In the Graveyard
In the Graveyard.Page 226.
Crouching behind tombstones and bushes, he crept on his hands and knees to the back wall, and not daring to clamber over for fear of being seen, pushed out the stones, and made his way through the gap into the woods, as Pollard and his assistant reached the spot he had just left.
Hiding his shovel in the woods, not daring to take it, lest he should meet some early riser, Rich, in pain and perturbation, limped through fields and pastures, till he at length, to his great delight and relief, reached his boarding-place.
But his troubles were not ended. Every door was fastened. He could not, with his lame foot, and entirely exhausted, clamber up the spout to his room, and Rover began to bark in the porch, where he slept, with a violence that Rich knew would soon awaken the whole family.
Mrs. Clemens was very particular—extremely so—in respect to fastening the doors at night, and there was no outbuilding to which Rich could obtain access except the pig-sty. That was merelybuttoned on the outside. But this was too far from the house to suit his purpose, and moreover, exposed to the observation of Dan, while milking, who was always the first one up in the house.
Dan was full of energy. His custom was to wake early, go directly to the barn-yard, milk, bring the milk in, call the girl to strain it, and then start off with the cows to pasture, returning by breakfast time. Rich was familiar with the habits of Dan, and while deliberating with respect to some place of concealment, was startled by hearing him shove back the bolt of the end door. Close to the steps grew a large lilac bush, and near that was a pile of apple-tree brush that had been hauled out of the orchard. Rich ran behind the pile, and crouched to the ground, watching Dan as he came out, rubbing his eyes, and the moment he saw him sit down to a cow, crawled through the lilac bush, and stole quietly to his room. Pulling off the boot, he washed the gravel and dust from his foot, flung himself upon the bed, and sank into a slumber so profound that Dan, unable to arouse his teacher, at breakfast time, by knocking on the door, was compelled to enter, and shake him.
It seemed, indeed, as though the complications connected with this fruitless undertaking were never to have an end. Scarcely were they seated at the breakfast table, when Mrs. Clemens observed—
"Mr. Richardson, you look pale and worn out. I fear you passed a sleepless night. Daniel saidyou were lying on the outside of the bed, with your clothes on, when he went to call you. Will you not have an alum curd on your foot this morning? It is so cleansing."
"I think there is no need, Mrs. Clemens. A bruise in that place must be more or less painful for a time. I slept very soundly indeed this morning."
"Well, I shall insist upon Daniel's taking you to school with the horse. He is in the barn."
"You are very kind, and I shall esteem it a great favor; and if you please I will take a luncheon, and Daniel can bring me back at night; for I scarcely feel equal to the walk."
No sooner was this offer disposed of than Dan said,—
"Mother, did you hear anybody prowling round the house last night?"
"No, my dear: why do you ask?"
"Because the shovel is gone; somebody must have stole it."
"Perhaps it is mislaid."
"No, it ain't; I have looked everywhere. I wanted it to clean the barn."
"I heard Rover barking dreadfully this morning; it waked me up. Did you hear anybody round the house, Mr. Richardson? Being kept awake by your wound, you would be more likely to hear any strange noise."
"Well, Mrs. Clemens,—ahem!—indeed, I thinkthere was some one went out of the yard last night."
"That's it, mother; and that's who Rover was barking at."
"But how could they get into the barn?"
"They might have a key, and unlock the padlock. Most anything will unlock a padlock. But you must get another shovel, mother."
"We will wait awhile. It may come to light,—might get into that load of hay I sold,—be pitched up out of the floor with the hay. Mr. Richardson, your face seems flushed; does your foot pain you?"
"No, ma'am; it is quite easy now."
The excessive soreness of Richardson's foot was occasioned by his use, or rather abuse of it. But it recovered rapidly as soon as he began to afford it rest, and make the proper applications. After enjoying a good night's sleep, he told Mrs. Clemens he would like the loan of the horse, to ride over to the next town after school at night, call on Perk, and return in the evening. The next morning, when Dan went to feed the pigs, the shovel was lying in the pig's bed, half covered in straw.
"I told you it would come to light, Daniel. You used it to clean the pig-pen, and left it there. The pigs threw it down, and rooted the straw over it."
"I didn't, mother. Haven't cleaned the pig-pen. Mr. Richardson does that; I am afraid ofthe pigs. Somebody stole it, and brought it back."
"Borrowed it, you mean, my dear. You should never make such accusations."
Dr. Ryan laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks when, some time afterwards, Rich told him the result of his efforts to obtain the leg.
"It is the first time I ever attempted anything of the kind," said Rich; "it shall be the last. I'll stick to dogs, cats, and rabbits till I have money to procure what I need."
There was a mystery connected with Richardson's lameness that the village gossips could never fathom. He was too important a personage to escape comment. It was well known that he was so lame as to be compelled to ride to school on three consecutive days; and yet Sam Waterhouse declared he met him and talked with him at the old graveyard at three o'clock on the morning he put his foot in the trap, and that he did not appear to be much lame. Sam, however, was in the habit of drinking too freely of New England rum, and always took a jug with him when on the road; thus the majority, after a while, concluded Waterhouse had made too free with the contents of his jug, and imagined it all.
Rich, after this, assisted in several important operations in which the two doctors were engaged. He likewise, when he could do it and not interfere with his school, opened sores, administered medicines, let blood, and dressed wounds, at the request of Dr. Ryan, who lost no opportunity of bringinghim forward, and became more and more attached to him every day.
When bones were to be set, Dr. Ryan, if the fracture was in any respect a bad one, sent for Dr. Slaughter; but, as his own practice was large, often relinquished the subsequent care of the fracture to Rich, and paid him for it. In this manner, and by rigid economy, he was enabled to lay by a considerable sum, besides purchasing some necessary instruments and books.
The good doctor was well aware that whenever he left the care of a patient to Rich, whether it was a case of disease, or a wound, or broken bone, that he practised a treatment quite different from the established method; but as the patients generally did well, he made no troublesome inquiries, and even turned a deaf ear to the hints of Dr. Slaughter in respect to innovations upon the good old substantial practice.
It was very hot weather, the middle of August, and a lad of seventeen received a terrible cut in his thigh, by coming too near his father while he was mowing oats. Dr. Ryan was away from home, attending the funeral of a near relative in a distant town; the family instantly sent for Rich. The wound, fortunately, was worse in appearance than reality, as no artery was severed, though the gash presented a most formidable appearance to inexperienced persons, and the parents were very much alarmed.
Rich quieted their fears, stopped the bleeding, cleansed, bound up, and dressed the wound. It was several days before the doctor returned. The first time he rode out to visit his patients, he encountered on the road an old acquaintance, but by no means a favorite of his, Miss Nelly Buckminster. Miss Nelly was a spinster, lived by herself in a small house left to her by her parents, and gained a livelihood by taking in spinning, weaving, and plain sewing; occasionally kept house for anybody who could endure her tongue, for she was an inveterate talker, and held very decided opinions upon all subjects. In other respects she was an excellent housekeeper, neat, industrious, economical, and an excellent cook.
Miss Nelly was very religious, exceedingly so; but her piety was of the vociferous, rather than of the introspective cast. She was the recipient of many presents. Some gave her because they thought her a very good though rather peculiar woman, some because they were afraid of her tongue, others because they knew she would tell of it from Dan to Beersheba. We think it must have been the reasons assigned that influenced so many persons to make presents to Nelly, because there was not the least satisfaction to be derived from the act itself, as Nelly, in expressing her gratitude and sense of obligation—which she never failed to do—always ignored second causes, and paid her respects to the Most High.
This might have been—undoubtedly was—good theology, but it was of the nutmeg-grater variety, and altogether corrosive in both quality and operation; for when persons bestow gifts, influenced by the purest motives, some manifestation of gratitude is pleasant, and generally expected; but no person ever received any from Nelly; her gratitude was ever directed over the heads of theinstrumentalitiesto theefficientcause, which was not merely sound doctrine andconservative, but did away at once with all troublesome sense of obligation or return in kind.
Squire Dresser once sent her by the hand of his son a bushel of Indian meal. Henry knocked at the door, and gave her the bag of meal, saying,—
"Miss Buckminster, here is a bushel of flour my father sent you, and he'll call some time when he's going by to mill, and get the bag."
"No thanks to Squire Dresser; thanks to the Lord; 'twas the Lord sent it, and not the squire."
Henry had made the interview as brief as possible, in order to escape an exhortation on the subject of personal piety, that Nelly was in the habit of administering to him whenever he came to her house of an errand, and which altogether failed of producing any good impression, because he did not like her, and by reason of the snappish way in which she flung it at him.
Finding he had in his haste made a mistake, he went back and said,—
"Miss Buckminster, I made a mistake. 'Tis Indian and not wheat meal that father sent you."
"Indian!I should like to know what he sentIndianfor!"
This curt reply made a good deal of sport among the neighbors.
"I don't believe theLordwill send her anything again very soon," said Squire Dresser.
"The old proverb is, 'Never look a gift horse in the mouth;' but she presumes to find fault with the gifts of the Lord, tells whatheshould send and what not."
Dr. Ryan, who dearly loved good living, tempted by her unrivalled skill as a cook, and confiding in his good temper and the soundness of his nerves, once employed Nelly to keep house for him. She was possessed of a very vivid imagination, and in the habit of cautioning people against doing things they never entertained the thought of doing.
It was cold, sharp weather, and the doctor had a small dog that was very fond of stretching out on the hearth before the andirons. One day the doctor came in, chilled from a long ride and stood warming himself; the dog lay stretched at full length between him and the fire.
"There! you'll kick that dog into the fire—I know you will!" screamed Nelly.
"So I will, then," said the doctor, and kicked him under the forestick.
Nelly never cautioned the doctor any more.
In some respects it was difficult to reconcile her professions with her practice: for instance, she always said in the prayer-meeting that it was a great cross for her to rise and speak; whereas it was the settled opinion of all who knew her that it would be a much greater cross for her to hold her tongue, and Captain Motley said,—
"If you nailed her down to the bench with ten-penny nails, she'd rise and take it up with her."
She always disliked people whom everybody else loved and respected, called itman-worship, therefore didn't like Rich, couldn't bear him. Dr. Ryan said, it was a good thing for Richardson; he ought to have one ill-wisher, to take the curse off.
"Doctor, good mornin'."
"Good morning, Nelly."
"Doctor, you never should ought to step your two feet out of this village. Dreadful works, dreadful, since you've been away. Doctor, what do you think this wicked world is comin' to? Errors in doctrine, new lights rampaging round, turnin' things upside down; errors in doctorin,' as though folks couldn't die fast enough themselves. Destruction to soul and body both."
"I expect it is coming to an end, Nelly."
"When, doctor? Any ways soon? 'Cause we ought to be on our watch guards, a girdin' up our loins and preparin'."
"O, no; I guess 'twill outlast you and me, and a good many other people. But what is the trouble now?"
"Trouble enough. Do you know, David Ryan, what a viper yer a nourishin' in yer buzom? Do you know it, David Ryan? 'Cause if you don't, it's high time you did. Do you know what that young snipper-snapper of a Richardson is, that's allowed for to lead the singin' in the Lord's house? The gals is all taken with his good looks, and the men with his 'ily tongue. But I tell you he's a—"
Here Nelly thrust her tongue into her cheek, and looked unutterable things.
"I know he's a young man of true piety, most affectionate disposition, and remarkable ability, and I won't hear a word said against him by you or anybody else."
"Jist like Deacon Starkweather; he's deceived yer both, pulled the wool over both yer eyes. I tell you he's a—"
"A what? Come, out with it. I don't like this stabbing in the dark. Speak out."
"He's anew light, a pestilent, pizen,new light," shouted Nelly, with an emphasis she expected would throw the doctor from his horse. But he stood the shock unmoved, and merely laughed.
"It's no laughin' matter. There's John Tukey's boy cut hisself awful with a scythe, and thatsnipper-snapper, don't you think, did it up incold water, nothin' else, instead of wrappin' it up in new rum, or rum and wormwood, or salve, as you would have done, and keepin' it warm. Enough to make him ketch his death a cold!"
"Is he not doing well enough?"
"Doin' well enough! The awfullest sight ofproudflesh; it was a sight to behold. I was there when old Granma'am Tyler put on her specs and looked at it. She exclaimed right out. Says she, 'That wound will never heal in this varsal world, with all that ereproudflesh in it, Matilda,' says she (that's the boy's mother). 'Let me put on some burnt alum, to eat out that proud flesh.' Matilda made answer, 'I should like to have you, granma'am.' Then the boy up and says, 'No, she shan't.' 'Some red precipitate, then, dear, and hog's lard.' No, he wouldn't have that. 'Some spruce gum, then.' No, he wouldn't have anything; nobody should consarn with it or touch it but Mr. Richardson; he knew more than Granny Tyler and all the old women in town."
"I rather think the boy was right."
"Right! That littlesnipper-snapper, that brought an ungodlyfiddleinto thesanctuaryon theLord'sday, know more'nGranny Tyler, an experienced woman in sickness, and that's brought up a large family of children! What do you s'pose he said when he came the next day, and Matilda told him what Granny Tyler said? He jist laughed, andsaid all the proud flesh there was wouldn't hinder it from healing. Much he knows, to say proud flesh wouldn't hinder a cut from healing! Them's the very identical words he used. I'll stan' to it till mydyin' day."
"I have not the least doubt he said so."
"Well, then, doctor, I hope you'll go right in there, and put things to rights, 'cause the old folks'll hear to you, and the boy'll hear to you; and if you don't, perhaps the proud flesh'll grow worser and mortify; 'cause granny said a sore never would heal as long's there was one mite of proud flesh in it; and if the boy should die, you'll be 'countable, sartainly."
"I can't go in; I've a long ride to another part of the town before me."
"Well, you'll see, mark my word for it, there'll be trouble grow out of this."
The doctor had lost, in the course of his practice, several patients from gangrene occasioned by the load of poultices, ointments, and bandages it was then customary to apply, and he had some suspicions whether there might not be some mistake in the old practice, and resolved to permit Rich to manage matters as he thought best, having so much confidence in his judgment and discretion that he felt sure he would come to him for advice and consultation if the wound was manifesting any unfavorable symptoms.
We have no doubt our young readers share tothe full the confidence of the doctor in both the ability and discretion of Rich; still it seems as though it were well to say a few words in his behalf, and in explanation.
Clean cuts, when the two sides of the wound can be brought together directly, sometimes heal without any inflammation or suppuration; as it were, stick right together. But when the parts cannot be brought together at once, and are exposed to the external air, even if bandaged, there will be inflammation, and then the wound heals by a natural process, called by physicians "granulation."
It was thus in the present instance. The boy and his father had taken a field of oats to mow and harvest, a long distance from home, and the wound had been some time exposed to the air, and by reason of the part of the body in which it was situated could not be brought together so closely as to cause it thus to heal by what surgeons call the "first intention," and adhesive inflammation occurred, as is always the case when wounded surfaces are not brought in contact at once.
The process is this. In consequence of the inflammation which then takes place, a yellow jelly-like substance is effused, covering the surfaces of the wound, called fibrin; veins and arteries from the sound flesh shoot into this, it becomes organized, another layer is thrown out, which in its turn passes through the same process; but now begins another step in the progress. From thisorganized fibrin spring innumerable little pointed cones, similar to the kernels of rice corn, at first of a pale red, becoming more florid as they increase in age, into which arteries and veins thrust themselves. These are the granulations. They have nerves and blood-vessels, are therefore alive, and when healthy, sensitive; and they likewise possess a disposition to unite, and when the two surfaces of a wound covered with granulations come in contact, the blood-vessels of one penetrate the other, they amalgamate and form flesh.
As they increase they contract, thus both filling the cavity and drawing the lips of the wound together, till, when it heals, the scar occupies much less space than the original cut. This process takes place when the granulations are healthy, and almost, but not completely, fill the wound, being a grain lower than the surface of the skin, and manifesting a disposition to glaze over.
At other times they are coarse, of large size, the points blunt, are spongy, pale, or blue, show no tendency to skin over, and puff up above the surface of the sound flesh, which swells and is inflamed. Physicians denominate these granulations fungus, it being found from experience that whenever granulations rise higher than the level of the surrounding surface they are not likely to form skin. This, among people in general, from the appearance, probably, goes by the name ofproudflesh.
The old matrons cherished a mortal dread of proud flesh. They would put on their spectacles, look carefully at the wound, hold up both hands, and exclaim with alarm, "Proudflesh!" often times when only the proper amount of granulations was present, and they had numerous specifics for its removal—spruce gum, burnt alum, the ashes of oak bark, nutgalls, and red precipitate. But in their zeal to extirpate proud flesh, and, as they termed it,dosomething, they sometimes used little discrimination, and made war upon healthy material.
The particular thing that seemed to lie with the greatest weight upon the minds of the ancient dames and Miss Buckminster was, that, according to them, Rich wasdoing nothingfor the poor lad. He was neither bleeding him, physicking him, putting on salves and heavy bandages, nor anything to kill theproudflesh. They made such a fuss that at last the boy, who had hitherto reposed the greatest confidence in his young physician, became a littlenervous, and told Rich what the matrons said.
"My dear boy," said he, "there is very littletobedone. What these good women callproudflesh is ahealthygrowth, the rudiments of new flesh, and without it your wound wouldneverheal. It is no more in my power, or that of any other person, to heal your flesh than to make one hair white or black. Nature and time will dothat. The inflammation has passed off, and the wound is healing. All that can be done is to keep the parts cool, defend them from the air, sustain your strength by a proper diet, and keep you quiet. The less you move, the faster your leg will heal; and as for bleeding, you have lost too much blood already from the cut."
The lad, after this, dismissing his anxieties, concerned himself no more about the proud flesh or the fears and prognostications of the matrons.
The patient in due time recovered, greatly to the satisfaction of Dr. Ryan. It also increased the reputation of Rich, though Miss Buckminster declared that "the boy should ought to have died of mortification or lockjaw, but theLordoverruled it and spared him for some good end, spite of the new-fangled doctor."
The early frosts had now commenced. The glory of summer was succeeded by the maturity of autumn, and in the valleys here and there the white maples and ash began to assume their yellow and crimson hues. The diseases incident to the period of the year were prevalent, and Dr. Ryan was riding night and day.
As Richardson was passing the doctor's house on his way from school in the afternoon, the latter called to him, and said,—
"Mr. Richardson, I wish you would do me a favor. I am just about to step into my gig to visit a person taken with the bilious colic, in great distress, and a man has this moment gone from the door who wants me to go to see Mr. Jonathan Davis, who has cut off the tendon Achillis (heel-cord) with an adze; a clean cut. Can't you get on the back of the other horse, and take care of Mr. Davis?"
"Yes, sir. I'll leave my books in your office, and be right off."
"But you'll want some supper."
"I'll eat there after I get through."
Davis kept a good stock of tools, made his wheels, harrows, yokes, and other farming tools, and some for his neighbors. In working with an adze between his feet, the instrument glanced, and the corner of it severed the tendon of his left leg.
The Achillis tendon is large, and connected with a very strong muscle, as it sustains a great strain when the foot is thrown forward, and the weight of the body, perhaps with the addition of some burden on the shoulder, raised by it; and when broken or cut, the strong muscles of which it is a prolongation, cause it to contract very much.
Farmer Davis was a member of the choir, much attached to Rich; and, though he was somewhat disappointed at not seeing Dr. Ryan, his old physician, yet there was probably not a person in the town to whom Rich could have been sent upon such an errand where he would have found less of prejudice to contend with, either in respect to his youth, lack of experience, or any new-fangled notions he might have the reputation of entertaining.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Davis. I am sorry for your injury, and also that Dr. Ryan could not come. I expect you will hardly care to see so poor a substitute; but I feared there might be some artery cut, and knew you needed prompt attention."
Farmer Davis was quite a different person from Miss Buckminster in many other respects besides gender, being a most skilful mechanic, and an intelligent, clear-headed man.
"Well, Mr. Richardson," he replied, "you know very well you're as welcome to my house as flowers in May; and as for this business of the leg, I don't believe that Dr. Ryan, who's doctored my family and my father's afore me, would have sent you if he hadn't known you was capable; and if he had, I don't believe, if you hadn't thought you knew what was to be done and how to do it, you'd have come."
"I have come to do the best I can, which is very little, as this is a case where art can do but little to assist nature; but if you feel any hesitation, say so; the horse is at the door; I'll go get Dr. Slaughter."
"Won't have him; he's no better than abutcher. Go ahead, Mr. Richardson. There must be a first time with every man. I believe the first pair of wheels I ever made were as good and well finished up as any I've made since, 'cause I took more pains; and I've heern old Captain Deering say that 'a green hand that's just learning to steer a vessel will oftentimes steer better'n an old sailor, 'cause the old fellow is careless; but t'other's scared to death all the time, and puts his whole soul into it.'"
After examining the wound, Rich said,—
"There are two methods of treating this injury, the old method and the new. I will explain both of them; you may then take your choice, and I will follow your directions."
"That's fair. Let's hear."
"You see all the tendons play in a sheath, which is fixed, and the tendons play back and forth in it."
"Just like a spyglass, one part shoves into the other."
"Yes. And they are all on the stretch, like a piece of rubber drawn out, and when they are cut, the contraction of the muscles draws the two ends apart. The muscles in the upper part of the leg have drawn one end of this heel-cord up into its sheath, and the muscles on the forward part of the leg, by bending the foot back, have drawn the other end down into its sheath. Now, the old method, that which Dr. Slaughter and Dr. Ryan both would pursue, is to search in the sheath, get hold of the ends of the cord, and sew them together, which in your case would involve the necessity of cutting to accomplish it."
"I understand that. Now what is the new fashion?"
"The old physicians thought a tendon could not unite unless the ends touched, and so used to sew them together. But it has been since proved by experiment that although it is well to bring the ends of the tendon as near to each other as can wellbe done, they will unite even if they are half an inch or an inch apart."
"How can they grow together if they don't touch?"
"A liquid substance exudes from the surrounding vessels, fills the sheath, thickens into a jelly, then becomes a callous, grows to the two ends, forms a bunch, and in time shrinks up and becomes just like the rest of the tendon."
"How did they find that out?"
"Men have broken the tendon and wouldn't have their leg cut open to stitch the ends together, but kept still, had splints put on, and the ends brought as near as possible in that way, got well, and recovered the use of the limb. If there's no need of cutting a hole in a sound leg to sew a tendon together, there's no need of sewing one when a hole is already cut, or of cutting it larger to get at it."
"That stands to reason. So go ahead. I don't see why there shouldn't be improvements in doctoring as well as in everything else. My father winnowed his grain in a half a bushel, and had to wait for the wind. I winnow mine when I get ready, and raise my own wind with the machine."
Rich bent the leg on the thigh, so as to relax the muscles in the calf of the leg as much as possible, then with his hands worked down the calf, bringing the upper end of the tendon down, and put a bandage around to confine the muscles and keep them from retracting; brought the foot forwardin order to bring the lower end of the tendon up, and employed an assistant to keep it so.
In the mean time he went into Mr. Davis's shop, where he found tools, selected a sweeping piece of wood, and in a very few moments made a splint of sufficient length to extend from just below the knee to the toes, and that by its elliptical form partially filled the angle made by the foot and leg; he then padded the space between it and the flesh, fastened it to the leg and toes in such a manner as to keep the foot extended and prevent the patient from involuntarily moving the muscles. He now could feel the ends of the tendon, and ascertained, much to his satisfaction, that they were very nearly in contact. He now said,—
"Mr. Davis, the space between the extremities of this tendon is very small, consequently there is so much less new matter to be formed. You will not suffer much pain, but you will sustain a great trial of your patience, more than though your leg was broken, for then you would feel compelled to lie still. The rapidity and thoroughness of your cure will be in proportion to the patience you exercise, and the degree of care you take in respect to those motions absolutely necessary. It will be six weeks or more before this new substance I have been speaking of will form between the ends, and many months before you can place much strain upon the tendon."
"Shall I have to lie in bed long?"
"No; but you must keep perfectly still for a while. You will not be able to wear this splint long. It is only extemporized for the occasion. I'll make something better to-morrow."
The second day, after school hours, Richardson visited his patient again, and directed Mrs. Davis to make a shoe of carpeting, slipper-fashion, leaving the toe a little open, to prevent galling, and sewing a strap to the heel of it. This he fastened to a bandage around the leg above the calf, which took the place of the splint, kept the heel back, the foot forward, and the ends of the tendon in their place, and was much more comfortable for the patient.
Farmer Davis in eight weeks was relieved from the slipper, strap, and bandage during the night, putting them on in the daytime, and began to walk with a cane. There was a bunch on the tendon the size of a robin's egg, which gradually disappeared; and in four months the limb was as serviceable as ever.
When, a fortnight after the event, Dr. Ryan ascertained that Rich had merely brought the ends of the tendon within half an inch, and let it go at that, he shook his head, looked anxious, but said nothing. Dr. Slaughter was not so reticent, and declared the parts would never unite, but grow to the sheath, and the man be lame for life.
Richardson now pursued the even tenor of hisway, without the least interruption till the middle of the winter, when he was called to old Mr. Avery, a shingle weaver, who had cut himself with his draw-shave. The wound bled a great deal before Richardson arrived, and the patient being an old man, it healed very slowly. Avery became impatient, and thought his physician was not doing enough. Rich, unable to convince him, as he was a very ignorant and obstinate man, that the process of healing must necessarily be slow, on account of his age, and that nature must do the work, called in Dr. Ryan, who confirmed the judgment of Rich and approved his method, but the patient not convinced, fussed and fretted, said Rich "wasdoing nothing," and talked about "sending for Dr. Slaughter." Rich, at his wits' end, and not relishing the idea of having a patient taken out of his hands, cast about for some way of keeping him quiet.
At length, in a wakeful hour of the night, he bethought himself of a means of relief, suggested by something he had read in one of the old romances while in college, and the next day proceeded to put it in practice.
"Mr. Avery," he said, "I think I have discovered something that will be just the thing you need, and answer the purpose completely."
"Do let me know it, then, right off. I ought to be at work in the shop this minute."
"Do you think the draw-shave that you cutyourself with has been used since? Because if it has, nothing can be done, and the charm will be broken."
"No, I know it 'tain't; 'cause I laid it across the horse, and the shop's been locked up ever sence. Then you can charm; that's something like. There was a woman in this town could charm; but she died four year ago; and she didn't give her power to anybody. They say they kin, if they like, give it to anybody else, that is, if they're a seventh son or darter, not without."
"You don't believe that nonsense, I hope."
"Sartain sure I do. Iknowthat woman could charm. But you doctors never believe anything you don't do yourselves, or don't read in a book; but that's nuther here nor there. What is it you've found out?"
"Well, Mr. Avery, the ancient wise folks, a great many hundred years ago, had a custom of applying the rust of the weapon or tool that made the wound to it; or, if there was no rust, of making the applications to the instrument; and by some secret, mysterious influence, as they held, the wound was healed."
"There, now, that stan's to reason. You've said somethin' to the p'int now. I believe in them ere things what's handed down from the old forefathers. I tell you they forgot more'n we ever knew. These things what's handed down, they're sperience, they ain't guesswork. TheIndians can cure cancers, but the white doctors can't. Mercy Jane, you git the key out of my westcoat pocket, and bring in that ere draw-shave; it's laying across the horse."
When the draw-shave was brought; to the great satisfaction both of Rich and his patient, considerable rust was found on the edge. Avery had ground it the afternoon he cut himself, and only drawn a few strokes before he inflicted the wound, and the water from the grinding, still on the edge, caused it, after lying, to rust. Rich, carefully scraping the rust from the tool (about enough to cover the point of a penknife), applied it to the wound. He next produced several large plasters of different colors, red, black, green, blue, and yellow.
"What are them plasters spread with?" said the patient.
"Indeed, Mr. Avery, that is an affair of my own."
"I'll warrant it. That's allers the way with doctors."
"Neither will I apply it, or go one step farther, unless you will solemnly promise me that you will observe strictly my directions as to diet, and stay in your bed or your chair, and keep the limb still."
"Well, I will, I sartainly will. I'll do jist zactly as you tell me to."
"See that you don't forget it the moment I am out of the room; if you do, it will be the worse foryou, that's all, for those are plasters of tremendous power, and if you do not, you will have something horribilis, aspectu horridus, detestabilis, abominandus."
Rich held up his hands in horror and made an awful face. They were indeed of tremendous power, and had they been applied to his flesh instead of to the draw-shave, would soon have put him beyond the cares and trials of this stormy life. One, the green, was made of hog's lard, beef tallow, and verdigris; the blue, of beeswax, linseed oil, and Prussian blue; the black, of the same materials, colored with lampblack; the red, with vermilion, a mercurial compound, quicksilver, and sulphur; and the yellow with gamboge. Rich now produced several large rolls of bandages, and, after strewing the plasters with brick dust, applied them to the knife, and then enveloped the whole in fold over fold of the bandage, till the knife was as large as a man's thigh.
"Now," he said to Mrs. Avery, "this must be put where no rat, mouse, cat, or any other creature can get at it."
"I'm sure," said she, "I don't know of any safer place than the oven. We've got two; and one I don't use often."
"Well, put it in the oven."
After Rich left, Avery said,—
"Wife, Mr. Richardson knows a lot; he'll make a great doctor."
"I expect he will. But, husband, you must keep still, and do jist as he told you, and mustn't hanker after pork and beans. You know what he said—'if you didn't, it would be worser for you.' And what them awful outlandish words meant I don't know; but I expect they meant you'd die right off if you didn't do everything jist as he said."
"Well, I mean to keep as still as a mouse. You must tell me when I don't."
When Rich again visited his patient, he said,—
"Mr. Avery, there has been a very marked improvement in your leg, and it will soon be well, if you continue to follow implicitly my directions."
"I knew that would do the business. It begun to feel better the minute you put them ere plasters on to the draw-shave."
In a short time it was well; and, lest our young readers should attribute the cure to the wrong means, we would say that, Mr. Avery being in years, his flesh healed slowly, and, as he was of a nervous temperament, kept irritating his wound all the time by motion, and refused to govern his appetite. This conduct aggravated the difficulty. Whereas his faith in the strange remedy appealing to the superstitious sentiments of his nature, and fear of the terrible consequences couched under the Latin of Rich, kept him quiet, and effected the cure by giving nature time to operate.
Rich had now accumulated a little money, and resolved to visit his patients, attend medical lectures at Brunswick, and see Morton on his way. He accordingly employed Perk to finish out the term, as part of the period of his absence would be during the vacation. As his funds were by no means excessive, he made the journey on foot, with the exception of a few miles of the first part of the way, over which he was carried by Dan Clemens.
It was near night on the second day, and Rich, weary, hungry, and foot-sore, had been for some time expecting to come in sight of a village where was a tavern; but none appeared. At length his patience was exhausted, and arriving at a substantial-looking farm-house, he knocked, and inquired of the farmer, who came at the summons, how far it was to the next tavern.
"Well, 'tis good three miles; yes, strong that." But noticing the disappointed look of Rich, said, "Young man, you look tired. If you'll stop with me, you shall be welcome to such as we have."
Rich gladly accepted the invitation, and was ushered into the kitchen, where he found the farmer's family, consisting of his wife, two sons, and two daughters. One of the daughters immediately rose, pulled the table into the floor, put on the tea-kettle, and, as Rich thought (who was veryhungry, for he had eaten since morning only a luncheon), provided a meal about as speedily as he had ever seen it done in his life.
"My mother," thought he, "couldn't do better than that."
Rich was at first surprised that neither the mother nor elder sister gave any assistance to this young woman in preparing an extra meal, but continued their sewing. He afterwards, however, ascertained that the thrifty mother brought up her daughters to take their week around in the kitchen doing the cooking; and that it was this daughter's week. After making ready for Rich, she began to iron at a table in the corner of the room, and when he finished, cleared away the dishes, and resumed her ironing. He was very much struck with the domestic accomplishments of the young woman, and thought her extremely good-looking; but this might be owing to the fact, that, being very hungry, he felt grateful for a bountiful meal so speedily provided; his habits of thought as a physician also led him to notice that she was well-formed and in fine health.
His boots off, seated before a cheerful fire, and well fed, Rich forgot his fatigue, and passed a most pleasant evening. He endeavored several times to draw into conversation Miss Caroline; but she stuck to her ironing, and merely replied to his questions politely.
At bed-time he said to the farmer,—
"Mr. Conant, I will settle with you before I go to bed, as I mean to start by sunrise."
"But you will not start on a day's walk without breakfast."
"I will get my breakfast at the next village. That will divide the forenoon about right; and after walking three miles I shall be 'sharp set' for eating."
"Mr. Richardson, I can contrive better than that. I shan't take a cent for your keeping, and William will put the horse in the sleigh and take you to the village. He was going to start early to carry something to market there. You will have your breakfast, and be well started on your journey, and when you come back, make it in your way to call here. We shall be right pleased to see you. I'll give you a lift on your way."
The next morning Rich was up by break of day, and found that William had harnessed the horse, and Caroline had the breakfast ready. He now found her rather less reserved, and went away with a most favorable impression of her intelligence.
After a very delightful visit at home, where he found everything pleasant and prosperous, his parents on the original homestead, with every prospect of soon owning it, seeing Morton and enjoying a glorious time with him, by some singular combination of circumstances he was again overtaken by night at farmer Conant's door whenit never looked more like a storm, which indeed came that night, and Rich was obliged to stay there two days, which, however, passed very pleasantly.
When Rich returned, shortly after the commencement of the summer term, he was joyfully welcomed by his pupils. In the course of ten days he received a box by the stage, of quite modest proportions, that was instantly transferred to the harness-room, and respecting the reception of which Rich seemed very much interested, having been several times to the stage tavern to inquire about it.
This box contained all the bones of the human frame; and no wonder that Rich was concerned about their arrival, considering his intense interest in the study of anatomy, and furthermore, the low state of his funds, and that they cost him but five dollars.
It was customary for the lecturer to procure subjects for dissection (in what way was best known to himself), for any students who wished this opportunity of private study and dissection, at twenty dollars apiece. Rich clubbed with three more and bought one. After they had dissectedand made a study of the different parts in which each felt most specially interested, the bones remained. To secure and put these together properly, so as to form an entire and perfect skeleton, repairing the damages made by the dissecting saw on the skull, to get at the brain, was a great deal of work, and required not only anatomical knowledge, but great patience and no small degree of mechanical skill; and the other students, who were able to purchase skeletons already prepared, and possessed neither the patience nor mechanical ability to perform the work, and, moreover, liked Rich, gave him their portion of the bones.
To prepare, classify, and wire them together was a most congenial as well as profitable occupation to Rich; it fixed the arrangement, names, and shape of the bones and articulations in his mind, and also gratified his mechanical tastes; and he in the course of the summer accomplished the work, during the performance of which his practice in working iron stood him in good stead, as he replaced the spinal marrow by an iron rod, cut a thread on each end, and made thumb-nuts with which to confine the vertebral column.
The fact of his having attended medical lectures at Brunswick, coupled with his previous success in some cases of minor importance, increased very much the confidence of people in general touching his ability as a physician, and he had numerouscalls, to all of which he turned a deaf ear, devoting himself entirely to his scholars and studies.
At length circumstances concurred to place him in a position of great perplexity, and one where he was, as it were, compelled to assume a responsibility from which he would gladly have been excused. Dan Clemens, Frank Merrill, and Horace Williams had natural history, in the form of ornithology, "on the brain." If these youngsters didn't sit on eggs, they dreamed of them. It would be difficult to mention anything they would not do for Rich when the remuneration was arare bird, shot and stuffed.
To be soaked to the skin, and so tired they could scarcely put one foot before the other, were pastimes when birds were ahead; and to obtain eggs they would venture life and limb. The fatigue of soldiers on a forced march was trifling in comparison with what they cheerfully endured; and their mothers, during the spring and summer months, were in a state of chronic anxiety, expecting nothing less than their being brought home with broken bones.
One Saturday afternoon they were all in swimming with a crowd of boys who took not the least interest in their favorite study; but one of them, while undressing under a leafy elm, at whose roots the boys were accustomed to put their clothes, espied the nest of a Baltimore oriole, and told Dan, who was in the water with Frank and Horace.They instantly dressed, and began to look with longing eyes at the nest that was pendent from the extremity of a slender branch near the top of the tree, and on its southern side.
"We can't get that nest," said Horace, "for we can't climb the tree, it's so far to a limb. If we could climb it, the limbs won't bear a fellow to reach the nest."
"Yes, we can," said Dan; "we must have those eggs. You give me a boost. I'll bet I can climb it."
"If you do, you can't reach the nest."
"I can tell better after I get there."
Dan did his best, but had to give it up; so did Horace. Frank was the best climber of the three, though of lighter weight than the others, and less plump—an exceedingly agile and sinewy boy. He did not, however, relinquish his efforts and slide reluctantly down the trunk till he was within three feet of the lowest limb.
"If you could only boost me up that much I fell short, I could go it," said Frank, "after I rest and get breath."
"Let us," said Dan, "pile up a great heap of stones, one of us stand on that, and the rest put Frank's feet on his shoulders."
"No; get some nails and a hammer, and nail some pieces of board on the tree," said Horace.
"Zuckers! I know how you can git up," said a barefooted, red-headed boy of twelve, whosehat-rim was nearly torn off thrashing bumblebees on thistle blossoms, and who didn't go to the academy nor any other school, save a few weeks in the winter, and who lived on a farm three miles from the village, but had the presumption to come there and go in swimming with the academy boys, because it was the best place on the river, and who could swim like a fish.
"You shut up," said Frank. "How much doyouknow about it? And what business haveyouthere inourswimming-place?"
"Tain't none ofyourplace, nuther; it's Mr. Seth Hardin's pastur. I've good right here's you have. If you touch me, I'll heave a stone at your head, and I'll tell our Sam, and he'll give you a lickin'."
"What is the way, bub?" said Dan, too anxious to get the eggs to fling away any chance of success. "What do you know about it?"
"I know our Sam would git up that tree quick as a cat would lick her ear, I swanny."
"How, bub?"
"Arter plantin', dad allers gives Sam half a day to go troutin' and git elum rine (elm rind) to string our corn, and me and Abigail allers go too. Sam takes the axe and starts a strip of bark at the butt of a tree, till he can git his hands hold; then he gives it a twitch, and rips it up clear to the limbs; then he starts another one till he gits enough. Arter that he takes hold of oneon 'em, and climbs up jist like nothin', and cuts 'em all off but one rope that he saves to come down on. They break off sometimes when there's a knot-hole; they won't run over a knot-hole. Abigail and me has jolly times swingin' on the ropes afore he cuts 'em off, and strippin' 'em into twine arter he takes the outside bark off, and windin' 'em into big balls."
The inner bark of the elm, cedar, bass, and willow is very strong and tough; when peeled from the outside layer and soaked in water it makes a very good substitute for twine. Our ancestors were taught the value of it by the Indians, and used it to string their corn and bind sheaves, and some old-fashioned people have not yet abandoned the practice. Getting elm rind and cutting withe rods were always popular with the boys, as it gave them part of a holiday.
"That's it," said Dan; "I see it all now. Here, bub."
He gave him three cents, upon which little Red-head put his bare feet to the ground and went off at a killing pace.
An axe was procured at Seth Harding's, and a strip of bark peeled from the butt of the tree to one of the lower limbs.
"Let us all go up," said Horace. "We will stay in the tree and take the nest from Frank. He's the lightest to go out on the limb."
Frank, taking hold of the piece of bark, put hislegs around the tree, and pulled himself up, ascending in this way quite easily. Too impatient to wait, Dan and Horace followed suit, all three ascending at the same time.
In their haste and anxiety to run the bark as far up as possible, in order to reach one of the lower limbs easily, they ran it too far, within a few inches of the place where the branch joined the tree. The result of this was, that when they were pretty well up the trunk, Frank incautiously pressing the bark from the tree with his knees, it started the second time and ran out on the limb. Away swung the boys, far off from the trunk, in mid-air. The bark kept running narrower and narrower, as the limb grew smaller, till, its farther progress being suddenly arrested by a number of small limbs, it divided up and broke, while the boys came down into the water, amid the shouts and laughter of the rest, who were either swimming or putting on their clothes.