The storm-cloud hung on Mansfield's brow-
The wind blew piercingly and chill;

Fierce through the leafless branches shrieked,
And roared along the fir-clad hill.

The deep'ning snow that all day long
Had fallen silently and fast,

Now densely filled the frosty air,

And piled in drifts before the blast.

And still we sat-the hours sped

The storm increased with fearful might;

"I hope," our tender mother said,

44

No one's abroad this dreadful night."

Our mother's voice had hardly ceased,
When sudden through the opening door,
O'er drifts, the quaint old doctor sprung,
And forward fell upon the floor.

His brow was crusted o'er with ice,
And crisp and frozen was his cheek;
His limbs were paralyzed with cold;

For once, the doctor could not speak.

With genial warmth, and tender care,

44

He soon revived, and said: Come Bill,

Be kind enough to get my mare,

I must reach Martin's, on the hill."

Then on again, o'er trackless snow,
Against the biting winter blast,

Without the hope of worldly gain,

Through mountain drifts, the doctor passed.

Far up the winding mountain road,

Through forest dark and blinding snow,

He reached the desolate abode

Of sickness, poverty and woe.

Long years have passed; yet oft I ask,
As howls the tempest in its might,
While sitting by the evening fire,

Yes, faithful; though full well I know
The world is sparing of its praise;
And these self-sacrificing men

But seldom tempt the poet's lays.

And yet, I trust. when at the last.

They leave the world of human strife,

Like him "who loved his fellow men,"

Their names shall grace the Book of Life.
-SAMUEL Slayton Luce.

Bessie Brown, M. D.

"WAS April when she came to town;
The birds had come, the bees were swarming.
Her name, she said, was Doctor Brown:
I saw at once that she was charming.

She took a cottage tinted green,

Where dewy roses loved to mingle; And on the door, next day, was seen A dainty little shingle.

Her hair was like an amber wreath;
Her hat was darker, to enhance it.
The violet eyes that glowed beneath
Were brighter than her keenest lancet.
The beauties of her glove and gown

The sweetest rhyme would fail to utter.
Ere she had been a day in town

The town was in a flutter.

The gallants viewed her feet and hands,
And swore they never saw such wee things;
The gossips met in purring bands

And tore her piecemeal o'er the tea-things.
The former drank the Doctor's health

With clinking cups, the gay carousers; The latter watched her door by stealth Just like so many mousers.

But Doctor Bessie went her way
Unmindful of the spiteful cronies,
And drove her buggy every day
Behind a dashing pair of ponies.
Her flower-like face so bright she bore,

I hoped that time might never wilt her.
The way she tripped across the floor
Was better than a philter.

Her patients thronged the village street;
Her snowy slate was always quite full.
Some said her bitters tasted sweet,

And some pronounced her pills delightful.
'Twas strange-I knew not what it meant-
She seemed a nymph from Eldorado;
Where'er she came, where'er she went,

Grief lost its gloomy shadow.

My aching heart there was no quelling.

I tremble at my doctor's bill,

And lo! the items still are swelling.

The drugs I've drunk you 'd weep to hear!

They 've quite enriched the fatr concoctor. And I'm a ruined man, I fear,

Unless I wed the Doctor.

-SAMUEL Minturn PeckK.

Rabelais and The Lampreys

HEN the eccentric Rabelais was physician

W

To Cardinal Lorraine, he sat at dinner
Beside that gormandizing sinner;

Not like the medical magician,

Who whisked from Sancho Panza's fauces

The evanescent meats and sauces,

But to protect his sacred master

Against such diet as obstructs
The action of the epigastre,
O'erloads the biliary ducts,
The peristaltic motion crosses,
And puzzles the digestive process.

The Cardinal, one hungry day,

First having with his eyes consumed
Some lampreys that before him fumed,
Had plunged his fork into the prey,
When Rabelais gravely shook his head.
Tapped on his plate three times and said—
"Pah! Hard digestion! hard digestion!"
And his bile-dreading Eminence,
Though sorely tempted, had the sense
To send it off without a question.

"Hip! Hullo! bring the lampreys here!" Cried Rabelais, as the dish he snatched;

And gobbling up the dainty cheer,

The whole was instantly despatched.

Reddened with vain attempt at stifling
At once his wrath and appetite,
His patron cried, "Your conduct 's rude,
This is no subject,sir, for trifling;

How dare you designate this food
As indigestible and crude,
Then swallow it before my sight?"

Quoth Rabelais, "It may soon be shown
That I don't merit this rebuff:

I tapped the PLATE, and that you'll own
Is indigestible enough;

But as to this unlucky fish,

With you so strangely out of favor,

Not only 'tis a wholesome dish,

But one of most delicious flavor!"

-HORACE SMITH.

The Doctor's Walk

T midnight oft I go,

A

Lost in vague reverie,

To where some lamp's faint glow
Tells there the sufferers be.

In through the window-pane

I look, and call to mind

The remedies again

I vainly sought to find.

A rustling sound I catch

Within, close to the door; A dead man lifts the latch

And silent scans me o 'er.

My dog with angry bark

Forbids the unwelcome guest,

While I pass in the dark

By memory oppressed.

-ANDREAS JUSTIN KERNER.

LANE LIBRARY. STANFORD UNIVERSITY