“‘Here we come, Eddie, my boy,’ said Doctor Dodson, as he came bustling into the drug-store one morning soon after breakfast. ‘Ah, ha! my boy, things are all wrong, all wrong, sir. That’s always the case; one thing goes wrong, everything must follow suit, you know--ah, ha! don’t you see how it is, my boy? Miss Bramlett, poor thing, very ill--threatened with brain fever--killing herself with grief about Wallingford--Lottie wearing herself out with continual watching--breaking her heart about other people’s troubles--don’t sleep enough--eats not enough to support life in a snow-bird. Ah, ha! my boy, don’t you see how it is? Then, to cap the climax of errors, here’s Dabbs and Tadpoddle nosing round and stirring up slander, and those two hateful old maids are retailing it out where they think it will do the most harm. Ah, ha! my boy, do you know those two detestable old hags? No, of course you don’t; I allude to Miss Jemima Tadpoddle and Jerusha Clattermouth. Ah, ha! Eddie, my boy, old Nick ought to have them both. Clatter, clatter go their tongues all day, slandering everybody and everything. They both have been to the jail, pretending to feel an interest in Miss Bramlett, and they have well-nigh killed the poor girl with their infernal tongues. Ah, ha! Eddie, my boy, don’t you see how it is? I wish their tongues were cut out and nailed on the jail door, as a warning to meddlesome gossips--that’s what I wish. Ah, ha! Eddie, my boy, Miss Tadpoddle is ill. Thank Heaven! I hope the town will have a little breathing spell while she is sick. The hateful hag has sent for me to visit her professionally. Ah, ha! my boy, I mean to send you in my place. She is the very sort for a young quack to practice on. No harm done if he kills her, don’t you see? Get yourself ready to go, my boy--give her something to silence her tongue, if you can. You’ll find a charming patient, my boy. Clattermouth is sure to be there--they are always together--birds of a feather--you know how it is yourself. Ah, ha! Eddie, my boy, be off now--stuff her full of medicine--pour in the calomel till you salivate her--that’s as nigh salvation as she will ever get. Go, my boy; cram her with emetics, then shovel in your purgatives. Don’t kill her, but prostrate her--stop her devilish tongue. Ah, ha! my boy, don’t you see? Go, go!’ “Of course I went, and when I entered Mr. Tadpoddle’s house I was immediately ushered into Miss Jemima’s room. I stood in the door a moment, while my eyes were busy taking a survey of the room and its contents. Miss Jemima Tadpoddle was propped up in bed with a dozen pillows, while Miss Jerusha Clattermouth was bathing her temples with eau-de-Cologne, and the sick woman’s mother was holding a smelling bottle to her nose. It is my deliberate opinion that if Shakespeare had seen those three women before he wrote ‘Macbeth,’ he would have made a better job of it, especially in the witch department.