Resignation is a beautiful virtue,
but it chiefly exists on side streets and out of town. The man who is
sick on a main street and professes to be resigned is a hypocrite. My
friend, the Street, presents to me Thompson. What do I say? "Ah,
Thompson, take the blessing of a sick man?" Not a bit of it. I say,
what right has Thompson to be walking along attending to business and
possibly taking surreptitious cooling drinks, while I am doomed to
staring out of the window and drinking beef tea? But Thompson don't
drink? Oh, well, what do I care if he don't! I threw that in about
drinks to make it as hard on him as possible. It makes a good point
on a man just to suggest it. There; there goes Robinson going to church
with a new suit on, and a wife hanging on his arm! What has he done
to deserve that sort of luck? Why, isn't he up here flat of his
back--and there they all go. Resigned? Ah, no, the sick are not
resigned. It is only the dead who are resigned.
* * * * *
A perfectly new friend is the Sky. How often does one in health look
at the Sky save to see about the weather? But once a year. But in
sickness it is an ever present friend. You watch for day breaks in it,
and for the fading stars, and find an exciting interest in which of
two stars will go out first, something like you were betting on a race.
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