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Show THE KITCHENOLA LIFE If 'there had been a kltchcnetto In tho Garden of Eden It Is quite likely that Eve would have insisted on staying. stay-ing. Lovely woman adores the sketchy existence that goes on under the wax palms In the solid onyx apartment house many of them named with grim, unconscious humor in honor of the saints. They are twentitb-century obelisks that stand to tell tho -story of that time whon space was so scarce that folks lived In layers twenty and thirty stories high and called It home, sweet home! There is some talk about going back to the farm. But not while science and art continue to hulld theso sandwiched nests where wives can do their marketing over the telephone tele-phone hao bellboys In livery In the hall, and manago with ono "maid to maintain a way of living that is largely make-believe. Of course, there is a glamour, not to say a humor, about flat life the chutes and the lifts, the slot meter on the hearthstone bv which you can sot the gne log burning, wnjJ U 7m touch a button to the rJght phonographic horn will give you Caruso or Garden Thrift used lo be ne of the crowning crown-ing glories of femininity. Now for it is substituted tho Bluff Beautiful. Give her a flat with four baths, under the patronage of one of the smarter saints, and she Is happy. A dog leashed leash-ed to a maid completes the picture-It picture-It is the house of mirth. Life becomes like a comic opera In St. George's-by-tho-Terrace. A druggist's drug-gist's boy with a cake of soap to deliver de-liver must take it through a tunnel that is called tho tradesman's entrance en-trance and hoist It nlnetneen stories in a dumb lift that he dosen't pronounce pro-nounce dumb if you listen to his mut-terings mut-terings as they come from below. The kitchenette is a -hole in the wall. It's so cute! Of course, no one uses it. There are a dining-room and a Hungarian band and a head waiter down stairs, where one eats, as it were, to a flourish of French horns. You order eggs three minutos. Your man returns trippingly as though from tho hencoop, with an air of repulsivo cheerfulness. He has a j gllttorlng silver machine on a tray an egg boiler with a minute Indicator. Indi-cator. You can see the eggs behind the glass bubbling. Ho opens them and they are both stale. After all, there Is no way of attaching an indicator indi-cator to a hen, Every ono about you eats stale eggs and cold-storage foods and bad coffee cof-fee and tea and butter, but it's tho easiest way for Her. It is the only wny. It glvos her time for manicuring manicur-ing and massaging and hair treatments treat-ments and New Thought. Her husband struggles into n dinner din-ner coat and feels like a plcturo In a plush frame. Now and thou he wonders if this machine-made life Is worth while. Does it ring tho bell? "When he was a boy ho used to have visions of a country home, with trees shading an entrance road, and a gate with roses growing over It, where She might wait to meot him And it has all turned out this other way this kltchenola life In the pal-I pal-I ace of Beautiful Bluff, above the arched doorway of which there has been carved tho name of some simple fisherman, who little recked, as he cast his lines in the Jordan, that his monument would bo such ns this. i Kate Mastorson in Lippincott's. |