I KNOW a crippled woman who lives through years of pain with patience
superhuman—for ne’er does she complain. An endless torture rages
throughout her stricken frame; an hour would seem like ages if I endured
the same. Sometimes I call upon her to ask her how she stacks; it is her
point of honor to utter no alacks; she hands out no alases, but says
she’s feeling gay, and every hour that passes brings some new joy her
way. “I’m all serene, old chappie,” she says, “as you can see; my heart
is always happy, the Lord’s so good to me!” Thus chortles pain-racked
Auntie, and says it with a smile; and when I leave her shanty I kick
myself a while. For I am strong and scrappy; I’m sound in wind and limb;
and yet I’m seldom happy; I wail a graveyard hymn; whene’er I meet
reverses my howls are agonized; I say, with bitter curses, the gods are
subsidized. When life seems like December, a thing of gloom and care, I
wish I could remember old Auntie in her chair, forget my whinings
hateful, and that wan shut-in see, who says that she is grateful, “the
Lord’s so good to me!”
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