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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." 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 afer all, the Scotchman would shake
his head, and say, "Where's your haggis?" and the Fijan would
sigh and say, "Where's your missionary?" |
 "Dwig" postcard from the Dave Thomson collection |
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.
- Roughing It
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