SANDY TREES A NEW THEORY.

Evening Star, Issue 14001, 6 March 1909, Page 8

SANDY TREES A NEW THEORY.

JANET RISES IN REVOLT. Mon! I’ve had a great time lately! I wis leadin’ one o’ thae American books aboot Health and Disease an’ sic like. It said that pain an’ bad health whs a’ the ootoome o’ imagination an’ nae mair. Ye imagined ye had a sair heid, an’ of course ye had! The reasonin’ wis nobby. It wis fair enticin’, an’, thinks I, this is* the tiling for me. I’U try it on the finst chanoc. Aw, mon! I never seemed ta© get ill, tae experiment, so I had tae bide ma time. Ae nicht, when I cam’ in, Janet wis sittin’ by the fixe wi’ a flannel clout roon’ her heid. “Hello! Whit's up?” says I, cheery like. Then she groaned an’ moaned an’ said, “Oh dear! oh dear !” then alfter a bit she said, “It’s a bad toothache, Sandy.’’ Ma word, thinks I, noo’s ma chance. “Hoots, wiumnin, there’s nae sic tiling as toothache.” “Weel, mebbe,” says she, “it nricht be nenraigy.” “ Na, nor neuralgy, neither'st. It’s only imagination,” says I, boldly. “ Ye aukl eediot,” says slie. “Tak aff the doot, an’ get aboot yer work, an’ ye'll never feel it. A’ thae pains is jist- imagination. It said that in the Yankee book I wis readin’.” Aye, I could see tlmt Janet wis aj wee thing wild, then up she jumps an’ picked up the tattie-beetle, for she had been champin’—mashin’. I mean—the tatties, an’ wi’ a bit squeal brocht it doon on ma heid, savin’ “I’ll teach ye tae staun’ an’ mak a fule o’ yer wife!” Mon! She nearly banged ma brains oot. “ Whit did ye dae tliat for, Oa.net?” said I, “ ye’ve nearly kilt me.” “Poof!” save she, “ye’re only imaginin’ ye’re hurt.” “ Nao fear—feel the lump!’’ Only imagination,” says she, sarcastic. “An’ it's blcedin’, see!” “Ha! It’s only imagination.” says she. “Turn up yer Yankee book. Pain’s jist imagination, ye ken—like ma toothachef” Then she drapt intae her chair, and I tied a wet clout on ma head—an’. said naething. Janet’s gae nefctlesome whiles. Aifter a bit we baith coded doon. Tlien she made a cup of tea and we sat doon till t. Oh, mon! But it wis sour stuff. That bitter an raw; then the next cup wis Like biled docken leaves. “ 'Hiis is no oor Hondai Lanka,” says I. “Hoch!” says she, “jist you imagine it is.” “I coulna',” says I. “Whit is’t?” “ Weel, we’re oot o’ tea, an’ I borrowed that frae Mrs Peetio next door, but w hour's yer imagination? If the toothache’s only fancy, then ye can fancy -ony tea’s just as guid at Hondai Lanka. It mebbe bisna’ the flavor, nor the sweetness, nor the refresliin’ taste, but ye can imagine it has.” “Janet,” says I, solemn like, “the Yankee book didna’ say onything about tea. Yo conldna’ imagine! stuff like this to be like Hondai Lanka, nor a bump on yer heid to be painless—na!” “Na, Sandy, nor the toothache, either. As lang as folks are saft enough tae buy the books there’ll he books tae tell ye that the pain o’ toothache and bumps on the heid are only imagination. An’ as lang as folks will be contented wi’ boot, bitter decoctions or wishy-washy tasteless stews o’ wee sticks there’ll be plenty o’ it tae buy. The real Hondai Lanka, pure an’ whofeeome, jist as it’s picked in Gey km, fin© an’ refresmn’, deleecious an 5 economical, needs nae imagination. When ye’ve got it ye ken it—just like you wi’ the tattie-beetle. Imagination.! Havens! Awa’ oot, Sandy, an’ buy a packet o’ real Hondai Lanka noo. We’ll, hae nae mair imaginin’!”—[Advt.]