Henry now came forward—a tall, bony farmer in high boots and an old wool-lined leather coat, and a cap of wool.
“Dr. Gridley sent cha, did he?” he observed, eyeing me most critically.
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s the matter? What does he want with ‘em? Do ya know?”
“Yes, sir. My father’s sick with kidney trouble, and Dr. Gridley said I was to come out here.”
“Oh, all right. Wait’ll I git my big knife,” and back he went, returning later with a large horn-handled knife, which he opened. He preceded me out through the barn lot and into the orchard beyond.
“Dr. Gridley sent cha, did he, huh?” he asked as he went. “Well, I guess we all have ter comply with whatever the doctor orders. We’re all apt ter git sick now an’ ag’in,” and talking trivialities of a like character, he cut me an armful, saying: “I might as well give ya too many as too few. Peach sprigs! Now, I never heered o’ them bein’ good fer anythin’, but I reckon the doctor knows what he’s talkin’ about. He usually does—or that’s what we think around here, anyhow.”
In the dusk I trudged home with my armful, my fingers cold. The next morning, the tea having been brewed and taken, my father was better. In a week or two he was up and around, as well as ever, and during this time he commented on the efficacy of this tea, which was something new to him, a strange remedy, and which caused the whole incident to be impressed upon my mind. The doctor had told him that at any time in the future if he was so troubled and could get fresh young peach sprigs for a tea, he would find that it would help him. And the drug expense was exactly nothing.
In later years I came to know him better—this thoughtful, crusty, kindly soul, always so ready to come at all hours when his cases permitted, so anxious to see that his patients were not taxed beyond their financial resources.
I remember once, one of my sisters being very ill, so ill that we were beginning to fear death, one and another of us had to take turn sitting up with her at night to help and to give her her medicine regularly. During one of the nights when I was sitting up, dozing, reading and listening to the wind in the pines outside, she seemed persistently to get worse. Her fever rose, and she complained of such aches and pains that finally I had to go and call my mother. A consultation with her finally resulted in my being sent for Dr. Gridley—no telephones in those days—to tell him, although she hesitated so to do, how sister was and ask him if he would not come.
I was only fourteen. The street along which I had to go was quite dark, the town lights being put out at two a.m., for reasons of thrift perhaps. There was a high wind that cried in the trees. My shoes on the board walks, here and there, sounded like the thuds of a giant. I recall progressing in a shivery ghost-like sort of way, expecting at any step to encounter goblins of the most approved form, until finally the well-known outlines of the house of the doctor on the main street—yellow, many-roomed, a wide porch in front—came, because of a very small lamp in a very large glass case to one side of the door, into view.
Here I knocked, and then knocked more. No reply. I then made a still more forceful effort. Finally, through one of the red glass panels which graced either side of the door I saw the lengthy figure of the doctor, arrayed in a long white nightshirt, and carrying a small glass hand-lamp, come into view at the head of the stairs. His feet were in gray flannel slippers, and his whiskers stuck out most grotesquely.
“Wait! Wait!” I heard him call. “I’ll be there! I’m coming! Don’t make such a fuss! It seems as though I never get a real good night’s rest any more.”
He came on, opened the door, and looked out.
“Well,” he demanded, a little fussily for him, “what’s the matter now?”
“Doctor,” I began, and proceeded to explain all my sister’s aches and pains, winding up by saying that my mother said “wouldn’t he please come at once?”
“Your mother!” he grumbled. “What can I do if I do come down? Not a thing. Feel her pulse and tell her she’s all right! That’s every bit I can do. Your mother knows that as well as I do. That disease has to run its course.” He looked at me as though I were to blame, then added, “Calling me up this way at three in the morning!”
“But she’s in such pain, Doctor,” I complained.
“All right—everybody has to have a little pain! You can’t be sick without it.”
“I know,” I replied disconsolately, believing sincerely that my sister might die, “but she’s in such awful pain, Doctor.”
“Well, go on,” he replied, turning up the light. “I know it’s all foolishness, but I’ll come. You go back and tell your mother that I’ll be there in a little bit, but it’s all nonsense, nonsense. She isn’t a bit sicker than I am right this minute, not a bit—” and he closed the door and went upstairs.
To me this seemed just the least bit harsh for the doctor, although, as I reasoned afterwards, he was probably half-asleep and tired—dragged out of his bed, possibly, once or twice before in the same night. As I returned home I felt even more fearful, for once, as I was passing a woodshed which I could not see, a rooster suddenly flapped his wings and crowed—a sound which caused me to leap all of nineteen feet Fahrenheit, sidewise. Then, as I walked along a fence which later by day I saw had a comfortable resting board on top, two lambent golden eyes surveyed me out of inky darkness! Great Hamlet’s father, how my heart sank! Once more I leaped to the cloddy roadway and seizing a cobblestone or hunk of mud hurled it with all my might, and quite involuntarily. Then I ran until I fell into a crossing ditch. It was an amazing—almost a tragic—experience, then.
In due time the doctor came—and I never quite forgave him for not making me wait and go back with him. He was too sleepy, though, I am sure. The seizure was apparently nothing which could not have waited until morning. However, he left some new cure, possibly clear water in a bottle, and left again. But the night trials of doctors and their patients, especially in the country, was fixed in my mind then.
One of the next interesting impressions I gained of the doctor was that of seeing him hobbling about our town on crutches, his medicine case held in one hand along with a crutch, visiting his patients, when he himself appeared to be so ill as to require medical attention. He was suffering from some severe form of rheumatism at the time, but this, apparently, was not sufficient to keep him from those who in his judgment probably needed his services more than he did his rest.
One of the truly interesting things about Dr. Gridley, as I early began to note, was his profound indifference to what might be called his material welfare. Why, I have often asked myself, should a man of so much genuine ability choose to ignore the gauds and plaudits and pleasures of the gayer, smarter world outside, in which he might readily have shone, to thus devote himself and all his talents to a simple rural community? That he was an
