This is a fun little story about something we all love (ha, ha!) that may have happened long ago…

Sure, and did I tell yez how I wint to the dintist yisterday?  Be aisy now, will yez, and wait a bit, and I’ll tell yez all about it.

Says I, “Och, docthur, docthur dear, it’s me tooth that aches intirely, sure it is, an’ I’ve a mind to have it drawn out, av ye plaze, sur.”

“Does it hurt ye?” says he till me.

“Och, murther, can ye ax me that, now, an’ me all the way down here to see yez about it?” says I.  “Sure I haven’t slept day or night these three days.  Bedad, haven’t I tried all manes to quiet the jumpin’ divil?  Sure didn’t they tell me to put raw whiskey intil me mouth, but would it stay there, jist tell me now?  No, the divil a bit could I kape it up in my mouth, though it’s far from the likes o’ me to be dhrinkin’ the whiskey widout extrame provocation, or by accidint.”

So thin the docthur took his iron instrumints in a hurry, wid as little consarnment of mind as Barney would swape the knives an’ forks from the table.

“Be aisy, docthur,” says I, “there’s time enough; sur you’ll not be in such a hurry,” says I, “whin your time comes, I’m thinkin’.”

“Och,well,” says the docthur, “an’ av yez not ready now, Miss Maloney, ye may come on the morrow.”

“Indade, docthur, I’ll not sthir from this sate wid this ould dead tooth alive in me jaw,” says I, “so ye may jist prepare; but ye nade not come slashin’ at a poor Christian body as av ye would wring her neck off first, an’ dhraw her tooth at yez convaynience mebbe a quarther of an hour or so aftherward.

Now clap on yer pinchers, bad luck to thim, but mind ye git hould av the right one—sure, ye may aisily see it by the achin’ an’ jumpin’,” says I.

“Och,” says he, “I’ll git hould av the right one,” an’ wid that he jabs a small razor-lookin’ weapon intil me mouth an’ cuts up me gooms as av it was nothin’ but cowld mate for hash for breakfast.

Says I, “Docthur, thunder an’ turf!” for me mouth was full of blood, “what in the divil are ye afther?  D’ye want to make an anatomy av a livin’ craythur, ye grave-robber, ye?” says I.

“Sit sthill,” says he, jamming something like a corkscrew intil me jowl, an’ twisting the very sowl out ave me.  Sure I sat still, bekase the murtherin’ thafe held me down wid his knee and the gripe av his iron in me lug.  If you’ll belave me, the worrest of all was whin he gave an awful wring, hard enough to wring a wet blankit as dhry as gunpowdher.

Arrah! didn’t I think the judgmint day had come till me?  Holy fathers! may I niver brathe another breath if I didn’t see the red fire in the pit!  Sure I felt me head fly off me shoulders, an’ lookin’ up, saw somethin’ monsthrous bloody in the docthur’s wrenchin’ iron.

“Is that me head ye have got thare?” says I.

“No, it’s only your tooth,” says he.

“You lie,” says I.

“God bliss you,” says he.

“May be it is me tooth,” says I, as me eyes began to open, an’ by puttin’ me hand up, troth I found the outside ave me face on, tho’ I felt as if all the inside had been hauled out, barrin’ the jumpin’ pain in the tooth, which had grown to fill the gap.

Och!  may the divil take the tooth, an’ the bad luck too, if I iver think av it any more.  Sure I’ve had enough of its company, bad cess to the little divil!

Anonymous, Beecher's Recitations and Readings, 1874

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