My Summer with Doctor Singletary | Page 4

dwellings, many-colored and
diverse in age and appearance. Each one had its green yard in front, its
rose-bushes and lilacs. Great elms, planted a century ago, stretched and
interlocked their heavy arms across the street. The mill-stream, which
found its way into the Tocketuek, near the centre of the village, was
spanned by a rickety wooden bridge, rendered picturesque by a
venerable and gnarled white-oak which hung over it, with its great
roots half bared by the water and twisted among the mossy stones of
the crumbling abutment.
The house of Dr. Singletary was situated somewhat apart from the main
street, just on the slope of Blueberry Will,--a great, green swell of land,
stretching far down from the north, and terminating in a steep bluff at
the river side. It overlooked the village and the river a long way up and
down. It was a brown-looking, antiquated mansion, built by the
Doctor's grandfather in the earlier days of the settlement. The rooms
were large and low, with great beams, scaly with whitewash, running
across them, scarcely above the reach of a tall man's head.
Great-throated fireplaces, filled with pine-boughs and flower-pots, gave
promise of winter fires, roaring and crackling in boisterous hilarity, as
if laughing to scorn the folly and discomfort of our modern stoves. In
the porch at the frontdoor were two seats, where the Doctor was

accustomed to sit in fine weather with his pipe and his book, or with
such friends as might call to spend a half hour with him. The lawn in
front had scarcely any other ornament than its green grass, cropped
short by the Doctor's horse. A stone wall separated it from the lane, half
overrun with wild hop, or clematis, and two noble rock-maples arched
over with their dense foliage the little red gate. Dark belts of woodland,
smooth hill pasture, green, broad meadows, and fields of corn and rye,
the homesteads of the villagers, were seen on one hand; while on the
other was the bright, clear river, with here and there a white sail,
relieved against bold, wooded banks, jutting rocks, or tiny islands, dark
with dwarf evergreens. It was a quiet, rural picture, a happy and
peaceful contrast to all I had looked upon for weary, miserable months.
It soothed the nervous excitement of pain and suffering. I forgot myself
in the pleasing interest which it awakened. Nature's healing
ministrations came to me through all my senses. I felt the medicinal
virtues of her sights, and sounds, and aromal breezes. From the green
turf of her hills and the mossy carpets of her woodlands my languid
steps derived new vigor and elasticity. I felt, day by day, the
transfusion of her strong life.
The Doctor's domestic establishment consisted of Widow Matson, his
housekeeper, and an idle slip of a boy, who, when he was not paddling
across the river, or hunting in the swamps, or playing ball on the
"Meetin'-'us-Hill," used to run of errands, milk the cow, and saddle the
horse. Widow Matson was a notable shrill-tongued woman, from
whom two long suffering husbands had obtained what might, under the
circumstances, be well called a comfortable release. She was neat and
tidy almost to a fault, thrifty and industrious, and, barring her scolding
propensity, was a pattern housekeeper. For the Doctor she entertained
so high a regard that nothing could exceed her indignation when any
one save herself presumed to find fault with him. Her bark was worse
than her bite; she had a warm, woman's heart, capable of soft relentings;
and this the roguish errand-boy so well understood that he bore the
daily infliction of her tongue with a good-natured unconcern which
would have been greatly to his credit had it not resulted from his
confident expectation that an extra slice of cake or segment of pie
would erelong tickle his palate in atonement for the tingling of his ears.
It must be confessed that the Doctor had certain little peculiarities and

ways of his own which might have ruffled the down of a smoother
temper than that of the Widow Matson. He was careless and absent-
minded. In spite of her labors and complaints, he scattered his
superfluous clothing, books, and papers over his rooms in
"much-admired disorder." He gave the freedom of his house to the boys
and girls of his neighborhood, who, presuming upon his good nature,
laughed at her remonstrances and threats as they chased each other up
and down the nicely-polished stairway. Worse than all, he was proof
against the vituperations and reproaches with which she indirectly
assailed him from the recesses of her kitchen. He smoked his pipe and
dozed over his newspaper as complacently as ever, while his sins of
omission and commission were arrayed against him.
Peewawkin had always the reputation