If you will examine yourself closely, you will find the tiny lice. Little bits of things looking like a black pin-point. The best thing under these circumstances is to go to the doctor. He will give you an ointment to apply which will soon kill them. So don’t let some older boy, through fun and the love of scaring you, or perhaps through his own ignorance, frighten you. Some boys and shameful men will tell you that the itching is a sure sign of self-abuse, or that you have a bad disease which will soon rot your whole body. And as many boys have once or more done things of which they are ashamed――always a good sign is this shame――these mean tales do much injury. There is nothing in it, boys; just “crabs.” It is every strange, little symptom which comes to the developing youth that is seized upon by the Quacks to exaggerate in their advertisements and try to make you believe that physical or mental ruin is right ahead of you――unless you buy their drugs. Here is one way they work upon the youth’s ignorance and fears. You are just an ordinary boy; full of fun, play and no better nor worse than the rest of us. One day you receive a circular or booklet through the mail. There is no printing on the envelope. Just one of the catalogues or circulars you sent for, as you wanted to see the prices of bats and mitts for next season’s games. So thinks your mother also. And your father? Well, he is too busy making money for you all to really know what his son needs and wants in the way of confidential talks. But you will know when you have a boy――I am sure of this. But let us get back to the circular. You open it and at the first glance of the heading, down it goes deep into your pocket while you sneak off to read it. I say sneak off, because that is about what you do. Then you read in the circular what your awful doom is to be. As you read on you tremble, and there comes over you the feeling that every bit of real life is leaving you. Once again you read those cursed lies and then commences the habit of looking in the mirror when no one is around, to notice your pale face and those tell-tale pimples. You feel your pulse, which is, of course, now going at a rapid rate, and get into exactly that fright the fakers knew you would get into and so send them money for their “cure” of “Lost Manhood.” If I could have my way, I would send to prison for life every criminal who advertised or sold stuff for “Lost Manhood Restored.” These vampires are criminals, soul-murderers and body-destroyers, and just as guilty as though they stuck a knife into every youth and boy. Then you read in the circular about the awful effects and signs of “Seminal Losses at Night,” and know for certain that they are fast telling on your face. “Surely,” you say to yourself, “I must show how rapidly I am failing, for someone has noticed it and sent to these doctors to have them tell me what to do. Oh! what shall I do; can I ever be cured?”