The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, October 3, 1897, Page 19

R — THE SAN FRANCISCO CALL, DAY, OCTOBER 1897. 19 £PRETTY COLLEGE GIRLS WITH HIGH DRAMATIC TALENT. SCENE FROM You would suppose that among the giris averaging a thousand in yearly at- tendance at Smith College there would be found much ability in the dramatic line, and ‘you are right. Probably no other factor plays a more important part in the general college life than these same dra- matics; and it is proper and right that it should be'so, for not only do the piays given throngbout the year by the different collége houses and the culminating *“‘sen- ior dramatics’” at commencement time tend to stimulate scocial fellowship and friendly competition in the most delight- ful way, but they often prove a source of much historical interest, to say nothing of the literary study and training in elocu- tion which they involve. Moreover, the dramatics present quent opportunities for timid and retiring gizls who bave hitherto made no impres- sion in their college work to take part in the weneral social life and win recognition fre- by means of their histrionic talent. If you are a little freshman burning to shine among your fellow-students you will aspire to *'be in'’ as many plays as pos- ven by the college house in which happen to live. And if there are other girls staying in the sume , why then it is no easy matter for wn insignificantyoung *‘freshie’ yourself to compass your desire. Nevertheless, if you are pluc further fired in your resolve your neighbor some morning as the siate juniors and seniors come walking two and two down the aisle, girl in biack?” To which the loftv sophomere sitting replies, “Why, everybody knows M-—! She's a senior—took the rt of Achilles in the play ‘Achilles in Scyros’ that the Dewey House gave the other night. The giris are all wild about her. Weren't you there?” And as you weren't there—weren’t even i —you relapse into awe-strnck ce, watching with eyes glued to that same ‘tall handsome giri—how she care- les Iy langhs and and senior frie nod here and th , or bestows a gracions “Who is that tall, handsome | re on some under-class- | rich apparel. | man. And from that moment you have | your goal before you. When any matter of importance is to be discussed, it is the custom in each college- house for the “house president’’ to call a meeting of all the students, to which the | “lady in charge” or any teacher living in | the house isalways welcomed. A play, or | some form of entertainment, is generally given by every house once in two weeks, | except, of course, in the busiest portions | of the college year when ‘‘exams’ are | coming on. The actors are chosen by a | committee by acciamation, or eise the | girls are divided into three or four lists, it being the duty of each setin turn to pre- senta programme on the appointed nights. | Then all the students in the house are | allowed to invite two or more friends apiece, according to the elastic accommo- L dations of the parlors, and somelimes when charity is the object of the per- formance, a small fee is charged. i But you consider it a great privilege to | | be pidden to these entertainments when | | you remember what a limited number MI vitations your friena has at her disposal, 1 and realize besides from your own experi- | ence the scores of other girls to whom she must be indebted. Therefore a giri’s popu- | | larity in college is oiten gauged by the | [ number of dance and dramatic pro- | grammes which she proudly displays nanging on her wzll or pinned to her bui Y can well imagine that there is | much racking of brains whea some | | campus house wishes to make an unusual | effort in the dramatic line, presenting the play in the gymnasium and feeling that it | must score above the last one produced | there. For weeks beforehand, if you are | | an actor, you rant and pose before the | glass in the privacy of your own room at | all hours of the day and night, while your | roommate throws aside her philosophy or physics paper to giggle as an audience | and applaud to your heart’s content. { There is also yoar costume to make bs- tween frequent rehearsals, and if you deem that beyond your own efforts then chats with her junior|you must rush down to Springfield or even New York 1o try on wigs and engage | “THE CRITIC.” | whether 1o be pleased or insuited. Finally he great night comes and you slip over to the gymnasium in the ba'my summer twilight, or else of a wintry, snowy evening with the clear, cold stars shining above you and your cheeks burn- ing with excitement. Here begins the | task of attiring yourself in either the airiest of dainty garments or eise in mas- culine garb which seems so strangely free and comfortable, while a group of friends are buzzing about you dabbing your lips— and also your nose—with rouge, patting a bit of lace here, smoothing a ruffle there, or sprinkling powder over your hair ana down into your eves. And if you are clad in the aforesaid masculine attire, in high glee over your new-found freedom and yet almost won- dering at your own audacity, you prance out upon the stage before the audience bas arrived and there strut up and down to your heart’s delight among a crowd of admiring friends. Bat, alas! just at that moment you spy down in one corner Jobn, the electrician, gazing with grin- ning, open-mouthed appreciation, and, with a most unmasculine shriek, you dodge behind a bunch of screening pettis coats, which slowly moves backward until you are enabled to escape into the wings. Then at last the curtain goes up, and with a last good-by hug behind the scenes, you step out upon the stage once more, as calmly asyour shakfng knees will permit, and you anxiously wonder if your trousers are shaking also, but don’t dare look. Instead your eyes are dazzled by a glare of lights, and a sea of figuresin | dainty white or else a rainbow of muslins | and rastling silks. You arein the midst | of wondering where your particular “'crush” sits, and if you are making a guy of yoursell in her eyes, when suddenly you bear your cue, and then with a start begin to speak in a hollow, dead sort of a tone | that you are sure no one can hear, white you spasmodically move up and down the stage like a marionette, for the simple rea- | son thatyou can’t stand still. As vou | come to the end of the rostrum you hear a girl on the front seat whisper, “Oh, my, what a pretty boy!” and immediately | draw vourself up with dignity, undecided | i At last, however, the vlay comes to sn end, and you breathe a deep sigh of relief when the audience breaks up into a laugh- ing, humming mass, and your friends come crowding up to tell you what a *‘great success”’ the whole affair, and espe- cially your part, was. Then in the gal- lantry of your heart you open wide your arms, and one girl after another falls upon your manly bosom, actually with blush- ing cheeks and feminine little squeals of | embarrassment. | All this describes vour first donning the buskins at Smith College in any large | play, but after a while you are chosen asa | matter of course, and you learn to step out in front of an audience with a non- chalant air that is tbe envy of all the sophs and freshies, though you are glad they cannot know just how little breath | you have, and just how idiotically your | heart is indulging in some private gym- nastics during the first few minutes of the plar. Thus there have been many plays most excellently presented in the large and beautiful gymnasium at Smith. Among them may be mentioned ‘‘Money,” “An American Girl Abroad,” “‘Marie Stuart,” “The Love Chase,” ‘“‘Esmeralda,” a dramatization by tke coliege girls of “Our Mutual Friend,” “She S:oops to Con- quer’” and, best of all, “The Critic,” which three ot the college houses united | tion at Smith, eral/y sifted down the plays to two orwhile ihe house for the fina! and best per- three, which they announce as their choice, giving reasons why these are pre- ferred over the others considered. After much discussion the seniors, as a whole, then definitely decide upon the play to be vresented. During the Christmas vaca- tion all the girls in the class who desire to take part learn their different roles, and in January appear before a committee of seven seniors and the teacher of elocu- Out of the whole number of candidates this committee chooses two or three girls to each part in ths play, and they are in turn sent to Mr. Young, the trainer from New York. The results of hisselection are often sur- prising. The class of ’97 presented “Mer- chant of Venice,’” though there was at first much opposition to the choice of that play on account of the seeming lack of a suitable Shylock. However, Mr. Young’s choice for the character fell upon a guiet little girl among the candida.es who was not at ail a prominent member of her class. In fact, quite the contrary. Butso splendidly did this same little senior ac- quit herself ber in her difficult role that after the commencement performances had taken piace she was offered a good position on a stage in Boston. After all the parts in the drama are definitely assigned begins the long and tedious work of preparation. From the THE WALL—**MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM.” to produce. As for the vrivate house plays that have been giver at Smith—farces by | Howells and other well-known writers, as | age three rehearsals a week, and afier | compared with the splendid Latin blay well us little comedies and dramatiza- | tions by the students themselves—they | are too numerous Lo mention. | The fame of all these pales, however, before the glory of the senior dramatics at | ton, the Academy of Music, as it is called. | by the semiors themselve the close of the four years’ course. During the end of the spring term in the junior year a committee is appointed frem the ! class who employ themselves all through | the summer vacation in looking up su | able plays not only in English butin | other langnages as well. Whep fall comes they report the result | of their search to the class, having gen-l last of January till the beginning of the spring term in April there are on an aver- that one every day. Three weeks from commencement full rehearsals take place twice a week, and the last week every day, in the regular theater in Northamp- At these a certain number of the original pres-nt. On Thursday nigbt of commencement week the dress rehearsal is given, and to this the freshmen are allowed to come, seats of course being purchased. On Fri- day night the townspeople and the upper classmen and their friends are admitted, formance on Saturday night is reserved for the seniors and their friends. It i needless to state that the theater is| packed on all three occasions. | The expense of these productions neces- | sarily varies with the size of the clu:s.} The class of "9, numbering 150, of which a third took part in the drama, gave “As You Like It,” at a cost of about $900, not | counting the expens: of all the costumes, | for each of the principal actors was sup- | | posed to furnish one of the latter, and the 1 soldiers, foresters and other minor char- | acters made their own, | When this sum was reached President | Seelye was minded to announce it as the | Limit for all future senior dramatics, but | the larze and wealthy class of '97, num- | bering 185, expended $1000 on the presenta- | tion of the ‘‘Merchant of Venice.” A large part of this amount went to Mr. | Youny, the trainer, whose charges were | $50 a visit, and he made a good many of them. He, by the way, is a bankerin ew York. ( ROSALIND. Moreover, other large items in the bill | were the hiring of the theater and the ex- penses of lighting the same on the three consecutive nights; the cost of painting scenery and the two gondolas used; the gorgeous costumes for the principal char- reters, the printing of the programme, the music, the salary of the proiessional who made up the actors—and, in fact, a hundred minor expenses. However, on the credit side must be piaced the receipts | from the enormons sale of seats for the three performances, and also from the sale of the two gondolas and the scenery used to the theater in the Northamoton. In 1891 was given the noted Greek play written by tue professor of Greek at Smith College. Its fame spread far and wide, so that many eminent schelars | from neighboring universities came to | witness it, and it was later most favorabiy | given at Harvard in '95. “‘Colombe’s Birthday’’ and “‘The Span- ish Gypsy'’ were produced in 189 | lie”” in 93 and *‘Passe Rose,” drs natized , in 1894. The | classes of '95 and 96 gave, respectivoly, [dnmnllu committee must always be | two of the most beantifnl presentations of “*Midsummer Night's Dream” and *As| | You Like It ever seen on any stage. | | Some critics even preferred the latter to | Ada Rehan’s production in New York the | | previous winter. | As for the 97 play, ‘‘Merchant of Ven- | ice,’”” Mr. Sargent, head of one of the mos:l ACHILLES IN LEYROS. noted theatrical training -s¢hoolsin New York, said that he could hardly believe it possible than any girlscould act Gratiano, Bassanio and especially Shylock as these same Smith College students aid. However, behind all this fascinating praise and success lies the-fact of thelong bard work of preparation and even drudg- ery. Parts must belearned and roles con- stantly rebearsed, 1o say nothing of the tedious costume making all the while. In the spring of *95 the college campus wore a hue seemingly *greener.than grass,’ for all ahout hung out the costumes of the “Midsummer Night’s Dream’ fairies— bright green cheesecloth; whigh the girls had been forced todye themselves since the right shade could not be ptrchased. Moreover, many an actor has fallen into despair, with temper sadly-frayed, at the end of a rehearsal. As for the stage man- ager of the "96 dramatics, she simply tofre her hair when, cne aiterncon near com- mencement, she found one ‘of ihe scene- shifters in the theater gloriously drunk and perched high on the ccaffolding at the back of the stage. He'could not be induced to descend, but, secure on his coien of vantage, waved his hands and shouteda all through oné scene. - ‘At the end of the latter, with. masculine aid, he. was unceremoniously bund!ed’ out of the theater, but returned the miext day and meekly presented five tiny rosébuds to the irate young lady as a peace-offéring. However, the troubles of this stage man- ager did not end there, for auring the first ‘performance of tae .*‘Merchant .of Venice” one of the two large -gondolas above mentioned squeaked frightiully in its passage across ihe stage, .and the fol- lowing night the secend one ran “into the scenery and stuck fast. s But in spite of a!l these littié “hitches and mishaps the girls who-have been.so fortunate as to take part in:the senior dramatics always look back on the oc- casion as the very happiest event through- out their life at Smith College. Evcexra B. MABURY. ANODD BENEFIT PLAY | instant, a.d pe beat a hasty retreat and, On the occasion of the last benefit given to the winning baseball club in New York City the various participants in the bene- fitdecided, as anovelty, to make up in ap- pearance and 2s far as possible portray the various prominent msnagers of the theaters in New York. Digby Bell was delegated to i1mpersonate A. M. Palmer, whom he resembles very much in features. | Digby had never met the asiute manager, | and consulted his friend, Congressman Amos J. Cummings, as to the best possi- ble method for him to pursue in order to secure an interview, so as to be able to properly depict Mr. Palmer in voice ana gesture. Mr. Cummings suggested the ad- visability of Digby soliciting Mr. Paimer to purciaase a2 box for the proposed bene- MR. DIG fit, which was acted upon immediately, and Digby forthwith sought Mr. Palmer in his-office, and, presenting the subject, requested ‘Mr., Palmer’s presence and con- tribution. Much. to' hi surprise Mr. Palmer and: basebull-players, {0 the amszement of the crestfallen Digby, who immediately sought’ his friends, Amos J. Cummings and Dé Wolf Hopper, and told his tale of woe Télative to Palmer’s reception of his . overture, which was received by these gen- tiemen in. full, together with a capital imitation of Mr. Palmer's tone of voice and mannerisms. Mr. Cummings and Mr. Hopper both suggested that in order 1o get “square” he (Bellj could adopt no . betier measure than 1o give a complete launched forth a tirade against baseball | reproduction of it, with make-up added, ! | on the occasion of the benefit. The day of the benefit arrived; house was jammed to suffocation, members of the two teams occupying the first two rows of the orchestrachaics. The first three numbers of the programme passed off with more or less applause. | . 4 was accredited to *Digby Bell” in a recitation.” Tre large audience settled | back in their seats with looks upon their | faces anticipatory of something funny. Imagine their surprise when, as the figure | | 4 went up, a short, corpulent individual, | with gray side-whiskers and gold-rimmed | glasses, whom they instantly recognized | as A. M. Palmer, walked down to the | | the the footligbts, and waving down the feeble BY BELL. line of applause which greeted his appear- ance, in ministerial voice and nasal tone commenced a tirade of denunciation of the game of baseball, baseball-players and everything pertaining to the national | game. On the conclusion of the tirade Digby | dexterously removed his wig, whiskers ;nnd eyeglasses and disclosed himself to | the_ astonished geze of the audience, who quickly recognized the artist and greeted him with a tremendous outburst of ap- vlause, After his second recall Digby ad- vauced to the footlights and was about to wake a speech of thanks, when, looking in Manager Miner’s box, to his utter hor- ror and amazement he recognized Manager Palmer, surrcunded by Amos J. Cum- | mings, Henry C. Miner and the long | ating from the Scala Theater in Milan | brimful of ambition. | his plece de resistance, to be followed by | and eqnally celebrated for his extreme comedian, De Wolif Hopper, wh> were purple with suppressed lauchter. The situation was grasped by Digby in an notwithstanding the tumultuous call of the aunaience, refused to respond. Since then Mr. Palmer and Digby Bell do not speak as they pass by. Digby Bell, the famous comedian, made bis debut as & pnblic singer in the City of Washington, a 1act that is not generally known. The circumstances surrounding Mr Bell’s debut were both painful and bu- morous, and what threatened to be a com- plete fiasco for the debutant turned outto be a complete triumph. Alter studying bard for six yearsin Italy under the best masters and gradu- Mr. Bell returned to his native lund filled with anticipations of future triumphsand He cast about him for a proper place to make his Amer:can debat, and naturally selected Washing- ton, the nation’s capital, as the most fitting field for his anticipated con- quest. This was—well, some years ago. A concert was organized in “Ford's Old Theater,” and Mr. Bell selected the famous barytone solo from *‘The Mes- siah,”” “Thou Art Gone Upon High.” as the popular songz, “Nancy Lee,” which had just been introduced at that period, for an encore. Mr. Bell then looked about for a proper accompanist and selected a well-known organist of the city for the position. Said organist was at that time famous for his magnificent rendition of church music nervousness and predisposition to effemi- nacy. For two weeks Digby and his ac- companist faithfully practiced the two se- lections, and at last the fateful evening arrived and Mr. Bell and the accompanist proceeded together in & carriage to the theater. The numbers of the various individuals were delivered. At length came Digby’'s turn, and with guaking heart he started upon his song. For the first forty bars everything proceeded swimmingly and Digby felt he was making a *‘hit,” when in tke middle of the song, as he was de- livering the most difficult passages, a ter- rible discord was heard emanating from the piano. Digby strove with might and main to sing above the discordaut element that saluted his ears, but the more he strove the stronger became the discord, and finally in sheer despair, he was neces- sitated to stop altogether, and advancing to the pieno, found that the trembling pianist had turned over several leaves at one time and was about thirty-two bars anead of the singing. Taking the sheets of music in his hand while the accompanist beat a hasty re- treat, Digby advanced to the footlights amid an impressive and awe-inspiring silence and said: ‘‘Ladiesand gentlemen, you will note oy the programme that I was announced for ‘Thou Art Gone Up on High.,’ Well, I have.” He then bowed and made an exit. The laugnter that suc- ceeded this witty acknowledgment was followed by successive calis, and at last, in answer to the generous demand, he sought the trembling accompanist, whom he found concealed benind a pile of scen- ery, grasped him by the collar, shook him into some semblance cf marhood, thrust the music of “*Nancy Lee” into his hands and deliverea the song s he claims he has never been able to render it since. WHERE CHILDREN'S PAINS ARE EASED The pitiful, wailing sound of a suffering | child greeted me as I went up the steps of | tbe Hahnemann Dispensary. Through | the partly opened door figures of men and | women could be seen leaning against the walls or banisters for support, or resting upon the rough benches in the halls and | waiting-room in that peculiar attitude | which bespeaks the want in the heartof | man and the final giving up of the strug- gles against the buffetings of the world. There was 8 man close beside me and the hand of disease Lad swept across his body and stripped it of its healthfuiness, and the hand of want had touched his soul and stripped it of hope, and poverty bad touched his garments and age his hair. The very atmosphers about him whispered the life story, so plainly was it written from his head to his feet. * He thinks he will get well,” said a thin woman, whom the winds of adversity had shriveled and aried and twisted in their | mad blowings. “He's haa some trouble for seven years. 1 wouldn’t want to get well.” And she lifted her leg over one knee and glanced complacently over a badly swollen ankle with evident superiority. “Mine’s an ankle,”” she observed. Then another woman in a faded black | gown, who was fleshed where she should ha ve teen lean and lean where she should have been large, bent her black-bonneted head close to us and said confidentially: “Mine's a throat. Pretty bad, I guess, but not killin’.” Then she sat up straight with the con- scious air of having done nher duty and ueither looked nor spoke again. It is a strangely wise and just provision that the troubled should sympathize with each other and the miserable should look upon greater misery. In the prisons the offender who is brought in last repeats the nature of his offense to his compan- ions behind the bars, and he is acquainted with theirs, and they condole and deplore according to the degree of their souls’ knowledge. In the almshouse—thatabode of the past—in the asylum—everywhere that misery stalks at will it is the same. And it is all pretty sad, and none of it is killin’ very often. In the waiting-room two young girls, on whose faces the wrong lines were appear- ing and on whose heads the wrong hats were worn, sat and taiked of their ills and illnesses. Two little children rested, silent and soffering, on the hard benches, too weary to do anything but watch the play ot the other children. aid a troubled voice behind the doorway where I stood, ‘“‘has the doc- tor come yet?'’ 1 looked down upon her from the height of five foot three as she stood holding one sturay boy by the hand and bending backward with the effort to hold the year- old baby in her arm. And what & face she had, with eyesin which the blue of heaven shone constant, and lips and cheeks of delicate tint—a face that would send an artist mad for his brush and pencil, although it was shaded by an inartistic little hat, trimmed spar- ingly with a few faded flowers, and her Little Sufferers Who Bravely F ace| Operations Clinic figure was coinpletely hidden by an ill-fit- ting biack coat. Just then Dr. Bryant called me into the clinic, and she smiled her thanks, “Poor people always bave the most children,” said the kindly doctor, and not complainingly, for, of course, it does not concern him. ‘*And there is much con- sequent sickness, and,” he hurried on ‘“‘children are the hardest to treat. For instance, the baby that cried so”—and I remembered it well, for the crying still rang in my ears—'its eyes were the trouble, and of course the instincts of seli-preservation prompted it to makea fuss when I attempted to put anything into the eye. Then a child is afraid ‘of pain, as I will show you.” He stepped to the door and beckoned and the little woman with the two chil- dren came in and looked ap into his face with a troubled serlousness and told him what she had come for. “So you hurt your ankle,” the doctor said, catching the little boy in his arms and bumping his head playfully against his own. The woman smiied at them and then said: “And I've been a littie nervous be- cause he still limps for fear it might be hip disease or his znee might be tfl‘cwd." The physician placed the child on the operating-couch and, removing the shoe and stocking, proceeded to examine the bip and knee and ankle to the accompani- ment of the boy’s screams and the half- escaped sighs of the sympathetic littie mother. She put the baby down—I think she trembled so that she might have dropped him—and bent over the suffering one with tenderness and her arms were about him and herlips were turning blue and ner eyes were fixed on the doctor’s face with fearful questioning. And the tiny infant sat quietly on the floor and made no noise, but stared silent- ly as though in awe at the strangeness of the scene. *Now we will put the child's stocking on and see him walk.” The mother unwound her arms and trird to do as the physician requested ' with her trembling bands, and he stood by and watched and his face was as im- passive as a stone. He shook his head finally. “Thereis nothing wronz now and not likely to be,” he said. She stopped suddenly and picked up the baby and kissed bim, and tried to say ber thanks and turned to the door. *It would bave been a lifetime of suf- fering,” she said, as she passed me. “Ob, Iam so glad.” And we were all glad that she had some gladness ior that day, even though it had at the Free be furnished at escape from misery. “You see,” said the doctor, *how diffi- cult it is to treat a child. A grown per- | son exclaims when he feels pain, but a child objects on general principles.” And I didn’t blame the child—not the | least little bit. I wanted to scream in | unison myself when they brougnt in the nextone, with a tear-stained face and a broken arm and sat Lim in the place of honor, or of torture, and began to toucn | the sfflicted member. Such spasms of pain shook the weak little frame, and in spite of the agony he tried to be so brave that I had to look out of the open window when the first scream came, to where other human beings walked or rode in the sunshine and oblivious to all thal trans- | pired in the shadow. i And then there was a little girl with such a painfully worried face, and her | mother looked out the window, too, while | the doctors looked at her. “No, she’s not been that way long,” the Wwoman said, “but I can’t attend to her. Only once in a while 1 can get an hour off from work to bring her down. It'stoo bad for the child. I've had to work so hard,” she said, and the hopeless sadness of her face and voice was pitiful, “that | she has been neglected, but it’s either to ! have fallen short in food or care and I aidn’t count on this.” She sighed heavily, poor soul, and took ber tired body and her burden away from us with the little girl, and went forth to be forgotten. “Terrivle case of bad blood, ” frowned one of the physicians, on whose round, good-natured face a frown looked out of | place. “‘My, but you have to be careful | with these peopie,” he shuddered. “Why, | they become offended at everything.” They are sensitive—these children of adversity—ior they e learned from ex- | perience to be suspicious and to expect certain treatment, and when one expects anything of that sort it is usually found. * *x » = There had been few children at the Mission Dispensary during the day. “Only a few trifling cases,” said the physician in charge; “a case or two of whooping cough, a broken i one, I think, and a little tellow had =ome injury 1o his eye. Let me see,”” and he consulted the big register; *‘yes; I believe Le’ll lose the eve.” He looked at me calmly and profession- ally, as though waiting for me to go on. Well, of course, the loss of some oneelse’s eye was nothing to him. Perhapsit'sa usual occurrence, but it sounds somewhat startling. “We have cases of tuberculosis most frequently,” he went or. “That seems to be the greatest trouble nowadays, A fall ‘to —sometimes a very slight one—will bring iton.”” “But some children go tumbling about,” I began, remembering my own childish days, when trees let me fall and fences refused my weight, and to be without a bruise was a luxury I seldom enjoyed. “Certainiy,” he said. “The nine chil- dren will fall and get up again and forget it, but the tenth will go home crvirg with a hurt that will ‘not cure; Itis because the blood is in the right condition and is simply waiting for an excusé to locate the disease.” e “1f you will come on children’s treat- ment-day,” he said, “I wili show. you the disease in some of the worst forms. Then you will have a clearer idea of its cause and resnlt, Some of the cases are very in- teresting. And if you can wait or come back in a couple of hours Iam going to amputate a toe. The litile boy mashed it and it has to come off.” * “Thanks,” I gasped as I stumbled hur- riedly down the steps and joined the dust and the crowd that was blowing down the street. And it was not children’ day at the | SBouthern Dispensary ei:her, althiough the same motiey crowd with théir divers aile ments passed in and ot along the well- worn way. And so I passed on.down Mission street and went into the Pacitic ensary, and, as the wire-covered sign ree clinic for the déserving poor.” A number of young men—students, I knew instantly by their manner. They gave me a seat in a corner, far away from the door, so that escape was an impossi- | bility, and went on with their work cheer- fully and carelessly talking the while. “There's a bad case of leg,”" said one. “Save it?” laconically questioned an- otber. A shrug of the shoulder wasthe only reply. The *'bad case of leg” sat on toe operating table awd prepared to scream at a second’s notice.* His pale lit- tle face quivered with pain. “Poor little fellow; life isn’t beginning very happiiy.” And some one laughea on the other side of the room—at nothing; perhaps, or ‘at some idle joke, and mingling with it there came from the inner room a low moan. “Little fellow mashed his - fingers—they are attending to him in there. ‘Wantto goin?? 2 It being what I was there for I fol- lowed. Fai There was a pungent odor of ether, and several physicians, an¢ white aprons, and shining instruments. And theére was one voor littie hand exposed to view, with four of the fingers so mashed that they were nothing but pulp. “It took only a second todo that;’ said the doctor, picking up a knife. that aaze zled with its crue! brightness, “and it can’t be undoue now. Too bad, though— shame to spoil that hand.” And then he went to work. Isaw the white face on the pillow and a stream of blood that spurtei forth and— ; o The next I was sure of was being in the air and hurrving down the street and: trying to forget the sights and sounds, ap . I shall do forever and forever. e MurieL BarLy.