No answer.
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Can’t I wear my underclothes to bed instead of these?” “No.” “Why?” “Sulphur.” “What do you mean by sulphur?” “Your clothes are up stairs being fumigated.” “Can’t I get my socks to-night? I always wash them before I go to bed.” “No. It’s against the law of the state. And you would dirty up thesebowls. I have just scrubbed them out.” “I will wash them out afterward.” “I haven’t time to wait. I must get up at four-thirty.” “But why fumigate my clean underwear, and give me dirty pajamas?” The Frog was getting flabbergasted. “I tell you it’s the law of NewJersey. You are getting awful fancy. If I had had my way, you wouldnever have been let in here.” “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth,” I said tomyself, and put on the pajamas. This insanitary director showed me my bed. It was in a long low roomwith all the windows closed, where half a score were asleep. The sheetshad never, never, never been washed. Why was it that in a mission soshiny in its reading room, and so devout in its chapel, so melodramaticwith its clean workman-boss, in the daytime, these things were so? The lights went out. I kicked off the pajamas and slept. I awoke atmidnight and reflected on all these matters. I quoted another scriptureto myself: “I was naked, and ye clothed me.” V
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