An Old Woman’s Lament by Mary Alice Hare Loper, M. S.

Pacific Press Publishing Association · Mountain View, California · Aug 11, 1914

An Old Woman’s Lament

By Mary Alice Hare Loper, M. S.

By MARY ALICE HARE LOPER, M. S.

I NEVER see sech sickly folks As walk the airth to-day. They've nearly every blessed one Got somethin' wrong, they say.

One has the gout, rheumatics one, An' one has "headache so." Neuralgy has grown populare, An' backache's all the go.

When I was young, we used to think O' sickness as disgrace. In talkin' with the people then, Small ailments found no place.

But you are out o' fashion now Unless you feel somewhere A pain or ache, with some big name To make it populare.

Some people wonder why it is That everybody's sick. The problem ain't so awful hard As some in 'rithmetic.

I never studied cause an' 'fect, But one thing's very plain: We didn't use to live as though We's catchin' some fast train.

The people went to bed o' nights, An' got up with the sun. They didn't turn the day around, As many now have done.

A weddin' breakfast didn't mean You'd wait till afternoon, An' dinners warn't served, in them days, By candle-light nor moon.

The women didn't squeeze their waists, An' wonder why it was Their stomachs didn't quite accord With all o' nature's laws.

We didn't eat all times o' day, Much less all times o' night. There warn't much use for doctors then, To fix the stomach right.

But now the doctors fairly swarm — To remedies no end; An' on 'em, every blessed one, Poor creatures now depend.

They think they've solved the mystery Why everybody's ill, An' then they've got the remedy That's "sure to cure" — or kill.

They flourish dictionary words, An' tell in glowin' terms About "backtery" an' "toemains" An' multitudes o' "germs."

Well, mebbe "backtery" does explain These backaches that we meet, An' "toemains" tells the cause o' corns On everybody's feet.

They boil the milk so as to kill The "germs" before you eat 'em; An' to make ice an' water, too, Most healthful, you should heat 'em.

They take the poetry all out O' songs which childhood learns. The dear old oaken bucket now Is covered o'er with "germs."

How sweet the blest assurance given, When here we say farewell, There surely are no "germs" in heaven, For ev'rybody's well!