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THE SUNNY SOUTH.
THE LIEUTENANT’S LOVE.
Continued from First page.
In a few moments he was standing at the
foot of the great water-oak, and without a
moment’s hesitancy, began the hazardous
ascent.
Every eye was strained as the gallant
officer put distance between himself and the
ground. The colonel had his field-glass lev
eled at him and it was easy to see that he
was no less excited than the rest.
All went well with the condemned man
until he had reached a point about half way
up. It was here the Indians discovered him,
and almost instantly the bullets began to clip
the branches from the tree all around him.
But he continued his climb. He was deter
mined to climb until he had gained an ad
vantageous position, or until he was cut
down by one of the bullets, which were now
raining thick and fast, clipping the branches
in dangerous proximity to his body.
On, on, he went, regardless of the leaden
shower, keeping the trunk of the tree between
him and the enemy’s bullets, until he reached
a point where his body was larger than that
of the tree. Here he stopped and was seen to
take his glass from his pocket and calmly
scan the terrible surroundings. In the mean
time the Indians kept up an incessant fire.
The onlookers expected every moment to see
his body pierced by a bullet and tumble to the
ground with a sickening thud.
The priest was on his knees offering up a
prayer for the safety of the brave lieutenant.
At this juncture the lieutenant’s cap was
seen to leave his head. A bullet had taken it
off.
The lieutenant quickly began his descent.
A mighty cheer went up when he reached the
ground. A few moments later he stood by the
colonel, a fia^vpy smile on his handsome face.
^iThe colonel grasped his hand, while the
priest fell on his shoulders and wept like a
child.
“A brave deed, well done, sir,” said the
cdlohel, “allow me to congratulate you on
your escape from a double death. You have
your liberty and are reinstated to your com
mand, Company A, U. S. A.”
The lieutenant bowed and, turning to the
priest, took his hand and said, addressing the
colonel:
“Allow me to introduce you to the one
who inspired me with hope and gave me
the strength and courage to execute your
command—Miss Julia Manning, my affianced
bride!” and when he said this, Lieutenant
Mell pulled the hat from the priest’s head,
and a great wealth of chestnut-brown hair
fell in unconfined splendor down to the waist
of Julia Manning, alias the Catholic priest
and spiritual adviser of Lieutenant Mell, un
der sentence of death for desertion in the
United States Army, Co. A.
The lieutenant was given a furlough for an
indefinite time that very evening and he and
Julia Manning enjoyed his leave on a bridal
tour, which began the next morning.
A sharp engagement took place between
the troops and the Indians in the afternoon,
in which the latter were completely routed.
After waiting for two weeks, without any
sign of further trouble from the Indians, the
troops were withdrawn, and they returned
home in time to welcome the return of Lieu
tenant Mell and his beautiful bride, and never
did a couple receive a more royal and hearty
welcome.
STORY OF A SUNSTROKE.
How the City Man is Rescued From the Heat
Demon—Ice Baths in the Hospital.
“Say, what’s the matter with him?”
“Knocked out by the heat.”
“Too bad! What is being done?”
“Nothing now, but a policeman has gone
to send in a hurry call.”
Then the man on the outside edge of the
crowd stepped into a shaded doorway and
prompted by a sort of morbid curiosity,
waited for developments. It was during a hot
spell. For more than a week the mercury
had been climbing higher and higher every
day. It had started in each morning at from
eighty to eighty-five degrees, mounted to
ninety-two, ninety-five, or ninety-six degrees
by 2 or 3 o’clock in the afternoon, and reluc
tantly sunk during the night, only to com-
menceagain its ’ anxiously watched journey
the next day. £
The first d&y or two were endurable be
cause tfee atmosphere was comparatively dry,
but gradually the air became saturated with
moisture, and the perspiration which came to
the surface found nothing to dry it up. All
day long the sun poured down on the pave
ments and cobblestones until they became al
most blistering to the touch. The great
structures of brick and iron and stone which
lined the city streets, absorbed the heat as a
sponge soaks up water. At night, after the
sun had sunk to rest like a fiery furnace, they
gave out this heat in quivering waves which
could be felt if they could not be seen. The
slow breezes which did manage to find their
way about the town were like draughts from
an open oven door.
And the people of the city—oh, they just
sweltered and sweltered and sweltered. They
got through the day as best they might and
went to their homes to struggle through a
night that was worse than the day had been.
All who staid within the city suffered, some
more than others, of course. But the rich
man found the faint breeze, which barely
stirred the filmy lace curtains of his chamber,
just as disappoining as did the laborer who
crawled out on the iron fire-escape of his
squalid tenement. Both waited in vain for
a cool, invigorating breath which might
help them to live through the broiling, burn
ing day that they knew was coming.
This condition of affairs had existed for
what had seemed an interminable length of
time. The heat demon was at his worst.
Small consolation it was to learn from the
morning newspapers that over nearly the
entire country, the same terrific heat was be
ing experienced.
£ But to return to the man on the sidewalk.
He had been helped into the shade and a
glass or two of ice water had been dashed in
to his purple face. It was a clear case of sun
stroke, so said the people who stood around.
The big policeman fanned himself with his
helmet and roughly pushed aside the lookers
on. He had rung up a hurry call and was
waiting for the ambulance.
” Clang ! Clang ! Clangety, clangety, clang !
^“Here comes the ambulance,” the by
standers said to each other.
Down through the crowded street at a
swift gait comes a black, low-bodied wagon,
whose pneumatic-tired wheels roll easily
along over the pavements. The driver rings
a big gong with his foot while he skillfully
guides the reeking horse. On the seat be
hind, sits the surgeon’s young man, who
seems rather to enjoy the situation and who
calmly smokes a cigarette as he watches the
people turn and stare after the ominous-look
ing vehicle. He is but a newly-fledged phy
sician, but he assumes the indifference and
coolness of an army surgeon.
Soon the ambulance is backed up to the
sidewalk and the ambulance doctor has made
a hasty examination of the heat victim. The
prostrate man is rolled on to a stretcher and
bundled hastily into the ambulance. This
done, the driver whips up his horse, the doc
tor resumes his seat, lights a fresh cigarette,
and the swift drive to the hospital is soon
over.
® Two attendants grab the stretcher handles,
and carry the patient into the maiif hall,
where the house surgeon meets them. He
takes one look at the victim’s red face grips
the limp wrist between his thumb and fore
finger for a moment and then mutters briefly:
“Too late. Take him to the ice bath.”
The arm of the unconscious man drops
with a thump on the stretcher bars, and
swings back and forth as the attendants trot
through the long, cool corridors with their
burden to the elevator.
‘ In this brief examination the house surgeon
had decided that the patient was the victim
of what is commonly known as sunstroke.
But you don’t suppose he gave it that name,
do you? Not he. Here was the record he
made on the entry book :
“No. 146. Received from ambulance No.
9, Dr. Freshly, at 2:13 p. m. Diagnosis,
pronounced insolation.”
There were a few more details which were
filled in later. But it was set down as a case
of insolation. That is the medical term for
sunstroke. The purplish color of the face and
the unconsciousness of the patient indicated
that it was a serious case, so the ice bath was
ordered.
A few years ago the treatment which is
flow employed in some of the big city hospi
tals would have been denounced by doctors
of all schools, as barbaric and criminal
cruelty. But we are in a progressive age and
fewer people die from heat nowadays than
formerly, although just as many, if not more,
are stricken.
% It was 2:13 when the patient entered the
hospital. At 2:19 he had been hoisted to
the second floor of the building, stripped of
his clothing and deposited in a soft meshed
hammock suspended from a traveling crane.
Two seconds later he had been swung directly
over a big porclain bathtub half filled with
ice and water. Down into that chilly bath he
went with a splash, in the twinkling of an
aye.
“His temperature is no, and there is no
time to lose,” the attending physician had
said.
For twenty minutes the unconscious man
was soused up and down in the icy water
with the chunks of ice bumping and hobbling
about him. Sometimes this heroic treatment
is found to be too severe and then the patient
is hastily yanked out, and stimulants are
forced down his throat to revive the action of
the heart, which has been weakened by the
shock instead of stimulated. But in this case
it was all right. The heart began to pump
the blood through the arteries and veins in
a somewhat more regular fashion, and the
physician said that the temperature was slow
ly falling from the dangerous point which it
had reached.
Finally, the surgeon ordered the patient to
be taken out. The crane carried him into an
adjoining room, where the man wa3 deposited
in a stretcher. Here was a big tub of cracked
ice. A white-capped nurse came in with
some linen cloths and speedily manufactured
an ice bag, which she fitted on the patient’s
head, like a turban. A big chunk of ice was
placed at his feet, and the attendants packed
more ice about him. Then they took pieces
of ice and rubbed him briskly as if they were
' using soft sponges. This treatment evidently
ha<$ a prompt effect, for soon the man opened
his eyes, and, although his face still shone
a deep purple, he became conscious enough
to hold with his hands a large piece of ice
which the doctor placed on his stomach.
In 1 ess than an hour the face of the man on
the stretcher had lost its purplish color, his
eyes were bright, his breathing and heart
action are regular, and his temperature had
become normal. Then he was taken up on
the roof, where he was swung in a hammock
for hours under a canopy in the open air and
recovered his strength during a long, re
freshing nap. Two days later he left the hos
pital as well as ever.
“But you had a close call, old man, and
you’ll have to be careful,” an attendant said,
as he departed.
This was one case out of hundreds in a big
city. Not all of the patients require such
vigorous or heroic treatment, but ice and ice-
water are plentifully used, even in simple
cases of heat prostration.
It is not always the direct rays of the sun
that strike down victims. Men fall by scores
in places where the sun never shines. In
sugar refineries, breweries, smelters, and
other places of industry where great heat is
generated, the victims are numerous during
a hot wave.
It is generally the city man who is stricken.
The farmer works all day in the fields and
escapes. But he drinks little or no alcoholic
liquors, he eats plenty of vegetables and little
meat, he wears a wide-brimmed, straw hat,
and the breeze which kills him to sleep at
night is cooled by sweeping over green fields
and trees and is untainted by contact with
the ovenlike cobblestones and brick walls.
But even the city man whose general health
is good, who shuns hot and rebellious
liquors, who keeps his skin clean, who wears
sensible clothing, who is careful and temper
ate in his eating as well as his drinking, can
work steadily through the hottest of hot
waves, escape from heat prostration and sun
stroke and defy Old Sol to do his worst.
Sewell Ford.
The Cary Sisters.
Scrap-books and autograph albums of a
generation and more ago, contain many ten
der poems of two notable sisters, sisters who
achieved a great measure of success in times
that looked askance at woman with a pen.
Alice Cary, the elder of these sisters, was
born near Cincinnati, in 1820. From a child
she hungered and thirsted for knowledge. A
father’s poverty, however, precluded for her
an education. The next best thing was to
read, to think, and to write, “time most
foolishly spent,” so thought the hard, pro
saic, practical stepmother, a woman who
could no more appreciate genius than can the
swine care for pearls. What wonder, then,
that she tried in every way to “nip in the
bud” the literary aspirations of her step
daughters ! Fearing that they would spend
their nights with their books and pens, she
refused them candles. But genius is ever
undaunted ; therefore, with a saucer of lard and
rag wicks, a light was obtained which enabled
broken-hearted Alice to read and to pen her
“pearls of thought,” which, later, she dis
posed of to the “Ladies’ Repository,” and
“Graham’s Magazine.”
® The editor of “National Era” was the first
to remunerate her for her articles.
“ Her first novel, “Hagar,” was published as
a serial in the “Cincinnati Commercial,”
and issued in book form in 1852. The fol
lowing year, her volume of poems entitled,
“Tyra and Other Poems,” appeared. In its
second edition she added to its contents a nar
rative poem styled “The Maiden of Tlascala. ”
“Married Not Mated” appeared in 1856.
Her last novel, and in some respects her best,
published in 1867, was entitled “The Bish
op’s Son.” “Lyrics and Hymns,” her latest
poems, were issued in 1866. This was soon
followed by “The Lover’s Diary and Snow
Berries,” a book for young folks. Her poems
will live the longest in the hearts of the
people. That grand one entitled “My
Creed” is particularly apropos at the present
time.
When but fourteen years of age, Phoebe,
who was five years her sister’s junior, secretly
mailed to a Boston paper one of her “maiden
efforts.” Hearing nothing from it,'she con
cluded it was unworthy of publication. At
length, she accidentally found the poem re
produced in their “Cincinnati Weekly,” and
duly accredited to the young author. “I no
longer cared for our poverty. Some one cared
enough for my verses to print them, and so I
was happy!” said she in after years, when
telling of this important event of her life.
Besides her great bereavement of mother
and sisters, Alice gave her love to one who
proved unworthy of her deep affection. This
heart trial could but tinge her pen work with
a melancholy which enabled her jealous
critics to claim that her poems were “full
of graves.” From a poem of several stanzas,
Whittier writes of Alice:
“Years passed; through all the land her name
A pleasant household word became;
All felt behind the singer stood
A sweet, and gracious womanhood.
Her life was earnest work, not play;
Her tired feet climbed a weary way,
And even through her lightest strain
We heard an undertone of pain.”
By “Sisters of the West,” was placed on
the title page of their first volume of poems
issued in 1849. In the fall of 1850, Alice
sought a home in New York City, and the
next spring Phoebe joined her. Here fortune
finally favored them. “Clovernook Papers,”
by Alice, are so full of the fragrance of her
native fields that they became popular at once
in Great Britain, as well as in America.
“Clovernook Children” was later issued, and
soon all the leading magazines were issuing
the product of her fertile brain, which en
abled the sisters to keep a most hospitable
home. Indeed, it became a rendezvous for
congenial literary souls. Here these loving,
noble women lived until summoned to their
heavenly home.
Their greatest charm, as sisters, was in
their great contrast. In appearance, manner,
tone of thought, in everything but a common
interest and an abiding religious faith, they
were as different as possible. Alice’s nature
was tuned in the sombrous minor key,
Phoebe’s in the joyous major. Aliee attracted
by her sadness, Phoebe by her gladness. Ity
was said that nothing wouid cause Alice to
laugh but her sister’s wit; (It was often as
serted that Phoebe Cary was the wittiest
woman in America) and that Phoebe never
sighed except in sympathy over her sister’s
pain; for Alice was an invalid for many
years. To this fact alone can be attributed so
little pen work, comparatively by Phoebe. It
was she who, unselfishly, bore the burden of
domestic care, that Alice might devote her
whole time and strength to literature. Phoebe
secured all supplies, settled all bills, and
stood between her sister and all unwelcome
interruptions. She constantly cheered her in
her despondency, and at the last, relinquished
a true love (to which she felf a response, the
innate desire of a true woman for love, and
home) for the sake of her dying sister. At this
time one of her most touching poems was
penned, entitled “A Death Scene.” Phoebe
Cary underestimated her own genius; for had
she written naught save “One Sweetly Sol
emn Thought,” her immortality would have
been won. Immediately after the death of
Vice-president Wilson, was found beneath his
pillow, a volume of poems with the leaf
turned down at this sweet hymn.
An authentic account is given regarding
the effect of the memory of this hymn upon
two men. They left their usual haunts of
vice and thereafter led exemplary lives.
Brave, unselfish Phoebe Cary did not long
survive her gifted sister, Alice, who died
Feb. 12, 1870.
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