“THIS is the time,” the doctors say, “when people need our bitters; the
sunny, languid, vernal day is hard on human critters. They’re always
feeling tired and stale, their blood is thick and sluggish, and so they
ought to blow their kale for pills and potions druggish.” And, being
told we’re in a plight, we swallow dope in rivers, to get our kidneys
acting right, and jack up rusty livers. We pour down tea of sassafras,
as ordered by the sawbones, and chewing predigested grass, we exercise
our jawbones. We swallow pints of purple pills, and fool with costly
drenches, to drive away imagined ills and pipe-dream aches and wrenches.
And if we’d only take the spade, and dig the fertile gumbo, the ghost of
sickness would be laid, and we’d be strong as Jumbo. Of perfect health,
that precious boon, we’d have refreshing glimpses, if we would toil each
afternoon out where the jimpson jimpses. There’s medicine in azure
skies, and sunshine is a wonder; more cures are wrought by exercise than
by all bottled thunder. So let’s forsake the closed up room, and hoe
weeds cockle-burrish, where elderberry bushes bloom, and juniorberries
flourish.
[Illustration]
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