In the great storm of 1717, when the settlers' houses were almost buried in the snow, it is said that she climbed out of an upper-story window and travelled on snow-shoes through almost impassable drifts to Dudley, Mass., to visit a sick woman. The son of this noble Bathsheba was "Dr. David," the grandfather of Oliver Wendell Holmes. In 1790, Abiel Holmes was married to the daughter of President Stiles of Yale, who died without children. His second wife, and the mother of Oliver Wendell Holmes, was a daughter of Hon. Oliver Wendell, an eminent lawyer. He was descended from various Wendells, Olivers, Quinceys, and Bradstreets--names that belonged to the best blue blood of New England--and his wife was Mary Jackson, a daughter of Dorothy Quincy, the "Dorothy Q." whom Doctor Holmes has immortalized in his poem. And just here, lest some of my readers may have forgotten some parts of this delicious bit of family portraiture, I am tempted to give the entire poem: Grandmother's mother, her age I guess, Thirteen summers or something less; Girlish bust, but womanly air, Smooth square forehead, with uprolled hair, Lips that lover has never kissed, Taper fingers and slender wrist, Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade-- So they painted the little maid. On her hand a parrot green Sits unmoving and broods serene; Hold up the canvas full in view-- Look, there's a rent the light shines through. Dark with a century's fringe of dust, That was a Redcoat's rapier thrust! Such is the tale the lady old, Dorothy's daughter's daughter told. Who the painter was none may tell-- One whose best was not over well; Hard and dry, it must be confessed, Flat as a rose that has long been pressed; Yet in her cheek the hues are bright, Dainty colors of red and white; And in her slender shape are seen Hint and promise of stately mien. Look not on her with eyes of scorn-- Dorothy Q. was a lady born! Ay, since the galloping Normans came, England's annals have known her name; And still to the three-hilled rebel town Dear is that ancient name's renown, For many a civic wreath they won, The youthful sire and the gray-haired son. O damsel Dorothy! Dorothy Q., Strange is the gift that I owe to you; Such a gift as never a king Save to daughter or son might bring-- All my tenure of heart and hand, All my title to house and land; Mother and sister, and child and wife, And joy and sorrow, and death and life. What if a hundred years ago Those close-shut lips had answered, no, When forth the tremulous question came That cost the maiden her Norman name; And under the folds that look so still The bodice swelled with the bosom's thrill Should I be I, or would it be One tenth another to nine tenths me?