The Calling of Dan Matthews | Page 3

he fought, no one ever doubted his belief in
them or questioned his reasons for fighting. It was not at all strange that
such a man should have won the respect and friendship of the truly
great. But with all the honors that came to him, the Statesman's heart
never turned from the little Ozark town, and it was here among those
who knew him best that his influence for good was greatest and that he

was most loved and honored. Thus all that the railroad failed to do for
Corinth the Statesman did in a larger, finer way.
Then the Statesman died.
It was the Old Town Corinth of the brick Academy days that inspired
the erection of a monument to his memory. But it was the Corinth of
the newer railroad days that made this monument of cast-iron; and
under the cast-iron, life-sized, portrait figure of the dead statesman, this
newer Corinth placed in cast-iron letters a quotation from one of his
famous speeches upon an issue of his day.
The Doctor argues in language most vigorous that the broken sidewalks,
the permitted insolence of the railroad, the presence and power of that
Spirit, the Ally, and many other things and conditions in Corinth, with
the lack of as many other things and conditions, are all due to the
influence of what he calls "that hideous, cast-iron monstrosity." By this
it will be seen that the Doctor is something of a philosopher.
The monument stands on the corner where Holmes Street ends in
Strong Avenue. On the opposite corner the Doctor lives with Martha,
his wife. It is a modest home for there are no children and the Doctor is
not rich. The house is white with old-fashioned green shutters, and over
the porch climbs a mass of vines. The steps are worn very thin and the
ends of the floor-boards are rotted badly by the moisture of the growing
vines. But the Doctor says he'll "be damned" if he'll pull down such a
fine old vine to put in new boards, and that those will last anyway
longer than either he or Martha. By this it will be seen that the Doctor
is something of a poet.
On the rear of the lot is the wood-shed and stable; and on the east,
along the fence in front, and down the Holmes Street side, are the
Doctor's roses--the admiration and despair of every flower-growing
housewife in town.
Full fifty years of the Doctor's professional life have been spent in
active practice in Corinth and in the country round about. He declares
himself worn out now and good for nothing, save to meddle in the

affairs of his neighbors, to cultivate his roses, and--when the days are
bright--to go fishing. For the rest, he sits in his chair on the porch and
watches the world go by.
"Old Doctors and old dogs," he growls, "how equally useless we are,
and yet how much--how much we could tell if only we dared speak!"
He is big, is the Doctor--big and fat and old. He knows every soul in
Corinth, particularly the children; indeed he helped most of them to
come to Corinth. He is acquainted as well with every dog and cat, and
horse and cow, knowing their every trick and habit, from the old
brindle milker that unlatches his front gate to feed on the lawn, to the
bull pup that pinches his legs when he calls on old Granny Brown. For
miles around, every road, lane, by-path, shortcut and trail, is a familiar
way to him. His practice, he declares, has well-nigh ruined him
financially, and totally wrecked his temper. He can curse a man and cry
over a baby; and he would go as far and work as hard for the illiterate
and penniless backwoodsman in his cabin home as for the president of
the Bank of Corinth or even Judge Strong himself.
No one ever thinks of the Doctor as loving anyone or anything, and that
is because he is so big and rough on the outside: but every one in
trouble goes to him, and that is because he is so big and kind on the
inside. It is a common saying that in cases of trying illness or serious
accident a patient would rather "hear the Doctor cuss, than listen to the
parson pray." Other physicians there are in Corinth, but every one
understands when his neighbor says: "The Doctor." Nor does anyone
ever, ever call him "Doc"!
After all, who knows the people of a community so well as the
physician who lives among them? To the world the Doctor's patients
were laborers, bankers, dressmakers, scrub-women, farmers, servants,
teachers, preachers; to the Doctor they were men and women. Others
knew their occupations--he knew their lives.