Evening star. [volume], July 25, 1937, Page 15, Image 81

About Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972

Image provided by: Library of Congress, Washington, DC

                
Fatal Foolishness
Don't trifle with sunstroke — keep coot mentally
by Paul W. Kearney
5T summer in Jersey City a man
collapsed from "sunstroke" in a
■street car three hours after sun
set, and died on the way to a
hospital.
In Detroit a girl entering a tele
phone booth stumbled over a form
slumped on the floor. It was an elderly
woman — dead from "sunstroke" in a
dark cubbyhole.
How can you die from "sunstroke"
in the dark? Easy — because sun
stroke and heat stroke are one and the
same. And besides, as the ancient
rçhecze has it, "it isn't the heat, it's
the humidity."
Over 5,000 persons died from this
affliction last year, with at least ten
times as many prostrations. So make a
note right now that it's foolish to let
the heat get you down that way. And
since it may prove fatally foolish,
you'd better paste that note in your
hat!
If you want to play safe when the
mercury climbs, lake il easy. Slow
"down physically; relax mentally; don't
overeat ; don't resort to hard liquor for
relief ; don't drink ice water with meals
— don't get excited about anything.
People who are too dumb to slow
down when it's hot get knocked out
simply because muscular action gen
erates body heat, which must be dis
sipated promptly. The more action,
the more heat inside: the higher the
temperature outside, the less heat you
can get rid of.
About 15 per cent of this body heat
is dissipated by perspiration; about
80 per cent by radiation and conduc
tion from the skin. So when it's too
humid for you to perspire freely — or
when the air is already so hot that you
can't "radiate" at your level best, it's
up to you to cut down the "internal
heat" by slowing up, physically and
mentally. It's simple and pleasant.
In the tropics they take a siesta
during the heat of the day, because
they want to live longer. But Amer
icans think that's a waste of time, so
they keep up their pell-mell pace until
their eyeballs roll up under the lids
and their jaws sag grotesquely. Then
comes the ambulance. And for 5,000,
the hearse!
To be sure, lots of them were weak
ened by illness; some were old or
otherwise below par physically; others
were floored by working conditions.
But the fact remains that a lot were
just plain dumb.
For don't forget that you can be
bowled over by the heat (or the
humidity!) sitting in a chair just as
well as tearing around madly on your
feet. Dining room chairs and barroom
chairs are especially bad, because un
due burdens on the digestive system
are just as serious as excessive exercise.
Even acute mental strain or excite
ment will do the trick. In Troy, Ν. Y.,
during the hot spell last year, for
example, twenty-five women were
prostrated by the heat at a convention
meeting indoors in a hotel. In a New
York City loft building seventy-five
needle workers "went out" within a
half-hour. At a protest demonstration
at WPA headquarters with the mer
cury over 100 degrees, so many col
lapsed and required treatment that
nobody had time to count them!
"Mass hysteria," said the doctors.
Which means that after one or two of
the weaker ones fainted, panic seized
the rest and the nervous excitement
brought on the prostrations.
So when it gets real hot, keep cool
mentally. Above all, don't worry about
the heat and its hazards, because if
you observe the dictates of ordinary
common sense, it won't hurt you.
Little White Shoes
Continued from pag* tmι
It seemed she had barely closed her
eyes when she felt a hand on her arm.
"Lucy, wake up and come down
stairs. Just slip on your shoes."
It was Mrs. Galloway who stood by
the bed with a worried look on her
round face. Rachel was still asleep.
The first faint streaks of dawn were
filtering in at the window.
As in a blur, Lucy climbed out of
bed, pulled her shoes on her bare feet
. and followed the crackling white apron
into the kitchen . The Reverend Harden
stood looking out of the window. Her
heart felt like a stone falling through
water. The sleep fell away from her
eyes and left a barrenness that chilled
her. He never looked at her.
"Put on your clothes, Lucy."
Mrs. Galloway cleared her throat.
"It ain't my habit to interfere, but I
feel that you are being uncommon
harsh on the child. I can't imagine her
doing anything so dreadful as to de
prive her of this pleasure.
Deprive her of this pleasure? She
wasn't going to march! The pain was
like a sudden knife-thrust. She hated
her father. There was no sudden with
drawal in her mind from this blasting
' thdlight. She hated him for the pain he
was inflicting. Without a word she
turned and went -back to her room.
Carefully she moved so as not to wake
Rachel. Unheeding of wrinkles she
rolled up the dimity dress and canvas
. shoes.
Her father was talking when she re
entered the room. -
"Since you believe that I am being
uhfair, I feel I should tell you enough
to justify ray actions." The words
rolled off his tongue. "Lucy stole!"
Lucy batted her eyes as though
he had struck her. Mrs. Galloway
looked at her searchingly for a long
minute.
"That's a very harsh word.
Reverend. I should want to be very
sure. Have you given her a chance to
explain?"
"I'm giving her a chance to repent."
Lucy looked at him as though he
were a great way off.
"I always thought of repentance as a
voluntary thing," said Mrs. Galloway.
Harden's cheeks flushed and he
drew in his breath as though he were
going to expel a torrent of words in her
direction. But Mrs. Galloway had
turned to Lucy. She kissed her quickly
and without a backward look she left
the room.
Silently Lucy followed her father
out to the buggy in which he had
come. Her body was rigid as ice as he
lifted her to the seat beside him. He
» picked up the reins — a cluck to the
horse — and they left her dreams be
hind them. And a little part of Lucy.
For miles they drove in silence. The
• horse clip-clopped steadily down the
road. The sun began to ride the sky.
"Who told you?" Her voice was
tight and remote. For a moment he
seemed to hesitate.
"Delia. Like a dutiful daughter."
"She can buy lots of candy with ten
cents."
The blood rushed to his face. The
hardness and the maturity in her
words startled him. The gibe flickered
at his conscience.
"You should be praying for forgive
ness for your sin instead of being im
pertinent to your father."
"I'm never going to pray again."
"You'll pray for God to forgive
you." There was thunder in his voice.
There was almost the smell of brim
stone in the air.
"You can't make me." There was
grimness in her tone.
"Would you disobey your father?"
"You can make me say words —
like you do. But you can't make me
pray! You've got to feel a prayer. It's
way down deep inside, like your heart
beating, or something."
The silence separated them like a
swift-flowing river.
The sun was high when they turned
in at their own line fence. Her mother
stood on the porch, her eyes red from
tears. Delia and Lissy waited in the
door. Delia's lashes flickered and then
fell before the scorn in Lucy's glance.
The smugness slid off like a mask.
"Lucy — why did you do it?" Her
mother's voice sounded so tired. She
had followed Lucy into the house and
up the stairs to the familiar bedroom.
For a long time Lucy stood with her
back to her mother. Then her shoul
ders shook and with a gasping sob she
threw herself into her mother's com
forting arms.
The tears ran in streams down her
dusty face. And they ran over her
heart and revived it.
"I — I didn't mean to be b-bad. I
didn't steal." The last word was so soft
it was barely a sound in the still room.
Mrs. Harden rocked back and forth
silently with the hot little face buried
in her neck and waited for Lucy to
go on.
"Rachel couldn't g-go if she didn't
have white shoes — and — she wanted
to go so awful bad. S-so I — I gave
her mine. It — it isn't stealing to give
away what's y-yours. And I prayed
for God to send me new shoes — and
then I — I got scared and I couldn't
tell for fear Father would make me
ask R-Rachel for the shoes back."
"Sh, honey, don't cry so. Mother's
sorry you missed the marching. But
you'll have a chance again. There are
always parades. You mustn't blame
your father too much. He didn't know
that you had given the shoes to
Rachel. Delia didn't say. She said
you'd traded them for candy. He's a
hard man in a way—but he loves you."
"I — I hate him."
Dismay filled Mrs. Harden's face.
She thought hard for a few moments.
"Lucy, you say you hate him be
cause he wouldn't forgive you. You
are being like him if you bear resent
ment. It is bigger and better to forgive
him than to close your heart to him.
Try to be a big girl."
The sobs were dying down as Lucy
listened to her mother. The rocking
motion was gentle and slowly her little
lids drooped over her eyes. Her
breathing became deeper. For a long
time Mrs. Harden kept on rocking to
and fro. Her eyes were fixed on a
distant scene where all the little girls
wore white dresses and white shoes. It
would be a pretty sight . . .
The next afternoon Lucy was sitting
alone on the front porch when she
heard the fence creak as the gate was
opened and looked up to see two
figures coming down the path. Rachel
and Solomon. With a brown package.
Solomon smiled down at her and
asked for her father. Lucy ran quickly
into the house to call the Reverend
Harden. He struggled up from the
horsehair sofa where he had been
dozing and came out on the porch.
Mrs. Harden followed silently after
him.
"Won't you come in and have a
chair, Mr. Solomon—and you,
Rachel?" There was a certain discom
fiture in his voice.
"I — we can't stay. Reverend. We
came to thank your daughter Lucy for
her so great kindness." There was a
gleam in his opaque brown eyes and
his gaze wandered from Lucy's round
eyes to her father's slowly flushing
face.
"I was afraid that she wouldn't tell
what a fine thing she had done — you
might not know. She's such—she's so
modest. In giving Rachel her shoes she
showed what a true friend really is. It
was so big. I can't let Rachel keep the
shoes any longer, however, as they
have more than served their purpose.
We have brought them back with our
thanks and — with — with our
thanks."
Her father's face was getting a
deeper red as big Solomon kept on
talking.
"There was a spelling contest — I'm
proud to say my Rachel carried off the
first prize. A copy of King Arthur with
pictures." His glance rested fondly on
the dark little girl who clung to his
arm. "We have brought it to Lucy as a
reward — shall we say — for her big
kindness."
There was a big hollow of silence as
he stopped talking.
Rachel put the lovely book in Lucy's
hesitant hands. Solomon softly laid
the shoes on the porch.
"Why, this is too much. It's very
generous — but — " Harden floun
dered for words.
Solomon turned and met the gaze of
Harden for a long moment.
"Surely you must understand the
motive in back of it. Reverend. It's
my Rachel's idea. Just as you are
proud of Lucy's kindness and un
selfishness, so am I of Rachel's. Please
don't — put us under obligation."
Rachel's big eyes corroborated her
father's words.
"I'm sure Lucy will enjoy Rachel's
gift, Mr. Goldman. They can enjoy it
together." Mrs. Harden's voice was
gentle.
Lucy clasped the book to her body
as though to press within her all the
shining words that it contained.
"Lucy, why did you have to come
home?" Rachel's voice begged an an
swer. Lucy threw a startled look at her
parents.
"Did — didn't Mrs. Galloway tell
you?"
Rachel shook her head. "She just
said your father came early to take
you home. I was afraid someone was
sick."
For a moment Lucy had a vision of
the revenge she could have by telling
the truth. The satisfaction of blurting
out the ugly, painful facts. Her eyes
met her father's. His stare was
strangely pleading, almost frightened.
She dropped her glance — to Rachel's
bare feet. A little smile hovered round
her mouth.
"He — he came to see if I — if
everything was all right. You see, I —
I'd never been away before and I — I
was so homesick I couldn't let him
come back without me."
η» em
Drawn by Reamer Keller
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Another
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