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"Human nature," said Scattergood, "gits blamed f'r a heap of things that ought to be laid at the door of human cussedness." "Same thing," said the deacon. "If you're human you're cussed. Used to be so in the Garden of Eden, and it'll keep on bein' so till Gabriel blows his final trump." "'Tain't no more natteral to bicker than 'tis to have dispepsy.
We'll soon have green corn though, and that helps dispepsy wonderful." "It may be good for dyspepsia, Bacchus," said Mr. Weston, "but it sometimes gives old people cholera morbus, when they eat it raw; so I advise you to remember last year's experience, and roast it before you eat it." "I shall, indeed," replied Bacchus; "'twas an awful time I had last summer.
"Vewve Clikot's universal an' suv'rin remedy," said David, reading the label and bringing the corners of his eye and mouth almost together in a wink to John, "fer toothache, earache, burns, scalds, warts, dispepsy, fallin' o' the hair, windgall, ringbone, spavin, disapp'inted affections, an' pips in hens," and out came the cork with a "wop," at which both the ladies, even Mrs.
Sick, "is an invitation for you and me, and minister to go and visit Sir Littleeared Bighead, down to Yorkshire. You can go if you like, and for once, p'raps it's worth goin' to see how these chaps first kill time, and then how time kills them in turn. Eatin', drinkin', sleepin', growlin', fowlin', and huntin' kills time; and gout, aperplexy, dispepsy, and blue devils kills them.
Quarrelin' and hectorin' hain't nothin' but a kind of dispepsy that attacks families instid of stummicks. In both cases it means somethin' is wrong." "Can't cure a unhappy family with a dose of calomel," said the deacon, acidly. "Hain't so sure. Bet that identical remedy' u'd fix up three out of ten. But somethin' else is wrong with them young Lewises.
We conversed there in a very pleasant manner till my dinner-time arrove, when the agreeable gentleman insisted that I should dine with him. "We'll have a banquet, Sir, fit for the gods!" I told him good plain vittles would soot me. If the gods wanted to have the dispepsy, they was welcome to it. We had soop and fish, and a hot jint, and growsis, and wines of rare and costly vintige.
Sick, "is an invitation for you and me, and minister to go and visit Sir Littleeared Bighead, down to Yorkshire. You can go if you like, and for once, p'raps it's worth goin' to see how these chaps first kill time, and then how time kills them in turn. Eatin', drinkin', sleepin', growlin', fowlin', and huntin' kills time; and gout, aperplexy, dispepsy, and blue devils kills them.
"Guess Uncle Salters's goin' to die this trip. Fust compliment he's ever paid me," Dan sniggered. "What's wrong with you, Harve? You act all quiet and you look greenish. Feelin' sick?" "Don't know what's the matter with me," Harvey implied. "Seems if my insides were too big for my outsides. I'm all crowded up and shivery." "Dispepsy? Pshaw too bad.
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