The Funny Side of Physic Part 27

[Ill.u.s.tration: "LOST Ma.r.s.eR! LOST Ma.r.s.eR!"]

It was quite dark, and the old negro was shuffling along King Street, crying, "Ma.s.ser Rob'son lost, Ma.s.ser Rob'son lost," when suddenly he was brought to a halt, and silenced by some one saying,--

"What's that you are crying, Neb?" His name was Nebuchadnezzar.

"O, de Lord! if Ma.s.ser Dr. Rob'son hain't been an' loss hisself!"

"You old fool, Neb, I am your master--Dr. Robertson. Don't you know me now?" exclaimed a familiar voice.

Sure enough, it was the doctor, returning from his numerous visits, tired and dust-covered.

The whole thing solemnly impressed the old darky, who, a day or two later, was met by a ranting Methodist, vulgarly termed a "_carpet-bagger_," who, in a solemn voice, said,--

"My colored friend, have you yet found the Lord Jesus?"

"O, golly, ma.s.ser!" exclaimed the old negro in astonishment; "hab de Lord done gone an' loss hisself?"

(I have seen the last part of this anecdote floating about the newspapers; but did ever any one see the former connection, or even the latter before 1852?)

The writer was but a poor medical student, and an invalid, seeking here a more salubrious climate, away from the frosts and snows of his northern home, and though twenty years have since flown, I have not forgotten, and never shall, the kindness and attention received at the hands of the benevolent Dr. Robertson. While many who went out with me that fall fell victims to the fearful endemic before Jack Frost put a stop to its ravages, I escaped the grim monster Death; and to the superior knowledge and efficient treatment of Dr. R., with the excellent care of the benevolent landlady, Mrs. b.u.t.terfield, I owe my life.

Morning and evening the doctor's patter-patter was heard on the stairs,--three flights to climb. The whole case was gone over, and then, if the good old doctor had a moment to spare, he would retail some little anecdote "with which to leave me in good spirits."

The following is one:--

"Mr. Bacon, of Edgefield, was once courting a lady who had frequently refused him; but he, with commendable perseverance, had as often renewed the suit, until at last she became so exceedingly annoyed at his importunities that she told him that she could never marry a man whose tastes, opinions, likes and dislikes were so completely in opposition to her own as were his.

"'In fact, Mr. Bacon,' she is represented as having said, 'I do not think there is one subject on earth upon which we could agree.'

"'I a.s.sure you, dear madam, that you are mistaken, which I can prove.'

"'If you will mention one, I will agree to marry you,' replied the lady.

"'Well, I will do it,' replied Mr. Bacon. 'Suppose now you and I were travelling together; we arrive at a hotel which is crowded; there are only two rooms not entirely occupied, in one of which there is a man, in the other a woman: with which would you prefer to sleep?'

"The lady arose indignantly, and replied, 'With the woman, of course, sir.'

"'So would I,' replied Mr. Bacon, triumphantly."

(My room had two beds in it, which suggested the above story.)

DR. K.'S MARE.

The outline of the following ludicrous "situation" was given me by a gentleman of Framingham:--

Old Dr. K., of F., was represented as a rough and off-handed specimen of the genus _h.o.m.o_, who liked a horse even better than a woman,--not that he was by any means unmindful of the charms and claims of the beautiful,--better than he loved money, though the latter pa.s.sion bordered on avariciousness.

An over-nice and sensitive spinster once was visiting the family of Mr.

T., in town, which employed a younger and more refined physician than Dr.

K.; and the spinster, being somewhat indisposed, requested Mr. T. to call a physician. His own family doctor was suggested; but on close inquiry, she concluded to have "the oldest and most experienced physician that the town afforded," and old Dr. K. was called.

Mr. T. had just purchased a beautiful mare, which the doctor was desirous of possessing; and the animal was the subject of conversation as the two entered the house, even to the parlor, where the spinster reclined upon a sofa. The old doctor examined the lady for a moment in silence, but his mind was all absorbed in the reputed qualities of the mare, as he timed the lady's pulse.

"Slightly nervous," he said to the spinster. "Tongue? Ah! coated. Throat sore?" and turning towards T., he resumed the horse discussion, still holding the lady's wrist. "Good wind, Mr. T.? No spavins? Nothing the matter? Suppose you trot her out this afternoon."

The spinster, supposing the conversation alluded to her, went into the most extreme kind of hysterics.

"A SCARED CUSTOMER."

We give this incident for what it is worth.

A man recently entered a restaurant in Utica, N. Y., and ordered a very elaborate dinner. He lingered long at the table, and finally wound up with a bottle of wine. Then lighting a cigar, he sauntered up to the bar, and remarked to the proprietor,--

"Very fine dinner, landlord. Just charge it, for I haven't a cent."

"But I don't know you," replied the proprietor, indignantly.

"No, of course you don't, or you never would have let me have the dinner."

"Pay me for the dinner, I say," shouted the landlord.

"And I say I can't," vociferated the customer.

"Then I'll see about it," exclaimed the proprietor, who s.n.a.t.c.hed something from a drawer, leaped over the counter, and grasping the man by the collar, pointed something at his throat. "I'll see if you get away with that dinner without paying for it, you scoundrel."

"What is that you hold in your hand?" demanded the now affrighted customer, trying to get a sight at the article.

"That, sir, is a revolver; loaded, sir."

[Ill.u.s.tration: NOT A STOMACH-PUMP.]

"O, d---- that; I don't care a continental for a revolver; I've got one myself. _I was afraid it was a stomach-pump!_"

"WHAT'S TRUMPS?"

Mrs. Bray, in her book of _Anecdotes_, relates a story ill.u.s.trative of the power of the ruling pa.s.sion.

"A Devons.h.i.+re physician, boasting the not untradesman-like name of Vial, was a desperate lover of the game of whist. One evening, during his opponent's deal, he fell to the floor in a fit. Consternation seized on the company, who knew not if the doctor was dead or alive. Finally he showed signs of returning life, and retaining the last cherished idea that had possessed him on falling into the fit, he resumed his chair, exclaiming, '_What's trumps, boys?_'"

The writer was present at a similar occurrence. There were a half score of boys seated upon some logs near the country school-house, during recess, listening to a story, something about "an old woman who had just reached a well, with a pitcher to obtain some water, when the old lady tripped her toe, and fell into the well head foremost."

At this juncture one of the listeners fell forward from the log in a fit.

We were greatly frightened, but mustered sufficient courage to throw some water in the boy's face, when he gradually came to his senses, exclaiming,--