To the Opernhaus sans pass or ticket. The piece was a comic opera, Vogelhandler (The Bird Seller) by one Carl Zeller, the music being light and tuney.
Procured, for a small sum, a plate of very curious light refreshment; to wit – a pyramid of pink vegetable putrescence (probably sauerkraut), about an ounce of pommes de terre, and ethereally thin slice of war bread, two diaphanous slices of pickled gherkin, and a lace-like ringlet of raw onion: this being “hurled headlong to bottomless perdition” by a cup of cafe noir, I completed my journey, and my repast (by the addition of some “Anzac Wafers” and gritty rice).
Walk March 