You ask me why I weep and moan, like some lost spirit in despair, and
why I wonder [Transcriber's note: wander?] off alone, and paw the
ground and tear my hair? You ask me why I pack this gun, all loaded
up, prepared to shoot? Alas! my troubles have begun--the women folk
are canning fruit! There is no place for me to eat, unless I eat upon
the floor; and peelings get beneath my feet, and make me fall a block
or more; the odors from the boiling jam, all day assail my weary snoot;
you find me, then, the wreck I am--the women folk are canning fruit!
O, they have peaches on the chairs, and moldy apples on the floor, and
wormy plums upon the stairs, and piles of pears outside the door; and
they are boiling pulp and juice, and you may hear them yell and hoot; a
man's existence is the deuce--the women folk are canning fruit!