MEN I HAVE PAINTED
My father's early professional life was spent among the picturesque hills and valleys of northern Delaware, where he dashed along the by-roads on his fast pacing ponies, from village to village, from farm-house to farm-house, healing the sick and comforting the sorrowing, day and night, in summer's heat and winter's cold, the counterpart of many a country doctor who sacrifices himself to relieve suffering, generously, uncomplaining, and usually but poorly rewarded.
But my father had his reward. Nature had enriched him with many gifts—a strong and active physique, a mind open to any and every simple pleasure and joy that a bountiful Providence could offer, and above all, and greatest of all, a rare appreciation of beauty. Nothing escaped his observant eye, as his horse bore him along in swift stride over hill and dale; the purple shadows of snow-white clouds passing over fields of golden corn, a blue-bird flickering into a cherry-tree in bloom, a daisy here, a violet there—all that Nature possessed, both great and small, he gathered into the storehouse of his memory, where he kept them unfaded, to recall at his pleasure. And in that place, at that time, nearly one hundred years ago, Nature was rich in the small things she cultivates for her adornment.
From the first an ardent botanist, the young doctor found a fertile field for study; and much of his time was given to the collection of flora he had commenced, when a student of medicine, on the banks of the Wissahickon. And so his mind grew in the love of beauty. Nature here inspired him, schooled him with loving care, as a preparation for his future devotion to Art.
But what contrasts his life presented! In the hot summers, battling with disease and pain in close and fetid
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