of the dead, and burning of the house and all the belongings of the dead—a sanitary measure against the spread of disease. Small-pox epidemics have in many instances nearly wiped out whole tribes, and while the Navajo Indians knew nothing of the bacterial cause of disease, they instituted this effective sanitary practice to prevent its spread.

The physicians of the Navajos Indian Service respect this traditional practice, and when any Indian is fatally sick in the government reservation hospital, he is moved out of the hospital to a tent or to his home before he dies. No Navajo would ever enter the hospital if to his knowledge any one had died in it.

Dr. N. F. Canaday, who was in the Indian Service among the Pueblo Indians, says: "The Pueblo Indian was slow to make new friends, but after he accepted the new friendship, he was very loyal. Some of the staunchest friends I ever had were Indians."

The following incident given by Dr. Clarence W. Mullikin, formerly of the Indian Medical Service, shows how they appreciate the white medicine men. "While stationed at Oraibi, Ariz., a Navajo Indian chief came in one day to consult me concerning the physical condition of his son, who was at that time quite sick. The chief told me that the young man was his eldest son, and he was very anxious that he should live to take his father's place as chief of his particular clan. He told me that he had hired several of the Navajo Indian medicine men to treat his boy, and each in his turn had failed to restore the boy's health; but for their service they had taken most of his horses, cattle and sheep; and now he was a poor man, and his son about to die. The sand painting, the Indian dance, drinking of sacred

potions and all of the superstitious methods of treatment known to the Navajo Indian medicine men had failed; as a last resort he had come to the white medicine man for help.

"In his own language he told how his boy was suddenly taken sick with a chill and vomiting, and had then developed a high fever which lasted several days. He breathed hard and fast, and coughed up a bloody sputum, and had much pain in his left side. After several days had passed the fever disappeared, but the boy continued to grow weaker and weaker and thinner and thinner, until now after six weeks of sickness he was so weak that he could not lift his arm, and had the appearance of a mass of bones with the skin alone covering them. His left side was bulging so much that it seemed as though it would burst. It was on a Saturday evening that the chief came to talk to me. I told him to go home and I would come the following morning to see what could be done for his sick boy.

"Early the next morning, after getting together the necessary drugs and surgical supplies which I thought I might need, and in company with a Mexican Indian trader, we began the trip to the chief's camp in a buggy with two strong horses to pull us. We were to go a distance of about fifty miles. About noon we reached the camp. Our patient was, indeed, a sad sight to behold. He had had pneumonia and now had a large collection of pus in his left side. His heart was very weak and beating at the rate of 150 beats per minute. I can see him now as he lay there on the warm desert sand—a mere heap of skin and bones, struggling for his breath, each gasp seemed to be his last. Death apparently was only a few hours distant.

"I explained to the chief that there was practically no hope for the boy and in order to help him at all, there would have to be some openings made in his side so that the pus could drain out. His heart was too weak for an anesthetic to be given to relieve pain. This was explained to the boy and he said he would be glad to have the opening made in his side and was willing to suffer the pain, even if it only helped him to die easier; and then, too, he wished so much to live, and if this was a chance for recovery, he wanted to take it. These openings were made in his side and most of the pus drained out. The side was irrigated with a solution consisting of a small amount of carbolic acid in boiled water, which I had brought with me. Tubes were placed in the openings to allow further drainage. The young man suffered much pain but stood it bravely. I stayed with him three hours and by the time I left he felt much relieved and breathed easier.

"Before leaving I gave the chief some medicine for his son and explained how the patient should be cared for. He was also advised to let me know if his son was still alive on the next Saturday; if so, I would return again. On the appointed day I received word that our patient was alive and better. The next day I returned to the chief's camp and found the boy much improved. I again left medicine for him and gave instructions as to how to care for him. Once after this second visit I heard that the boy continued to grow stronger.

"Several weeks later I left my station at Oraibi and moved to the hospital at Tuba, Arizona, which was more than one hundred miles from the chief's camp.

"One day while watching a Hopi Indian dance near Tuba, I overheard a Navajo Indian talking to a bunch

of Hopi Indians, telling them how his son had been very sick and that the Navajo Indian medicine men had treated him and failed, but had taken most all of his horses, cattle and sheep for their services, and how he finally appealed for help to the white medicine man by whom his boy was cured; I became interested and thought I would walk around to a place where I could get a view of the speaker's face.

"At first glance I recognized him. I had no more than gotten my first glance of the chief's face, when he too looked in my direction and at once knew me. He came forward with right arm extended and we clasped hands and as he shook my hand a smile of gratitude came over that stern wrinkled face that I shall never forget. I asked him further about his boy, and he said that he was well and strong and able to ride and lasso horses. He told me that he had heard that I had moved to Tuba, and he had come to express their gratitude for my services. I told him that I appreciated his gratitude for what I had done, but tried to explain to him that they owed much more gratitude to the people of the United States and their great government who had sent me there to help those Indians who needed the aid of the white medicine man. A puzzled look appeared on his face, and in his own peculiar way he replied: 'You are the only white man who saw my son while he was sick, and now he is well and strong. We are both happy, to you we are grateful.'”

A list of these Indian Service Stations will be found in the Appendix.

CHAPTER XIII.

SANITARY ENGINEERING.

In the preceding chapter we referred to the work of the medical staff of the Indian reservations. We will dwell at some length upon the more extended work which has been done by the sanitary engineers in the Panama Canal Zone and in the Philippine Islands. Considering the effectiveness of the work in these regions as suggesting the possibilities of rendering habitable large areas of the tropics and semi-tropics, one readily sees the almost boundless fields which are open to the medical men of the next generation.

The Isthmian Canal Commission was organized for the purpose of making the Panama Canal Zone safe for those who were to undertake the construction of the canal. The commission was vested with extensive powers and the strictest kind of laws were formulated for the government of the country. The medical staff numbers sixty-nine physicians. These men receive an entrance salary of $1,800 a year with ample expense allowance.

The sanitation of the Canal Zone was the most important preliminary work in the building of the canal; it made the long-dreamed-of canal across the isthmus a possibility. The story of the conquest of disease, especially of yellow fever and malaria, reads like a fairy tale.

The great obstacle in the way of the building of the canal by the French Company was not money, organiza