Chapter 8 of 35

Places Where Mortals Dine.

The case, too, was urgent, for there stood a sinner, Whose fate hung on chance—a chance for his dinner; A chance for all mortals, with truth I assert, Who eat where his chance was, to counteract fate, “To eat during life each a peck of pure dirt” By eating at once the whole peck from one plate. For true when I think of the places we eat at, Or rather the places by hunger when driven We rush in and swallow our bread and our meat at, A bushel good measure in life will be given To those who are living a “boarding-house life,” Or those who are driven by fortune to journey, And eat when we must with so dirty a knife, I wish't could be done by the power of attorney; Or where you must eat in a place called “saloon;” Or “coffee-house” synonym of whisky and rum; (I wish all the breed were sent off to the moon, And earth was well clear of the coffee-house scum;) Or where “Restauration” hangs out for sign, At bar-room or cellar or dirty back room, Where dishcloths for napkins are thought extra fine, And table cloths look as though washed with a broom; Where knives waiters spit on and wipe on their sleeves, And plates needing polish, with coat tails are cleaned; Where priests dine with harlots, and judges with thieves, And mayors with villains his worship has screened. {ILLUSTRATION: “WHERE KNIVES WAITERS SPIT ON AND WIPE ON THEIR SLEEVES, AND PLATES NEEDING POLISH, WITH COAT TAILS ARE CLEANED."}