ICI ON PARLE
We have been considerably humiliated lately by the fact that although we once studied French with some persistence, and enjoy nothing more than reading such demi-gods as the chrysostom Bourget (a celestial ironist far too little known in this country)—humiliated, we repeat, that our spoken French is so appalling. Lately, as the surprising result of an advt. in the Herald, Titania landed an elderly female French cook who speaks no word of English. And if you speak French no better than we do, figure to yourself the complexities of trying to explain to Celeste the workings of a kerosene water-heater (we have no gas in the rustic Salamis Estates) while Titania (whose French is better than ours) stands by squeaking with cruel mirth. Comme ça:
Voyez vous, Celeste, l’huile—comment dit-on en français le liquide?—le petrole? Ah, oui—eh bien, le petrole entre par là, dans le petit cylindre, vous prenez moi, hein?—et donc on place le cylindre comme ça—mais pas comme ça, comprenez?—et donc le petrole marche (quand le—comment appelle-t-on le wick? le petit toile ici—le mèche? ah oui!—quand le mèche est en ordre laborieux—telle quelle ce n’est pas maintenant)—ye gods, Titania, give me a hand with this explanation—le petrole marche en haut—mais voyez vous, ceci n’est pas un mèche honnete-à-dieu; c’est d’asbeste; on place le soi-disant mèche—(le burner on dit en anglais) comme ainsi ici bas, et donc on allume une allumette et vous directez le feu par ici, par là, et après le feu s’eteint vous reallumez avec patience. Du patience, toujours, avec ces poêles à l’huile,—et prenez garde, ne replacez pas ces cylindres à flamme auparavant que le feu a monté, et exhibite quelque vitalité, vous voyez?
Eh bien; en une heure peut-etre vous rattrapez de l’eau chaud, si le feu n’evanouie pas et le backdoor—la porte de derrière—n’est pas ouverte et le vent ne siffle pas trop forte....
Celeste: Ah oui, Monsieur, c’est bien simple!
* * * * *
ASTONISHMENT
One of the most astounding scenes in the local panorama of human oddity is a news-stand at one of the big terminals when the homeward-bound commuters are buying their evening papers. Those who believe there is no hustle in New York might contemplate that spectacle—the continual patter of hurried people scampering up to the counter to seize a paper, throw down their money, and bound away. Indeed, if you stand for a while near the news-stand and watch, you will gradually become aware that there is something pathologic about the matter; that the great mass of newspaper readers crave and swallow their daily potion much as they would a familiar drug or anodyne. The absolute definiteness of the traffic is another curious feature: the news dealer can tell you, almost to a figure, how many of each paper he will sell each evening. As the commuters hurry up to the counter, you will never see them hesitate, ponder, and ask themselves, “Well, which paper shall I read to-night?” No; they grab the usual sheet, and off they go.
* * * * *