Mr. Joseph Kilgore was suffering from one of those spring influenzaswhich make a man feel as if he were his own grandfather. His nose hadacquired the shape of a turnip and the complexion of a beet. All hisbones ached as if he had been soundly thrashed, and his eyes were weakand watery. Your deadly disease is oftener than not a gentleman whotakes your life without mauling you, but the minor diseases aremere bruisers who just go in for making one as uncomfortable andunpresentable as possible. Mr. Kilgore's influenza had been coming onfor several days, and when he woke up this particular morning and heardthe rain dripping on the piazza-roof just under his bedroom-window, heconcluded, like a sensible man, that he would stay at home and nursehimself over the fire that day, instead of going to the office. So heturned over and snoozed for an hour or two, luxuriating in a sense ofaches and pains just pronounced enough to make the warmth and softnessof the bed delightful.