“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.
