She sleeps with the heat turned on in her room. She
complains all day of cold when not complaining of other things. She
puts such a strain on her stomach that it takes all of her vitality
to look after her food; therefore she has no vitality left with
which to resist the cold. Of course she resists the idea of a good
brisk walk in the fresh air, and yet, if she took the walk and
enjoyed it, it would start up her circulation, give her blood more
oxygen, and help her stomach to go through all its useless labor
better.
When a woman disobeys all the laws of nervous health how can she
expect not to have her nerves rebel? Nerves in themselves are
exquisitely sensitive--with a direct tendency toward health.
"Don't give me such unnecessary work," the stomach cries. "Don't
stuff me full of the wrong things. Don't put a bulk of food into me,
but chew your food, so that I shall not have to do my own work and
yours, too, when the food gets down here."
And there is the poor stomach, a big nervous centre in close
communication with the brain, protesting and protesting, and its
owner interprets all these protestations into: "I am so unhappy. I
have to work so much harder than I ought. Nobody loves me. Oh, why
am I so nervous?"
The blood also cries out: "Give me more oxygen. I cannot help the
lungs or the stomach or the brain to do their work properly unless
you take exercise in the fresh air that will feed me truly and send
me over the body with good, wholesome vigor.
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