Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1928-07-22
AROUND THE CITY
BY MAMIE LANCASTER.

Potomac River--so that each party Of
tourists. as 1t neared washington, might
have said with Stonewall Jackson
Let us cross over the river and rest
under the shade of the trees"
And to the general effort made by the
city to welcome visitors, Is an added
slogan. lettered on standard at the
farewell gate:
Good Bye. Good Luck. Come
Again"
YOU remember We had some cold
mornings in June. Not to mention
rain. This small something happened
on a day when women wore their cloth
suits and greeted each other with:
did you ever see such weather for
this season of the year?"
Some shopping mother had left her
baby In Its carriage outside OF a store,
pink eiderdown, except for one speck
of hand that had CROPPED its way out
side the coverlet and lay on It, wax
white. except for the blush tinge that
meant cold.
Hundreds of women whirled In and
out of the shops revolving doors. and
other hundreds surged by, going and
coming, but not one noticed the baby
until q man came along,
He wasn't much OF man TO look at.
For one thing. the red of dissipation
coupled with the blue of razor sharp
wind had united on complexion that
was purple. with the royal left out. And
his clothes were of the sinister brown
that Is poverty's national color. Besides.
the furtive way he blinked around TO
see If anybody was looking would have
made him an object of suspicion to his
dearest friend--oniy he didn't look as
If he owned one.
Two bundle-stacked women, whose
untrammeled iinaginations were fired
at sight of the slouching figure, as 1t
paused by the carriage, exchanged fears
as to the baby's safety--you know what
kidnapers do to children these days.
But the man wasn't trying to kidnap
the baby. He just slipped the tiny hand
thought to do. Then he slouched on.
IF you have been to Italy. you will re-
member the soup you had for dinner
every day--a brown soup thick with
red beans and snappy with sifted
cheese. Well:
Three women went to an Italian
Garden at the back Of an ancient
mansion whose street has given way to
trade. And. OF course. they had SOUP
for dinner--a brown soup, Thick with
red beans and snappy with sifted
cheese. And though the garden itself
was American made. with a pebbly
flooring, wall ivy. iungles of potted
plants and much green paint. the soup
created for you a magic carpet that
carried you back and back to- say,
Amalfy, Sorrento. or-~any place along
the Mediterranean Sea. And, as you
slipped 1t, memory visioned for you the
silver blue of water. the clumpy green
ness of vineyards, the gay tumble Of
bodices, skirts, scarfs and shawls OF
beautiful. dancing youth--with the
clicking of caStanets, a Whit OF per-
fume--a sniff of garlic.
Which you will have to admit, was
a generous return for mere first
course in an italian dinner--and while
you may consider 1t as nothing to write
about, still
If an italian dinner may do so much
for an American tourist. what must
II mean to born Italians. business men
and women. diplomats. and the like.
oil OF, them homesick for a fatherland
that knows them no more? And AS
such emotions are wordless and there
fore never get into the newspapers