MOTHER: Perhaps so. When we can get good vegetables, grains, and fruits, it is much safer to use them for fuel in the body than to run the risk of giving it anything which might put the delicate machine out of order. I saw a poem not long ago, written by Dr. J. H. Kellogg, which you might like to have read to you. It is called [Illustration: Various fruits] A VEGETARIAN SONG. “You may talk of mutton-chop, You may say it is tip-top For a man who wants to live both well and long; But you’re much behind the time, As I’ll show you in this rhyme; For there’s better food than flesh to make one well and strong. ”CHORUS—— “On the glorious trees! on the glorious trees! There the fruits and nuts, the fruits and nuts do ever grow. This is heaven’s own food, God pronounced it very good; Yes, upon the trees, kissed by the breeze, the best foods grow. “There are pippins rich and rare, There are plums and peaches fair, There are huckleberries, raspberries, and pears so sweet; There are grapes upon the vine, Never made for use as wine, All of which with one accord invite us, ‘Come and eat.’ “There’s the orange and the lime, Lemons, too, for summer-time, Which so often do refresh us in the toil and heat; There are nectarines so bright, There are cherries, red and white, All of which with one accord invite us, ‘Come and eat.’ “There are English walnuts rich, And delicious almonds, which All alone supply us cream and milk, how rich a treat! There are coconuts and pine, Pecans, hickory-nuts so fine, All of which with one accord invite us, ‘Come and eat.’ “There’s the ox, an honest beast, See him served up at a feast, Notwithstanding he has been a faithful, true helpmeet To the farmer in his task; Yet he never once has asked More than humblest fare, and now his blood cries, ‘Do not eat.’ “There’s that scavenger, the pig, Grown to be so fat and big That he scarce can stand or walk upon his clumsy feet; Though he lives a life of ease, He is full of dire disease, And he surely is of all things most unfit to eat. “There’s the sheep with fleece so warm, Never did a bit of harm, But for cruel man provides good clothing, warm and neat; Ere you raise the sharpened knife, Cut his throat, and take his life, Listen to his sad though mute appeal, ‘Don’t slay to eat.’ “There’s the oyster in his bed, Eating everything that’s dead; He’s the scavenger that cleans the bottom of the sea; He lives in the mud and slime, Catching microbes all the time, And his occupation surely says, ‘Oh, don’t eat me!’