The Philanthropist
"Ten million bones," said good John Dee, "will reach the Sunny South from me; this hookworm scourge, that ruins men, and lays a country waste again, must be suppressed at any cost—those broken men must not be lost! To make them feel like men once more, to drive gaunt Famine from their door, to make them like strong Saxons live, ten million bones I'll freely give. The victims of the hookworm scourge, the toilers at the loom and forge, the humble yeoman at his plow, may see some ray of comfort now! I shudder when I read the tales of ruin in those Southern vales; too tired to do the simplest chores, men lounge all day about their doors, and when the sun's low in the West, the whole caboodle go to rest. And thus these tillers of the soil burn mighty little of my oil. When this outrageous worm decamps, they'll trim the wicks and light the lamps, and read the books they have in stock, and all sit up till one o'clock. The hookworm's acted very mean in shutting off the kerosene, and so I'll send a good big roll, to put the blamed thing in the hole."
Other Days
Backward, turn backward, oh time, in thy flight, feed me on gruel again, just for tonight; I am so wearied of restaurant steaks, vitrified doughnuts and vulcanized cakes, oysters that sleep in a watery bath, butter as strong as Goliath of Gath; weary of paying for what I can't eat, chewing up rubber and calling it meat. Backward, turn backward, for weary I am! Give me a whack at my grandmother's jam; let me drink milk that has never been skimmed, let me eat butter whose hair has been trimmed; let me but once have an old-fashioned pie, then I'll be willing to curl up and die; I have been eating iron filings for years—is it a wonder I'm melting in tears?