In pouring rain, where torrents flow
And sheen and shadow come and go,
Astride the sorriest of nags

And armed with spur and saddlebags,
He onward works his weary way;
And be it night or be it day,

He never falters nor looks back
Adown the steep and rugged track,
But sets his teeth and onward plods,
Himself a clod among the clods!

I've said, "A clod among the clods." 'Twere better, "God among the gods!"

For sacrificing hours of ease

And striving hard to do and please,
And winning but the dregs and lees
Of life's sweet wine, he fights disease
With clenched hand and bated breath,
And knows no conqueror but death.
It shames me not to tell the truth,
An unkempt, muddy god, forsooth!
Besmeared-bespattered-leggings, suit-
From crown of hat to sole of boot,
And ofttimes tumbled in the wave
That seems to yawn a watery grave,
He bobs serenely on the flood
And swims above the sea of mud,
For lo! his pockets are so light
He can not disappear from sight!

No scientific friend has he,

Who ends his name “A. M., M. D.”

Or tacks thereto a "

Ph. G.",

To help him in perplexity,

And earn them both a handsome fee;

But when he finds a knotty case,

A problem that he dare not face,
He sends his patient off to town
To some physician of renown.

THE COUNTRY DOCTOR

(God save the mark! All, all are great
Who dwell within the city's gate!)

And THIS great man dilates his eyes
And rubs his hands, looks wondrous wise,
And nimbly gobbles up the prize!
The City doctor counts his gold,
Makes fresh deposits in the banks,
And sends the Country doctor, old,
A neatly worded note of thanks!

To church the City doctor goes.
(Ye need not smile and wink at me
And strive his spotless name to smirch:
I'm told on good authority

The City doctor GOES to church.)

To take an hour's profound repose,

To hear the gilded organ ring,
To say his prayers and nod and doze

And see the sweet soprano sing.
The organ peals, the tenor squeals,
Great Scott! how good that doctor feels.
The selfsame hour, the selfsame date,

The Country doctor, sport of fate,
Moves up some gully's rocky course
Astride his rhubarb-colored horse.

The only anthem that HE hears,

The only tune that greet His ears

Is murmured by the evening breeze,

Which moans "Old Hundred " thro' the trees!

The City doctor spends his days

In crowded marts and traveled ways;

At night he sees the latest plays,

And rests his half-enchanted gaze

On some new "star" that lights the stage

A star of most uncertain age,

Of whom the critics rant and rage.
The Country doctor, poor, despised,
His purse half-starved and undersized,

109

Contents himself to stay at home;
The only stars he ever knows

Are those that rest in heaven's dome

And light the waste of winter snows.

The Country doctor!

Blessed be he

Who sets the weary suff'rer free
From burning fever, racking pain
And countless ills, and does it, too,
Without a thought or hope of gain;
Without a single cent in view!

I come to sing in praise of him,

Whose soul is fat, whose purse is slim ;

Whose eyesight 's keen, whose foresight 's dim.
For caring naught for fame or pelf,

While there's a crust upon the shelf,

He works for fun and boards himself!

-S. Q. LAPIUS.

The Latest Reconstructive Nerve-Tonic and

Restorative

FI should die tonight

And you should come to my cold corpse and say.

Weeping and heart sick, o'er my lifeless clay,

If I should die tonight

And you should come in deep grief and woe,

And say, "Here's that $10 I owe,"

I might rise up in my great white gravat,
And say, "What's that?"

If I should die tonight

And you should come to my corpse and kneel,
Clasping my bier to show the grief you feel,

I say, if I should die tonight,

And you should come to me, and here and then
Just even hint about paying me that ten,

I might arise a while-but I 'd drop dead again.

E. B. JACKSON.

THE HONORS THAT AWAIT THE DISCOVERER 111

The Honors That Await the Discoverer in

Surgery

F the doctors in convention, Surgeon Blank a moment claimed,

O

While he showed an apparatus and its various points explained,

Which he said he had invented for the cure of a disease

That all other forms of treatment but the knife had failed to

ease.

When he closed, some seven members in their wisdom rose

and said

They were each of them delighted with the paper Blank had

read;

While it showed the greatest merit, they were still compelled

to say,

That the malady in question could not be relieved that way.
One averred, in his opinion, 'twould be trifling with a life
To attempt to treat such cases without recourse to the knife,
And one warned his fellow-members that the plan was yet
untried,

And one prophesied a failure, others, novelties decried.

So, in short, each poured cold water in the biggest kind of streams

On the head of the inventor and his too ambitious schemes; Winding up with the assertion, that, as now the matter stands, If successful with the author, it would fail in other hands.

In a year or so thereafter the convention met once more, And again in proper season Surgeon Blank was on the floor; This time with numerous patients of his own and others, too, Proving thus to a conviction every point he claimed was true. And once more the seven members were on hand in wise array, And in turn, in the proceedings, each arose and had his say.

All were proud of being fellows of a body Blank adorned,

And they each one begged to mention, that, while other doctors

scorned

At the time of the invention when the subject first was broached

They expressed themselves delighted and all doubters had reproached.

It was a glorious triumph our esteemed colleague had won,
But it should not be forgotten that it had before been done.
It was true the operation had most uniformly failed,
But then its vital principles no authority assailed.

And then they quoted Heurteloup and Joseph Emile, Cornay,
And Civiale, and Jacobsen, Brodie, Leroy, Mercier;
Proving thus that Blank's invention was invented long ago,
And that certain small improvements were the most that he
could show ;

And even in regard to these, each did contrive in terms
To convey the intimation that Blank had from him the germs.
Such is oft the meed of genius, but it's not the only one;
There's the inward satisfaction of a duty ably done;
And the fame that bides forever for such deeds is still in store
When detraction's voice is silent, when this fleeting life is o'er.
Dr. George Chismore.

Sent to a Patient, with the Present of a

I

Couple of Ducks

'VE dispatch'd, my dear madam, this scrap of a letter,

To say that Miss

is very much better.

A Regular Doctor no longer she lacks,

And therefore I 've sent her a couple of Quacks.

-DR. EDWARD JENNER.