CHAPTER XIII 



BROILED SQUAB, AND THAT SORT OF THING 



THE squab, of course, is frankly a luxury, rather 

 than an article of staple diet. Some people 

 never get it at all, except, perhaps, when con- 

 valescing from some serious illness and ordered by their 

 physician to partake of the most delicate of meats for 

 a brief season. The comparatively few who do include 

 broiled squab in their bill-of-fare do so but rarely, and 

 then perhaps with a guilty sense of self-indulgence. 

 Really, there are but two kinds of people who can 

 afford this luxury — millionaires, and those who rejoice 

 in a home garden. Millionaires can do it because they 

 have the price ; home gardeners, because they have the 

 squabs. 



As a matter of fact, broiled squab ought to be as 

 common as are canned vegetables and fruit in the aver- 

 age household. It belongs to the luxurious table that 

 awaits millions of our best families in the "Invisible City 

 of Homes" surrounding every urban center in the land. 

 These best families are the essence of American society. 

 They do the day's work in every department ; pay most 

 of the taxes; bear the heat and burden of the day in war 

 and in peace. And nothing is too good for them — not 

 even broiled Bquab. Bless their hearts!— they are going 

 to have it, and everything else that goes with a thor- 



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