Thrift House a Mothley Affair, but Earns Thousands for Poor

It used to be 9 West Fifty-seventh street, home of sables, ermine and rare brocades. Debutantes, mannequins and bejeweled ladies were the order of the day. But times do change. Tappe, Inc., has departed, and the Thrift House has moved in.

There was a gala affair the other night, marking the first birthday celebration of Federation’s “youngest child,” established when the Women’s Division of the Federation for the Support of Jewish Philanthropic Societies was confronted a little more than a year ago with the perennial problem of raising money. There is nothing extraordinary in a rummage sale, and authorities permitted the ladies have their fun. But the group under leadership of Mrs. Julius Ochs Adfer, had other plans. None of your condescending saleslady-for-a-day for them. Their project was a shop in the fashionable fifties for all to visit and patronize daily. Stock was to be composed of members’ contributions of clothing, furniture and bric-a-brac, and the staff to be made up of members themselves. Authorities smiled, and let the idea pass.

Subsequently Herman Patrick Tappe closed his shop and 9 West Fifty-seventh street was to-let. Adolph Lewisohn, who owned the building, donated it to the cause. The rest was simple. When the enterprising ladies sorted out shoes and ships and sealing wax, and asked for new bundles at the end of the first week of business, authorities were slightly startled but muttered beginners’ luck.

The women knew feminine psychology. As long as they continued to pique the curiosity of the passersby success was certain. And that they did with a grotesque window display. Other shops along the thoroughfare reflect the seasons–winter brings woolens to their stalls, and summer chiffons. But in the case of Thrift House there is the charm of the unknown, the hazard of the unpredictable, and all year is its season.

The wild assortment in the window defends the axiom that people like variety. Dante’s Beatrice with most of her nose cut off reposes in the foreground and winks at those who pass from beneath the brim of a fedora. A saddle and a Spanish shawl are in a sort of fellowship nearby. Inside, the volunteer clerk of the day will tell you that she spent a trying hour untangling that shoe string when it arrived in the morning. But untangled it had to be, for nothing goes to waste at Thrift House. Else how could it have earned $25,000 for Federation during its first year of existence?