Poem July 13, 1899 Issue

A Problem Solved

New York Press

He was a hypochondriac, a man of one idea;
That one—that Death lurked near him—inspiring him with fear.
He studied quack advertisements and conjured up new ills ;
His system was a storage house for physics, drugs, and pills.
He haunted doctors' offices, and told in great dismay feelings which each healthy man has twenty times a day.
But that which most his ease disturbed was that his frame inclined
Toward spareness, and in consequence grave doubts reigned in his mind.
He squandered half his fortune trying all the "anti-leans,"
Became a daily patron of the "find your weight" machines,
And drank cod liver oil like beer, in order to gain flesh;
But as his weight did not increase, remained in Terror's mesh,
Till one fine day a bright thought came. He said, "I'll bet a hat
What keeps me thin is worrying because I don't get fat."

New York Press.

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