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“Pills? No, good gracious, they can’t be pills –smell queer–some mistake–can’t be any mistake–my name on the cask–(tastes one of the ‘article’)–O! by thunder! (tastes again)–I’m blasted, they (tastes again) are, by Jove, persimmons! Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ho! ho! he! he! ha! ha! ha!”

And the ex-counsellor of modern law roared until he grew livid in the face.

“I see–ha! ha! I see; they have misunderstood every line I wrote them, except the last, and that–ha! ha! ha!–for my direction to send out my stuff per Simmons, they send me PERSIMMONS! Ha! ha! ha! ho! ho!”

But, after enjoying the fun of the matter, ex-counsellor Bunker discovered the thing was nothing to laugh at; patients were at the door–if he did not soon prescribe for their cases, his now numerous creditors would prescribe for him! What was to be done? Very dull and prosy people often become enterprising and imaginative, to a wonderful degree, when put to their trumps. This philosophical fact applied to ex-counsellor Bunker’s case exactly. He was there to better his fortune, and he felt bound to do it, persimmons or no persimmons. It occurred to him, as those infernal persimmons had cost him something, they ought to bring in something. By the aid of starch and sugar, Doctor Phlebotonizem converted some hundreds of the smallest persimmons into pills –sugar-coated pills–warranted to cure about all the ills flesh was heir to, at $2 each dose. One generally constituted a dose for a full-grown person, and as the patient left with a countenance much “puckered up,” and rarely returned, the pseudo M. D. concluded there was virtue in persimmon pills, and so, after disposing of his stock to first-rate advantage, the doctor paid off his bills; tired of the pill trade, he vamosed the ranche with about funds enough to reach home, and explain to his friends the difference between per Simmons and persimmons!