em mass at the
church of one of his favorite rectors. All Broadway was there, more
flowers, his latest song read from the altar. Then there was a carriage
procession to a distant Catholic graveyard somewhere, his friend, the
rector of the church, officiating at the grave. It was so cold and
dreary there, horrible. Later on he was removed to Chicago.

But still I think of him as not there or anywhere in the realm of space,
but on Broadway between Twenty-ninth and Forty-second Streets, the
spring and summer time at hand, the doors of the grills and bars of the
hotels open, the rout of actors and actresses ambling to and fro, his
own delicious presence dressed in his best, his "funny" stories, his
songs being ground out by the hand organs, his friends extending their
hands, clapping him on the shoulder, cackling over the latest idle yarn.

Ah, Broadway! Broadway! And you, my good brother! Here is the story that
you wanted me to write, this little testimony to your memory, a pale,
pale symbol of all I think and feel. Where are the thousand yarns I have
laughed over, the music, the lights, the song?

Peace, peace. So shall it soon be with all of us. It was a dream. It is.
I am. You are. And shall we grieve over or hark back to dreams?

_The County Doctor_

How well I remember him--the tall, grave, slightly bent figure, the head
like Plato's or that of Diogenes, the mild, kindly, brown-gray eyes
peering, all too kindly, into the faces of dishonest men. In addition,
he wore long, full, brown-gray whiskers, a long gray overcoat (soiled
and patched toward the last) in winter, a soft black hat that hung
darkeningly over his eyes. But what a doctor! And how simple and often
non-drug-storey were so many of his remedies!

"My son, your father is very sick. Now, I'll tell you what you can do
for me. You go out here along the Cheevertown road about a mile or two
and ask any farmer this side of the creek to let you have a good big
handful of peach sprigs--about so many, see? Say that Doctor Gridley
said he was to give them to you for him. Then, Mrs. ----, when he brings
them, you take a few, not more than seven or eight, and break them up
and steep them in hot water until you have an amber-colored tea. Give
Mr. ---- about three or four tea-spoonfuls of that every three or four
hours, and I hope we'll find he'll do better. This kidney case is
severe, I know, but he'll come around all right."

And he did. My father had bee