When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I remember well the polished old case fastened to the wall. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with great interest when my mother used to talk to it. Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person-- her name was Information Please and there was nothing she did not know. Information Please could supply anybody's number. My first personal experience with Information Please came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor. I accidentally hit my finger with a hammer. The pain was terrible, but there didn't seem to be any reason in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy. I walked around the house sucking my hurting finger, finally arriving at the stairway--the telephone! Climbing up I unhooked the receiver and held it to my ear. "Information Please," I said. A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear, "Information." "I hurt my finger..." I cried. The tears came readily enough now that I had an audience. "Isn't your mother home?" came the question. "Nobody's home but me." I sobbed. "Are you bleeding?" "No," I replied. "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts." "Can you open your icebox?" she asked. I said I could. "Then chip off a little piece of ice and hold it to your finger." After that I called Information Please for everything. I asked her for help with my geography and she told me where Philadelphia was. And there was the time that Petey, our pet canary   died. I called Information Please and told her the sad story. She listened, and then said the usual things grown-ups say to comfort a child. But I was Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers, feet up on the bottom of a cage? She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, "Paul, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in." Somehow I felt better. Another day I was on the telephone. "Information Please." "Information," said the now familiar voice. "How do you spell fix?" I asked. All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. Then when I was 9 years old, we moved to Boston. I missed my friend very much. Information Please belonged to that old wooden box in former home, and I somehow never thought of trying the tall, shiny new phone that sat on the hall table. Yet as I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me; often in moments of doubt and sadness I would recall the sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy. A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had about half an hour or so between planes, and I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there now. Then without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, "Information Please." Unexpectedly, I heard again the small, clear voice I knew so well, "Information." I hadn't planned this but I heard myself saying, "Could you tell me please how to spell fix?" There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, "I guess that your finger must have healed by now." I laughed, "So it's really still you," I said. "I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time." "I wonder," she said, "if you know how much your calls meant to me. I never had any children, and I used to look forward to your calls." I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister. "Please do; just ask of Sally." Just three months later I was back in Seattle.... A different voice answered Information and I asked for Sally. "Are you a friend?" "Yes, a very old friend." "Then I'm sorry to have to tell you. Sally has been working part-time the last few years because she was sick. She passed away five weeks ago." But before I could hang up she said, "Wait a minute. Did you say your name was Paul?" "Yes!" "Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down. Here it is. I'll read it. " " I thanked her and hung up. I did know what Sally meant. The author picked up the telephone for the first time to    _   .
call his mother who was visiting a neighbor call the doctor for his wounded finger find out what exactly lived in the telephone find someone to give him sympathy
Question: When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I remember well the polished old case fastened to the wall. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with great interest when my mother used to talk to it. Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person-- her name was Information Please and there was nothing she did not know. Information Please could supply anybody's number. My first personal experience with Information Please came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor. I accidentally hit my finger with a hammer. The pain was terrible, but there didn't seem to be any reason in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy. I walked around the house sucking my hurting finger, finally arriving at the stairway--the telephone! Climbing up I unhooked the receiver and held it to my ear. "Information Please," I said. A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear, "Information." "I hurt my finger..." I cried. The tears came readily enough now that I had an audience. "Isn't your mother home?" came the question. "Nobody's home but me." I sobbed. "Are you bleeding?" "No," I replied. "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts." "Can you open your icebox?" she asked. I said I could. "Then chip off a little piece of ice and hold it to your finger." After that I called Information Please for everything. I asked her for help with my geography and she told me where Philadelphia was. And there was the time that Petey, our pet canary   died. I called Information Please and told her the sad story. She listened, and then said the usual things grown-ups say to comfort a child. But I was Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers, feet up on the bottom of a cage? She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, "Paul, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in." Somehow I felt better. Another day I was on the telephone. "Information Please." "Information," said the now familiar voice. "How do you spell fix?" I asked. All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. Then when I was 9 years old, we moved to Boston. I missed my friend very much. Information Please belonged to that old wooden box in former home, and I somehow never thought of trying the tall, shiny new phone that sat on the hall table. Yet as I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me; often in moments of doubt and sadness I would recall the sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy. A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had about half an hour or so between planes, and I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there now. Then without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, "Information Please." Unexpectedly, I heard again the small, clear voice I knew so well, "Information." I hadn't planned this but I heard myself saying, "Could you tell me please how to spell fix?" There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, "I guess that your finger must have healed by now." I laughed, "So it's really still you," I said. "I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time." "I wonder," she said, "if you know how much your calls meant to me. I never had any children, and I used to look forward to your calls." I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister. "Please do; just ask of Sally." Just three months later I was back in Seattle.... A different voice answered Information and I asked for Sally. "Are you a friend?" "Yes, a very old friend." "Then I'm sorry to have to tell you. Sally has been working part-time the last few years because she was sick. She passed away five weeks ago." But before I could hang up she said, "Wait a minute. Did you say your name was Paul?" "Yes!" "Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down. Here it is. I'll read it. " " I thanked her and hung up. I did know what Sally meant. The author picked up the telephone for the first time to    _   .
A. call his mother who was visiting a neighbor
B. call the doctor for his wounded finger
C. find out what exactly lived in the telephone
D. find someone to give him sympathy
Answer: