In the present undertaking I was encouraged by the statement of both Doctor “Will” Mayo and Doctor W. F. Braasch, that one of the most difficult problems of the physician is to get the accurate viewpoint of the patient. Not that the patient’s viewpoint seems to make any difference, but they like to have it, possibly for the same reason that the little boy liked to hear the stuttering man talk--because it amused him. In order to get the reactions of a patient, Doctor Samuel W. Lambert goes so far as to say: “I have often told my students that every physician should have a severe illness, and every surgeon an abdominal operation.” Possibly those who read this account will feel themselves relieved from the need of trying out Doctor Lambert’s recommendation--which might also have included nurses, though he may have figured that they have other ways of kindling their sympathetic emotions. RUNNING THE GANTLET On arriving at the Mayo Clinic I found that, if unaccompanied by a physician, you are required to register and procure a numbered registration envelope, which serves as a sort of passport throughout the whole institution and entitles you to be examined, at their discretionary rates, for everything they can think of, including your income and your sanity. This formality disposed of, I was directed to a certain lettered and numbered desk (there are several floors of tremendous length and breadth, with a great number of such desks on each floor). This particular desk was presided over by a young lady who gave me a numbered slip and automatically directed me to “take a chair.” After waiting nearly three hours I was ushered into the presence of a diagnostician in the department of urology, to whom I briefly stated my case, and said I wanted to find out what sort of treatment they would recommend. Without appearing to have heard anything I said he took out a long questionnaire and began cross-examining me about my habits, my mode of living and other personal matters. He could think of more prying questions than a prosecuting attorney. He was particularly curious about my antecedents--how long they had lived, what they died of, and other long-forgotten data about the fallen branches of my family tree. Having no idea that kidney-stones were hereditary I wondered what all this long catechism had to do with my complaint, in which, by the way, he didn’t seem the least bit concerned. Then having me strip to the waist he stretched me on a long table and thumped me over pretty much as one would test a watermelon to see if it were ripe. For some reason best known to himself he studiously avoided the kidney corner of my anatomy; which reminded me of a man I once played golf with, who when his ball landed in the bushes or tall grass always looked for it in some adjacent quarter for fear of finding it in an unplayable lie. Needless to say, we had mutually agreed that there should be no penalty for lost balls.