  Thus, greatly to our ease of mind, Our foreign foes we left behind; But dangers even greater Were menacing our path instead. In every book I ever read Of travels on the Equator, A plague, mysterious and dread, Imperils the narrator; He always very nearly dies, But doesn’t, which is calm and wise. Said Sin, the indolent and vague, “D’you think that we shall get the plague?” It followed tragically soon; In fording an immense lagoon, We let our feet get damp. Next morning I began to sneeze, The awful enemy, Disease, Had fallen on the camp! With Blood the malady would take, An allotropic form Of intermittent stomach ache, While Sin grew over warm; Complained of weakness in the knees, An inability to think, A strong desire to dose and drink, And lie upon his back. For many a long delirious day, Each in his individual way, Succumbed to the attack. Illustration: Sin and Blood lounging under a tree being waited upon by two Africans. |
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