From the Rock Island Argus, February 25, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. When I am well I think with pity Of those who have to work away As I do, in the busy city Week in, week out, day after day. It seems so futile to be moiling And I am tempted to rebel Against the ones who keep me toiling Relentlessly—when I am well. I think with envy of the wealthy Who for their health seek distant climes And wish that I were not so healthy So that I might fare sometimes; I long to leave the noise and rattle To get away from all the strife Forgetting that the ceaseless battle The toilers wage is all of life. I see about me weary faces That show the need of change and rest; I wonder why men cling to places Whose profits are but small at best. “Poor fools,” I say, “they are but wasting Their strength where toil is profitless When each might far from here be tasting The sweets of well-earned carelessness. When I am ill, and cannot hurry With those who haste away to town To toil and moil and scheme and worry I curse the fates that keep me down; It seems a pity to be quiet While there the wheels are whirring still; And thinking of the rush and riot I scorn repose—when I am ill.