A knock at the door dispelled Sarah’s visions of thathappy day. A waiter had brought the rough pencil draft ofthe Home Restaurant’s next day fare in old Schulenberg’sangular hand.
Sarah sat down to her typewriter and slipped a cardbetween the rollers. She was a nimble worker. Generallyin an hour and a half the twenty-one menu cards werewritten and ready.
To-day there were more changes on the bill of fare thanusual. The soups were lighter； pork was eliminated fromthe entrées， figuring only with Russian turnips amongthe roasts. The gracious spirit of spring pervaded theentire menu. Lamb， that lately capered on the greeninghillsides， was becoming exploited with the sauce thatcommemorated its gambols. The song of the oyster，though not silenced， was dimuendo con amore. The fryingpanseemed to be held， inactive， behind the beneficentbars of the broiler. The pie list swelled； the richer puddingshad vanished； the sausage， with his drapery wrapped abouthim， barely lingered in a pleasant thanatopsis with thebuckwheats and the sweet but doomed maple.
Sarah’s fingers danced like midgets above a summerstream. Down through the courses she worked， givingeach item its position according to its length with anaccurate eye. Just above the desserts came the list ofvegetables. Carrots and peas， asparagus on toast， theperennial tomatoes and corn and succotash， lima beans，cabbage—and then—
Sarah was crying over her bill of fare. Tears from thedepths of some divine despair rose in her heart and gatheredto her eyes. Down went her head on the little typewriterstand； and the keyboard rattled a dry accompaniment toher moist sobs.
For she had received no letter from Walter in two weeks，and the next item on the bill of fare was dandelions—dandelions with some kind of egg—but bother theegg！—dandelions， with whose golden blooms Walterhad crowned her his queen of love and future bride—dandelions， the harbingers of spring， her sorrow’s crown ofsorrow—reminder of her happiest days.
Madam， I dare you to smile until you suffer this test：
Let the Marechal Niel roses that Percy brought you on thenight you gave him your heart be served as a salad withFrench dressing before your eyes at a Schulenberg tabled’h？te. Had Juliet so seen her love tokens dishonoured thesooner would she have sought the lethean herbs of the goodapothecary.
But what a witch is Spring！ Into the great cold city ofstone and iron a message had to be sent. There was noneto convey it but the little hardy courier of the fields withhis rough green coat and modest air. He is a true soldier offortune， this dent-de-lion—this lion’s tooth， as the Frenchchefs call him. Flowered， he will assist at love-making，wreathed in my lady’s nut-brown hair； young and callowand unblossomed， he goes into the boiling pot and deliversthe word of his sovereign mistress.
