The Monmouth inquirer., 1926-08-26
DEEDS OF HEROISM
NOT FOR PHYSICIAN
Yet Some Who Read This
WI Haze Their Doubts.


AS a youth he had dreamed Of do
ing at least one heroic thing before it
should be his time to die. Fate, how
ever, never had seemed willing to see
things his way, and SO his life had
dragged on with a drab monotony
which had cooled, In time, the ardor
of his longing.
Even his college career had been
unproductive of any incident calculat-
ed to arouse in later life that retro
spective thrill which must, he felt,
light up occasionally the fading years
Of the man who has carried the bali
90 yards to a touchdown. Not only
had he been confronted with the me-
cessity Of putting himself through
school, but there had been others back
home to. claim the little he could
make, at odd jobs about the campus,
above his own living expenses. he
did not complain There we're many
things he missed, but he made the
best Of it. The nearest he ever APP
preached member of the varsity
squad was when one would drop In for
the suit that had been pressed between
supper and bedtime They paid him
So cents for pressing a suit. He never
was able to understand the unusual
warmth of his professors and class
mates the day he was graduated
In medical school 1t was pretty
much the same. Work and study and
work. But he found moment now
and then to indulge in the old dreams
of high achievement.
He found practicing medicine in a
country settlement far from life of
ease. Bad roads, harsh weather, poor
pay. AS he grew older the night work
began to tell on him. Rnt he plodded
on, day and night. He realized now,
a little bitterly, that not every man
can be hero. Yet 1t surely couldn't
do any harm to dream.
His pulse quickened momentarily
with the outbreak of the great war.
True, he was years past the age limit,
but perhaps he could arrange for a
base hospital post. But there had
been sickness that spring and he knew
the community needed him. So he
turned back to the muddy roads, the
night calls and the poor pay. After
all, he wasn't young any more. Might
as well admit 1t.
The six weeks his daughter was
down with typhoid were tough on him.
Sitting up with her night after night
and carrying on his practice proved
strain. But he made no complaint.
People were discouragingly slow to
pay sometimes, but then there had
been lots Of sickness and he used to
say to them with wry little smile
that they had come to love, TITS all
right. know how it is to be poor
myseIfW
The flu struck the settlement hard,
but he had seen 1t almost through be-
fore 1t reached out for him. he hadn't
taken half care Of himself, people
said, when they heard he was ILL., The
way he had hurried from farm to
farm, in all sorts Of weather, not get
ting nearly enough sleep nor taking
time for meals, was downright care
lessness. But after he had died they
didn't use that word again. Instead,
they looked strangely at one another
and one man remembered he hadn't
paid Doc for that trip he had made
ont to see the woman last winter. He
was about all in and 1t was terrible
night, but he got there-and he pulled
Ma through. by golly II he didn't !"
There was talk of having some of
the soldier boys-mos of whom he
had brought into the world-come
down from camp to attend the funeral
In a body, just to show the commu-
nity's appreciation, but the project
was abandoned
sDoc wouldn't like it." they con-
cluded "He never gave d-n for
that hero stuff Omaha World Her
aid.