he assumed that the responsibility for the health of the community rested upon him.  He was a sort of self-constituted health officer.  He was always sniffing about for old wells and damp cellars—­and somehow, with his crisp humour and sound sense, getting them cleaned.  In his old age he even grew querulously particular about these things—­asking a little more of human nature than it could quite accomplish.  There were innumerable other ways—­how they came out to-day all glorified now that he is gone!—­in which he served the community.

Horace tells how he once met the Doctor driving his old white horse in the town road.

“Horace,” called the Doctor, “why don’t you paint your barn?”

“Well,” said Horace, “it is beginning to look a bit shabby.”

“Horace,” said the Doctor, “you’re a prominent citizen.  We look to you to keep up the credit of the neighbourhood.”

Horace painted his barn.

I think Doctor North was fonder of Charles Baxter than of anyone else, save his sister.  He hated sham and cant:  if a man had a single reality in him the old Doctor found it; and Charles Baxter in many ways exceeds any man I ever knew in the downright quality of genuineness.  The Doctor was never tired of telling—­and with humour—­how he once went to Baxter to have a table made for his office.  When he came to get it he found the table upside clown and Baxter on his knees finishing off the under part of the drawer slides.  Baxter looked up and smiled in the engaging way he has, and continued his work.  After watching him for some time the Doctor said: 

“Baxter, why do you spend so much time on that table?  Who’s going to know whether or not the last touch has been put on the under side of it?”

Baxter straightened up and looked at the Doctor in surprise.

“Why, I will,” he said.

How the Doctor loved to tell that story!  I warrant there is no boy who ever grew up in this country who hasn’t heard it.

It was a part of his pride in finding reality that made the Doctor such a lover of true sentiment and such a hater of sentimentality.  I prize one memory of him which illustrates this point.  The district school gave a “speaking” and we all went.  One boy with a fresh young voice spoke a “soldier piece”—­the soliloquy of a one-armed veteran who sits at a window and sees the troops go by with dancing banners and glittering bayonets, and the people cheering and shouting.  And the refrain went something like this: 

“Never again call ‘Comrade’
  To the men who were comrades for years;
Never again call ‘Brother’
  To the men we think of with tears.”

I happened to look around while the boy was speaking, and there sat the old Doctor with the tears rolling unheeded down his ruddy face; he was thinking, no doubt, of his war time and the comrades he knew.