MARK TWAIN
stands solitary on the top of a densely wooded mountain, and is a building of great size. It is called the Appetite Anstalt, and people who have lost their appetites come here to get them restored. When I arrived I was taken by Professor Haimberger to his consulting-room and questioned:
"It is six o clock. When did you eat last?"
"At noon."
"What did you eat?"
"Next to nothing."
"What was on the table?"
"The usual things."
"Chops, chickens, vegetables, and so on?"
"Yes; but don t mention them I can t bear it/
"Are you tired of them?"
"Oh, utterly. I wish I might never hear of them again."
"The mere sight of food offends you, does it?"
"More, it revolts me."
The doctor considered awhile, then got out a long menu and ran his eye slowly down it.
"I think," said he, "that what you need to eat is but here, choose for yourself."
I glanced at the list, and my stomach threw a handspring. Of all the barbarous layouts that were ever contrived, this was the most atrocious. At the top stood "tough, underdone, overdue tripe, gar nished with garlic"; half-way down the bill stood "young cat; old cat; scrambled cat"; at the bottom stood "sailor-boots, softened with tallow served raw." The wide intervals of the bill were packed with dishes calculated to insult a cannibal, I said :
34S
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