It is shallower, more colorful, but weaker of impact. Shall we say it has lost its punch?
And then we saw a little oyster café, well known to many lovers of good cheer, that has been furbishing itself for the jolly days to come. No one knows yet whether the U-boats have frightened the oysters, whether the fat bivalves will be leaner and scarcer than in the good old days; no one knows whether there will even be enough of them to last out until next Easter; but in the meantime we all live in hope. And one thing is certain—the oyster season begins on Monday. The little café has repainted its white front so that it shines hospitably; and the sill and the cellar trapdoor where the barrels go in, and the shutters and the awning poles in front, are all a sticky, glistening green. The white marble step, hollowed by thousands of eager feet in a million lunch-time forays, has been scrubbed and sandsoaped. And next Monday morning, bright and early, out goes the traditional red and green sign of the R.
The "poor patient oyster," as Keats calls him (or her, for there are lady oysters, too, did you know?), is not only a sessile bivalve mollusk, but a traditional symbol of autumn and winter cheer. Even if Mr. Hoover counts out the little round crackers in twos and threes, we hope there will be enough of the thoughtful and innocent shellfish to go around. When the cold winds begin to harp and whinny at street corners and wives go seeking among camphor balls for our last year's over-
