I HATE to eat at a friend’s abode—he makes me carry too big a load. He
keeps close tab, and he has a fit, if I show a sign that I’d like to
quit. “You do not eat as a host could wish—pray, try some more of the
deviled fish. Do put some vinegar on your greens, and take some more of
the boneless beans, and have a slice of the rich, red beet, and here’s a
chunk of the potted meat. We’ll think our cooking has failed to please,
if you don’t eat more of the Lima peas, of the stringless squash and the
graham rolls, and the doughnuts crisp, with their large round holes. You
are no good with the forks and spoons—do try a dish of our home grown
prunes!” I eat and eat, at my friend’s behest, till the buttons fly from
my creaking vest. I stagger home when the meal is o’er, and nightmares
come when I sleep and snore; and long thereafter my stomach wails, as
though I’d swallowed a keg of nails. Be wise, be kind to the cherished
guest, and let him quit when he wants to rest! Don’t make him eat
through the bill of fare, when you see he’s full of a dumb despair!
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