“Now, Doctor, which of those two men are you going with?”
“Why, Miss Susan,” he replied—a favorite manner of addressing his wife, of whom he was very fond—the note of apology in his voice showing that he knew very well what she was thinking about, “I’m going with W----.”
“I don’t think that is right,” she replied with mild emphasis. “Mr. N---- is as good a friend of yours as W----, and he always pays you.”
“Now, Miss Susan,” he returned coaxingly, “N---- can go to Pierceton and get Doctor Bodine, and W---- can’t get any one but me. You surely wouldn’t have him left without any one?”
What the effect of such an attitude was may be judged when it is related that there was scarcely a man, woman or child in the entire county who had not at some time or other been directly or indirectly benefited by the kindly wisdom of this Samaritan. He was nearly everybody’s doctor, in the last extremity, either as consultant or otherwise. Everywhere he went, by every lane and hollow that he fared, he was constantly being called into service by some one—the well-to-do as well as by those who had nothing; and in both cases he was equally keen to give the same degree of painstaking skill, finding something in the very poor—a humanness possibly—which detained and fascinated him and made him a little more prone to linger at their bedsides than anywhere else.
“He was always doing it,” said his daughter, “and my mother used to worry over it. She declared that of all things earthly, papa loved an unfortunate person; the greater the misfortune, the greater his care.”
In illustration of his easy and practically controlling attitude toward the very well-to-do, who were his patients also, let me narrate this:
In our town was an old and very distinguished colonel, comparatively rich and very crotchety, who had won considerable honors for himself during the Civil War. He was a figure, and very much looked up to by all. People were, in the main, overawed by and highly respectful of him. A remote, stern soul, yet to Dr. Gridley he was little more than a child or schoolboy—one to be bossed on occasion and made to behave. Plainly, the doctor had the conviction that all of us, great and small, were very much in need of sympathy and care, and that he, the doctor, was the one to provide it. At any rate, he had known the colonel long and well, and in a public place—at the principal street corner, for instance, or in the postoffice where we school children were wont to congregate—it was not at all surprising to hear him take the old colonel, who was quite frail now, to task for not taking better care of himself—coming out, for instance, without his rubbers, or his overcoat, in wet or chilly weather, and in other ways misbehaving himself.
“There you go again!” I once heard him call to the colonel, as the latter was leaving the postoffice and he was entering (there was no rural free delivery in those days) “—walking around without your rubbers, and no overcoat! You want to get me up in the night again, do you?”
“It didn’t seem so damp when I started out, Doctor.”
“And of course it was too much trouble to go back! You wouldn’t feel that way if you couldn’t come out at all, perhaps!”
“I’ll put ‘em on! I’ll put ‘em on! Only, please don’t fuss, Doctor. I’ll go back to the house and put ‘em on.”
The doctor merely stared after him quizzically, like an old schoolmaster, as the rather stately colonel marched off to his home.
Another of his patients was an old Mr. Pegram, a large, kind, big-hearted man, who was very fond of the doctor, but who had an exceedingly irascible temper. He was the victim of some obscure malady which medicine apparently failed at times to relieve. This seemed to increase his irritability a great deal, so much so that the doctor had at last discovered that if he could get Mr. Pegram angry enough the malady would occasionally disappear. This seemed at times as good a remedy as any, and in consequence he was occasionally inclined to try it.
Among other things, this old gentleman was the possessor of a handsome buffalo robe, which, according to a story that long went the rounds locally, he once promised to leave to the doctor when he died. At the same time all reference to death both pained and irritated him greatly—a fact which the doctor knew. Finding the old gentleman in a most complaining and hopeless mood one night, not to be dealt with, indeed, in any reasoning way, the doctor returned to his home, and early the next day, without any other word, sent old Enoch, his negro servant, around to get, as he said, the buffalo robe—a request which would indicate, of course that the doctor had concluded that old Mr. Pegram had died, or was about to—a hopeless case. When ushered into the latter’s presence, Enoch began innocently enough:
“De doctah say dat now dat Mr. Peg’am hab subspired, he was to hab dat ba—ba—buffalo robe.”
“What!” shouted the old irascible, rising and clambering out of his bed. “What’s that? Buffalo robe! By God! You go back and tell old Doc Gridley that I ain’t dead yet by a damned sight! No, sir!” and forthwith he dressed himself and was out and around the same day.
Persons who met the doctor, as I heard years later from his daughter and from others who had known him, were frequently asking him, just in a social way, what to do for certain ailments, and he would as often reply in a humorous and half-vagrom manner that if he were in their place he would do or take so-and-so, not meaning really that they should do so but merely to get rid of them, and indicating of course any one of a hundred harmless things—never one that could really have proved injurious to any one. Once, according to his daughter, as he was driving into town from somewhere, he met a man on a lumber wagon whom he scarcely knew but who knew him well enough, who stopped and showed him a sore on the upper tip of his ear, asking him what he would do for it.
“Oh,” said the doctor, idly and jestingly, “I think I’d cut it off.”
“Yes,” said the man, very much pleased with this free advice, “with what, Doctor?”
“Oh, I think I’d use a pair of scissors,” he replied amusedly, scarcely assuming that his jesting would be taken seriously.
The driver jogged on and the doctor did not see or hear of him again until some two months later when, meeting him in the street, the driver smilingly approached him and enthusiastically exclaimed:
“Well, Doc, you see I cut ‘er off, and she got well!”
“Yes,” replied the doctor solemnly, not remembering anything about the case but willing to appear interested, “—what was it you cut off?”
“Why, that sore on my ear up here, you know. You told me to cut it off, and I did.”
“Yes,” said the doctor, becoming curious and a little amazed, “with what?”
“Why, with a pair of scissors, Doc, just like you said.”
The doctor stared at him, the whole thing coming gradually back to him.
“But didn’t you have some trouble in cutting it off?” he inquired, in disturbed astonishment.
“No, no,” said the driver, “I made ‘em sharp, all right. I spent two days whettin’ ‘em up, and Bob Hart cut ‘er off fer me. They cut, all right, but I tell you she hurt when she went through the gristle.”
He smiled in pleased remembrance of his surgical operation, and the doctor smiled also, but, according to his daughter, he decided to give no more idle advice of that kind.
In the school which I attended for a period were two of his sons, Fred and Walter. Both were very fond of birds, and kept a number of one kind or another about their home—not in cages, as some might, but inveigled and trained as pets, and living in the various open bird-houses fixed about the yard on poles. The doctor himself was intensely fond of these and all other birds, and, according to his daughter and his sons, always anticipated the spring return of many of diem—black-birds, blue jays, wrens and robins—with a hopeful, “Well, now, they’ll soon be here again.” During the summer, according to her, he was always an interested spectator of their gyrations in the air, and when evening would come was never so happy as when standing and staring at them gathering from all directions to their roosts in the trees or the birdhouses. Similarly, when the fall approached and they would begin their long flight Southward, he would sometimes stand and scan the sky and trees in vain for a final glimpse of his feathered friends, and when in the gathering darkness they were no longer to be seen would turn away toward the house, saying sadly to his daughter: