Roast Beef, Medium, is not only a food. It is a philosophy.

Seated at Life's Dining Table, with the Menu of Morals before you, your eye wanders a bit over the entrees, the hors d'oeuvres, and the things a la, though you know that Roast Beef, Medium, is safe, and sane, and sure. It agrees with you. As you hesitate there sounds in your ear a soft and insinuating Voice.

“You'll find the tongue in aspic very nice today,” purrs the Voice. “May I recommend the chicken pie, country style? Perhaps you'd relish something light and tempting. Eggs Benedictine. Very fine. Or some flaked crab meat, perhaps. With a special Russian sauce.”

Roast Beef, Medium! How unimaginative it sounds. How prosaic, and dry! You cast the thought of it aside with the contempt that it deserves, and you assume a fine air of the epicure as you order. There are set before you things encased in pastry; things in frilly paper trousers; things that prick the tongue; sauces that pique the palate. There are strange vegetable garnishings, cunningly cut. This is not only Food. These are Viands.

“Everything satisfactory?” inquires the insinuating Voice.

“Yes,” you say, and take a hasty sip of water. That paprika has burned your tongue. “Yes. Check, please.”

You eye the score, appalled. “Look here! Aren't you over-charging!”

“Our regular price,” and you catch a sneer beneath the smugness of the Voice. “It is what every one pays, sir.”

You reach deep, deep into your pocket, and you pay. And you rise and go, full but not fed. And later as you take your fifth Moral Pepsin Tablet you say Fool! and Fool! and Fool!

When next we dine we are not tempted by the Voice. We are wary of weird sauces. We shun the cunning aspics. We look about at our neighbor's table. He is eating of things French, and Russian and Hungarian. Of food garnished, and garish and greasy. And with a little sigh of Content and resignation we settle down to our Roast Beef, Medium.

E. F.

ILLUSTRATIONS (not available in this edition)

“'And they call that thing a petticoat!'”
“'Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,' he announced, glibly”
“'That was a married kiss—a two-year-old married kiss at least'”
“'I won't ask you to forgive a hound like me'”
“'You'll never grow up, Emma McChesney'”
“'Well, s'long then, Shrimp. See you at eight'”
“'I'm still in a position to enforce that ordinance against pouting'”
“'Son!' echoed the clerk, staring”
“'Well!' gulped Jock, 'those two double-bedded, bloomin', blasted
Bisons—'”
“'Come on out of here and I'll lick the shine off your shoes, you
blue-eyed babe, you!'”
“'You can't treat me with your life's history. I'm going in'”
“'Now, Lillian Russell and cold cream is one; and new potatoes and brown
crocks is another.'”
“'Why, girls, I couldn't hold down a job in a candy factory'”
“'Honestly, I'd wear it myself!'”
“'I've lived petticoats, I've talked petticoats, I've dreamed
petticoats—why, I've even worn the darn things!'”
"And found himself addressing the backs of the letters on the door
marked 'Private'.”
“'Shut up, you blamed fool! Can't you see the lady's sick?'”
"At his gaze that lady fled, sample-case banging at her knees”
"In the exuberance of his young strength, he picked her up”
"She read it again, dully, as though every selfish word had not already
stamped itself on her brain and heart.”
“'Not that you look your age—not by ten years!”'
“'Christmas isn't a season ... it's a feeling; and, thank God, I've got
it!'”
"No man will ever appreciate the fine points of this little garment, but
the women—”
"Emma McChesney ... I believe in you now! Dad and I both believe in
you.”
"It had been a whirlwind day.”
“'Emma,' he said, 'will you marry me?'”
“'Welcome home!' she cried. 'Sketch in the furniture to suit yourself.'”