The Lord Hates a Grouch

1911

Are you a grouch? Is the sun always behind a cloud when you look at it? Are you suspicious of every man who meets you with a smile, and does the prattle and laughter of children grate on your ears?

If this is the case there is something wrong with your insides. The trouble may be physical and it won't hurt to try a good dyspepsia cure. But the chances are that it is mental, and then you want to go out on the street and hire two or three big, husky fellows with heavy boots to kick you all over the townsite for a couple of hours. When you come to your vision will be a little clearer. A few doses like the doughnut instead of the hole.

The Lord and the community hate a grouch worse than they do a liar. There is no happy abiding place for them, either here or on the other side of Jordan's stormy banks.

The grouch walks down the street with his face the picture of a dose of quinine, and the neighbors look at each other and say, "How he hates himself." He goes to church and the only thing he notices is that the room is a little cold and the choir picked mighty poor hymns. He walks into a store and the clerks hide behind the counter to avoid him. His days are filled with stomach pains and his nights with bad dreams, while his cup runneth over with bitter gall. — Bert Walker.

—The Ellis Review-Headlight, Ellis, Kansas, 1911.