Suppose a child was born where you could not get a bandage, what then?
Now I think this child will remain intact without a bandage, and, if I am willing to take the risk, why should you complain ?" "Because," said she, "if the child should die, it would injure my name as a nurse.

I therefore wash my hands of all these new-fangled notions." So she bandaged the child every morning, and I as regularly took it off.
It has been fully proved since to be as useless an appendage as the vermiform.

She had several cups with various concoctions of herbs standing on the chimney-corner, ready for insomnia, colic, indigestion, etc., etc., all of which were spirited away when she was at her dinner.
In vain I told her we were homeopathists, and afraid of everything in the animal, vegetable, or mineral kingdoms lower than the two-hundredth dilution.

I tried to explain the Hahnemann system of therapeutics, the philosophy of the principle _similia similibus curantur_, but she had no capacity for first principles, and did not understand my discourse.

I told her that, if she would wash the baby's mouth with pure cold water morning and night and give it a teaspoonful to drink occasionally during the day, there would be no danger of red gum; that if she would keep the blinds open and let in the air and sunshine, keep the temperature of the room at sixty-five degrees, leave the child's head uncovered so that it could breathe freely, stop rocking and trotting it and singing such melancholy hymns as "Hark, from the tombs a doleful sound!" the baby and I would both be able to weather the cape without a bandage.