My Hon. Friends then begin making talk all over my very sick bed with awful feverish debats until I groan from hot brows, because I got a sun-strike. Political conversation next turn to all-kinds tropickal subjecks. Cousin Nogi mention Hon. Revolution in Honaduras; Japanned Frank say-so that Hon. Cuba can’t never escape from Hon. Taft when he got it; Uncle Nichi enquire to know if Rep Party will continue to be useless about Philippine tobacco; and Little Annie Anazuma tell of paper-news she read about hon. yellow fever enjoyed by Hon. Dirt Digs of Panama Canal.
I put hand to my boiled skull & collapse with gasps.
“You are a loud noise,” I liquidate. “When you come to bedstead of a sunstruck person, why you all-time talk about politicks what are happening all over Hon. Equator?”
“Would some breezy topick of conversations be more pleasant for such a sun-strike?” enquire Uncle Nichi with farm-yard voice.
“Iced thoughts would be very nice for brain,” I dib with fan.
Then up say Arthur Kickahajama, missionary boy who will be a heathen 2 weeks more before vacation is over,
“I have got just such a cold topicks,” he-say. “Hon. Adm. Peary, intemperate explorer on cold-weather boat Roosevelt, have started for Swartzburger, Sweden, in hopes that he will discovery an entirely iced Pole before it melts.”
“Thank you so much, Arthur Kickahajama,” I sigh-up for relief, “already I feel some pleasant chills in my vertebral.”
“In his kitty of supplies,” say Arthur, “Hon. Peary have took 750 blankets of red flannel complexion, 100 grizzly-skin pajamas, 60 Tiny Wonder gas-heaters, 7 tons axle-greeze to use as butter when starving & 20 doggy-sleys with limousine tops to keep off cold.”
“What are he going to North Pole for if he desire to keep off cold?” I enquire with sun-stroke gasps.