 | Starving and Writing in New York |  |
A Meal Ticket At Last
When at last it percolated through Anna's skull that a swoon might save the day for us, she fell promptly backward with such a crash that I am sure she nearly broke the arm of the man from the parlor floor, who nobly sprang to her rescue.
There she lay in a dead faint on the floor, her rosy face upturned and her ruby lips parted widely as she breathed through them stertorously.
Luckily for our fortunes, soon after this, the Dutch delicatessen man on Third Avenue fell passionately in love with Anna, and for a time we lived upon the fat of the land. I made up a rhyme which we sang to the tune of “Just before the Battle, Mother.” Jossy would sit at the head of the stairs when Anna's beau was calling, and she would croon in her deep, heart-reaching contralto:
Don't forget the bread and jam;
Don't forget the pickles, Anna,
And the piece of Ham.
Goodbye, Anna, we shall never,
Eat a bit till you get back,
But you'll not forget us, Anna,
When you fill your little sack.”
| Starving and Writing in New York | |