Then there was the dear “Jello” lady at the market.  I wish she would somehow happen to read this, so as to know that we have never forgotten her.  Every Saturday the three of us went to the market, and there was the Jello lady with her samples.  The helpings she dished for us each time!  She brought the man to whom she was engaged to call on us just before we left.  I wonder if they got married, and where they are, and if she still remembers us.  She used to say she just waited for Saturdays and our coming.  Then there was dear Granny Jones, who kept a boarding-house half a block away.  I do not remember how we came to know her, but some good angel saw to it.  She used to send around little bowls of luscious dessert, and half a pie, or some hot muffins.  Then I was always grateful also—­for it made such a good story, and it was true—­to the New England wife of a fellow graduate student who remarked, when I told her we had one baby and another on the way, “How interesting—­just like the slums!”

We did our own work, of course, and we lived on next to nothing.  I wonder now how we kept so well that year.  Of course, we fed the baby everything he should have,—­according to Holt in those days,—­and we ate the mutton left from his broth and the beef after the juice had been squeezed out of it for him, and bought storage eggs ourselves, and queer butter out of a barrel, and were absolutely, absolutely blissful.  Perhaps we should have spent more on food and less on baseball.  I am glad we did not.  Almost every Saturday afternoon that first semester we fared forth early, Nandy in his go-cart, to get a seat in the front row of the baseball grandstand.  I remember one Saturday we were late, front seats all taken.  We had to pack baby and go-cart more than half-way up to the top.  There we barricaded him, still in the go-cart, in the middle of the aisle.  Along about the seventh inning, the game waxed particularly exciting—­we were beside ourselves with enthusiasm.  Fellow onlookers seemed even more excited—­they called out things—­they seemed to be calling in our direction.  Fine parents we were—­there was Nandy, go-cart and all, bumpety-bumping down the grandstand steps.

I remember again the Stadium on the day of the big track meet.  Every time the official announcer would put the megaphone to his mouth, to call out winners and time to a hushed and eager throng, Nandy, not yet a year old, would begin to squeal at the top of his lungs for joy.  Nobody could hear a word the official said.  We were as distressed as any one—­we, too, had pencils poised to jot down records.

Carl studied very hard.  The first few weeks, until we got used to the new wonder of things, he used to run home from college whenever he had a spare minute, just to be sure he was that near.  At that time he was rather preparing to go into Transportation as his main economic subject.  But by the end of the year he knew Labor would be his love. (His first published economic article was a short one that appeared in the “Quarterly Journal of Economics” for May, 1910, on “The Decline of Trade-Union Membership.”) We had a tragic summer.