SEVEN million little openings,
God has made upon your skin;
Mouths of tiny little sewers
That run everywhere, within.
And along these numerous sewers
All impurities must go,
That are not by other outlets,
Carried off with active flow. [{154}]
When these many little openings.
We call PORES, get shut quite close,
Through your frame the poison wanders,
Making you feel dull and cross.
It will make your lungs grow tender,
And they'll soon be sore, and cough;
It will make your stomach feeble,
And your head ache hard enough.
Then your heart can not be joyous,
And your other organs, too,
Will get weak, and be unable
For the work they ought to do;
Quaking nerves will groan and quiver,
Weary bones be racked with pain,
And you'll all the time be saying:
"How can I be well again?"
HEAT and BATHING widely open
All the pores, when discords dire,
Quick flow out in perspiration,
Quenching all the fever-fire.
Raveling out the tangled tissues,
Setting free the life-blood's flow,
Pouring forth the pent-up poisons,
Wakening thus a healthful glow.
THE BREATH O' LIFE.
Our lungs are formed of curious cells,
And tubes to draw in air,--
And if we breathe quite deep and full
And take our needful share,
'Twill keep our blood so red and pure,
Our health so firm and true,
We scarce shall know what suffering means,
But joyous feel, and new.
But if we wear our clothing tight,
The little cells will close,
And then they cannot do their work,
And thus our health we lose;
Or if we breathe the air impure,
'T will give us tainted blood,
While plenty, pure, sun-ripened air
Will make us glad and good.
THE GIRLS.
