Hay Fever: A Paroxysm

THE CONTRIBUTORS’ CLUB

THREE sneezes are lucky; nineteen are unlucky. One sneeze, isolated, can be taken as proof that you have not the authentic, aristocratic, Henry Ward Beecher variety of hay fever.

Hay fever arrives and combusts on the minute. Every sufferer tries to forget his particular date, only confiding to other sufferers what date he is trying to forget. Nevertheless, his day, like the Fourth of July, is invariably announced, in the early morning twilight, by an explosion. If you forget Independence Day, or your rendezvous with the hay fever, the explosion occurs just the same.

Few things, indeed, seem to have any effect on the hay. Sprays and sprayers, tubes of this, tubes of that, cooking-soda, drinking with meals, drinking between meals, no drinking, no meals, no meat, no sugar, salves and precious ointments — these have no influence. Hay fever sometimes thrives on ragweed vaccine, much as mice seem to fatten on Rat-Snap. It remains, therefore, for a victim to acquire by degrees a hay-fever-trained family, and to continue sneezing in his own favorite way.

It would seem simple to continue to sneeze; but until the family is trained, even this may be attended by a difficulty. Contrary to popular notion, the actual sneeze, per se, is not the most disagreeable part of hay fever. The intolerable phase is that curious sensation of things impending, which immediately precedes a sneeze. If this sensation is not brought to a victorious conclusion, it leaves its medium suspended in air, thwarted, irascible.

One sneeze, according to the Hay Fever Manual, is normally followed by another. One bright glance at the sufferer is usually sufficient to ascertain whether he has reached the end of his progression, or whether he stands ready, by the book, still waiting accomplishment. A chance question aimed at him just at this crucial moment is absolutely certain to frustrate the sneeze. This makes him ugly.

I have explained all this carefully to my family, in words of one syllable. ‘When I shall have sneezed once,’ I tell them impressively, ‘wait and see if I shall sneeze again.’ They assent understandingly, and when the proper moment arrives, they, with mob-psychology, obey.

There has occurred one famous exception, in the case of a recalcitrant sister, whose sympathy is adequate, but whose passion for conversation is at all times equal to my own. Certain members of the family were getting ready for church on Sunday morning. For two weeks now, I myself had eschewed Divine Worship. I do not care for crying, and my hay looked a good deal like it. Cousin Mary, therefore, kindly took my Sunday School class, unless she, in turn, sublet it to Cousin Ruth. Our conversation savored of quiet speculation as to who my substitute would be, when the telephone interrupted. I answered, for I was still active, and able, at times, to talk. The family listened with interest to my enlightening though one-sided conversation. At the close of the episode, our lines ran thus: —

‘Mary will take it,’ I said briefly, prevented from further speech by an astounding sneeze.

‘Mary who?’ inquired Sister pleasantly, from the next room.

Prolonged pause, heavy with silence.

‘ Mary who ? ’ repeated the Voice.

Still longer pause, heavier than ever.

Sister came out to investigate this unconventionality, and visualized all too late the closed eyes, puckered brow, and open mouth, known instantly to the semi-trained as precursor of trouble. But no trouble arrived.

‘Mary Pickford,’ said I, bitterly, shutting my mouth, defeated.

‘Mary Magdalen,’ remarked a sympathizer from another room.

‘Mary Lyon,’ said father placidly, putting on his hat.

Stricken with remorse, the offender made her way to a dark clothes-closet, and went in and shut the door. From within we could hear stifled sounds of repentance, helpless laughter, and such probable Marys as occurred to her mind at the moment — Mary E. Wilkins, Bloody Mary, Mary Elizabeth, Mary Chilton, and Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary. No sneeze has since been spoiled for me by relatives.

But hay fever (I hesitate to generalize), my hay fever, is vulnerable in one spot. This was discovered by accident one day, when the house started to burn down. After the fire had been successfully dealt with, we realized that the hay had vanished. When we spoke its name, it returned. We then began to test all forms of excitement. Tragedy was found to work most effectually, then Accident, then Crime. I shall have to acknowledge that all my life I have been carefully led out of range of all horses taken in a fit, all linemen climbing their poles, all highwaymen and runaway motor-cycles pursuing their callings. These are now pointed out to me in hay-fever season, with all details noted; for shock has been found to succeed where cocaine fails. It is more difficult than you would think, to keep yourself constantly in the way of perils: in perils of robbers, in perils of the sea, in perils of your own countrymen. We then found that Comedy, mixed with uncertainty and a trifle of apprehension, sometimes gives a moment of relief.

My brother’s friend, a man of conventional habits, once visited us when autumn vegetation was at its height. He is as resourceful as he is correct, and he SUAV at once that he had it in his power to alleviate my hay. He has a faculty of standing on his head. He can remain in this position indefinitely. Ho will do this for my brother, for my brother’s friend, and for my brother’s friend’s dog. He will also do it for me. I hope that it is unnecessary to state that I should never have thought of requesting it. But the gratuitous sight of the unsteady wavering of two pepper-and-salt legs gave me a complete respite. He purposely wavered in my general direction, like a half-chopped tree, which, by every law of physics, would fall, if it fell, on me.

But I could not keep my brother’s best friend perpetually on his head, although he was perfectly willing to serve me in this way. I knew that I ought to go to the mountains, but I wanted to go to the sea. When one likes each detail connected with the sea, — fog, fog-horns, sand, sand-fleas, sun, sun-burn, — it is a tragic story to turn one’s back, and head for the hills. I remembered one beach where I was certain there was no vegetation; a few spears of beach grass, perhaps; an aged little evergreen growing solidly in sand; but, aside from that, nothing but purple water, gray sails, and clear wind. It seemed pessimistic to believe that salt wind, piping over the Atlantic straight from Madeira, could be laden with pollen.

I resolved to sit upon sand, as near Madeira as possible. But, as we followed the porter up the steps of the little inn, we saw for the first time the giant ragweed, growing in the cracks of solid masonry, waving its tails.

‘I think I had better go to the mountains,’ said I, unable to close my mouth after any of these words.

We sat on the rocks for the afternoon, to bid farewell to the wheeling gulls and the fine blue line that marked off Madeira. Down by the water’s edge, there appeared a rat, about the size of a collie puppy, and apparently enjoying the same games. We are not afraid of rats, but they attract our attention. This rat dispelled the hay fever. He made little runs in our direction, scuttling enough of the time out of sight to provide the necessary uncertainty. At last he headed for our feet, galloping like a rocking-horse over the stones.

‘Go home! Go HOME!’ I shouted, judging him to be an American rat. He was, apparently, for he veered sharply on one wheel and disappeared under the rocks. After a pause, I sneezed seven times.

‘ Perhaps he is under the rocks we are sitting on,’ suggested my companion.

I stopped sneezing, clearly entertained. We added Rats to our list.

Theories about hay fever are amusing and ingenious, and their name is Legion. Hay fever is a disease of the nerves, a disease of the nose, a disease of the metabolism. It is brought to New England from the Western prairies by a remarkable wind, unnamed. It is caused by heat, light, exertion, anæmia, and the absence of eczema; that is, if you have eczema, it means that if you did not have eczema, you would be having hay fever. Some people even like, for variety, to change about — eczema one year, and hay fever the next.

However, all wits agree that hay fever is a great bore, and can be cured by neither fasting nor prayer. You must go to the mountains — even unto Bethlehem. And even there, it may be argued that, although you do not sneeze, you are still in a state of hay fever. This condition is comparable to a state of war — insecure and ominous, albeit uneventful.

A genuine sufferer, however, largely prefers a state to a paroxysm, caring very little, in his unbadgered moments, whether his infirmity is an acidosis, a protein, or a state of mind