Doc's Lib'ry—as he calls it,—well, they's ha'f-a-dozen she'ves
Jam-full o' books—I couldn't tell how many—count yourse'ves!
One whole she'f's Works on Medicine! and most the rest's about
First Settlement, and Indians in here,—'fore we driv 'em out.—
XLVIII
And Plutarch's Lives—and life also o' Dan'el Boone, and this-
Here Mungo Park, and Adam Poe—jes all the lives they is!
And Doc's got all the novels out,—by Scott and Dickison
And Cooper.—And, I make no doubt, he's read 'em ever' one!
XLIX
Onc't, in his office, settin' there, with crowd o' eight er nine
Old neighbers with the time to spare, and Doc a-feelin' fine,
A man rid up from Rollins, jes fer Doc to write him out
Some blame p'scription—done, I guess, in minute, nigh about.—
L
And I says, "Doc, you 'pear so spry, jes write me that recei't
You have fer bein' happy by,—fer that 'u'd shorely beat
Your medicine!" says I.—And quick as s'cat! Doc turned and writ
And handed me: "Go he'p the sick, and putt your heart in it."
LI
And then, "A-talkin' furder 'bout that line o' thought," says he,
"Ef we'll jes do the work cut out and give' to you and me,
We'll lack no joy, ner appetite, ner all we'd ort to eat,
And sleep like childern ever' night—as puore and ca'm and sweet."