old-fashioned windows in these days of plate glass. At
the back they were quite open to the shop, and in one of
them reposed a huge, white, immovable structure--a
majestic, heavy, nutty, surely indigestible birthday
cake. Around its edge were flutings and scrolls of white
icing, and on its broad breast reposed cherries, and
stout butterflies of jelly, and cunning traceries of
colored sugar. It was quite the dressiest cake I had
ever beheld. Surely no human hand could be wanton enough
to guide a knife through all that magnificence. But in
the center of all this splendor was an inscription in
heavy white letters of icing: "Charlottens
Geburtstag."

Reluctantly I tore my gaze from this imposing example
of the German confectioner's art, for Blackie was tugging
impatiently at my sleeve.

"But Blackie," I marveled, "do you honestly suppose
that that structure is intended for some Charlotte's
birthday?"

"In Milwaukee," explained Blackie, "w'en you got a
birthday you got t' have a geburtstag cake, with your
name on it, and all the cousins and aunts and members of
the North Side Frauen Turner Verein Gesellchaft, in for
the day. It ain't considered decent if you don't. Are
you ready to fight your way into the main tent?"

It was holiday time, and the single narrow aisle of