The Middlebury galaxy. [volume] (Middlebury, Vt.) 1848-1850, 1848-06-13

Well>nedDlng Dul lDluulClOuS nel1nDOr.
In many such cases, the physician mus
be utterly at a loss to conjecture the cause
of his patients unexpected change for the
worse; for, more than half the time, neigh
bors and friends are unconscious of having
caused the mischief, or unwilling to ac>
knowledge their agency in it-so that,
Notwithstanding the physicians cross ex>
animation, the truth is seldom elected.
have often heard people say, in such ca
SEES
Lord bless you, we were afraid to let
the Doctor know"
And SO the Doctor, seeing this failure,
may lose faith in his excellent mode of
treatment, and in the next case change it
for worse one.
How rational people can trust to the
prescriptions of neighbors whom they
know to be as ignorant of medicine as
themselves. cannot tell for if there be
any truth in the jibe, that physicians are
men who put drugs, of which they know
little, into stomachs of which they know
less" it is very certain that most neigh
bors and visitors ofthe sick know nothing
at all of either drugs or stomach, pharma-
cy or physiology.
But must make an end of "oratory,"
and, skipping at least twenty good Illus
trations Of my caption, come to the last
aud most affecting instance on the list
and | must introduce it stery-fashinn, too,
lest it should not be read. Imprimis.
One fine summer morning, in a neat
bed-chamber, the floor covered with straw
mating, the windows shaded by white
muslin curt Miserable : Here /
am in the midst of another description of
another room. beg the readers pardon,
with all my heart The subject is trite;
$50 is everything else, bread and butter
and sunshine included J but a bad habit
is SO hard to shake off 1t sticks to one
with the fidelity oi-of bad habit The
reader will please to imagine, for himself
or herself, the neatest, cleanest, coolest,
pleasan,est, little summer chamber that
can be conceived, so that it comes within
the means of poor journeyman mechan-
lc--for such one was the father of the
two delicate young girls who occupy the
room. Upon a little French bedstead,
covered with white counterpane, reposed
the fair, fragile form of Annie, the elder
of the twin sisters. She was thin, even
to emaciation, yet very beautiful as she
slept. Her long black eyelashes rested
upon cheek white as marble, -transpa-
rent as pearl; her long black hair, escap-
ed from her cap, hoated over the pillow.
Her slender white arm was thrown above
her head, across the black tresses. The
other sister, Clara, was moving about the
room silently, as though fearful of awak-
ening the sleeper. This girl was the fac
simile Of her twin sister, except that she
had a burning red color on her cheeks
and lips, and an unnatural sparkle in her
bright, very bright eyes. Her slender
form was arrayed in loose white wrap
per. The sleeper stirred, murinured, op-
ened her eyes, and said
care you there, Clara ~
eyes, love; what will you have, dear
Annie?" inquired Clara, approaching the
bedside softly.
Give me your hand, Clara. This dear
little hand how lovingly and patiently ii
has tended me, through this long, long i'll
ness. This poor little, thin hand'-said |
Annie, fondly playing with her si-ter's
fingers But how hot it is, Clara; how very
hot your hand is You are feverish, sis
ter you have confined yourself too close
Iy. Raise the window little way to give
me air, and then go and take walk
won't your
Clara raised the window, and opened |
an opposite door, so that current of ali |
could pass through and ventilate the room,
without blowing upon the sick girl. An
ME drew a long deep breath, and smiled |
That air is so pleasant 1t breathes so
sweet, and fresh-it gives me new life
Clara returned to the bed side, and |
said cheerfully-
you are great deal better this morn
ing, dear Annie
Yes great deal better-I slept so
well-and have walked up SO refreshed
My fever is off, my skin is moist, the heat
and tightness have left my chest, and, a
bove all, can draw dear, blessed, good
deep breath. OH Clara, you can't con-
ceive what blessing it is to be able to
draw free breath-you would have 10 be
half suffocated Tor a month, as l have been,
TO realize it,
You have been great sufferer, my
poor dear Annie, but thank God-thank |
God-you are better now. And you look |
SO much better too said Clara; sudden-
ly checking the fervor of her feelings. lest
it should agitate Annie.
"Now, then, Clara, go out, and take a |
walk, won't you! Indeed, Pm afraid you
will make yourself i'll, by such close con-
finement. Go now-there's dear
Presently, presently, Annie
'No-nOw. I'm going to make you go; |
or if you won't, Ill talk. and bring on
fever; or else, as the spoiled children say,
I'll cry, and make myself ILL said An
ME, smiling.
oh! am so glad to see you SO mer-
nv. Annie