Little Timmy wasn’t hungry, but his mother had prepared him the full meal as usual. He resisted, he left his greens scattered and his dry steak in a savagely severed half on his plate. His mother was not pleased. She told him the same thing she told him every time his appetite wans’t up the task her dinnertime platters set him. She told him:
“Think of the starving millions”
But there was something more severe in her tone tonight. Timmy obyed the implication of the command, if not the direct order. He mopped his plate clean up. He had a bath. He went to bed.
The next morning came soon. Timmy awoke, and gleefully ran downstairs, dismayed to see it had been raining. His carefree playing plans were distrupted. Then something caught his eye. Lying in the porch, a letter, and for the first time, one addressed to him. He picked it up, opened it and unfolded the small sheet of paper. Inscribed was this:
Let us offer our sincere thanks,
The Starving Millions