Henry and I have ordered
our lunch and are waiting.
Here, in this beautiful dining
room, we both take our meals,
often at the same table.
Henry is rich, self-made.
He talks well of financial
matters, rarely of anything else.
His ideal, to found a fortune.
The negro waiter brings our lunch.
Henry flies into a rage. "I ordered
a piece of well-done toast!
Are you hard hearing! What do
you mean bringing me this?"
...etc. his face flushed.
This afternoon I stood beside
Henry's grave. Eleven
years have gone down the
river of time.
I could not help remembering the
day Henry lost his temper.
A piece of toast - what a
very little thing in the great
mystery and tragedy of life!