Elemental human misery made itself heard in the dolorous accents of a corpulent lady of fifty. “I works in punishment on account of my eyes. Sometimes I piles two or three fish on top of each other and I has to do it over. I cries a good deal about it.” Her gratification as she was fitted to a pair of “plus” glasses that greatly improved her sight was worth a long journey to witness. Many pairs of glasses were put on her nose en route to the discovery of the most satisfactory pair, and each time she would say “Lovely! Beautiful!” with crescendo of fervour. I heard a fond father tell the Doctor that there was a “rale squick (real squeak) bawling on the inside of” his offspring. A man who climbed down the companion way with an aching side, a rupture, and a hypertrophic growth on his finger, was asked what he did for his ribs. “I rinsed them,” was the response. The Doctor is always on the lookout for the “first flag of warning”—as he calls it—of the dreaded “T. B.” which is responsible for one death in every four in Newfoundland. Much of his talk with a patient has to do with fresh air and fresh vegetables. The Eskimoes may know better than some native Newfoundlanders. “I like air. I push my whiphandle through the roof,” said one of the Eskimoes. Here is a typical excerpt, from a conversation with a young man who to the layman looked very robust. “How old are you?” “Twenty-two, sir.” “Have any in your family had tuberculosis?” “Father’s brother Will and Aunt Clarissa died of it, sir.” “Are you suffering?” “It shoots up all through my stomach, sir.” “Do you read and write?” “No, Doctor.” “See clearly?” “Yes, Doctor.” “Are you able to get any greens?” “Sometimes, sir.” “Dock-leaves?” “No, sir.” “What greens have you?” “Alexander greens, sir.” “Any berries?” “Yes, Doctor. And bake apples.” “That’s good. You must eat plenty of them. You must have good food. As good as you can afford. I’m sorry it’s so hard where you live to get anything fresh. Do you sleep well?” “Yes, Doctor.” “Anybody else sleep in the same bed?” “No, Doctor.” “When you go to bed do you keep the windows open?” “Yes, Doctor.” “That’s right. That’s very important. Do people spit around you?” (The Doctor is always on the war-path against this disgusting and dangerous habit.) “No, sir.” “Quite sure?” “Well, we use spit-boxes.” “Do you burn the contents?” “Yes, sir.” “Do you wear warm things?” “Yes, Doctor.” “Sweat a lot?” “Yes, Doctor.” “You mustn’t get wet without changing your clothes. Now, when you eat potatoes I want you to eat them baked, with the skins on. I don’t mean eat the skins. But the part right under the skins is very important.” “Yes, Doctor.” As one listens to such catechizing it becomes clear that the Doctor lays great stress on fresh air and fresh food as medicines, “Cold is your friend and heat is your enemy” is his oft-reiterated dictum to consumptives.