my mind to obey the doctor in all things whether I thought his advice was right or not, but since he had not forbidden me to climb any steep place I thought I had a right to do as I pleased. Well, the second day I got up a little blood, but thought it had come from my nose, so went to the same spot again the next day. The third day I found several rubies but, not knowing anything of the nature of such a procedure, I said nothing and went back again on the fourth day. This time I got up a little more than ever, and spoke to the nurse about it, and, of course, was immediately shut off from all walking for a while. I tell you all this simply to show you that, beyond a shadow of doubt, I certainly had tuberculosis at that time. Later on, after I had been well for several years, there were a great many people who said to me, "You didn't nave any tuberculosis." My own mother went so far as to say that she didn't believe that I had ever had it. I didn't blame them, for I looked well, felt well, and in fact I was well, and stayed well for ten years.

I took the cure very faithfully in Asheville and improved very rapidly for ten weeks, at which time my business was in such shape that I was forced to return home, very much against the advice of Dr. Minor, who said it would be almost suicidal to take up any kind of work just then. But at that time my children were small and I had not taken my wife into my confidence as much as I should have done, and therefore she knew but very little about my business. So, promising everybody concerned in the matter that I would guard faithfully both business and health, I landed at home again the first of April and went to work the next day. I took the cure very faithfully at home every minute I could, but my business was of such a nature that I was on the jump every day for eight hours. The evenings always found me at home, and nine out of every twenty-four hours were spent in bed. I always had nourishing food and ate my meals regularly, resting before and after each meal. I never allowed myself to worry over anything and was always chuck full of faith in a permanent cure. I continued to improve all the time, and within a few months I felt as well and strong as I ever did.

At the end of three years, although feeling fine as a fiddle, I returned to Asheville, a distance of over five hundred miles, was examined by the same doctors as before, and found to be absolutely free from any symptoms of T. B. Dr. Minor said I was in "bully shape." The x-ray showed the old scars, but fully healed.

For the next seven years no man ever worked harder than I did. But at the same time no man ever enjoyed better health than I did. While I worked hard and sometimes worked longer hours than I meant to do, at the same time I made it a point never to work on my nerves. That is, when I began to feel a little tired, I quit and rested. I always avoided damp, stuffy places and lived where

the drainage was good and the air free from smoke and dust.

Now I had lived for ten years so strong and well, having been examined during that time perhaps twenty-five times in all by doctors in general practice, as well as by five specialists, all of whom pronounced me to be in strictly first-class shape. I was accepted for insurance, even after recording of my breakdown from T. B. I kept well for ten years, and believe firmly that I could have kept well indefinitely afterwards if I had only kept the faith and lived as I should. Is there any reason why I should not have remained well after I had stood the test for ten years? I can see none. Now here is when the foolkiller would surely have caught me had he been around, and it would have been a Godsend to me if he had, for he would no doubt have saved me from a second breakdown.

There may be some question about breaking down more easily the second time than the first, but, believe me, it surely is a man's job to get cured the second time. There have been many second as well as third cures made. That is, the cases have been arrested the second and third time. But, in my opinion, it is certainly a mistake to place such a burden upon nature when it can be avoided. I had a friend once, a young doctor who, at the time I formed his acquaintance, was taking the cure the fifth time, and was still just as hopeful as the fellow taking his first.

I don't know why, but somehow I felt stronger after ten years of good health than ever before, and was really simple enough to think that I would never break down again, I got back into the old habits of working long hours, going to shows, card-parties, etc., staying up until all hours of the night, eating at any old time and sleeping whatever time I had left. Trouble soon began, and as a result I have now been fighting the "cure" for more than a year, and the end is not yet.

I still have a hard fight before me, but, believe me, when I die it is going to be with Poor my boots on and facing the enemy. fool that I was, when I could have remained well perhaps to a ripe old age, had I continued to make a few sacrifices and follow the doctor's advice. I say sacrifices, but I do not mean quite what the language implies, from the fact that they are not half so bad as they appear on first sight. You give up a few pool games at a time when you need rest much more than you do amusement. decline a few invitations from some hardy bucks to go on a long hunting or fishing trip (hikes), and miss a few drinks of good old corn liquor.

You

But after staying at home and getting fully acquainted with your own family, you are surprised at finding so much real pleasure in being with them. Then you rest in the evenings, sleep peacefully through the whole night and get up in the mornings feeling like (Continued on page 252)

The rain, splashing madly at the bare Arizona mountain peaks, slapped Herbert Sites viciously. A tiny streamlet flowed down the triangle of red kerchief at the back of his neck. Jumping from his restive bronco and tying the animal deftly, he knocked with a fat fist against the door of the rudely constructed pine shack which promised unexpected protection from the storm. There was no answer, and, without waiting longer, the traveler pushed his way into the bare room.

Upon the bed lay the emaciated body of a man whose face appeared ghastly in the faint light that came through the one window.

"Welcome, my friend!" he greeted in a low voice as he stretched out a claw-like hand. The visitor ignored the gesture, but the exertion had caused the sick man a fit of coughing and he fell back painfully.

Herbert Sites took off his coat, wrung the water out, and hung it upon a nail not far above the rusted stove, in which, however, there was no fire.

"I reckon, Bo, I'll make myself ter home,” he boomed as he scattered a neat pile of clothes off a chair by the bedside and swung it against the board table with such force as almost to deposit the dishes upon the dirt floor. The sick man winced but smiled.

His guest was hungry and helped himself unhesitatingly to bread and potatoes, adding also the contents of a tin of beef which he found unopened.

When he had almost finished his meal, he looked toward the window. He had hopes of the abatement of the rain. This hope would soon be fulfilled, he thought. Already it had slackened. He noticed now, with startled eyes, the gleam of metal buttons upon a coat which hung by the window. He had wanted to escape everything military. He glanced at the man through narrowed slits of shifting eyes. Perhaps the sick man, too, wished freedom.

"Soldier?" he queried.

"No, not now. I volunteered and was sent not to France, but to the Philippines. At Honolulu they discovered tuberculosis, consumption, you'd call it. They sent me back to the States, Letterman Hospital, California. Then I was discharged after several months. It's taken me again, quick, hard."

He looked wistfully at his beloved uniform. Herbert knew from that look that the sick man had never once entertained a thought disloyal to his country.

"I wish," the sick man resumed, "that since I must give up my life, it could have been for my country. My wife would wish it, too. Poor girl! She's been over in France for a long time, ever since the war started. If I could only have helped some!" Tears dimmed his eyes. He had wanted so much to fight.

Herbert Sites was stung by the sick man's loyalty. "Your wife! Bah! My wife had ambitions also. Patriotism she called it. Maybe so. Catch me satisfying Molly's wish! Not much. I want ter live. I've had near on two months of freedom from her and work. What's yer wife's advice brung yet? Sickness. Maybe death."

He placed some beef between two chunks of bread and continued eating without a glance at the face of the sick man. He was glad that the rain had nearly ceased. It would give him a chance to find out how many sheep and horses the fellow owned. If he was to reach Corlys he must have money. To take the stock and sell would be easy. Bah! Almost too easy.

He shoved back the chair in which he had been sitting, not troubling to replace the sick one's clothes. As he put on his coat he said: "Old boy, yeh ain't so bad off as yeh think yeh air." To himself he chuckled, "But yeh will be soon."

The man groaned. The visitor noticed that he had possessed himself of tablet and pencil, but gave him no attention as he stumbled out through the drizzling rain on a tour of inspection.

"Fifty sheep and three hosses," he ruminated a half hour later, one foot upon the rough stone that served as door step. He stumbled in entering and swore a repulsive oath. But the sick man heard nothing. His eyes were closed. A gush of red flowed from his mouth and stained the covers. His forehead was cold.

Herbert mechanically picked up the tablet which lay upon the bed not far from the splotch of red. The pencil still rested in the limp hand. An unaddressed envelope fell from between the leaves of the tablet. Herbert replaced it before he paused to read what was written upon the first page: "Dear Wife:

"It is not as I would have it. I came here to be free, to breathe the free mountain air and live. But I am stifling! I can no longer escape my destiny. My coming grieved you, I know. Grieve no more; I am going.

"But remember, remember always that I loved you. You were the only woman in my life. Now as I go, I love you. Remember always my love for you and my loyalty to the United States."

Herbert Sites chucked the tablet into his pocket. "Now, wouldn't my Mollie be tickled to get this 'ere letter. Wouldn't she though?" He grinned at the thought of his buxom wife and her hope of his enlisting.

"I was goin' to sleep a bit, but the sheep and the down-hill path come easier than lookin' at this carcass," he muttered.

Soon the sheep and few horses were herded together and Herbert Sites, mounted on his black broncho, drove the animals before him down the mountain path in the face of a recommencing storm. The rain, which at first dropped gently, began to sweep over them with blinding fury. Except for vivid flashes which illumined the way, everything became black. On they labored. Then suddenly, a shaft of light more vivid than the rest, and broncho and rider fell limp upon the stony trail over which the water streamed.

"Dead as a door nail! Lightnin'," was the verdict of nature's appointed ones.

They took his personal effects,—a knife, a pistol, and a card addressed evidently to his wife, "Mrs. Herbert Sites," but with only the salutation written upon it. In an inside pocket they found a letter written upon a tablet page.

When they reached town they asked the postmaster to address the envelope which they had discovered tucked away in the leaves of the tablet. Enclosing the letter, they posted it, not yet having courage to add that the man upon whom they found the writing was dead.

Mrs. Herbert Sites finished reading the letter the postman had just brought her. She raised her blond eyebrows and her arms simultaneously, while her face radiated happiness.

"Glory! Glory! Herbert is going, after all. I someway felt as though he could not be a slacker."

In speaking to-night in behalf of those of our profession who have dealt with the problems presented by tuberculosis in its many relationships to this great war, I could dwell with great pride on the manner in which these physicians most of them with serious health problems of their own-have borne their part along with their brother practitioners. But I have a higher duty and a greater privilege than that. They are, I know, willing one and all to let their records speak for them. They would ask instead that I deliver a special message to you; that I tell you of what we feel the war has taught us; that I ask you to aid us in making a dream come true.

Our great lesson of this war has been the realization of the extent to which chronic diseases, nervous and vascular troubles, tuberculosis and venereal diseases, weigh upon us and impede our progress. We realize anew that our control of these is most imperfect, and that our immediate endeavors must lie in that field. Had we known as much four years ago, the operation of our draft law would have given us the greatest chance in all our history to do real preventive work. The health of this nation was wrapped up in that of those draft rejects, the tuberculous, venereal, or nervous cases that were sent back absolutely unnoticed into their homes. Our National Tuberculosis Association did its best to reclaim this lost opportunity. As soon as the records were available, we copied and put into the hands of the several state health authorities the names and addresses and physical findings of the 61,964 men rejected for tuberculosis, but these were not available until long after the men had been rejected and when the real opportunity had passed.

When the Selective Service Act was drawn the time was too short to think of anything but the gathering of fit fighting men, and we gathered them. But the eyes of the tuberculosis workers have been opened to the possibilities of such records if the opportunity is ever presented again—and, please God, we have it in our power to see that it does present. "If we can dream and not make dreams our master,

If we can think and not make thoughts our end."

I stood bareheaded and with my heart in my eyes and watched the parade of one of our returned Divisions. There was about those boys a vigor, a spirit of unity, and an atmosphere of cleanliness, mental, moral and physical, such as we never saw before. They were, as a friend expressed it, “like a breath of fresh air blowing through a tired world." There was in that parade a new high note

Address at the Victory Meeting of the American Medical Association, at Atlantic City, June 11, 1919.

never before sounded in our American life. Do we want to keep it? You can bet your life we do! And we can do it in only one way.

My message to you from the physicians doing tuberculosis work is this: We must have Universal Military Service as a health measure, and if the physicians and surgeons of America will wake up to this fact and put forth their united efforts, we can get it. We have coming back to active participation in our public life 2,500,000 men, with a new vision of personal and public hygiene, a new sense of responsibility, and a new appreciation of the value of discipline.

And back of these we have our women, who have watched their boys go out physically soft and often easygoing in habits, and who have welcomed back clear-eyed men who have learned to stand on their own two feet and look death in the face.

What greater backing could any leader ask for; and what more logical leader could such a movement have than the united medical profession of America?

Is it so hard to dream of a plan where each boy as he comes to the age of 18 shall be given six months' intensive service in a Government camp in his own state? Is it too much, with our recent experience to back us, to dream of an act so drawn as to give us the complete physical records of these boys on file with the United States Public Health Service and with their state health officials?

Can you not visualize what this would do in the detection of latent, chronic diseases in their curable stages, in the prevention of venereal diseases, tuberculosis, and nervous and cardiac disorders?

With six months of intensive training in personal and public hygiene, would not the added worth of our young men to their native states far outbalance the cost of these camps? And, finally, would we not be certain that with men so trained we need never again fear having to say to our good allies, who bore the long brunt of battle on the Western and Southern fronts, "Wait, we are not ready?"

Men of the American Medical Association: "On our own heads, in our own hands The sin and the saving lies!"

In behalf of the National Tuberculosis Association I come here to beg of this great organization that it will take energetic, official action to the end that in state and local medical societies, in the press, and, above all, in the homes of this land where we speak with the weight of authority, we urge our people day in and day out to give us universal military service as the greatest of all public health measures. If we can get them to do this we will in turn have given our country the greatest of all great services ever rendered it by any body of men in its history.

The twilight was gathering on a late winter afternoon. The night nurse was tired. In her room she sat half relaxed in a large rocking chair. A small gas heater glowed at her feet, and a study-lamp shone down upon a ragged Bible that lay open in her lap. She was buried in reverie. A well-loved verse on that ragged page had started the reflection— "and hope maketh not ashamed."

The slanting rays of the afternoon sun touched the tree-tops that swing in the breeze just outside the hospital window. It had been a bright May day, but it lingered at its closing just long enough to leave an aching heart. The tree-tops, the sunshine, the blue sky, the shifting clouds; these for many a day had been her landscape.

The night nurse did not wear a white uniform then; she wore a white night-gown and lay quietly thinking again in a little white bed-thinking, oh, such thoughts she sees the doctor by her bedside. "I have tuberculosis, O God!" The sunshine withdraws from the tree-tops; the shaddows gather; the battle rages. No one can help. "Will she never be well again, are all her hopes dead, her ambitions blighted?" These thoughts come with such vehemenence as only despair can inspire. The tears roll down her cheeks and wet the pillow.

"O Lord, give me comfort from Thy word," and these words came like a gleam of light from God's own presence. "And hope maketh not ashamed." "4-17-11" was the date beside the text that night, but in the worn Bible in her lap were two dates. The other is "1-6-13."

The scene changes-it is a frosty morning and the ground is covered with snow. The night nurse is making her way to the doctors' office. To the west the Rockies are a great white wall. Their sharp peaks and lesser foothills rise irregularly. The rugged majesty had overcome her, but now she is only dimly conscious of their presence. "What would the doctor say?" The developments of the next half hour fill her with apprehension. "Good morning, how are you? You're looking well."

"Sick through and through. I'm feeling miserable. Caught a hard cold and have been coughing."

A few minutes later a doctor stands on each side of the examination table with a stethoscope. Thoroughly and carefully they go over the lungs.

"Inactive; your cold has involved your larynx and not your lungs."

It is with lighter steps she treads the snowy paths that lead away from the doctor's office. "God's plans know no haste and no delay." "And hope maketh not ashamed."

Oh!

We're in the land, the land of T. B. (But no one is here who is willing to be). A bit of the same world as is your own town (A bit of the same world, but turned upside down),

For out in the world of which you are a part, If you want to succeed you must work with a heart;

You must work with a vim, with your head and your hands,

If you want to press forward, for fast run the sands.

As the White Queen to Alice in Wonderland said,

"Now this is the way, if you go straight ahead, If you want to stand still, run with might and with main,

But to get anywhere, run as fast twice again!" Now, out in the world of which you are a part, That's the way you must travel to get even a start.