DEAR Palmer, just a year ago we did the Carlsbad cure, Which, though it be exceeding slow, is as exceeding sure; To corpulency you were prone, dyspepsia bothered me,-- You tipped the beam at twenty stone and I at ten stone three! The cure, they told us, works both ways: it makes the fat man lean; The thin man, after many days, achieves a portly mien; And though it's true you still are fat, while I am like a crow,-- All skin and feathers,--what of that? The cure takes time, you know. The Carlsbad scenery is sublime,--that's what the guide-books say; We did not think so at that time, nor think _I_ so to-day! The bluffs that squeeze the panting town permit no pleasing views, But weigh the mortal spirits down and give a chap the blues. With nothing to amuse us then or mitigate our spleen, We rose and went to bed again, with three bad meals between; And constantly we made our moan,--ah, none so drear as we, When you were weighing twenty stone and I but ten stone three! We never scaled the mountain-side, for walking was my bane, And you were much too big to ride the mules that there obtain; And so we loitered in the shade with Israel out in force, Or through the Pupp'sche allee strayed and heard the band discourse. Sometimes it pleased us to recline upon the Tepl's brink, Or watch the bilious human line file round to get a drink; Anon the portier's piping tone embittered you and me, When you were weighing twenty stone and I but ten stone three! And oh! those awful things to eat! No pudding, cake, or pie, But just a little dab of meat, and crusts absurdly dry; Then, too, that water twice a day,--one swallow was enough To take one's appetite away,--the tepid, awful stuff! Tortured by hunger's cruel stings, I'd little else to do Than feast my eyes upon the things prescribed and cooked for you. The goodies went to you alone, the husks all fell to me, When you were weighing twenty stone and I weighed ten stone three. Yet happy days! and rapturous ills! and sweetly dismal date! When, sandwiched in between those hills, we twain bemoaned our fate. The little woes we suffered then like mists have sped away, And I were glad to share again those ills with you to-day,-- To flounder in those rains of June that flood that Austrian vale, To quaff that tepid Kaiserbrunn and starve on victuals stale! And often, leagues and leagues away from where we suffered then, With envious yearnings I survey what cannot be again!