I have had a _radius_ to do, And a compound fractured _tibia_, too, And that had been scarce ten minutes gone, When in came a case of _olecranon_, There was next a dislocated hip, Resulting also from a slip. Zymotic diseases lend a charm To genial autumn, moist and warm. We have Scarlatina and Typhus then, And Cholera good for medical men; But practice is best, I always find, In the bracing air of the North-East wind. When the North-Easter whistles shrill, It makes me think on the little bill To many a patient that I shall send, Whom that wind calls me to attend And though its music may seem severe, ’Tis a strain to gladden a surgeon’s ear. _Punch_, February 21, 1857. ―――― “BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTRY WIND.” “SIR,――I have lived to see and hear a great many strange things, but I never expected to live to hear an English poet singing the praises of the North-East Wind, as I am amazed to find the Rev. Charles Kingsley has been doing. What does the man mean? Has he a nerve in his body? Is he susceptible of catarrh, influenza, bronchitis, and the other ills that miserable flesh is heir to in this climate? Has he a constitution of cast iron, a skin of triple brass, and muscles of steel wire? Does he not know what it is, as he lies in bed of a morning, to feel that twinge of indescribable all-overishness, which announces that the East Wind is blowing outside the house? Does he not feel his eyes smart, his skin scorch and shrivel, his every limb ache, appetite go, and his temper break down altogether, whenever this same abominable wind prevails, as it does three days out of four in this infernal climate of ours? Sir, if we are to have a song of the North East Wind, I submit that mine is more the thing than Mr. Kingsley’s, and therefore beg to enclose it for your journal, which has occasionally, though at distant intervals, beguiled a miserable half-hour for, “Your dyspeptic reader, “MISERRIMUS MEAGRESON.” MY SONG OF THE NORTH WIND. Hang thee, vile North Easter; Other things may be Very bad to bear with, Nothing equals thee. Grim and grey North Easter, From each Essex-bog, From the Plaistow marshes, Rolling London fog―― “Tired we are of summer” KINGSLEY may declare, I give the assertion, Contradiction bare: I, in bed, this morning Felt thee, as I lay: “There’s a vile North Easter Out of doors to-day!” Set the dust-clouds blowing Till each face they strike, With the blacks is growing Chimney-sweeper like. Fill our rooms with smoke gusts From the chimney-pipe, Fill our eyes with water, That defies the wipe.