two thirds of the lawyers in
Christendom.

Mrs. Pimble has converted her husband's office into a committee-room, and
receptacle for hoards of pamphlets and papers, containing the proceedings
of divers conventions held for the advancement of the cause of "Woman's
Rights, and promulgation of Universal Freedom and Philanthropy."

Mrs. Pimble, the ardent reformist, is at present detained from her labors
by the illness of her eldest son, Garrison. She has sent for the young
female physician, Dr. Sarah Simcoe; but the word is, "pressing business
detains that medical functionary at home,"--so, in direct violation of
her established principles, she has been compelled to send for old Dr.
Potipher, who considers himself, par excellence, the Esculapius of
Wimbledon.

But Peggy Nonce comes blowing back from her hasty errand, and says the
doctor is down to Mr. Moses Simcoe's. Mrs. Pimble wonders what should
take a vile male practitioner to the house of an accomplished
lady-physician. Peggy looks wise, as much as to say she could explain the
mystery if she chose. But no one asks her to speak, so she goes into the
kitchen, where Mr. Pimble sits in his dressing-gown and sheepskin
slippers, shivering over an expiring fire. He lifts his head, as the
bustling housekeeper begins to rattle the covers of the stove for the
purpose of putting in some more wood, and asks feebly if "Dr. Potipher
has arrived."

"No," answers Peggy. "He is down to Mr. Simcoe's."

"Who is sick there?" inquires Mr. Pimble.

"His wife."

"Why, she is a doctor herself! Can't she cure her own ailments?" says Mr.
Pimble.

"Not always, I reckon," is Peggy's reply, while she is evidently vastly
amused by something she does not choose to communicate at present.

Beside the bed of her sick boy stood Mrs. Pimble. She laid her hand on
his forehead. It burned with fever, and his pulse was quick and hard. She
was not much skilled in the "art medical," but she resolved to do
_something_ for her child, and forthwith proceeded to the kitchen and
compounded a dish of catnip leaves and ginger. It exhaled a savory
smell, and she felt quite confident it would cool off Garrison's fever.
Placing a large bowl of the liquid by his bed-side, she bade him drink
freely of it through the evening, while she was gone to the Reform Club,
and when she came home she would call at Sister Simcoe's and obtain a
prescription for him. The sick lad promised to do as she requested. His
fever