From the Evening Star, July 7, 1913. By Walt Mason.
The country’s full of wholesome air, undoped, uncolored, undefiled; it’s blowing round us everywhere, enough for woman, man and child. And yet we box ourselves up tight the whole year round in dusty rooms; and sickness gets the foolish wight who in this way stale air consumes. And then he blows his wad for pills, and things you shake before you take, and tells long tales about his ills, describing every grievous ache. Fresh air preventive is and cure of half the ills beneath our hats, within the reach of people poor, as well as that of plutocrats. And that’s the reason why, no doubt, the fresh air cure-all doesn’t win; it’s why we keep the pure air out, and try to keep the stale air in. We can’t have faith in any dope that doesn’t cost like old Sam Hill; and so we anchor faith and hope to plaster, potion and to pill. We’ll buy the old expensive drugs until some faker sees ’twill pay to sell fresh air in gallon jugs, and then we’ll buy it every day. And, while the smiling faker thrives, in testimonials we’ll declare that fresh air saved our fading lives when all the docs were in despair. So let us wait for that glad day when fresh air’s bottled in New York; we’ll want it when we have to pay a plunk a throw, and pull a cork.
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