Maria Parloa or Roosevelt, I ought to have a vegetable, and so I take
two. Meanwhile I have taken bread, but the woman ahead takes hot scones
and so I do. I choose some thick-creamed cake, very fattening, but just
this once, and then, oh, I don't know. The tray is heavy and no place to
put it, and in my journeying I peek at the bill and it's over 75 cents,
and when I finally sit down opposite a stranger I find on my tray two
salads, and when I chose the other I don't remember.

But cafeterias are very fine for those who have cafeteria sense.



The Open Board of Trade



Months ago one of The Journal readers suggested a story to be found
down on Market street near the Hobart building. Many times since when
passing there I have thought that those street hawkers must have a
certain picturesque and even humorous value, and hoping to find it I
have stopped to listen. But the moment I stop they win me with their
everlasting logic, and then blessed if I can write them up. They have
the same effect upon others. I have seen chambers of commerce and stock
exchangers and professors from Berkeley passing with a supercilious
glance which did very well so long as they kept moving. But once let
them step into the magic ring and they too became mesmerized and stood
there gaping in spellbound interest. "Logic is logic, that's all I say."

Those hawkers are artists, skilled in the arts and wiles of
persuasiveness. There is one with a long, horse-hair wig which he