of time,
Bunker's friends receive the order, but, alas! it was all Greek to them;
they cyphered in vain, to make out any thing in the letters except
_persimmons_.

"What the deuce," says one of Bunker's friends, "does Joe want with
persimmons?"

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 order