honked without, we were ready, bag and baggage, for a spree such as we
had never imagined ourselves having in this world or the next. We called
for the daughter of the head of the Philosophy Department. Max had said
to bring a friend along to make four; so, four, we whisked the dust of
Berkeley from our wheels and--presto--Del Monte!

Parents of three children, who do most of their own work besides, do not
need to be told in detail what those four days meant. Parents of three
children know what the hours of, say, seven to nine mean, at home; nor
does work stop at nine. It is one mad whirl to get the family ears
washed and teeth cleaned, and "Chew your mush!" and "Wipe your mouth!"
and "Where's your speller?" and "Jim, come back here and put on your
rubbers!" ("Where are my rubbers?" Ach Gott! where?) Try six times to
get the butcher--line busy. Breakfast dishes to clear up; baby to bathe,
dress, feed. Count the laundry. Forget all about the butcher until
fifteen minutes before dinner. Laundry calls. Telephone rings seven
times. Neighbor calls to borrow an egg. Telephone the milkman for a
pound of butter. Make the beds,--telephone rings in the middle,--two
beds do not get made till three. Start lunch. Wash the baby's clothes.
Telephone rings three times while you are in the basement. Rice burns.
Door-bell--gas and electric bill. Telephone rings. Patch boys' overalls.
Water-bill. Stir the pudding. Telephone rings. Try to read at least the
table of contents of the "New Republic." Neighbor calls to return some
flour. Stir the pudding again. Mad stamping up the front steps. Sons
home. Forget to scrape their feet. Forget to take off their rubbers.
Dad's whistle. Hurray! Lunch.--Let's stop about here, and return to Del
Monte.

This is where music would help. The Home _motif_ would be--I do not know
those musical terms, but a lot of jumpy notes up and down the piano,