| Foreigners cannot enjoy our food, I suppose,
any more than we can enjoy theirs. It is not strange; for tastes are made,
not born. I might glorify my bill of fare until I was tired; but after all,
the Scotchman would shake his head, and say, "Where's your haggis?"
and the Fijian would sigh and say, "Where's your missionary?" - A Tramp Abroad |
 AI image created by R. Kent Rasmussen |
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I regard the poor man, in his present condition, as so much wasted raw
material. Cut up and properly canned, he might be made useful to fatten
the natives of the cannibal islands and to improve our export trade in
that region. I shall recommend legislation upon the subject in my first
message. My campaign cry will be: "Dessicate the poor working-man;
stuff him into sausages." Her oldest child, Maria, married a missionary and died in grace et up
by the savages. They et him, too, poor feller biled him. It warn's the
custom, so they say, but they explained to friends of his'n that went
down there to bring away his things, that they'd tried missionaries every
other way and never could get any good out of 'em and so it annoyed all
his relations to find out that that man's life was fooled away just out
of a dern'd experiment, so to speak.
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 "Dwig" postcard from the Dave Thomson collection |
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