"An' I can walk on my hands," the tormentor calls after her. "Say, you
greenhorn, why don'tcher look?"

The girl keeps straight on, vowing that she would never walk with that
rude boy again, neither by land nor sea, not even though the waters
should part at his bidding.

I am forgetting the more serious business which had brought us to
Crescent Beach. While we children disported ourselves like mermaids and
mermen in the surf, our respective fathers dispensed cold lemonade, hot
peanuts, and pink popcorn, and piled up our respective fortunes, nickel
by nickel, penny by penny. I was very proud of my connection with the
public life of the beach. I admired greatly our shining soda fountain,
the rows of sparkling glasses, the pyramids of oranges, the sausage
chains, the neat white counter, and the bright array of tin spoons. It
seemed to me that none of the other refreshment stands on the
beach--there were a few--were half so attractive as ours. I thought my
father looked very well in a long white apron and shirt sleeves. He
dished out ice cream with enthusiasm, so I supposed he was getting rich.
It never occurred to me to compare his present occupation with the
position for which he had been originally destined; or if I thought
about it, I was just as well content, for by this time I had by heart my
father's saying, "America is not Polotzk." All occupations were
respectable, all men were equal, in America.

If I admired the soda fountain and the sausage chains, I almost
worshipped the partner, Mr. Wilner. I was content to stand for an hour
at a time watching him make potato chips. In his cook's cap and apron,
with a ladle in his hand and a smile on his face, he moved about with
the greatest agility, whisking his raw materials out of nowhere, dipping