It was a day in March.
Never， never begin a story this way when you write one.
No opening could possibly be worse. It is unimaginative，flat， dry and likely to consist of mere wind. But in thisinstance it is allowable. For the following paragraph，which should have inaugurated the narrative， is too wildlyextravagant and preposterous to be flaunted in the face ofthe reader without preparation.
Sarah was crying over her bill of fare.
Think of a New York girl shedding tears on the menucard！
To account for this you will be allowed to guess that thelobsters were all out， or that she had sworn ice-cream offduring Lent， or that she had ordered onions， or that shehad just come from a Hackett matinee. And then， all thesetheories being wrong， you will please let the story proceed.
The gentleman who announced that the world was anoyster which he with his sword would open made a largerhit than he deserved. It is not difficult to open an oysterwith a sword. But did you ever notice any one try to openthe terrestrial bivalve with a typewriter？ Like to wait for adozen raw opened that way？
Sarah had managed to pry apart the shells with herunhandy weapon far enough to nibble a wee bit at the coldand clammy world within. She knew no more shorthandthan if she had been a graduate in stenography just let slipupon the world by a business college. So， not being ableto stenog， she could not enter that bright galaxy of officetalent. She was a free-lance typewriter and canvassed forodd jobs of copying.
The most brilliant and crowning feat of Sarah’s battlewith the world was the deal she made with Schulenberg’sHome Restaurant. The restaurant was next door to theold red brick in which she hall-roomed. One eveningafter dining at Schulenberg’s 40-cent， five-course tabled’h？te （served as fast as you throw the five baseballs atthe coloured gentleman’s head） Sarah took away with herthe bill of fare. It was written in an almost unreadablescript neither English nor German， and so arranged that ifyou were not careful you began with a toothpick and ricepudding and ended with soup and the day of the week.
The next day Sarah showed Schulenberg a neat cardon which the menu was beautifully typewritten withthe viands temptingly marshalled under their right andproper heads from “hors d’oeuvre” to “not responsible forovercoats and umbrellas.”
Schulenberg became a naturalised citizen on the spot.
Before Sarah left him she had him willingly committed toan agreement. She was to furnish typewritten bills of farefor the twenty-one tables in the restaurant—a new bill foreach day’s dinner， and new ones for breakfast and lunchas often as changes occurred in the food or as neatnessrequired.
In return for this Schulenberg was to send three mealsper diem to Sarah’s hall room by a waiter—an obsequiousone if possible—and furnish her each afternoon with apencil draft of what Fate had in store for Schulenberg’scustomers on the morrow.
Mutual satisfaction resulted from the agreement.
Schulenberg’s patrons now knew what the food they atewas called even if its nature sometimes puzzled them. AndSarah had food during a cold， dull winter， which was themain thing with her.
And then the almanac lied， and said that spring hadcome. Spring comes when it comes. The frozen snows ofJanuary still lay like adamant in the crosstown streets. Thehand-organs still played “In the Good Old Summertime，”
with their December vivacity and expression. Men beganto make thirty-day notes to buy Easter dresses. Janitorsshut off steam. And when these things happen one mayknow that the city is still in the clutches of winter.
One afternoon Sarah shivered in her elegant hallbedroom； “house heated； scrupulously clean； conveniences；seen to be appreciated.” She had no work to do exceptSchulenberg’s menu cards. Sarah sat in her squeakywillow rocker， and looked out the window. The calendaron the wall kept crying to her： “Springtime is here，Sarah—springtime is here， I tell you. Look at me， Sarah，my figures show it. You’ve got a neat figure yourself，Sarah—a—nice springtime figure—why do you look outthe window so sadly？”
Sarah’s room was at the back of the house. Lookingout the window she could see the windowless rear brickwall of the box factory on the next street. But the wallwas clearest crystal； and Sarah was looking down a grassylane shaded with cherry trees and elms and bordered withraspberry bushes and Cherokee roses.
Spring’s real harbingers are too subtle for the eye andear. Some must have the flowering crocus， the woodstarringdogwood， the voice of bluebird—even so grossa reminder as the farewell handshake of the retiringbuckwheat and oyster before they can welcome the Ladyin Green to their dull bosoms. But to old earth’s choicestkin there come straight， sweet messages from his newestbride， telling them they shall be no stepchildren unlessthey choose to be.
On the previous summer Sarah had gone into thecountry and loved a farmer.
（In writing your story never hark back thus. It is bad art，and cripples interest. Let it march， march.）
Sarah stayed two weeks at Sunnybrook Farm. There shelearned to love old Farmer Franklin’s son Walter. Farmershave been loved and wedded and turned out to grassin less time. But young Walter Franklin was a modernagriculturist. He had a telephone in his cow house， andhe could figure up exactly what effect next year’s Canadawheat crop would have on potatoes planted in the dark ofthe moon.
It was in this shaded and raspberried lane that Walterhad wooed and won her. And together they had satand woven a crown of dandelions for her hair. He hadimmoderately praised the effect of the yellow blossomsagainst her brown tresses； and she had left the chapletthere， and walked back to the house swinging her strawsailor in her hands.
They were to marry in the spring—at the very first signsof spring， Walter said. And Sarah came back to the city topound her typewriter.
