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"The 'Riggs Disease' is not going to afflict us this summer, I should hope!"

Our Gums forsake the Teeth and tender grow, And fat, like over-riped Figs—we know The Sign—the Riggs' Disease is ours, and we Must list this Sorrow, add another Woe; Our Lungs begin to fail and soon we Cough, And chilly Streaks play up our Backs, and off Our fever'd Foreheads drips an icy Sweat— We scoffered before, but now we may not scoff.