"I CANNOT give the poor a cent," remarks the portly, stallfed gent, who's just consumed a pie; "it turns my auburn ringlets gray to make ends meet from day to day, all prices are so high. Just glance along that bill of fare, and note the prices ruling there, on canvasback and teal; mark how things cost to beat the band, and then perhaps you'll understand why I can't spare a wheel. Planked steaks with French imported peas, and all such staple things as these, that every man must eat, are costing now so many wheels the woebegone consumer feels a coldness in his feet. Without such things as mushroom sauce my victuals are a total loss, and they've gone up in price; I shudder, too, as well I may, recalling what I have to pay for bottles on the ice. A man must feed before he thinks of handing out to needy ginks a portion of his kale, and he has little left, I swear, when he has paid for Belgian hare, for oyster stews and quail. I'd help the poor, as well as you, if lofty sentiments would do, instead of silver dimes. Now I must eat a slab of beef, while I deplore the woe and grief of these outlandish times." |