THIS is the season when the blood, according to the learned physician,
is thick and flows as slow as mud, which puts a man in bad condition.
Spring sickness is a fell disease, according to our time-worn notions,
and, having it, the victim flees, to blow himself for dopes and potions.
“I have to thin the sluggish stream,” he says, “which through my system
passes; it’s thicker now than cheap ice cream, and flows like New
Orleans molasses.” From all spring ills he’d have release, if he would
tramp his potions under, and get a jar of Elbow Grease, the medicine
that’s cheap as thunder. To get out doors where breezes blow, and tinker
’round to beat the dickens, would make a lot of ailments go, and thin
the blood that winter thickens. Instead of taking pale pink pills which
are designed for purple parties, go, plant the spuds in shallow hills,
and you’ll be feeling fine, my hearties! We are too fond of taking dope,
while in our easy chairs reclining, when we should shed our coats and
slope out yonder where the sun is shining.
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