It was a dazzling equipage
That drove up to the door; It was a note with lordly crest
The liveried footman bore. A note for Doctor Harrington
From Lady Cecil Grey; It told of sickness at the Hall
And begged for no delay.

The young physician pondered
If luck his path had found; Meanwhile the highly-mettled steeds
Impatient paw the ground. "'Tis passing strange her ladyship
Though odd, should summon me;"— High hung the omen of success,
Bright gleamed the golden fee.

Two miles along the country road,
Two miles of avenue And, 'yond the lily-bordered lake,
Fair turrets rise to view. Oh! common ills of base-born life
How could ye venture near? Why should your breath, Oh foul disease!
Pollute such atmosphere?
Deep sadness broodeth o'er the Hall,
Scent-laden breezes sigh, Though linnets pipe their tuneful song,
And cushat-doves reply. The menials walk with noiseless tread
Across the French-tiled floor; And, on its glittering hinges
Swings back the oaken door.

"Oh doctor!" quoth the Lady Grey
With outstretched jeweled hand, "I am in depths of sore distress
But—you will understand. It comforts me, that to my wish
The answer came so quick; See!" and she drew the screen aside;—
"My favorite cat is sick."

Well was it that the patient lay
Within a darkened room; The sunlight on the doctor's face
Had sunk in sudden gloom. 'Twas but a moment; skilled, acute
And witty too, withal, With sober and respectful mien
He kept his thoughts in thrall.

What were those thoughts? upon that couch
By rarest art compiled, Lay soulless brute, while o'er the wilds
Strayed many a starving child. But wealth oft nurseth foibles
To fill its empty day; And workers cater for its will
Who hope for handsome pay.

With solemn guise he lent his ear
For quite a lengthened space; Then, with a grave obsequiousness,
He diagnosed the case. "His stomach is, for sure, deranged;
No appetite hath he; Yet time and care effect a change,
Wilt thou trust him with me?"

A maiden, on a cushion soft,
The precious tabby bore To the escutcheoned carriage which
Soon halted as before. And the doctor raised his patient
And stroked his shiny pate, Then—in the pantry, 'neath a tub,
Consigned him to his fate.

Withhold thy censure! rude this course
Yet savoring keen insight; Four days of prison treatment brought
Luxurious Tabby right. Mote all the victims of excess
Be held in durance vile A wholesome world would bloom apace,
And peace and plenty smile.

The proverb reads "'Tis an ill wind
That bloweth no one good" And in the sequel of this tale
Be that fact understood. For the fancies of a weakling
And over-pampered mind Were ladders by which highest aim
Could fairer prospect find.

She placed it in the doctor's hand.
"Five hundred pounds a year As my physician you may claim;"—
She praised him far and near. He gained the best of patronage
Through all the country side; He wooed a baron's daughter fair,
And won her for his bride.

No more chagrin, nor vexed delays;
No plodding up the hill; Life's current flowed as peaceful stream
Which works the well-set mill. The noble Countess and her cat
Have long since passed away; But the witty doctor lives and thrives
In green old age this day.