I, Mary Mclane: a Diary of Human Days

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Some things in life thrill me. Some drive me gar- bledly mad. Some uplift me. Some debauch me.
Some strengthen and enlighten me. Some hurt, hurt, hurt. But Tm not thrilled nor maddened nor up- lifted nor debauched nor strengthened nor enlight- ened nor hurt, but only fed-up and fattened in spirit by a Cold Boiled Potato at midnight.
I stand in the pantry door leaning against the jamb, with a tiny glass salt-shaker in one hand and the sweet dark pink Cold Boiled Potato in the other.
And I sprink
...le it with salt and I nibble, nibble, nibble. And I say aloud, *Gee, it*s good!' i6o God compensates me I liked Cold Boiled Potato at four-and twenty.
I liked it at seventeen. I liked it at twelve. At three I climbed on cake-boxes in search of one. And now in the deep bloom of being myself I am made roundly replete at midnight with a Cold Boiled Potato.
A Cold Boiled Potato — it tastes of chestnuts at midnight, the first frost-kissed chestnuts in the woods: and it tastes of rain-water and of salt and of roses; it tastes of young willow-bark and of earth and of grass-stems: it tastes of the sun and the wind and of some nameless relishingness born of the summer hillside that grew it: it tastes at midnight so like SL Cold Boiled Potato.


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