The Professor at the Breakfast-TableHolmes, Oliver Wendell
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The Professor at the Breakfast-Table
Holmes, Oliver Wendell
American fiction -- 19th century; Conversation -- Fiction; Poetry
At the table we were graver than common. The high chair was set back
against the wall, and a gap left between that of the young girl and
her nearest neighbor's on the right. But the next morning, to our great
surprise, that good-looking young Marylander had very quietly moved his
own chair to the vacant place. I thought he was creeping down that way,
but I was not prepared for a leap spanning such a tremendous parenthesis
of boarders as this change of position included. There was no denying
that the youth and maiden were a handsome pair, as they sat side by
side. But whatever the young girl may have thought of her new neighbor
she never seemed for a moment to forget the poor little friend who had
been taken from her side. There are women, and even girls, with whom it
is of no use to talk. One might as well reason with a bee as to the form
of his cell, or with an oriole as to the construction of his swinging
nest, as try to stir these creatures from their own way of doing their
own work. It was not a question with Iris, whether she was entitled by
any special relation or by the fitness of things to play the part of a
nurse. She was a wilful creature that must have her way in this matter.
And it so proved that it called for much patience and long endurance
to carry through the duties, say rather the kind offices, the painful
pleasures, which she had chosen as her share in the household where
accident had thrown her. She had that genius of ministration which is
the special province of certain women, marked even among their helpful
sisters by a soft, low voice, a quiet footfall, a light hand, a cheering
smile, and a ready self-surrender to the objects of their care, which
such trifles as their own food, sleep, or habits of any kind never
presume to interfere with. Day after day, and too often through the long
watches of the night, she kept her place by the pillow.
That girl will kill herself over me, Sir,--said the poor Little
Gentleman to me, one day,--she will kill herself, Sir, if you don't
call in all the resources of your art to get me off as soon as may be. I
shall wear her out, Sir, with sitting in this close chamber and watching
when she ought to be sleeping, if you leave me to the care of Nature
without dosing me.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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