FROM day to day we sell our whey, our nutmegs, nails or cotton, and oft
we sigh, as hours drag by, “This sort of life is rotten! The dreary game
is e’er the same, no respite or diversion; oh, how we long to join the
throng on some outdoor excursion! On eager feet, along the street, more
lucky folks are hiking, while we must stay and sell our hay—it’s little
to our liking!” Those going by perhaps will sigh, “This work we do is
brutal; all day we hike along the pike, and all our work is futile. It
would be sweet to leave the street and own a nice trade palace, and sell
rolled oats to human goats, it would, so help me Alice!” All o’er this
sphere the briny tear is shed by people weary, who’d like to quit their
jobs and flit to other tasks more dreary. We envy folks who wear their
yokes, and tote a bigger burden, we swear and sweat and fume and fret,
and oft forget the guerdon. There is no lot entirely fraught with
happiness and glory; if you are sore the man next door can tell as sad a
story.
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