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Newspaper Page Text
WITH SADIE IN HER BOARDING HOUSE IT
WASN'T SUNDAY WITHOUT ICE CREAM
BY JANE WHITAKER '
It was the typical boarding-house
with a diningroom in the basement
and ice cream for dessert on Sunday.
That was why very few people
were talking. From the entrance of
the watery soup everything was
swallowed with epoch-making speed
so the ice cream wouldn't run out.
But Sadie had been Fletcherizing
on her roast beef, and she arrived
across the tape just a nose too late.
"Sohhy, Miss Sadie," the colored
person who waited on Sadie's table
informed her, "but you're too late foh
ice cream. Ah believes there's some
corn-stanch pudding blue mange
the misses calls it Would you have
some of that?"
Sadie looked reproachfully at the
colored person and wrath consumed
"Say," she demanded, militantly.
"If I was running a joint like this I'd
spend an extra ten cents and get
enough ice cream to go around.
Not that I miss it, for the Lord
knows I can never tell whether it's
a crack on my plate or a hair across
it when I do get what you call my
serving, but just the same I pay my
way in this house the same as the
rest, and if I am more delicate in my
mastication I ain't going to pay for
it by being cheated out of the one
spoonful of cream you serve."
Everyone looked appalled, but
Sadie had flounced out of the room.
The day was spoiled for her. Up
stairs in the little two-by-four she
called home she paced to and fro
like a restless cat.
"Gee, it ain't the ice cream," she
said, bitterly. "I ain't a hog. It's
just that it ain't a holiday if I miss
out, and it's just stinginess that she
won't buy enough."
She stopped and looked at herself
in the glass.
"My, but you look a frump. Get
a lot out of working like a truck
horse all week, don't you. Not even
a spoonful of ice cream on Sunday.
If you wanted to you. could have all
the ice cream you wanted and go
out to White City, and "
She stopped and turned the con
tents of her purse inside out, hoping
that she might find just one nickel,
over her bare expenses for the next
week. But the search availed noth
ing and tears rushed to her angry
"It ain't that I care about the ice
cream," she assured herself once
more, "it's just it ain't Sunday."
But the regular weekly letter to
her mother in the country had to be
written and she started in:
"Mother no, not dear, nor any
thing else." Then she tore up the
"Would be just like ma to borrow
the money, take the first train and
give me a spanking if I wrote that
Guess I'll write a make-believe one
anyway. What's the use of making
them all want to kill themselves with
Once more .she started: "Dear
Ma I feel fine today. Just had din
ner and the dandiest dish of ice
cream. It was chocolate. Getting
along fine in my job. Ice cream is
our Sunday dessert here. Some style
to me, what? Well, I live in a nice
dump. You know I never was par
ticular about my food, but I do like
my Sunday ice cream. How's your
rheumatism? It's beep sort of hot
here and ice cream is so cooling.
And they serve you such a pile. The
plate is just heaping high. Not a
saucer like they give you in a
Greek's, but a real plate like we put
cabbage on at home. That's honest,
and if you want more than the first
plate you can have another. Today
I ate three plates."
She paused. Her mouth felt dry
and no traveler in a waterless desert