THE JOYS AND SORROWS OF A SICK MAN.
You wake up in the morning with a queer feeling. You can't tell just how you do feel, you have a headache and you say so to one of the boys. Then your headache goes away and then you have a backache and you mention that to another boy. Next thing you know all your aches are gone but your throat is sore. You tell your landlady about that and you keep on telling different stories to everybody that you see till no one believes you are sick at all. You are sometimes in doubt about it yourself. However in order to rout the scepial you stay at home all day and try to look tired and despondent. When evening arrives you are really tired and despondent and the boys thoughtfully flock into your room and smoke cigarettes, cigars and pipes—tobacco smoke is such an excellent germ exterminator, you know. And they play cards, and tell boisterous stories and scuffle and whoop and yell and do everything they can to entertain you and keep your mind off your sorrow. Nothing is worse for a sick man than for him to think he is sick. You are determined to not think you are sick. When asked how you feel, you turn your face weakly to the wall and say forcibly: "Oh, I'm just feeling a little bad. I'll be all right tomorrow. And then you gaze at the questioner with a timid, righteous smile playing about your guivering lips, and a saintly far-away look in your eyes.
At 12 o'clock the boys all leave after severally and collectively offering to remain all night, if you will only say the word. But it would be more dramatic to die in solitude, so you let them all go. One of the boys, who used to be a doctor's hostler and is now in the preparatory medica class, leaves some big black capsules for you to take. He won't tell what they contain. It is a wonderful remedy which he is going to patent. You feel that you are already beyond the saving power ofdrugs. Wondering how startled and how sad the boys will be when they rush into the room in the morning and find you cold and dead, you fall asleep.
You can hardly believe yourself when you wake up next morning and find that you are still alive. You are feeling worse though. There isn't any doubt about your symptoms now. You have all of them; you hear the boys coming and throw the capsules into the fire. The boys are all glad to see you looking so much better. The medicine man congratulates himself profusely on the efficacy of his remedy and asks you for a testimonial to be published in an almanac which he is going to issue.
"Are you still sick Mr. Smith?" she begins.
You are left alone for half an hour and then your landlady comes in. You are sorry to see her coming. You know she'll ask you a hundred of questions, and you don't feel like talking.
'Yes."
"Yes, I'm worse than I was yesterday." "So am I Mr. Smith. I want to tell you Mr. Smith, I think I must be made of iron. Not one woman in a hundred could bear the suffering that I do. Does your headache?"
"Yes, especially in the last few minutes."
"So does mine, Oh, awfully, I can't tell you how it does ache, Mr. Smith. My eyes feel like great balls of fire and my brain like a roaring furnace. Oh, I tell you Mr. Smith there isn't one woman in five hundred who could stand what I do. Do you feel tired?"
"So do I Mr. Smith, I sometimes feel that I just cannot go another step. My bones ache and my muscles are so awfully sore. I do declare, Mr. Smith, there isn't one woman in a thousand who could stand the suffering that I do. Is your throat sore?"
"Yes."
"So is mine, Mr. Smith, awfully. It's just like raw beefsteel, and I'm so hoarse—'her voice sinks to a dismal whisper—'我 is so moose I can barely speak. There
't onelowwoman'in ten thousand who could stand what I do." The poor creature sinks into an armed chair, coughs faintly and looks the acme of wretchedness. In a few minutes she is recalled to the land of the living and the region of the back yard by the crying of one of the children, and soon you hear her gasping from the front door with one of the neighbors a quarter of a block away.
The news begins to leak out that you are sick and benevolent old woman send up numerous infallible remedies all of which you consign to oblivion by some other road than down your throat. There is one grandma who thinks there is not another boy in the world like you. She comes up to see you and brings her favorite remedy with her. She knows just what the matter with you. You have the same disease that Tom Jones died of. If Tom Jones had taken her medicine as she wanted him to be would be living today. You have a headache? So did Tom Jones, you have that tired feeling? Just
like Tom Jones. Threat sore? Tom Jones had a sore throat. No doubt about it. You must either take the medicine or die. You are very fond of Grandma and to please her you swallow a big gulp of the Elixer. It proves to be nothing more, perhaps, than a strong solution of salt water colored with some sort of bitter weed. It has a dreadful taste but the effect is magical. It takes hold of your sore throat and banishes that tired feeling so completely that you skip about the room like a Choctaw war dancer. Dear, benevolent Grandma watches your maneuvers with a smile of wise satisfaction. When you have recovered your selfpossession and dignity a little she goes away, first enjoining you to take a large dose of the Elixer every half hour an hour.
In the middle of the afternoon you get too sick to want to die so you send for a doctor. He comes, asks a few questions, leaves a bottle of medicine, orders the boys to stay out of the room, and marches off all in such a matter of fact sort of way that you wonder if the cold rascal could actually be bloomed see you die without shedding a tear.
You live through another night and the third day begins. The third day is always a peculiar day. If anything strange is to happen at all, it is sure to happen on a third day.
Before 8 oclock three nice red roses come in, with Miss Bennett's card attached. You are surprised. You had not expected the girls to remember you. Miss Bennett is a lovely girl. How nice of her to send roses. Roses meant love. Red roses meant burning love. You can't think of another girl whom you like so well as Miss Bennett. You hold the roses in your hand and say to yourself and again, what a nice girl Miss Bennett is. You have almost persuaded yourself that you are in love with Miss Bennett, when another bunch of three red roses is sent up by Miss Alton. Now Miss Alton is a lovely girl too.
If there is any other girl in the whole world whom you could like as well as you do Miss Bennett, that girl is Miss Alton. You hold a bunch of roses in each hand and try to decide which girl you like best. You can't do it. You feel almost sure you are in love with it or the other, but you can't tell which one. Someone raps at the door. You are sorry, you'd like to be left alone with your pleasant thoughts. A messenger enters with red roses from Miss Brown, Miss Smith and Miss Jones.
You appreciate them all, of course, but somehow you don't like roses nearly so well now as you did half an hour ago. Before noon you have twenty big red roses piled up on the table. The girls have all sent three each except Miss Brown, she only sent two, and you feel a little cool toward her for that reason. You lay in bed and look at the flowers and think mean things about the girls who haven't sent a ny. You wonder why all the boquets are alike. You are fond of red roses, certainly, but then, you like all kinds of flowers. You can't remember of having expressed a preference for red roses to any of the girls. But may be you have. Girls have splendid memories.
Noon arrives and the girls at your boarding house send over to know if you will eat a little lunch if they will send it up to you. You say yes, and they send up a darky with enough food for two hearty farm hands. The sight of it all takes away what little appetite you did have. But you don't want to offend the girls by appearing unappreciative, so you send across the alley for Dr. Van Cramp who has a very large digestion and a very small income. What the Dr. doesn't he carries away in a basket. He is very grateful for your kindness and offers to treat you free of charge. But you have had enough free treatment and decline, his offer. You send the tray and dishes back to the boarding house with many thanks, and the girls are highly delighted because your appetite is so good. You decline their offer for supper—pleading the doctor's orders—and ask your landlord for a very small piece of toast.
There was a party last night. Yes, you knew there was to be one. Each girl carried three red roses Queer, very queer. Those roses really were remarkably wilted for freshly cut flowers.
Your landlady brings the evening paper and you read it while you eat the toast.
You sleep well that night and feel better in the morning.
Your landlady comes to the door and says Miss Martin stopped to enquire about you and to leave a small bouquet. You wonder if that is another bunch of roses. But it isn't. The flowers are small and white—you don't know just what they are—but you like them. You like them better than roses. You wonder why. Roses are certainly more expensive. The more you look at that little bouquet the more you like it, and the more you like Miss Martin. You quit trying to explain your feelings to yourself. But you wonder why you didn't think of Miss Martin at all the day before.
In a short time you are able to get out
on the street. Then comes real, solid enjoyment. There is no other stage of sickness so pleasant as the convalescent stage Everybody is so glad to see you. Everybody wants to shake hands as if you had been away five years. You walk with a cane and tremble, and talk in a faint, ghastly voice and do everything you can to make people believe that you are tattering on the very brink of eternity. No body expects you to work. You are not expected to be brilliant. Everybody is so attentive. The girls take you buggy riding and sit with you in the hammock and read to you. The boys offer their bicycles and the landlady serves you with the most delicious morsels at the table. The innocent days of childhood and the joyous days of youth are but dry and dull compared with the delightful, lazy days of convalescence. But, like other earthy joys, this joy, too, is fleeting.
A Story with a Moral
A young man with his sporting propen-sities accompanied by two young ladies, whose names we will not mention, was perambulating down Vermont street. He was burdened down by a bag of shelled corn, from which he would take copious handfults to dash against every window he passed. He was persued by a quickly organized pose of students. They overhauled him on Kentucky street, seized him and split his sack of corn. The ladies put up a vigorous scrap, but their companion was escorted to a convenient tree a block away and there received the "bumpers degree."
H. M. CARY.
The Annual will be in size eight by ten inches, bound in crimson buckram, fully illustrated throughout. It will be a book of 200 pages, consisting of half-tones of the head professors, senators of the different schools, fraternities, athletic clubs and the various University building.
The Senior Annual.
A feature of the Annual will be the first appearance of a cut of the new Chemistry building. The illustrations are from drawings done by Mr. Sydney Prentice, Prof. Clark, Misses Safford, Snyder, Reese, Babcock, Ida and Stella Case. There will be over 120 of these illustrations and engravings, a number of them being printed in colors. With the pictures of the athletic teams will be given a full and correct list of the records made.
The Literary portion of the Annual will be of a very high standard, as only the best writers of the Senior classes have contributed to it.
The Annual will be put on sale the night of the Senior play, May 30th Its price will be one dollar.
The Weekly Staff met Wednesday and chose R. W. M. local editor; John Kane, Managing editor; H. H. Tangeman, literary editor.
Weekly Board Organized.
The "Expansion Atlas" is the one the Cosmopolitan Magazine is offering its readers for 350 when accompanied by one year's subscription.
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OLLEGE men everywhere are invited to send for the Washburn Souvenir Catalog. It contains nearly 300 portraits of artists and collegians, besides giving some account of the construction of Washburn instruments and a complete list of net prices. First they showcase the world over sell Washburns, or instruments may be obtained from the makers
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