It was not till we began to make our present tour of the
Regionic capitals, where Aristides has had to repeat his account of
American civilization until I am sick as well as ashamed of America, that
I first felt a kind of famine which I kept myself from recognizing as
long as I could. Then I had to own to myself, long before I owned it to
him, that I was hungry for _meat_--for roast, for broiled, for fried, for
hashed. I did not actually tell him, but he found it out, and I could not
deny it, though I felt such an ogre in it. He was terribly grieved, and
blamed himself for not having thought of it, and wished he had got some
canned meats from the trader before she left the port. He was really in
despair, for nobody since the old capitalistic times had thought of
killing sheep or cattle for food; they have them for wool and milk and
butter; and of course when I looked at them in the fields it did seem
rather formidable. You are so used to seeing them in the butchers' shops,
ready for the range, that you never think of what they have to _go
through_ before that.
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