The Horrors of Rude Health.
It must be terrible to have to greet each day with a happy laugh, to spring from your bed with the explosive abandon of a crocodile bitten from below, to go through the day being dynamic and vital and a darned nuisance to everyone—laughing lightly at misfortune—other people's mostly—dismissing fear airily and generally rousing homicidal impulses in the breasts of the unfit who only ask for a little peace and tranquility in which to enjoy their unfitness. No reasonable person objects to any other person being fit so long as the fitee keeps reasonably quiet about it. This rude health business
is apt to become too rude. When it reaches the back-slapping, rib-poking stage, it is time for the unfit to equalise matters with a blacksmith's hammer.
It is a pity that one can't grow fit as pleasantly as one grows old. Growing old is done with effortless dignity, but growing fit entails all the most unpleasant sacrifices it is possible to think of; and how can the average man feel dignified in a little pair of trousers that make him look like a poisoned office boy.