Need

name one calls a sanatorium by) was not so bad. You asked how much I weigh? To be accurate, I tip the scale at 104. twenty pounds more for my height. I am going to do my best to gain it. The rules of the San are gradually sinking into my brain. We have one hour to write letters, between four and five P. M. when the windows are closed. Yes, they are open all the rest of the time. Here comes "the pleasantest nurse." She is always turning up; this time Dr. Rolleen is in the rear.

I sup

Here one month now, and really like it. I had no idea how large the San was until Dr. Rolleen allowed me to be "on exercise," which means I walk each morning to one of the pavilions. There I lie with eleven other swaddled females, on one of the cots, and sniff the air which seems as much around me as out of doors. At ten o'clock I drink a glass of milk, at twelve I eat dinner, very good and wholesome; from one to two I sleep; two to four gossip with my neighbor, provided she is gossipy, and at four I go back to my room, where supper is served at five; at six the victrola is played in the nearby ward, and at seven I am tucked in by "the pleasantest nurse" for the night.

Yesterday I started a letter to you, in my writing hour. I must have grown unusually drowsy for when I wakened up my fountain pen was on the floor, and this is what I had written: 294 patients, 180 male, 110 female, ten thousand sputum cups, 1700 rolls sanitissue toweling, advanced patients 193on exercise-ambulant-incipient-pulmonary. One of the nurses must have been going over statistics for a report in a room near mine and the habit of copying notes in college must have had its subconscious outlet in action. However, this will familiarize you with terms, so I shall inclose it.

It was perfectly elegant of Jim to suggest in such a tactful way to augment my income, but you see I am taking the money I had saved for that degree, and the board is nominal.

Miss Reed acted as a sort of reference for me and perhaps said something about my circumstances ahead of time.

I am getting to know my neighbors quite well and in my next letter will tell you about some of them, for one grows strangely confidential when tied into a sleeping-bag, on a cold-as-Greenland pavilion.

Before I arrived here I thought a warm

night and a moon or a cosy fire made for confidences, but I have learned a common despair does it too.

What are you going to do with those darling babies of yours? Love them to death, if they keep on doing such charmingly thoughtful things. I think it was the dearest thing of Betty, when Jim mentioned the fact that I might be needing money to go and get her pocketbook and offer a dime, for Cousin Kath. You ought to have sixteen children, to bring up in such a beautiful way. Yours with a ray of hope,

Kath. P. S. It is below zero. Tell Jim the sleeping-bag is the most "usefullest" thing I have to defy one Jack Frost.

P. S. If you do not understand these statistics, look up a good Bureau of Health Report.

I have heard so many stories lately I must tell someone, and that some one is you. It won't be any breach of confidence if I don't tell names, will it? Anybody is welcome to know mine if it will do any good. My neighbors change, for one can be taken off of exercise any time, but for the first week on the pavilion next to me lay the dearest girl, only twenty. It seems she was engaged to a brawny youth of twenty-one, a plumber. Just as they were thinking of getting married, it was discovered she had T. B. and the physician advised her to postpone the marriage. Wonder of wonders, she obeyed, and has promised not to marry until his permission is given. The plumber has been fine about it, and writes a letter twice a week, telling how many washers he puts on spigots, how many bathtubs he installs, and how many sinks the kitchen maids stop up. Then for the love part in his letter he draws untold XXXXXXX, like a little boy, and pathetically says, "please take as meant." He is a practical plumber, or else a courageous lover, who saves the feelings of his girl by properly restraining his pen from too much expression of loneliness.

My next neighbor now is a foreign woman, a Swede I think. She has left five children at home, the oldest ten. My heart goes out to her for it seems she must be saved. She was bashful at first, for she heard I had been a teacher, but the other day she handed me a picture of her family, and then words

came.

The plumber-lover's girl having been moved along, a school teacher takes her place. She tells me she had sixty-five little hoodlums to instill reading and writing and arithmetic into, and a mother to support. I never wished I had extra money as much as I do now. I'd see that mother was comfortable while her daughter is away, instead of having to look to relatives who don't exactly want her.

(To be concluded)

Ο

NE'S personal point of view certainly has a big effect upon what one can accomplish. You can go just as far as you can see in this world, and by that I don't mean the horizon which is discernible to the naked eye or with cheaters doctored to your proper prescription either, but as far beyond as you are capable of perceiving with a healthy imagination.

Let me illustrate: One day I was driving my tin Lizzy along over what purported to be a country road, when I came upon what was pretending to be a town. Not that it was making any very obvious effort about it, however. I should say that sometime in the past a couple of tramps had been thrown off the train thereabouts and, feeling too discouraged to go any farther, they established Presto. At any rate, whoever got the idea of making this town had so far accomplished a post office and general store on the Siamese-twin style of architecture, a cow barn, a hen coop which had lately been promoted to the rank of gasoline station, besides two half-portion bungalows. The railroad company had thrown in a secondhand depot, and there was also the usual real-estate signboard to the effect that this

was

PRESTO-ON-THE-RAILROAD. BEAUTIFUL HOME SITES. LOTS FOR SALE. ONE DOLLAR DOWN AND A DOLLAR WHEN WE CATCH YOU. WHY NOT BUILD HERE?

Stopping Lizzy beside the only citizen in sight, I aroused him from his Rip Van Winkle long enough to answer a question. "Why Presto?" I asked.

The old boy untangled his whiskers from about his feet and stood up. "Young lady," says he, pointing, "it's called that because are very centrally located here. you see that railroad station yonder? Well, you can go any place in the world from that!"

we

Do

This remark of Father Time's registered

heavily with me, and I at once read into it one of those personal interpretations which can be suggested by anything if we are ripe for a particular bit of knowledge. I took him to mean that one can accomplish wonders, provided one really desires to. Of course he may not have intended any such wise crack, but acting upon my understanding of it I have since made many a long journey, and of these none has been more astonishing to me than the road from slimness to fatness and from fatness to a perfectly normal weight.

A few months ago I wrote an article for The Saturday Evening Post in which I told half the truth concerning this experience. That is to say, I described the alchemy by which one might grow thin. Having by certain methods got rid of a lot of weight, I thought it would be a kindly act to pass along the how. The fact that I had lost fifty pounds in seven months, after having jumped from ninety-eight pounds to one hundred and eighty-seven, would, I believed, bring forth a large, interested response. It did. From thin folks who wanted to know how I had grown fat. I will now oblige with the story of that earlier experience.

Three Causes of Light Weight

At the age of nineteen, and the weight of ninety-eight I was not extra-specially worried about my slimness except as it affected my collar bone. Of course in those quaint, old-fashioned days us society buds wore, with our evening gowns, waists which were recognizable as such. But unfortunately even these naïve bodices did not go all the way up, if you get me. They left the collar-bone entirely exposed except for the conventional dangling freshwater pearl on its thread of woven gold chain.

In those days I was so thin I could have worked as a model in a spaghetti factory. You might have parked a pint of water in the hollows of my neck, and when I got

a comparatively simple matter to ruffle up a little muslin at home and pin the result across the front of one's corset cover, so that one's Gibson shirtwaist stuck out satisfactorily.

And so, taking things by and large, I was struggling along with my slimness without undue discomfort, when quite unexpectedly a serious reason for discontent overtook me. I threatened to pull a Camille.

I put it lightly, but it was no light matter for me, except when I stepped on the scales. Ninety-eight pounds and a spot on one lung is a pretty poor combination, particularly if one is also a wage earner whose money is needed by the rest of the family. The doctor said it nicely, but it was hard to stand up under, just the same. Two years, if I obeyed him implicitly, was what he gave me. He was a leading authority on tuberculosis, but he was wrong about me. For he counted on perhaps a 50 per cent. adherence to his rules on my part, whereas I made it 100 per cent. faithful, and fooled him. At the end of that two years I weighed one hundred and eightyseven pounds and he pronounced me cured. I have had no return of the trouble, although I have, since my period of probation, lived a perfectly normal life, have a healthy child, and have done my work with joy and regularity.

Now just for luck I am going to give the regimen which cured me. It may not suit your case. Indeed, I hope sincerely that you have no such case to suit. But at least it certainly cannot hurt you to try my methods if you are desirous of putting on weight. However, the cruel fact is that if you persistently remain thin in spite of a normal diet, and are only moderately active, the chances are that there is something wrong with you. For heaven's sake see a doctor. See him anyway before you try my prescription; let him read it Pasthrough, and that will let me out. sengers will take this flight at their own risk.

Roughly speaking there are three main causes for a twelve-and-a-half collar on a neck which ought to demand a seventeen: First, disease; second, an easily correctible chemical deficiency in the organism of your body; and third and most likely, misspent lunch money. I want to lecture separately on these three subjects, and am going to grab off the most unpleasant one first and get rid of it, partly because T. B. is the instinctive fear of every overthin individual, and also because my own thickeningup process occurred in this connection. And again because T. B. is so obviously curable, provided, first, that you catch it in time: second, that you follow the rules absolutely; third, that you keep on doing so until the doc says yes, you can have one smokę a day.

High Life in New York

It was the belief of the physician who effected my cure that tuberculous patients should and could get well in the climate where they are obliged by their business to live. He considered it a mistake to send a man from Long Island out to Colorado unless the Long Islander was going to send for the other trunk and ice box and everything, and make Colorado his headquarters for the rest of his life. In other words, the theory was that though Colorado would probably cure, a return to Long Island would occasion a relapse. I had, by reason of my circumstances, to live in New York City, and so the roof of my apartment house was the change of climate prescribed. For a period of eight months I spent twelve hours a day lying in a steamer chair on that roof, and it was there that I wrote my first novel. The winter was severe that year, as it has a way of being in Manhattan, and the roof of 501 Fifth Avenue was often covered with snow. I wore gloves, and mittens over the gloves, and wrote eighty thousand words with a lead pencil up on that snowclad city peak. The novel, incidentally, found a publisher. By which I mean no brag beyond pointing out that I could and did keep on with my work. Two hours a day were spent indoors, receiving friends, and so on. I even gave, during that winter, a costume party, to which I went in the character of Madame Récamier, for a part of the treatment was that on days when I ran any temperature I was to lie down and not get up until the temperature departed. So life, you see, for such a patient need not be all hardship. At the end of the eight months I weighed one hundred and thirty pounds and was considered well enough to move about occasionally.

Now here are the rules I followed:

I. Never under any circumstances or in any weather remain in a room or a conveyance where all the windows are closed. Never.

II. Never walk an unnecessary step if you have even half a degree of rectal temperature. Lie down. The fever will pass, and next day, most likely, you can move about in moderation. Take the temperature twice daily.

III. Eat no sweets. That seems a curious rule, but it is a vastly important one. Eggs and milk, green vegetables, simple meats cooked plainly, and fruit in moderation make the best diet, supplemented by thoroughly cooked cereals.

IV. Take no medicines. Especially no cough medicines, I implore you. During the two years of my illness the only medicine I took was an occasional dose of oldfashioned sirup of rhubarb, as required.

(To be concluded)

an

N the prosperous days before the war, when every Swiss earned good wages and devoted a reasonable part of them to sport, the national "Turnfest" was affair of great significance, calling people of Swiss blood from all over Europe and even from America. It was held in some one of the half dozen larger cities, which received with a royal welcome the thousands of "turners."

The war, encircling the little Confederation with flame and sword, put an end to festivities and sport on a national scale until this summer when, in St. Gallen, the famos lace and embroidery town, the National Turnfest was revived on a scale which transcended anything ever before attempted. So strong was the call to those of Swiss blood that more than 500 former residents of the Cantons traveled from America for the event.

"Turning," broadly translated, means every variety of outdoor sport, from football to wrestling, and from pole-vaulting to boxing. More literally, though, it is calisthenic exercises, largely comprising what we know as "setting-up" drill. Every village in Switzerland, however small, has an association of this nature, with its band, its banners and its marching songs. They all came to St. Gallen for the festival week in July, and its streets rang with their songs all day and most of the night.

On the Sunday morning of the "fest" week the most spectacular of all the events took place on a great playing field of more than one hundred acres, prepared and leveled like a lawn for the athletes. Marching onto the field with bands playing and flags flying an army of more than 18,000 men, all clad in spotless white, spread itself across the greensward until every square foot was occupied. Then for half an hour there was a "setting-up" drill which provided a sight to be remembered.

Whether viewed from the sides of the field or from the pine-clad hills above the city the spectacle of this immense body of men, said to be the largest ever gathered for a similar purpose in Switzerland or anywhere else, was a most impressive one. The mechanical precision of the movements, the absolute unison in which the thousands of men bowed and bent and swayed, each arm and leg seemingly moving as one, was a revelation. From a distance there was a suggestion of the sea, undulating gently before a mild breeze, showing alternately in green and white.

The drill concluded a parade through the

city followed, with a score of bands, much singing and many flowers. Each "turner" society had its great Alpine horn, as in the days of William Tell, filled with wildflowers from the mountain-sides. Many elaborate floats of historical significance recalled periods in the development of the Swiss Confederation.

Every possible variety of sport enlivened the festival days. A suggestion of the scale on which the games were held is conveyed in the long casualty list which included one killed and 67 injured. That was, of course, the deplorable feature of the great Turnfest, but it was inevitable by reason not only of the immense numbers engaged, but also because of the keen rivalry between cantons and cities. The fatal accident was a neck broken in wrestling, while the others were due chiefly to bruises, strains and broken limbs in wrestling, boxing and competitive exercises on bars and other gymnasium paraphernalia, exercises which were engaged in by hundreds at a time.

Supplementing the outdoor sports there was provided a long and elaborate programme of indoor entertainment in the evenings, for which there was erected an immense temporary structure, having a seating capacity of more than 5,000 and a stage as big as that of the New York Hippodrome. In this took place historical pageants, folk dances in the Swiss peasant costume, band and singing contests and noteworthy acts of a variety nature.

The fickle and uncertain climate of eastern Switzerland interfered little with the week of festivity and none of the frequent tropical down-pours occurred to flood the field. No world records were broken in any of the track and field events, for the contestants included only Swiss, and no one can recall that a Swiss was ever actually a world champion in any sport. Nevertheless the 100 and 200 metres were run in very fast time, and in throwing the javelin the best mark was scarcely more than a couple of metres behind the world's record. The predominance of the Swiss, however, is really in the calisthenic work including single stick drill, Indian clubs and statuesque posing in large groups. Probably nothing has ever transcended the exhibition of that sort of thing revealed in the 1922 Turnfest. Moreover the physical development of the men who have made a specialty of such work indicated very strikingly what can be achieved by so comparatively simple a thing as "setting-up" exercises.