'Less 'n it is away deep down
in his own heart, at night,
Facin' the storm, when all the town
's a-sleepin' snug and tight—
Him splashin' hence from scenes o' pride
and sloth and gilded show,
To some pore sufferer's bedside
o' anguish, don't you know!
XXXII
Er maybe dead o' winter—makes
no odds to Doc,—he's got
To face the weather ef it takes
the hide off! 'cause he'll not
Lie out o' goin' and p'tend
he's sick hisse'f—like some
'At I could name 'at folks might send
fer and they'd never come!