Do not ask your charge what he would like to eat to-day. He will, of a surety, sicken with the effort at selection, and say, “Nothing!” But watch attentively for the slightest intimation of a desire for any particular delicacy, and if you are assured that it cannot hurt him, procure it, if you can, without letting him guess at your intention. Feed him lightly and often, never bringing more into his sight than he may safely eat. A big bowl of broth or jelly will either tempt him to imprudence, or discourage him. “Am I to be burdened with all that?” cries the affrighted stomach, and will have none of it. While he is very weak, feed him with your own hand, playfully, as you would a child, talking cheerily of something besides his food, and coaxing him into taking the needed nutriment as only a wife and mother can, or as nobody but John could beguile you to effort in the same direction.

Study all pleasant and soothing arts to while away the time, and keep worry of every kind away from him. A trifle at which you can laugh will be a burden to the enfeebled mind and body, and he has nothing to do but lie still and roll it over until it swells into a mountain. When he can be removed without danger, let him have his meals in another room, changing the air of each when he is not in it. Every one who has suffered from long sickness knows the peculiar loathing attendant upon the idea that all food is tainted with the atmosphere of the chamber in which it is served, and if eaten in bed, tastes of the mattress and pillows. The room and all in it may be clean, fresh, and sweet, but the fancy cannot be dismissed. And it is wiser to humor than to reason with most sick fancies.

A hired nurse is a useful, often a necessary thing, but while you are upon your feet, and mistress of your own house, delegate to no one the precious task of catering for the dear sufferer. It is an art in itself. I hope a practical knowledge of it will be taught in Women’s Medical Colleges, when they are an established “institution” with us.

I wish it were proper to record here the name of one of the kindest and best family physicians I ever knew, who had charge of my not very firm health during my girlhood. He owed much—I suppose no one ever knew really how much—of his success in his practice to his tact and skill in devising palatable and suitable nourishment for his patients. I well remember the childish pleasure with which I would hear him say when the violence of the attack had passed—“Now, my dear child, we must begin with kitchen physic!” and the glow of amused expectation with which I used to watch him, as, with an arch show of mystery, he would beckon my mother from the room to receive his “prescription;” the impatience with which I awaited the result of the conference, and the zest with which I ate whatever he ordered.

If I could have persuaded him to manage this department of my work, it would win for me the degree of M.D. with a new meaning—Mistress of Dietetics.

THE SICK-ROOM.

Beef Tea. ✠