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.