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ance of the operation. If, on the contrary, it
has not perfectly succeeded, he gets nothing.
Can any reasonable person wonder at the neglect
or careless performance of vaccination when
such an amount of trouble is required to be
taken, perhaps for nothing, or, at the best, for
eighteenpence or half-a-crown?

Another point: every parent or guardian is
made aware that unless a child is vaccinated
within a certain time after birth, he or she is
liable to a fine of twenty shillings. But how
many medical men could afford to press the
charge? The practitioner knows perfectly well
that it would be as much as a great portion of
his practice was worth, if he informed against
a refractory parent. It ought to be made the
duty of a special officer who should have returns
of all the vaccinating lists, to prosecute without
fear or favour all those (and they are legion) who
evade the law.

One thing of great importance, not only to the
medical profession and the parishes, but to society
at large, is the compulsory appointment of a medical
officer of health to every union, or every
district of a union, who should be paid independently
of other duties, and whose special
provision it should be to inquire into and bring
to light all defects and impurities prejudicial to
the health of the community. Many a fair
smiling village, which seems as though made to
be the abode of rustic happiness and content, is
rotten with fever and malaria, simply because
there is no officer of health, and it is, consequently,
nobody's business to look to the foul
drains, the reeking dunghills, and the over-
crowded cottages. It is no business of the
squire's, because he can't be expected to be
bothered about bad drains which he doesn't
smell; the parson visits his sick like a good
man, but does not always understand that prevention
is better than cure; the doctor is over-
worked with hard riding about his district, and
sick of dinning into the heads of the Board that
it would save their rates if common sanitary
precautions were taken in time. The relieving
officer grumbles at the number of sick paupers
in the village, and takes exception to the meat
and wine that the medical man orders. Consequently,
he takes upon himself not to give
it; the doctor complains to the Board; the
guardians back up the relieving officer; the
doctor appeals to the commissioners; and
finally, having quarrelled all round in his efforts
to do well by his patients, resigns his appointment.


LONG, long ago, when the world was young,
and every man tended his own flock and tilled
his own field, there lived two brothers. The
eldest was much thought of: he was a grave,
silent boy, who liked to be alone, to wander
about at night, and stay in caves and desert
places. No one ever expected him to work; he
would see his little sister stooping under the
weight of the great milk-pails, and never think of
helping her; he lived with his head in the
clouds, but his father said, "Let him alone,
he'll be a great man some day."

Now, the Younger Brother was a merry, active
boy, ever ready to help, here and there and
everywhere, at the same time; if a plough
wanted mending, he was ready to do it; when
his mother baked the cakes for supper, they
never got burnt if he were by; and as for the
little dairymaid, his sister, he took such care of
her that she never found her work too much.
But nobody thought anything of him; he didn't
go about with his head in the clouds, and
his mother said he was a regular good-for-

One night, the Elder Brother had been talking
strangely over the dying embers about Light
and Thought, and how good and grand it was to
sit quite still and think one's life away. He
was always saying this, and his brother always
shook his head, for he felt so strong and active,
he was sure that he, at least, must be doing and
not thinking. But, somehow, that night he did
think; he must think, and could not sleep. His
Elder Brother had fallen asleep in the midst of
his talk, and lay with folded hands and closed
eyelids, at his side. But there had been words
of his which set the boy's heart beating high.
Where did the sun come from? Did he not
make the corn to grow, and bring light and joy
to all? Did he not send men happily to their
work, and call them home, weary and contented,
to their rest? Night, with her quivering
stars and pale unhappy moon, was no friend
to the Younger Brother. It was the glorious
sun that roused him to happy toil, and sent
him, with light-springing step, to lead the flocks
across the plain. But this friend of his, why did
he never rest? Where had he gone? and would
he come again?

Just then he raised his eyes and saw the sky
before him flushed with a glad red light. The
birds around whispered, "He is coming!" The
leaves fluttered for joy, as the morning breezes
swept by and told them that the sun was awake
once more. The clouds gathered up their robes
and bent their heads, as the glory came travelling
onward. Higher shot the beams of light,
throbbing upward like a pulse of gladness;
splendour flooded the sky, and soon the hero
himself leaped upon the earth. The distant
fields awoke to life, the birds burst forth into
full chorus, the great forest-trees thrilled in all
their branches, and the cattle upon a thousand
hills began to low. Men rose up, shook off the
chains of sleep, and went forth to their work.
Living, acting, working, the sun never stood
still. Living, acting, working! The words rang
in the boy's ears all day long, and when in the
evening the hero-sun, still travelling onward,
left the plains in darkness, the Younger Brother
took up his staff, and, not once looking back, set
off to see what the sun would do behind the
purple hills.

It was a long journey that he had set out
upon. Beyond the hills lived a race of giants,
who tilled no land, but lived like the wild