F The Country Doctor HERE'S a gathering in the village, that has never been outdone Since the soldiers took their muskets to the war of And a lot of lumber-wagons near the church upon the hill, For with coverlet of blackness on his portly figure spread, Lies the kind old country doctor, Whom the populace considered with a mingled love and dread. Maybe half the congregation, now of great or little worth, Found this watcher waiting for them, when they came upon the earth; This undecorated soldier, of a hard, unequal strife, Fought in many stubborn battles with the foes that sought their life. In the night-time or the day-time, he would rally brave and well, Though the summer lark was fifing, or the frozen lances fell; Knowing if he won the battle, they would praise their Maker's name, Knowing if he lost the battle, then the doctor was to blame. 'T was the brave old virtuous doctor, 'T was the good old faulty doctor, 'Twas the faithful country doctor-fighting stoutly all the same. When so many pined in sickness, he had stood so strongly by, Half the people felt a notion that the doctor couldn't die; They must slowly learn the lesson how to live from day to day, And have somehow lost their bearings-now this landmark is away. But perhaps it still is better that this busy life is done: He has seen old views and patients disappearing one by one; He has learned that Death is master both of Science and of Art; He has done his duty fairly, and has acted out his part. And the strong old country doctor, And the weak old country doctor, Is entitled to a furlough for his brain and for his heart. -WILL CARLETON. Doctors IS quite the thing to say and sing Yet it's in quite another light My friendly pen would show him— When one's all right he's prone to spite With other things the doctor brings Sweet babes our hearts to soften; What though he sees death and disease Patient and true, and valorous, too, Such have I always found him! Where'er he goes, he soothes our woes. And, when skill's unavailing, And death is near, his words of cheer In ancient days they used to praise Napoleon knew a thing or two, A heap, indeed, of what we read Is first in wit and learning— And yet all smile and marvel while His brilliant leaves they 're turning. How Lever's pen has charmed all men- A doctor-man it was began Great Britain's great museum; The treasures there are all so rare, It drives me wild to see 'em! There's Cuvier, Parr, and Rush-they are To Mitchell's prose (how smooth it flows!) In modern times the noble rhymes The sailor bound for Puget Sound Finds pleasure still unfailing, If he but troll the barcarolle Old Osborne wrote on Whaling! If there were need I could proceed Might give you fits conniption: I'd hold before these others, For he and I, in years gone by, Have chummed around like brothers. Together we have sung in glee The songs old Horace made for And, were not times so pressing, -EUGENE Field. O Doc Sifers F all the doctors I could cite you to in this-here town, Count in the Bethel Neighberhood, and Rollins, and And Sifers' standin's jes as good as ary doctor's there! There's old Doc Wick, and Glenn, and Hall, and Wurgler, and McVeigh, But I'll buck Sifers 'ginst 'em all and down 'em any day! Most old Wick EVER knowed, I s'pose, was WHISKY !—Wurgler— well, He et Morphine-ef ACTIONS shows and facts 's reliable. But Sifers-though he ain't no sot, he's got his faults; and yit But don't blame Doc: he's got all sorts o' cur'ous notions-as The feller says,—his odd-come-shorts-like smart men mostly has: He'll more'n like be potter'n 'round the Blacksmith Shop; er in Some back-lot, spadin' up the ground, er gradin' it agin; Er at the workbench, planin' things; er buildin' little traps Durin' the Army-got his trade o' SURGEON there—I own 'D a-throwed the thing away, but HE fixed her as good as new! |