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Vera, [pseud.], 1865-

"The Doctor's Daughter"

Picturesque little farm houses skirted the road
here and there, and stalwart men with their bronzed arms bared to the
elbows rested pleasantly on their instruments of toil as the train
rushed past them, shouting and waving their broad-rimmed hats until we
had left them far behind. Immediately in front of me propped up by
innumerable coats and bundles, my lady patron dozed heavily. The thick
green veil that screened her bilious expression from the general view
quivered and heaved as each deep-drawn breath escaped her powerful
nostrils. In her fat lap lay her folded hands with their half-gloves
of thick black lace, the pitiful victims of countless flies. The
exertion of eating a sandwich had sent her to sleep. The remnants of
this popular refreshment were now being actively appreciated by a
hungry, buzzing multitude that made their very best of their golden
opportunity. Her hopeful heir sat at a little distance on the same
seat twirling his thumbs with an apparently decided purpose. Once or
twice he drew his scented handkerchief from his side pocket with an
artful flourish and frightened the troublesome swarm away from his
parent's sleeping form, but seeing their undaunted determination to
restore themselves almost immediately, he respectfully stowed the
scented article away with a final flourish and re-applied himself to
the interrupted pleasure or task of twirling his thumbs with an
apparent purpose.
Busied with my own intimate thoughts I escaped an _ennui_ that would
otherwise have proved almost unbearable, and was pleasantly enough
distracted until the first monotony of fields and farm houses was
broken by the outskirts of the romantic town of Prescott--romantic,
because to the traveler who steps from the dusty afternoon train and
alights amid its unpropitious surroundings, it suggests itself
strongly as a living illustration of a "deserted village," as
melancholy to look upon as ever sweet Auburn could have been.


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