From Trollope’s Journal

Lyrics
As far as statues go, so far there's not much choice: they're either Washingtons or Indians, a whitewashed, stubby lot, His country's Father or His foster sons. The White House in a sad, unhealthy spot just higher than Potomac's swampy brim, — they say the present President has got ague or fever in each backwoods limb. On Sunday afternoon I wandered, — rather, I floundered, — out alone. The air was raw and dark; the marsh half-ice, half-mud. This weather is normal now: a frost, and then a thaw, and then a frost. A hunting man, I found the Pеnnsylvania Avenue heavy ground . . . Thеre all around me in the ugly mud, — hoof-pocked, uncultivated, — herds of cattle, numberless, wond'ring steers and oxen, stood: beef for the Army, after the next battle. Their legs were caked the color of dried blood; their horns were wreathed with fog. Poor, starving, dumb or lowing creatures, never to chew the cud or fill their maws again! Th'effluvium made that damned anthrax on my forehead throb. I called a surgeon in, a young man, but, with a sore throat himself, he did his job. We talked about the War, and as he cut away, he croaked out, " Sir, I do declare everyone's sick! The soldiers poison the air. "
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Credits
- Writers
- Elizabeth Bishop