“Right! Well, milk coming from a farm that passes all its examinations gets a certificate from the Medical Society, which keeps a pretty constant watch over it. The society sees that all the cattle are tested for tuberculosis once in so often; that the cows are brushed off before milking; that the milking is done through a cloth, through which no dirt or dust can pass, into a can that has been cleaned by steam—not by contaminated water—so that no germs will remain alive in it; then cooled and sealed up and delivered. From the time the milk leaves the cow until it comes on your table, it hasn’t touched anything that isn’t germ-proof. That is the system I have outlined in the paper for your farmer.” “It sounds expensive,” commented Mrs. Clyde. “Yes; that is the drawback. Certified milk costs from fifteen to twenty cents a quart. But when you consider that nearly half the dead babies were poisoned by bad milk it doesn’t seem so expensive, does it?” “All very well for us,” said Mr. Clyde thoughtfully. “We can afford it. But how about the thousands who can’t?” “There’s the pity of it. Theoretically every city should maintain a milk standard up to the requirements of the medical certification, and allow no milk to be sold which falls short of that. It’s feasible, and it could be done at a moderate price if we could educate the farmer to it. Copenhagen’s milk supply is as good as the best certified milk in this country, because the great Danish Milk Company cooperates with the farmer, and doesn’t try to make huge profits; and its product sells under five cents a quart. But, to answer your question, Mr. Clyde: even a family of very moderate means could afford to take enough certified milk for the baby, and it would pay in doctor’s bills saved. Older children and grown-ups aren’t so much affected by milk.” “I’ll go out to the farm to-morrow,” said Mr. Clyde. “What’s next?” “Water, Mr. Clyde. I’ve found out where you got your typhoid, last summer.” “Pooh! I could have told you that,” said Mrs. Sharpless. “There was sewer-gas in the house. It smelled to heaven the day before he was taken down.” “Isn’t it curious how our belief in ghosts sticks to us!” commented the doctor, chuckling,—“malaria rising from swamps; typhoid and diphtheria rising in sewer-gas; sheeted specters rising from country graveyards—all in the same category.” Grandma Sharpless pushed her spectacles up on her forehead, a signal of battle with her. “Do you mean to tell me, young man, that there’s no harm in sewer-gas?”