Daily globe. [volume] (St. Paul, Minn.) 1878-1884, 1883-01-24
A VERY SORE THROAT.
The Perils and Affections Which Bsfe1I a
Globe" Contributor.
To The Editor of the Globe:

"Globe" Contributor.
To the Editor of the Globe:
have often thought the most provoking
creatures in life were men and mice, but
would rather by far be vexed with MAJ
or mouse than a sore throat-it is horrid
detestable.
Once upon time, very short time ago
I found to my horror and disgust my
throat was sore and felt quite i'll, anG
called my physician, who told me to stay
in doors and my throat would soon gel
we'll, but it must have its time. Well,
stayed home and treated my throat kindly
for a while and was quite patient, thinking
it would soon take its departure, but the
impertinence Of it, it hung on and tanta-
lized me by growing worse until became
impatient. l thought had given it about
as much time as a reasonable throat would
ask, and declared war; desperate battle
was fought between myself and throat, but
throat conquered and I was whipped
like the white of an egg prepared for a
swell dinner. I was starving, a living
Tanner. did not eat enough to keep a
kitten alive. When I tried to eat a square
meal the expression of my face would re-
mind one of a bounty jumper. l was a
martyred victim. My head was as numb
as though I had accommodated at the Arctic
regions for forty days and nights, like two
cast-iron hemispheres fattened at the
poles. volcanic eruption formed in my
throat as big as watermelon, and the
most horrible sensation like rats and mice
playing a tambourine or beating a drum,
using the precious muscles in my neck and
ear for their instruments, creating all sorts
of sounds, tr-tr, TT drum, drum de dunn.
It'd der, older dunn dunn de DUN, like
pitching quoits, turning somersaults in my
ear, then back to throat again ready for
another plunge and pulling at my vitality
with as much force as a drowning man
would pull for the shore.
1 tell you, when you have volcanic
eruption in your throat as big as water
melon, locked up in your room at the hour
of midnight, and mercury 25 degrees be-
low zero, afraid to go to sleep for fear of
choking to death, 1t is then Bob Ingersoll
would change his mind, quake with fear
and cry in agony, blind unbelief is sure to
err, what shall do to be saved? The
agony of that night I will never forget. 1
wondered if I should die there alone would
my friends knock at my door in the morn
ing and receiving no response break open
the door, or would I meet the same sad
fate as the poor dead cat that lay for weeks
in Irvine park without burial? I thought
of pussy then and wondered if she had a
sore throat.
Would the estimable health officer
stand on the corner of the public
streets idly gazing into heaven waiting,
watching for my spirit to appear to tell
him where to find my corpse? Would my
friends weep for me, and would the stub
born hearts of my enemies relent, and
would they speak kindly of me as they had
never done before?
thought of my latest mash, AMI won
dered if he would buy swell hat for the
funeral, ornament it with band of Grape
and look sad week or so-would he? oh,
would he? But, alas; the voice Of intui-
ton within firmly answered, he would not;
the creaking frost and bowling winds with
out mockingly responded, never! Would
he search for my certificate of deposit,
and if he should find it, weep with delight
and go on his way rejoicing? Would he?
oh, would he? But such is life.
Oh, if were only we'll.
thought of the poor little mouse l had
caught in trap and cruelty put him to
death.
thought of the mosquitoes I had starved
last summer, and the flies I had driven
homeless from my window, and wondered
if l had met my retr1bution; Oh, if I live
to get well, 1 will atone for all. will call
the rats and mice of the neighborhood
together on New Years day, and give them
a square meal.
When you are confined to your room
with volcanic eruption in your throat as
big as watermelon, it is then you will
think of every neglected duty. I was not
brave enough to die; there is something in
this life to the physical man sweeter than
death, though we have buried every hope
in the dear departed and life is full of
vexation, temptation and sin.
Though we tread the thorny path of pow
erty, clothed in the dusty rags of Lazarus,
without seal skin coat or diamond ring
to loan to neighbors for swell occasions to
make some horrid female rival envious,
yet life is sweeter than death.
Though heavenly messenger descend
ing in robes of spotless purity, pointing
to the realms of bliss and whispering g all
is we'll; come to the skies of endless joy;
come, come, oh, come with me to a haven
of rest. to the land of Immortality"
Though we have our place with God, yet
there is something within this solid mass
Of human flesh says stay. Respectfully,
SUSIE M. BoAK, st. Paul, MINI.