Note: I have edited this poem from one Hart found tucked in the folds of his grandmother's old Bible. Its original author is unknown. If anyone recognizes this very old poem, and knows its author, I would be happy to hear from you. Its original title was "Old Doc Brown."

Since submitting this story-poem originally, I received some very interesting information from a reader, Kat. So I have decided to re submit it. Here is Kat's input. Thanks Kat.

"I found your page doing a search for this and had to respond to your request for information on it. Online searches say Hank Snow was responsible for recording it, and R.E. Winsett wrote it; but the story I heard was different. I also know that around 1959 Johnny Cash recorded it, and the story I heard involved him.

From what I heard, the story is actually about a Dr. Fred Roberts from Brookland, Arkansas. According to my family, a member of which is a caretaker at the Pine Log Cemetery where Dr. Roberts is buried, Johnny Cash was there, and wrote that about him. I know the history of Dr. Roberts matches the story in, "Doc Brown Has Moved Upstairs." I also know that when I was a child and went to the cemetery, the headstone originally was an old hitching post with the shingle from his office hanging off of it saying "Dr. Fred Brown: Office Upstairs." After time wore away the original marker, his family replaced it with a headstone engraved with his name, dates and "Office upstairs."

He was just an old country doctor, in a little southern town. Fame and fortune had passed him by, but we never saw him frown, as day by day in his friendly way he served us one and all... Oh, many-a-patient forgot to pay; although Doc’s fees were small. But Old Doc Brown didn’t seem to mind, he never sent out bills. His one ambition was just to find a cure for our aches and ills.

I'd say, nearly half the folk in town--yes, and I am one of them too--were ushered in by Old Doc Brown on the day we made our debut. He’d drive into the country in blinding rain or snow. Regardless of whether or not he’d get paid, he was always willing to go.

Sometimes he’d just take eggs for pay, sometimes a country ham. He reminded me of a shepherd, looking after straying lambs. Although he needed all his dimes, yet when he’d get his fee, he’d pass it on to some poor soul, who needed it worse than he!

So when the Great Depression hit, and drained each meager purse, the scanty income of old Doc Brown just went from bad to worse. He had to sell his furniture; he could not pay his rent, so over the old Livery Stable, Old Doc and his satchel went. On the hitching post at the curb below, to advertise his wares, he nailed a little sign that read, “Doc Brown has moved upstairs.”

That old country Doc kept helping folk. His heart was just pure gold, but anyone with eyes could see, Doc Brown was growing old. One day he did not answer when they knocked upon his door. Old Doc was lying down inside, but his soul was there no more.

It looked like the pauper’s field for Doc, and that caused great alarm, 'til someone thought of the family plot that was out on the Simon’s Farm. Old Doc had brought six of his children in--and Simon was grateful too. "Let Old Doc Brown come and 'rest' with us. It’s the best that we can do."

Now Doc should have had a funeral fine enough for any king. It’s a ghastly joke, but our town was broke, and no one could give a thing, ‘cept Jones, the Undertaker, and he did fairly well, donating a moth eaten coffin he’d never been able to sell.

Doc's grave was covered with flowers, but not from a floral shop. They were ordinary flowers: wild flowers, with dandelion tops. For the Depression had hit us pretty hard and each one had his load, so we all just picked those flowers as we walked along the road.

His funeral wasn’t much--for richness or for style--but there were wagonloads of mourners stretched out for more than a mile. And we breathed a prayer as we laid him there, to rest beneath the sod, for all knew well that this country Doc was on speaking terms with God.

We wanted to give him a monument. We figured we owed him one; ‘cause he’d made our town a better town, by all the good he had done. But memorials cost money, so we did the best we could: we placed on his grave a monument, made of very "special" wood. It was simply that old hitching post, where Doc had nailed his sign. We trimmed it all up fancy, in white; and to us it looked mighty fine!

But time and weather has faded our trimmings of white paint, and there’s nothing left but the Doc’s old sign--even that is growing faint. Still, when the southern breezes caress our little town, and the bright moon shines through mountain pines on the grave of Old Doc Brown, there stands a silent hitching post in answer to our prayers. It proudly tells the whole wide world: Doc Brown has moved upstairs.