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“What the deuce,” says one of Bunker’s friends, “does Joe want with persimmons?”

They went at it again, and again, but there was no mistaking the final sentence, ” send, without delay, persimmons.”

“Persimmons?” said one.

“Persimmons?” echoed another.

“Persimmons? What in thunder does Joe Bunker want with persimmons ?” responded a third.

“Persimmons!” all three chimed.

“Persimmons,” says one, “are not used in law proceedings, anyhow.”

“Nor in gospel, even, provided Joe has got into that,” responded another.

“Persimmons are not medicinal.”

“They are not chemical.”

“Persimmons are no part, or ingredient, in art, science, law, or religion; now, for what does Joe Bunker, counsellor at law, want us to forward, without delay, persimmons ?”

Well, they couldn’t tell; in vain they reasoned. Joe’s letter was very brief, strictly to the point, and that point was– persimmons! In the first place, it is not everybody that knows exactly what persimmons are, where they come from, and what they are good for. One of Bunker’s friends had lived in the South; he knew persimmons; it occurred to him that possums, and some human beings, especially the colored pop’lation, were the only critters particularly fond of the fruit. Webster was consulted, to see what light he cast upon the matter: he informed them that ” Persimmon was a tree, and its fruit, a species of Diospyros, a native of the States south of New York. Fruit like a plum, and when not ripe, very hard and astringent (rather so), but when ripe, luscious and highly nutritious.”

“Well, there,” said one of Bunker’s friends, “I’ll bet Joe’s sick; persimmons have been prescribed for his cure, and the sooner we send the persimmons the better!”

“Persimmons! Now I come to think of it,” says the man who had a faint idea of what persimmons were, “they make beer, first-rate beer of persimmons, in the South, and it’s my opinion, that Joe Bunker is going into persimmon beer business; as you say, he may be sick–persimmon beer may be the California cure-all; in either case, let us forward the persimmons without delay!”

Now persimmons never ripen until touched pretty smartly with Jack Frost. This was in September; persimmons were mostly full grown, but not ripe. A large keg of them was ordered from Jersey, and as fast as Adams & Co.’s great Express to San Francisco could take them out, the persimmons went!

Counsellor Bunker, relying upon his friends to forward without delay the tools and remedial agents to make his fortune in the pill business, went to work, got him an office, changed his name, and added an M. D. to it, had a sign painted, advertised his shop, and informed the public that on such a time he would open, and guarantee to cure all ills, from lumbago to liver complaint, from toothache to lock-jaw, spring fever to yaller janders, and in his enthusiasm, he sat down with a ream of paper, to count up the profits, and calculate the time it would take to get his pile of gold dust and start for home.

The day arrived that Doctor Phlebotonizem was to open, and he found customers began to call, and sure enough, in comes a large keg, direct through from the States, to his address; the freight bill on it was pretty considerable, but Joe out and paid it, rejoicing to think that now he was all right, and that if the proprietors of gold dust and the lumbago, or any of the various ills set forth in his catalogue of human woes, had spare change, he would soon find them out. He closed his door, opened his cask–

“What in the name of everlasting sin and misery is this?” was the first burst, upon feeling the fine saw dust, and seeing, nicely packed, the green and purple, round and glossy–he couldn’t tell what.