Lobster Salad and Milk

“Can you see it? Doesn’t the title, Lobster Salad and Milk, convey a vivid impression of just about what such a story would be? It’s a dream of course. Might be a grown-up’s dream, too, because grown-ups put worse combinations than that in middle-aged tummies which aren’t built to stand the traffic. But in this case, it happens to be the elastic indestructible tummy of a little girl. Your little girl—our little girl—we reckon they all do it, at times. She had made free with her elder sister’s rouge, perfume and peroxide, and was sent to bed without her supper, being warned that the bogey-man would get her if she persisted in her mad career of crime. Naturally, the only thing which got prompt action in the way of an impression was the cutting off of her food supply. As soon as the house was quiet, she wandered down to the ice-box and helped herself to what she found. When she got back in bed and went to sleep, there were results. It seemed to her that all the furniture left the room—her toy horse suddenly turned into a most ferocious monster who insisted upon her going off with him upon the most wonderful ride one could possibly imagine. All sorts of things happened—all the monsters of fable and legend participating. And when she finally woke up—well—we’ve all sworn off, haven’t we under that sort of pressure? She promised to be very, very good, thereafter. And when you see on the screens what she saw in that dream, you’ll promise to be very, very good, yourself, and bring all the kiddies to see it next evening.”