And yit Doc loves his practice; ner
don't, wilful, want to slight
No call—no matter who—how fur
away—er day er night.—
He loves his work—he loves his friends—
June, Winter, Fall, and Spring:
His lovin'—facts is—never ends;
he loves jes ever'thing....
LVII
'Cept—keepin' books. He never sets
down no accounts.—He hates,
The worst of all, collectin' debts—
the worst, the more he waits.—
I've knowed him, when at last he had
to dun a man, to end
By makin' him a loan—and mad
he hadn't more to lend.
LVIII
When Pence's Drug Store ust to be
in full blast, they wuz some
Doc's patients got things frekantly
there, charged to him, i gum!—
Doc run a bill there, don't you know,
and allus when he squared,
He never questioned nothin',—so
he had his feelin's spared.
LIX
Now sich as that, I hold and claim,
hain't 'scusable—it's not
Perfessional!—It's jes a shame
'at Doc hisse'f hain't got
No better business-sense! That's why
lots 'd respect him more,
And not give him the clean go-by
fer other doctors. Shore!