Poverty of Blood.
This is usually called "Anæmia." The words of a fellow-practitioner in a recently published medical journal are so good that I make no apology for transcribing them for your benefit.
"It is doubtful, in my mind, whether the average doctor realises the frequency of anæmia. I am sure that if the general practitioner gave due attention to the factor anæmia, we should have comparatively few cases of disease extending into the chronic stage. Too few physicians are accustomed to take into account all the elements of every case, including this, the most prevalent and essential of all. Any disease that depletes the system and draws largely on the vital forces will involve the condition we call anæmia. On all such occasions, it is of the first importance for the doctor to be constantly on the look-out for this condition. The best means of diagnosis is microscopic examination of the blood, to determine its quality from the number of red corpuscles and the proportion of hæmaglobin, and also as to its freedom from bacteria.
"As to the treatment of anæmia, blood, in my opinion, is undoubtedly the only agent that can absolutely restore the normal condition of blood. Iron has long been the favourite remedy with the profession for the treatment of anæmia. But a careful study of clinical cases, and careful perusal of the opinions of the most intelligent medical men, will elicit the fact that this remedy will not all the time produce the most satisfactory results. In fact, the majority of physicians will tell you that iron will act favourably up to a certain point only. Why is this? It is because iron preparations are not readily absorbed, and because they can only stimulate cell proliferation, but cannot help the deficient nutrition of the proliferating cells. It is for this reason that, as much clinical experience has proved to me and many others, patients put on iron and other so-called blood tonics seldom make any permanent improvement. The agent that brings results clinically is one that not only causes rapid cell proliferation, but supplies the new-born cells with direct nutrition, thereby causing them to proliferate in turn; thus finally restoring the blood to the normal standard."
Well, au revoir, girls, till we meet in bleak December. And just let me thank the G. O. P. lasses who visited my caravan this year in Scotland, and brought me smiles and pretty flowers.
THE NEW SOPRANO.
[ORPHEUS.]
By "A. N."
Behold! to thy harp of gold the green wave leaps, and to thee
Smiting the sounding chords on the topmost cliffs of the sea,
Aphrodite ascends in a rose of the foam of the deep,
The curl of whose petals is white, but whose heart is purple as sleep,
And the gods are glad in heart, and the warrior waxeth strong,
And love blooms out as a perfumed flower at the voice of thy song.
She, the goddess of sea-foam, moved to thee—she, thrice fair,
And Eurydice thy queen and love of the dusky hair,
Who, thro' the bowers of summer in all the Arcadian groves
Wandered and wanders for ever, and loved and for ever loves.
For she of the floral meadows could never remain below
Pent in the body, but is as a spirit wherever the violets blow.
The nightingale panted and paused to hark in the groves by night,
And the choral lark dropped down in the flush of the sun-dawn's light,
And the red wine lay in the golden cups at the princes' feast—
Yet their faces were bright as though they had drunken—when thy song ceased.
And the souls of all went out to thee as a deep sea wave,
Till Apollo looked down and envied the mellow gift he gave.
Then a snake of enamelled skin with eyes like jewels of fire,
Who oft had waved his dagger-head to the voice of thy lyre,
Stung thy queen, as she roved thro' the lovely Arcadian bowers,
In the snowy arm bent down to gather the purple flowers;
Yet she of the floral meadows could never remain below
Pent in the body, but is as a spirit wherever the violets blow.
What song then rolled from thy harp of gold to the pitiless sky
When this thou knewest—that Eurydice thy love could die?
The might of the cold green sea-waves shuddered: they held their breath
And the trees were still, when thy deep song rang thro' the realms of death,
And rushed along the gloom illimitable giving light,
As a world that moves in music over the vault of night.
So the tearful melody grateful as dew in summer fell,
Till the pangs of the damned were assuaged in the uttermost reaches of hell,
Thro' awful chasms and strait clefts cut in the ponderous rocks
O'er plains where echo from hills unseen the loud lyre mocks,
It sped over all the rivers of darkness and places of moan,
Till it rolled like an ocean of gold round the Death King's ebony throne.
[FATHER ANTHONY.]
By SOMERVILLE GIBNEY.