so much room to do it in.
There are times, dear, when an apartment house kitchen does get on
one’s nerves--it’s like going round and round in a squirrel cage.
“Well, everything started out beautifully--”
“This morning?” queried Mr. Larry.
“No, last November, when the kitchen opened. Only the humblest helpers
were what you might call servants. Everybody else had degrees and
letters after their names. The making of the menus and the balancing
of the food values were done by a graduate dietitian. A woman who had
made efficiency a study was appointed as general housekeeper and she
looked after the preparation of the meals.”
“Who cooked them?”
“Why, the dietitian, of course. Then a graduate in domestic science
looked after the real economics, figuring costs and specifying what
prices should be paid.”
“Any of these ladies ever been married or kept house?”
“Now, Larry, that is horrid! You don’t have to marry in order to
keep house. The idea was so to arrange meals that every one would be
satisfied.”
“Impossible!”
“By that I mean different menus would be arranged to suit the incomes
of different stockholders. Even if you wanted a vegetarian diet, it
would be supplied. If you wanted to have your meals in the dining-room
attached to the kitchen, there would be a table d’hôte.”
Mr. Larry groaned.
“French or Italian?”
[Illustration: There would be the family dinner sitting on the back
step]
“American, of course, and if you didn’t want to come to the kitchen,
your dinner was to be sent to your home in a sort of thermos stove.
The table d’hôte, price fifty cents, was to include a soup, a roast, a
vegetable, a salad, a dessert and coffee. Every day a post-card folder
was to be mailed subscribers, with the dishes to be served the next
day, all prices marked for à la carte service. The housekeeper selected
her menu in the morning, sent it to the kitchen, and then was free to
go to town for shopping or a matinée. When she and her husband came
home there would be the family dinner, sitting on the back step in its
little thermos stove!”
“But did it?”
“Did it what?” asked Mrs. Larry.
“Did it ever sit, waiting on the back step for its subscribers,
stockholders or whatever you call them? Did the kitchen ever really
live up to the promises of its prospectus? Did you meet any cooperator
who has saved time, trouble and money by and through that kitchen? Any
one with an imagination can write a prospectus. What were they doing in
that kitchen to-day?”
“Well, now that was just the difficult phase of our investigation.
They seemed to be reorganizing. A very clever young woman, Miss
Helen Siegle, has recently been placed in charge as manager. She was
most courteous, but--er--evasive. There was so much to be done, she
said--but the prospects of ultimate success were excellent. She did not
criticize past management, but somehow you felt that things had not
gone just so--you know what I mean.”
“Yes, the way we fellows felt at the club last January when we said
what a fine year’s work the house committee had done, and all the time
were pulling wires to get in an entirely new committee to look after
things this year.”
“Larry, you certainly are a most understanding person. Miss Siegle
took us all over the plant, but she did not tell us much about her own
plans. She really seemed to have her hands and her mind pretty full.”
“I should say so--think of trying to please each and every stockholder,
irrespective of different nationalities, digestions and former
condition of servitude to mother’s cakes and pies! But, to sum it up,
you really did not secure any practical suggestions from the kitchen?”
“No,” admitted Mrs. Larry reluctantly, “we didn’t see it in operation.
But the idea is wonderful, if you could just get the right person to
put it in operation.”
“If you found her, one of the bachelor stockholders would promptly
marry her, and that _would_ settle it. And so from the kitchen you went
to the school for housemaids?”
“No, Larry, we did _not_. Teresa telephoned one of the ladies
interested in the school, and she was getting ready to go to a tea, but
said if we would telephone Mrs. Somebody else, she would be delighted--”
“If she didn’t happen to have a tea on hand also.”
“So then we all suddenly decided that we wanted to come home. Teresa
remembered an appointment with her tailor--you know they are going to
take the Panama trip, don’t you? And Mrs. Norton wanted to fill in her
dinner set at a china sale, and I--well, Larry, I had the funniest
sinking sensation when I happened to remember that I’d been away from
the children almost five hours. And we ran like mad to catch the next
train?”
“A fine, dignified quartet of investigators, you are! Now, what did you
learn as the reward of your trip? Just tell me that!”
“I learned that I’d rather have a real steak from my own broiler than a
thermos stove on my back step.”
“Good little wife! And as a reward for that sensible answer, you shall
read this letter, which may or may not confirm your findings.”
Mr. Larry drew a bulky envelope from his pocket, slit it open and
tossed the contents in Mrs. Larry’s lap.
“You see, my dear, I have an old friend living in Carthage, Missouri,
where once a very successful cooperative kitchen flourished. He and his
wife were stockholders but dropped out. I asked him to tell me why, and
here is the letter in reply.”
“No, it’s from his wife, and, oh, what pains she has taken! Just listen:
* * * * *
“My Dear Mr. and Mrs. Larry:
“It is so nice to have an excuse to write to one of my husband’s old
classmates and to his wife. So let us talk together as if you were
here in our living-room instead of several thousand miles away.
“If you were to ask any one who was a member of the defunct Carthage
Cooperative Kitchen why it failed, he or she would immediately answer,
‘Why it never failed!’ It was a great success, yet it was discontinued
because it was not possible to find enough members to keep the cost of
the operative expense within the means of the members who still wished
to continue the kitchen.
“Of the fifteen families who joined when it was organized, five
families dropped out because they could no longer afford to belong. Two
families dropped out because they grew tired of walking such a distance
to their meals. One couple left because an invalid mother came to live
with them. Another because they wished to set a better table than the
kitchen’s. This couple frankly said they could afford luxuries, but
did not expect the kitchen to furnish them, as the others could not.
It was true, and no one minded, especially as this couple were very
hospitable. You see, in, no case was it dissatisfaction with the
cooperative kitchen management that caused the withdrawal of members.
“If the cost of provisions had remained what it was when the
kitchen opened, doubtless the kitchen would have become a permanent
institution. But the price of foodstuffs increased so rapidly that the
second year found the kitchen facing this question: Shall we cut down
our table or increase the price of board? There were some who could
not afford to spend more on food. These left and, presumably, at home
did without some of the things that some of the kitchen members had
considered necessary. No one has ever claimed to live cheaper in his
own home and keep a maid.
“When the price of board was increased to three dollars and fifty
cents, then to four dollars, per member per week, it was more difficult
to get members. In a town like Carthage there are many families that
can afford three dollars per member table board. There are fewer that
can afford four dollars per member. And it became difficult to find
fifteen families living in the same neighborhood who could afford it.
In a town that does not have a local street railway one wants to live
within a short distance of the house that serves breakfast.
“Besides, as the membership decreased, the expense per member
increased, so more families dropped out.
“In order to be successful, a kitchen must be located in a neighborhood
where at least twelve families have the same standard of living, the
same tastes and are able to spend the same amount on their table. This
may be in a very small town or in a city. In a town like Carthage,
where the scale runs from a millionaire to a mail carrier in the same
block, it is difficult to pick that neighborhood.
“It is interesting to note that not one of the things so freely
prophesied contributed to the discontinuance of the kitchen. Never
once was there disagreement over menus or payments. Never once was
there trouble over children, or complaint of unfairness, or gossip, or
fault-finding.
“To-day the members of the Cooperative Kitchen are close friends, and
we unite in praising the ability and the tact of the manager!”
* * * * *
Mrs. Larry laid down the letter and looked at her husband with dancing
eyes.
“And so, you see, after all, this matter of cooperative cooking and
living practically resolves itself into the question of lemon meringue
pie or--Brown Betty, according to your individual finances. And
to-morrow you get Brown Betty, because Lena, having picked up a bargain
in apples, has laid in a stock which must be used.”
“Lena!” exclaimed the astonished Mr. Larry.
“Yes. Lena, too, is studying short cuts in economy and having little
adventures of her own. She has developed a good-sized bump of
responsibility since I have been making these trips, and she is alone
with the children. She takes great pride in saving pennies. To-day she
bought the apples from a huckster at three cents less a quart than we
pay at Dahlgren’s.
“To insure solid fruit, she insisted upon picking out each apple with
her own hands.”
Mr. Larry, who had been opening his evening paper, laid it down, turned
to his wife and spoke seriously.
“You know, little woman, when I hear your friends roasting their help
for carelessness and extravagance, I often wonder where the fault
really lies. If the mistress buys supplies in small quantities, or
if she is extravagant, how can she expect the maid to fight her bad
management with thrift? The girl is far more apt to say, ‘Oh, what’s
the use for me to save what my mistress will waste in the end?’
“I have been watching Lena since you commenced your investigations in
thrift, and, in her stolid way, she is tremendously impressed. She
attacks her work in a more businesslike fashion, and she certainly
regards you with increased respect.”
At the last word Mrs. Larry shook her head.
“I’m not so sure about that. Sometimes she questions my marketing
abilities. Do you remember the other morning when we were starting
for Montclair, she asked, ‘What is the use of paying more for rice in
package than in bulk if they both have to be washed?’”
Mr. Larry’s eyes twinkled.
“Yes, she had you fussed for a minute.”
“And she gave me something to think about--is the habit of buying
package goods economical or extravagant?”
“Why don’t you find out? Buy both kinds and see which has the better
flavor. Weigh, measure and compare.”
“I will,” said Mrs. Larry firmly. “I’ll start to-morrow morning. And
here’s an adventure in thrift which Claire must make with me. I’ll
telephone her this minute.”
But she paused with her hand on the receiver--
“I remembered just in time to save five cents. Claire is going to the
Bryant dance.”
At that very instant the bell rang and Claire came in, a vision in
coral tulle.
“How’de, everybody!” She paused, in sudden embarrassment, the color
mounting to her softly waved black hair.
Mr. Larry studied her with approving glance.
“Stunning, Claire. Whether it cost fifty dollars or five hundred.”
“Less than fifty. Oh, I’m learning,” she said with a happy little laugh.
“It was awfully good of you to let me see it before you had danced
some of the freshness out of it,” said Mrs. Larry.
“Oh, I just had to come. You see----” She stopped--and again the
beautiful color flooded her face.
“Of course,” said Mrs. Larry, as, sensing the need of greater privacy,
she slipped her hand through Claire’s arm and led her down to the guest
room. “But first, let me catch up your hair a bit.”
Mr. Larry, all unconscious that the spirit of romance had tripped into
the apartment with the coral-tinted vision, buried himself in his
paper. Safe on the other side of the guest room door, Mrs. Larry held
the radiant girl a little closer.
“Claire, dear, what has come over you?”
“This,” answered Claire in a voice that trembled with happiness. She
held out her hand, and in the soft light from a silk-shaded electrolier
Mrs. Larry caught the gleam of the diamond which had traveled to Kansas
City and back.
“Is Jimmy here?” she asked.
“No, no. He sent it with a most wonderful letter. Just a few
lines--but--oh! To-morrow’s my birthday. He asked me to take this
back for a birthday remembrance, because it was impossible for him
to think of my hand without it. I was to think of it as his birthday
message--and not as binding me to any promise given in the past. Just
as if I don’t want to be bound!”
She pressed the stone against her lips.
Mrs. Larry laughed a trifle uncertainly.
“A man’s way of admitting he was wrong and saying he’s sorry.”
“But why do you suppose he did it? How did he know that I wouldn’t send
it straight back to him?”
“Oh, a man will usually take a chance--and he loves you, which is
the most important thing, after all,” affirmed Mrs. Larry, as she
recalled certain letters in the farthest drawer of Aunt Abigail’s old
secretary. “Do you think you’ll be able to do some investigating with
me to-morrow? I want to look into the cost of groceries, but, perhaps
after the dance, you’ll be too tired----”
“Tired? I don’t think I can ever be tired again. And I’ll be here at
eight in the morning.”
“No, you won’t,” said Mrs. Larry positively. “I can’t be ready that
early. Make it nine.”
“All right,” said Claire, as she drew her wrap over her shoulders. Then
she kissed Mrs. Larry good night--and flitted off.