"No, rather rare."
"Don't you send for the doctor?"
"Not often now; we did at first, but it is so frequent a visitor that we have learned to manage it ourselves."
The sickly season had fairly set in, and more afraid of it than he liked to acknowledge, Mr. Dinsmore hastened his departure, leaving for the East by the next stage.
Chapter Twentieth.
"I marked the Spring as she pass'd along,
With her eye of light and her lip of song;
While she stole in peace o'er the green earth's breast,
While the streams sprang out from their icy rest.
The buds bent low to the breeze's sigh,
And their breath went forth in the scented sky;
When the fields look'd fresh in their sweet repose,
And the young dews slept on the new-born rose."
—Willis Gaylord Clark.