except to the rare few who are truly deterred from any lack of care of themselves by religious motives. It is also common to hear that so many others would suffer by his absence that it is the duty of a patient to live. This may sometimes be true, but the wise sick man has a right to be sceptical. In any case, the truth is that most invalids do not try to live on for others but for themselves, and that it is perhaps rather a pity to talk non

sense.

water. Does not some such regimen seem to threaten us all? Do not take all the medicines, patent or otherwise, which are offered you, either freshly bought for you or no longer needed by others and about to be thrown away. There is such a thing as making yourself a mere drug or patent-medicine scavenger, as do so many penurious folk. Beyond observing the ordinary precautions as to his health, the invalid should spend his energy and his inventiveness making his life a succession of little festivals. How wise lately was France when she made camomile tea the momentary vogue instead of the infusion of the Chinese (or more often Indian) herb! And how profoundly, if unconsciously, sagacious was the young lady in the eighteenth-century English novel who found the waters of Bristol Spa, which she was ordered to drink, so "agreeably mawkish"! If a thing must be mawkish let us think that it is agreeably so. Verbum sap. A word to the wise sick man should be sufficient. He will in any case have ample time left for thought and meditation.

Of comparatively minor matters the invalid is apt to complain. And such irritation is largely the result of his condition -is pathological, in short. It is so known and partly excused by most people. But because the invalid also has this knowledge he need not excuse himself and give free rein to his talent for lamentation.

The conditions of his life are naturally all changed and by comparison with the wild, free corsair sort of fellow of his well days he seems to have become a tame domestic animal. He is behind the scenes of the home; in particular has he been removed to the women's quarters. He experiences all the small niggling care which comes to that sex (may it make him kindlier and more understanding if he ever gets well). Perhaps, for example, he may have read in articles in the Sunday papers how household economy dictates that every left-over bit of food should be tricked out in some new way and served again; he may remark acidly, as he detects the camouflaged old dishes, that every housewife, if she can, "should keep a pig as a scavenger." This only reinforces the view that every house should have a pet patient in it, if only to eat up the scraps.

Very few well persons order their lives by any scheme, but are rather the prey of impulse. It can therefore be scarcely expected that many invalids will plan. their existence. Yet it is hoped to make here some slight contributions to a philosophy which may aid them to do so. Sick folk should think sufficiently about their illness and take a reasonable amount of advice, but not too much. There is an

old story in the rural districts of an in

The sick man is in an excellent position for taking stock of what he possesses and planning to extract the most and the best from it. His most frequent complaint, in secrecy to himself, is that other people do not seem to realize that his illness is the most important thing in the world. They do not, for the excellent reason that it is not; not at all because they are hardhearted, unsympathetic, or forgetful. A young invalid beginning his career as sick man should at the outset try to realize a little of his unimportance even in his own little world. People do not watch us so closely as we think. If you are a cripple you may hobble along without fear. Even the roughest and least gentle often show amazing tact.

Invalids sometimes complain of the too boisterous and hearty good-will of those around. To hope that they see the sick man in "rude health" is the common wish of the unthinking, which tempts a patient to prove that ill-health can really be the rudest. And there is also the cloying

T

HE letters S O S, so grouped, have a multitude of meanings. Coming from a ship at sea they are a signal of distress and a plea for help; used in common speech they apply to subjects which have become distasteful through repetition. But to John Goodwin those letters described the hellish invention of some especially adept fiend.

Draw a wavering line from Verdun through Château-Thierry, and in that area south of that line, from Toul to Marseilles, you will have Goodwin's SO S. It was a maze of training camps where men were taught to load a rifle; warehouses of food, clothing, and ammunition, general and sectional headquarters, military police, and hospitals-the service of supplies. And all of it filled Goodwin with a sharp disgust.

He would have said, as he lay in one of a row of white iron beds and glared at the swarthy hospital apprentice who was trying to bluster a wounded man into taking hold of a broom, that he had always hated the SOS, hated it instinctively from the moment he had heard of it. But this would not have been true. There had been a time, from March to June, when the service of supplies seemed a desirable place to be. Unexplored, it was greatly preferable to standing in a muddy trench four hours out of every eight, sleeping in a watery dugout, and eating canned tomatoes and corned beef. It had made Goodwin anxious for a minor wound which would take him to a bed with sheets and dry blankets, where his food would be cooked and served on a plate, and toward the middle of June, as he crouched in a

noise, an explosion, and then through a cloud of thick, pungent gas he had rolled from his shelter, choking and gasping.

There was this to be admitted in favor of the SO S: at the evacuation hospital Goodwin had been given a bath and a clean suit of pajamas. And on the hospital train the Red Cross had given him a bar of chocolate. Other than that, nothing was to its credit. He had been made to stand in line for his food, his unlaced shoes sinking in the mud, a blanket thrown over his shoulders. He was told to make his own bed. The hospital attendants were bullies and thieves, the nurses were inattentive to the privates, and the doctors could have been less slipshod in their treatment of the patients. "All right, soldier. Snap out of it. Almost time for inspection.

Goodwin looked up, prepared to scowl, to curse, if necessary. But it was Hawthorne, so he asked with interest: "Got a cigarette?"

"Sure, I got a cartoon, but what good does that do? Yuh can't smoke in here." Hawthorne thrust his big brown hand in his jacket pocket and exhibited a package of cigarettes.

"Lord," Goodwin sighed. "But I wish I had my clothes."

"Git 'em," said Hawthorne with succinctness. "Git 'em."

Goodwin sat up, interested. "'Y gosh, I believe I will.'

"Go ahead," encouraged Hawthorne. "An' we'll beat it outa here." "Gosh-"

"Attention!" The hospital apprentice in charge of the ward shouted warning of the inspector's approach. A row of heads on either side of the room looked sharply toward the door: the natients in uniform

"Carry on," called the hospital ap tice as the inspecting officer left the The bodies relaxed, turning to on other to rid themselves of pent-up sp Hawthorne approached, pushing h loved overseas cap to one side of his "D'ja git it?"

Goodwin showed him the slip of "Come on, then. We'll see what w

talk outa the quartermaster. You w take everything you can lay your E on."

"Do you mean it, sure enough back to the outfit?"

"Mean it? Hell, yes, soldier. watch me." And with this assu they walked out of the ward to the missary, indistinguishable from the buildings in its sallow complexion tarred roof, its eight little windows o the side, and the setting of drab where neither trees nor grass coul seen. Only officers, nurses, and in tant-looking non-coms of the me corps strolled in twos and threes,

VMC

reminiscing over reckless supper-parties in the near-by town.

Inside the quartermaster building a bespectacled youth and a red-faced corporal stood behind a rough plank counter on which were articles of clothing. Goodwin handed the paper to the corporal, who passed it to the youth with spectacles.

"Size blouse ya wear?" asked the corporal.

Goodwin knew; he wasn't to be tricked into accepting ill-fitting garments. "Blouse, thirty-eight; underclothes, thirty-six; hat, seven and a quarter

"Matter a damn about that, buddy. I asked ya what size blouse you wore.

"I wouldn't let him call me buddy," Hawthorne seriously advised Goodwin. "I'd tell 'im the story of the apple and

continued: "Git a good pair while you're at it, soldier. Here" He drew a pair of whip-cord breeches from the pile and handed them to Goodwin. "Regular officer's britches, and they're jist your size. Now we'll pick out a blouse.'

Half an hour later the pair walked out of the building, enjoying the luxury of cigarettes. "How do I look?" asked Goodwin.

"Well, the hat's ridin' a little high an' the britches look like they was full of bricks, but the coat an' leggin's fit you fine." Hawthorne regarded him closely. "Pull up the britches and tear the band outa your hat an' you'll look like a Jigadier Brindle."

Goodwin unbuttoned his new blouse and pulled at his breeches until there was an unbroken line between the end of his spiral puttees and his hips. "Guess I'll throw away that rain-coat," he said, tearing out his hatband.