"If you were," he replied, "the doctor would not have been sent for. On
the Moon, doctors are not paid to cure men, but to keep them in good
health. They are officers of the state, and, once a day, they call at
every house, and instruct the inmates how to preserve their natural
vigour."

"I wish," I. said, "you could get him to order me a dozen roasted larks
instead of the mere smell of them. I should like to taste some solid
food just for a change."

He spoke to the doctor, and at a sign from him, our host took a gun and
led me into his garden.

"Are those the kind of birds you mean?" he said, pointing to a great
swarm of larks singing high up in the sky.

I replied that they were, and he shot at them, and thirty larks tumbled
over at our feet, not merely dead, but plucked, seasoned, and roasted.

"You see," said my host, "we mix with our gunpowder and shot a certain
composition which cooks as well as kills."

I picked up one of the birds and ate it. In sober truth, I have never
tasted on Earth anything so deliciously roasted.

When I had finished my repast, I was conducted to a little room, the
floor of which was strewn with fine orange blossoms about three feet
deep. The Men of the Moon always sleep on these thick, soft heaps of
fragrant flowers, which are chosen for them every day by their doctors.
Four servants came and undressed me, and gently rubbed my limbs and my