Hospital Book Author 
 
 Miss Adele Murphy Dies 
 
 Miss Adele Murphy, 71, of 
 665 W. Prairie Ave., the author of 
 a book on the founding of De- 
 catur and Macon County Hospit- 
 al, died there at 8:35 p.m. yes- 
 terday. 
 
 The novel, "Two Miles North," 
 was published in 1958. 
 
 In 1959 she received the first 
 honorary membership given in the 
 hospital's auxiliary. 
 
 Miss Murphy was head of the 
 Midland Advertising Service in 
 Decatur for many years and in 
 1943 was appointed director of 
 the central office of Pi Beta Phi 
 sorority when it was moved here 
 from Marshall. 
 
 In 1944 she resigned the extra 
 duty to devote full time to the 
 advertising service. 
 
 She was appointed a part-time 
 public relations counselor for De- 
 catur and Macon County Hospital 
 in 1956. It was during that time 
 she collected material for her nov- 
 el on the hospital's founding. 
 
 Miss Murphy has been at work 
 upon a historical novel dealing 
 with the Mayflower crossing and 
 the Pilgrims. 
 
 She had traveled to Plymouth, 
 Mass., to do research for the book, 
 which was about half complete. 
 
 Miss Adele Murphy 
 
 She had been working on it about 
 a year. 
 
 Miss Murphy was born Feb. 26, 
 1892. 
 
 She was a member of the First 
 Presbyterian Church. 
 
 She was a daughter of the late 
 Charles R. and Lillie B. Murphy. 
 Her father was vice - president of 
 the Decatur Coffin Co. and one of 
 the builders of the old YMCA. 
 
 The body is in Dawson & Wi- 
 koff Funeral Home. Arrangements 
 are incomplete. 
 
^<&a & 
 
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 m^ 
 
 (2&z£l (M-u^bC^ 
 
TWO MILES NORTH 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2012 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/twomilesnorthhisOOmurp 
 
TWO MILES 
 
 NORTH 
 
 a historical novel 
 
 ADELE MURPHY 
 
 Sponsored by the Women's Auxiliary of 
 DECATUR AND MACON COUNTY HOSPITAL 
 
 Decatur, Illinois 
 
COPYRIGHT 1958 BY ADELE MURPHY 
 

 Dedicated to 
 three generations of Decatur and Macon County citizens 
 
contents 
 
 PREFACE 5 
 
 1. Why can't babies be born in hospitals? 8 
 
 2. The invitations were out 11 
 
 3. Narrow escape 23 
 
 4. Celebration 31 
 
 5. Corn carnival 37 
 
 6. Poetic rebels 41 
 
 7. Beyond the trolley 50 
 
 8. Getting ready 54 
 
 9. Incredible goals 63 
 
 10. Crisis 72 
 
 11. Getting set 77 
 
 12. Going: first year 87 
 
 13. Growing pains 102 
 
 14. Heroism 120 
 
 15. Transitions 131 
 
 16. Percussions 140 
 
 17. Shadows 155 
 
 18. Confusion 163 
 
 19. Panic 174 
 
 20. —And after life 190 
 
 21. Growing big 201 
 
 .^v 22. Growing bigger 220 
 
 23. Stunning determination 234 
 
 24. Evolutions 245 
 
 25. TLC 251 
 
 EPILOGUE 269 
 
 4 
 
 :> 
 
preface 
 
 It's intriguing to wonder how a hospital, starting from 
 scratch, came into being. 
 
 Who first had the idea? 
 
 Who found the energy to start things off ? 
 
 Who cared enough to see it through? 
 
 Where did the money come from? 
 
 Some people stop with wishful thinking; others reach the 
 planning stage but stop on the intellectual plane; still others 
 do a minimum job adequately; but if there is leadership 
 with a great emotional capacity for caring, nothing can stop 
 the forward movement. 
 
 The Decatur and Macon County Hospital has been blessed 
 with leaders who didn't need to exert will-power in getting 
 a job done; will-power was built into their natures, and 
 once they had a lodestar, they were on their way. 
 
 In attempting to tell this story in four dimensions, it is 
 fortunate that some of the intangibles can still be docu- 
 mented by first-hand recollections of those who "knew him 
 when" or who used to "sit beside her in church". The hos- 
 pital started in the mind of one woman, but her idea and 
 
 5 
 
her leadership caught the imagination of a few others and 
 they, in turn, interested friends, until — like the clanging 
 streetcars of 1916 — things began to move forward; one 
 couldn't help hearing nor easily resist climbing aboard. 
 That is the power of vision backed by people wanting to 
 serve other people. 
 
 First, Mrs. Sue Hagaman had it. She was a slender, gentle- 
 looking woman with the rare ability of being able to laugh 
 at herself. 
 
 Later, Dr. William Barnes had it and dared anyone to 
 stop him. He saw the buildings and equipment whole, be- 
 fore excavation began; he even saw the hospital as part of 
 a community of hospitals — which it now is. 
 
 Miss R. Helen Cleland, the first superintendent, had it. 
 Her chin was determined and her eyes were kind. With a 
 warm smile she bade the first patients welcome and visited 
 each of them every evening to inquire if supper were good 
 and if they were comfortable. 
 
 And all along the way other women — other physicians — 
 other administrators and citizens — were joining hands. The 
 vision became, in effect, a magic wand. From a cornerstone 
 laid in 1912, the main building rose magnificently — had beds 
 in it — and patients in the beds. Then the Millikin wing was 
 there — and the Latham wing — and now, the Dorr wing . . . 
 neighbored meanwhile by the tuberculosis sanitorium and 
 the city hospital. 
 
 It is fifty years since the hospital received its present name, 
 in 1908, and there is so much more public today that newer 
 citizens are likely to take older citizens for granted, giving 
 them no more thought than the cornerstone on which the 
 
 6 
 
hospital was built. And yet, the story has fascination be- 
 cause it is compounded of frailty and heroism, discourage- 
 ment and triumph. 
 
 Special acknowledgments are made to Mrs. J. H. Winters, 
 close friend of the late Mrs. Sue Hagaman; to Mrs. Floyd 
 Orrison, Mrs. Hagaman's granddaughter; to Mrs. Selim 
 McArthur, daughter of the late Dr. William Barnes; to Mrs. 
 Gola Mahon, secretary to Mr. Leon C. Pullen, Jr.; to Mrs. 
 William Barnes, Jr.; and to Mr. E. B. Evans. 
 
 Statistics and anecdotes that have thrown valuable light 
 on contradictory data have been furnished by Miss Nonie 
 Ellis, Dr. C. Martin Wood, Miss Neva Bridgman, Mrs. 
 David Shellabarger, Mr. Herman Schultz, Mrs. Iva Shannon, 
 Mrs. W. W. Doane, Dr. J. Foster F. Waltz, Mrs. Elizabeth 
 Baird, Miss Ethel Lebkuecher, and the late Mr. Frank E. 
 Walker. 
 
 With the aid of these and many others who generously 
 gave time, thought, and helpful reminiscence about early 
 days of hospital history, we have been able to enliven and 
 enlighten the chronology. 
 
 — A.M. 
 1958 
 
1 
 
 why can't babies be born in hospitals? 
 
 JMrs. Sue Hagaman was shelling peas on the back porch 
 of her farm house near Bethany. Usually a placid, efficient 
 woman, she paused in her work now and frowned, looking 
 across the fields in the direction of Decatur. She had a worry 
 about Decatur. Its population had grown to almost 19,000, 
 yet there was only one general hospital — St. Mary's. 
 
 It was a hot morning; the air had a shimmer to it and there 
 was no breeze. Mrs. Hagaman set the dishpan of peas on 
 the floor and fanned herself with her apron. A new hospital 
 should be built in Decatur. The Catholics were doing a 
 wonderful work but they were already called on for more 
 accommodations than they could furnish. . . Babies ought to 
 be born in hospitals, too, she thought. 
 
 Absently she lifted the pan back to her lap. What really 
 ought to be done was for Decatur to build a Protestant hos- 
 pital — not in competition with St. Mary's, but to extend the 
 work. . . She was shelling rapidly again now, pressing her 
 thumb into the crisp pods and deftly slitting them open; 
 rhythmically and fast the peas tumbled out of their grooves 
 into the pan. But she didn't see nor hear for she was imagin- 
 
 8 
 
ing a new hospital — maybe on the other side of Decatur — 
 maybe even bigger than St. Mary's — because Decatur might 
 someday double in size. She smiled at that, ridiculing her- 
 self. And yet — 
 
 She wanted to start that hospital. How ? How ? Here she 
 was — out in the country, not rich, not young, not strong, 
 not anything that a hospital needs for building. 
 
 . . . Why did she want to do it ? She didn't know exactly. 
 But there was the indelible memory of watching her daugh- 
 ter Luella, four years old, die for want of help close at 
 hand. . . It had happened a long time ago but it was the 
 greatest tragedy she and Francis had to suffer. She looked 
 at it for a moment, deeply, and then tried to turn her atten- 
 tion away from the lost child to the brood she and Francis 
 had brought to maturity and sent out into the world — two 
 other children of their own, and eight adopted boys and 
 girls. There was enchantment in remembering those years . . . 
 years of worry and wonder and pure delight. Francis fussed 
 like an old rooster before the adoption of each orphan, but 
 he made a worse fuss when each child left the nest. 
 
 ... It had always worked out in the end, she thought; in 
 the end Francis came to like her crazy notions — even her 
 painting, and her presidency of the W.C.T.U. Of course he 
 had a right to think she'd settle down and mind her own 
 business now; she was fifty-five. When you get to be fifty- 
 five, it's time to figure out the few years left to you. 
 
 There was the hospital — 
 
 But there was also something else, something secret and 
 shameful: she wanted to learn to ride a bicycle! In spite 
 of her religious principles — in spite of her age — this ambition 
 
 9 
 
kept plaguing her. — How she'd love to mount a wheel, 
 start her feet peddling in swift circles, and roll away over 
 the hill yonder, with the freedom of a bird! 
 
 — Only birds don't roll, she laughed. — And it wasn't 
 really a hill. — And Rev. Asa D. Blackburn had said only 
 last week, "You cannot serve God and skylark on a bicycle!" 
 
 Firmly she rescued her wayward thoughts and brought 
 them back to the hospital. The hospital idea was safer; it 
 was altruistic; it was good. 
 
 In four more years the twentieth century would begin and 
 who could tell what might happen after that? There was 
 talk of putting electric lights in the Decatur stores, and 
 someone had invented a horseless carriage. Her mind 
 quickened. Miracles were happening all the time. . . What 
 if she went to Decatur next Saturday to visit with her 
 friend there and ask her what she thought about a new 
 hospital ? 
 
 The peas were finally done. She carried them into the 
 house and consulted the Illinois Central timetable tacked 
 above the sink. 
 
 10 
 
the invitations were out 
 
 It was not in Mrs. Hagaman's mind, back there in 1896, 
 that she and Francis might someday move to Decatur, but 
 three years later they were living on West Macon Street, 
 and one dark November afternoon she was serving tea to 
 Mrs. J. E. King. Both of them were elated and full of 
 suspense over what they'd just done. Mrs. Hagaman's hand 
 was unsteady when she set down the teapot. "I can hardly 
 believe it! Back in Bethany I couldn't imagine how to in- 
 terest anyone else. Now there are twenty-nine of us women, 
 and we've sent out four hundred invitations for the meet- 
 ing." Absently she offered a plate of marguerites to her 
 friend. 
 
 Mrs. King was a buxom, pretty woman, with high color 
 in her cheeks and a reassuring cheerfulness when she smiled. 
 She nibbled on a wafer and stirred her tea thoughtfully. 
 "The invitations are out, anyway. If only forty show up in 
 the city council room, it will be better than nothing." 
 
 A log chunked down in the fireplace sending flutters of 
 brighter light into the room. "Don't you think more than 
 forty will come?" Mrs. Hagaman asked in an uncertain 
 voice. 
 
 11 
 
"I — don't know," Mrs. King answered. "Maybe we 
 oughtn't to get our hopes up too high — the men say a hos- 
 pital might cost as much as $60,000. The thing that bothers 
 me, Sue — we may have made a mistake in not going first to 
 the doctors." She took a sip of tea and then, as if having 
 made a decision, she drained the cup and set it down. "Why 
 don't you talk with Dr. Will Barnes tomorrow and tell him 
 what's afoot? If he approves of the hospital we can an- 
 nounce that at the meeting; it might keep us from bogging 
 down in case someone raises a lot of objections." 
 
 Her hostess moved uneasily. "Dr. Barnes is rather fierce, 
 isn't he? Would you go with me?" 
 
 Mrs. King shook her head. "Oh, we could have a very 
 impressive committee call on him but that wouldn't work 
 with Dr. Will. He's the kind of man who can't be shoved 
 around by a committee. No, Sue, you're the one." She 
 looked up, her blue eyes lighting with fun. "You're the 
 queen bee of this hospital idea. Priscilla Jacobs is a better 
 talker, but she's too jokey. And I'm too fat — " 
 
 "Dr. Barnes — may I speak with you for a few minutes?" 
 Mrs. Hagaman's voice was low — not timid exactly, but not 
 brave either. 
 
 "Gall bladder?" he asked rudely. "All my patients have 
 gall bladders today." 
 
 Now she laughed. "I'm not your patient, Doctor. I'm 
 here to ask a favor — we — " 
 
 When they were seated, Mrs. Hagaman noticed one rose 
 
 12 
 
in a vase on Dr. Barnes' desk. In November! It was a 
 beautiful rose. . . 
 
 "Well—?" He popped it out. 
 
 She decided just to take her time. She looked at him in 
 the same way she would study a small boy, to determine — 
 was he full of mischief, or was he mean, or was he worth 
 a little trouble? She decided he was worth a little trouble; 
 he had a beetling look, but his eyes were kind. 
 
 So she plunged into it. "Some of us think Decatur should 
 have a new hospital — and you, being a doctor, we wanted — " 
 
 "What the hell do you girls want with a hospital?" he 
 interrupted. "We already have a hospital." 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman wavered. She looked down at her gloved 
 hands, trying to forget he had said hell. "We think babies 
 have a right to be born in hospitals if they want to!" she 
 said strongly. 
 
 "Oh — so that's it! You want a baby hospital!" 
 
 "No — we want a hospital. Just — a hospital." 
 
 "Humph. My children were born at home. Weren't 
 yours?" 
 
 She felt herself turning pink and she nodded. But she 
 went on with it. "You read that piece in the paper, didn't 
 you?" 
 
 " — The baby that got born in jail?" He lighted a cigar. 
 "No point in it. Mother should have stayed home where 
 she belonged." 
 
 "Doctor! Now you listen to me. She couldn't. That poor 
 woman had no one to help her — not a soul. So she did the 
 only thing she could think of — she called a cab and went to 
 St. Mary's and when they wouldn't take her, she had no- 
 
 13 
 
where else to go. The driver was scared and took her to 
 the jail because he couldn't think of any other place that 
 would care for her that time of night." Mrs. Hagaman 
 looked aside, toward the rose. "Now I'm not criticising St. 
 Mary's, you understand. The sisters have their orders not 
 to deliver babies; they weren't to blame. But we want a 
 hospital that will deliver babies!" She looked back toward 
 him, her chin firm. 
 
 "I'll be damned," said Dr. Barnes. 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman was fairly tall. She stood up and her 
 shoulders squared. "Good day, Doctor." She turned her 
 back, buttoning her jacket. 
 
 "So you want a hospital — " he said. He cleared his throat. 
 
 "We're going to have a hospital," she corrected him. 
 
 A few days later Mrs. Hagaman proudly clipped an item 
 from the Herald-Despatch of November 6, 1899, and dabbed 
 the back of it with flour-paste. After putting it into her 
 scrapbook she read it again: 
 
 "About 100 attended the meeting in the city council 
 room. Invitations had been sent out with the assistance 
 of Rev. Frost Craft, pastor of the First Methodist 
 church. E. A. Gastman presided and it was decided that 
 a movement for a hospital should be started. Mrs. 
 A. W. Conklin, Rev. R. G. Hobbs, Dr. R. L. Walston, 
 and Rev. George F. Hall were speakers." 
 
 She closed the book with satisfaction and gave it a little 
 pat. 
 
 14 
 
The second meeting was held a few days after Christmas 
 in the basement of the First Methodist church. It was de- 
 cided then that the hospital should be undenominational and 
 as Mrs. Hagaman sat quietly listening, she heard formal 
 organization effected. 
 
 "Mr. Chairman," someone asked after awhile. She saw 
 it was Mr. Brownback, and she tensed, afraid he would 
 bring up the subject of money. 
 
 He did; he mentioned the fact that it would cost $15 to 
 get our incorporation papers — and Mrs. Hagaman 's confi- 
 dence faltered. Money . . . money ... a hospital would take 
 so much money. . . 
 
 But Mr. Deck stood up, bless him, offering $5 from his 
 own pocket, and quickly afterwards John F. Mattes and W. 
 F. Busher each handed over $5. 
 
 ... So far, so good. Mrs. Hagaman gave a little silent 
 prayer of thanks. 
 
 The first trustees were selected at that meeting: John A. 
 Brown, J. E. Patterson, W. F. Busher, Henry Elwood, 
 Charles G. Powers, John R. Miller, T. T. Springer, S. S. 
 Jack, D. A. Mafiit, J. E. Badenhousen, M. L. Deck, J. M. 
 Brownback, J. F. Mattes, W. J. Wayne, and John Allen. 
 
 Less than a month later the first directors were named — 
 and the twentieth century had begun. 
 
 As if aware of the challenge of 1900, Decatur began to 
 branch out in culture, sports, business, and municipal im- 
 provements. More of the principal streets were being paved. 
 
 15 
 
The trotting park extended its track to a full mile, with 
 stables for 200 horses and seats for over 4,000 people. River- 
 side Park, owned by W. H. Starr and D. A. Maffit, had been 
 leased to the Decatur Traction and Electric Company and 
 was proving more and more popular for those who liked 
 picnics — or swimming in the big natatorium — or fishing and 
 boating on the river. A large pavilion was used for free 
 summer theatre and other amusements. 
 
 Then there were the new golf links inaugurated by Dr. 
 Barnes at the country club, adjoining Riverside Park. Yes, 
 but what about the hospital? Sometimes Mrs. Hagaman 
 grew impatient. 
 
 The library, now in the handsome new Powers building, 
 was planning to ask Andrew Carnegie for money toward 
 a separate public library building. Yes, but we need the 
 hospital morel It wasn't as if people couldn't still borrow 
 books. . . 
 
 Then there was talk of incorporating the new starch 
 works started by A. E. Staley. Mrs. Hagaman reflected that 
 probably a lot of Decatur people with a lot of money would 
 buy shares in the company when organization was com- 
 plete. Aren't people forgetting about the hospital? 
 
 On May 13th, James Millikin offered to found an insti- 
 tution of learning in Decatur. He said he would donate 
 Oakland Park and $200,000 in cash, providing another 
 $100,000 could be raised. . . Now it happened that Oak- 
 land Park was near Mrs. Hagaman's home and she found 
 herself struggling with a green-eyed monster. . . No more 
 Oakland Park! $300,000 less for the hospital! . . . And with 
 real estate thrown in, too! 
 
 16 
 
But, she thought, clinging to hope — / wonder if Mr. 
 Millikin has some money left? 
 
 The spring and summer months of 1900 passed and Mrs. 
 Hagaman grew more restive, wondering what the trustees 
 and directors were doing about the hospital. She asked Mrs. 
 King if she knew anything, and Mrs. King told her no. 
 
 They were on the front porch of Mrs. King's house on 
 North Main Street, talking it over, and watching the horse- 
 drawn vehicles go by. Mrs. Hagaman said wistfully, "I 
 saw Mr. Mueller's horseless carriage last week; I don't see 
 why we can't have a hospital." 
 
 "Well," her friend answered, "a hospital would cost lots 
 more, for one thing, and we could hardly expect Mr. 
 Mueller — " 
 
 "I didn't mean Mr. Mueller should build us a hospital, 
 for pity's sake," Mrs. Hagaman protested. "What I was 
 thinking of . . ." her voice was gentle — "miracles do happen 
 — like a buggy without a horse." 
 
 Mrs. King laughed comfortably. "You like to dream. It's 
 a nice dream, Sue, and I hope it comes true, but you can't 
 make dreams come true without getting busy." 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman didn't answer right away. She rose from 
 her chair and walked down the length of the veranda and 
 back. Then she dropped into the swing and pressed firmly 
 on the foot-slat. She said earnestly, "Will you help me 
 organize a hospital aid society?" 
 
 "Just women, you mean?" 
 
 17 
 
"Yes." 
 
 "What kind of aid?" hedged Mrs. King. 
 
 "Money," said Mrs. Hagaman. 
 
 "Where will we get it?" 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman shook her head. "I don't know — I don't 
 know. But if we organize maybe we'll think of something. 
 If we could get even a little money and hand it over to 
 the trustees, they'd have to do something with it, wouldn't 
 they?" 
 
 Mrs. King was perfectly agreeable. "All right, invite 
 everybody you want to; they can meet at my house." 
 
 That was all Mrs. Hagaman needed. The hospital aid 
 society was organized at the home of Mrs. John E. King, 719 
 North Main Street, on September 5, 1900, and the following 
 officers were elected: 
 
 President — Mrs. J. E. King 
 Vice-President — Mrs. A. T. Summers 
 Secretary — Mrs. Myra Mark 
 Assistant Secretary — Mrs. Sue Hagaman 
 Treasurer — Mrs. Sue Odor 
 
 The collection of their dues amounted to $27.25 — which 
 Mrs. Odor was instructed to turn over to the trustees. It 
 was the first money toward building the hospital. 
 
 To celebrate, the women invited all their friends to a 
 party the next night, on the lawn of Mrs. King's home. It 
 was an impromptu but gala occasion, with lighted Japanese 
 lanterns strung between the giant maple trees — and with 
 music furnished by Charlie Montgomery, Rufus Wilson, 
 Budge Brown, and Frank Bunn. 
 
 For many months the idea of that $27.25, safe in the 
 
 18 
 
hospital treasury, gave Mrs. Hagaman confidence, but one 
 thing troubled her. Although women's auxiliary societies, 
 now active in different wards of the city, were regularly 
 meeting at the homes of members — taking their sewing 
 and making plans for earning money, Mrs. Hagaman 
 realized that a hospital was too big for women alone. They 
 needed the men; they couldn't do anything much without 
 the men. How could they interest the men — get them really 
 excited about the project? 
 
 She was wondering this when she came to the corner of 
 Church and Prairie on her way downtown and caught a 
 glimpse of Mrs. Jacobs approaching from the other direc- 
 tion. When they met, Mrs. Hagaman said, "Come with 
 me to Brodess's. I have something on my mind." 
 
 Brodess's was an ice cream parlor. The dim interior, the 
 handsome soda fountain with its mahogany back-drop, and 
 the carpeted silence suggested confidences. In gilt letters 
 above doors leading to the kitchens, they read: good things 
 
 ARE NOT CHEAP. CHEAP THINGS ARE NOT GOOD. . . There 
 
 was something symbolic in those words. 
 
 With ice cream sodas before them, Mrs. Jacobs leaned 
 forward. "What's the news?" 
 
 "No news — that's the trouble, Priscilla. What are the 
 men doing about the hospital?" 
 
 Mrs. Jacobs shook her head. "Is your husband inter- 
 ested?" 
 
 "No. Is yours?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman cocked her head sidewise. "What do 
 you suppose we can do to make them put their minds to it?" 
 
 19 
 
Priscilla shrugged. "They aren't on the board; why 
 should they care?" 
 
 "Everybody in Macon County should care," said Sue 
 Hagaman. 
 
 "Well, everybody is a lot of population," Priscilla re- 
 minded her. "Why don't we start with the doctors?" 
 
 "With Dr. Barnes," specified Mrs. Hagaman. 
 
 "I thought you were through with him!" 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman laughed ruefully. "So did I," she ad- 
 mitted, "but somehow I feel — he would help us most if he 
 had a mind to." She hesitated. "I don't know why I think 
 that." 
 
 "Well, no — why do you?" 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman shook her head. "I just do. Priscilla — 
 do you know Mrs. Barnes?" 
 
 "Not very well." 
 
 "Do you suppose we could get at Dr. Barnes through his 
 wife?" When she looked up for her answer, Priscilla was 
 doing an outrageous thing. She licked her finger, put it to 
 the palm of her other hand, thumped the palm, and ex- 
 plained: "White horse going by. — What did you say?" 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman scolded: "Such a silly superstition! I 
 said — do you suppose we could get Dr. Barnes' support if 
 we first got Mrs. Barnes interested?" 
 
 "No," Priscilla answered flatly. "He's not the only doctor 
 in town. What about Dr. Walston? He was at the first 
 meeting." She spooned up the last froth of soda from the 
 bottom of her glass. 
 
 "No, why don't you go to see Dr. Barnes, Priscilla? 
 You're a good pusher. Tell him how wonderful the hospital 
 
 20 
 
will be — all full of beds and operating tools and capsules 
 and bottles; make him see it; / couldn't make him see it; 
 maybe you can." Her tone was pleading. 
 
 But Priscilla objected. "Pshaw! He's a doctor; he knows 
 all that: beds, instruments, medicines. We don't want to 
 insult his intelligence or work him through his wife." 
 
 But Mrs. Hagaman had already tried the direct approach; 
 she felt there must be a better way. She leaned forward. 
 "Maybe you could get at him through his bug house — " 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "He hunts butterflies." 
 
 "He does?" Priscilla's face was blank. "What do butter- 
 flies have to do with a hospital?" 
 
 "They're one of Dr. Barnes' outside interests," Mrs. 
 Hagaman explained. "He pins the butterflies to trays and 
 classifies them and keeps them in that wing built off his 
 house on West Main Street. The boys call it his bug house." 
 
 Mrs. Jacobs answered that she couldn't see how starting a 
 conversation about butterflies would get her anywhere. Mrs. 
 Hagaman felt doubtful, too, because she couldn't imag- 
 ine Priscilla's being intelligent on that subject. " — Here's 
 a better idea," she said, leaning forward. "You have a 
 green thumb. Why not start talking with Dr. Barnes about 
 flowers? I'm sure he likes them." 
 
 "He does?" Priscilla sparked. "All right — what happens 
 then? I start talking about flowers and when I have the 
 lion all tamed, I'm supposed to mention how pretty a hos- 
 pital would look with a border of flowers out front?" She 
 made a comic face. "Is that what you had in mind?" 
 
 "It might work — who knows?" Mrs. Hagaman's voice 
 
 21 
 
was lighter. "He can't have a flower-bed in front of the 
 hospital unless he has a hospital behind it!" 
 
 "Real estate, too!" Priscilla reminded her. "Isn't it the 
 perfect way to bring up the subject of real estate — the one 
 thing that hospitals and flowers have in common? You 
 just wait — I'll tell him!" 
 
 "You can try," Mrs. Hagaman said, "but if you fail, we'll 
 have to interest one of the other doctors. — Dr. Brown, for 
 instance. Dr. Brown has a white horse, by the way. You 
 could start with gestures!" 
 
 They came out of Brodess's laughing — the tall, mild- 
 mannered woman and the dark, jokey one. Neither of them 
 doubted they were going to have a hospital — the only thing 
 was: when and how? 
 
narrow escape 
 
 New Year's day of 1901 spoiled the Hagamans' plans to 
 go skating on the river, because the ice at that moment was 
 "ripe" — clear, unusually fine, nine inches thick — but taboo 
 for skaters. Ice dealers announced they couldn't wait a day 
 without risking loss. Accordingly, and despite the holiday, 
 several hundred men were hired to mark and cut the ice 
 on New Year's, hoping to harvest hundreds of tons of it 
 the following day. 
 
 The result, as far as Mr. and Mrs. Hagaman were con- 
 cerned, was that they dressed in their finery and attended 
 two New Year's receptions, instead — one at the Wheel- 
 man's Club and one at the Decatur Club. Mrs. Hagaman 
 reflected later that if it hadn't been so, she might never have 
 learned of Dr. Barnes' plans. 
 
 At the Wheelman's Club, young Dr. J. Foster F. Waltz 
 was trying to carry on a pleasant conversation with Mrs. 
 Hagaman. They finally sat down together at one end of 
 the big room and he mentioned the fact that he would 
 soon belong to the century club. 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman looked vague; she was wearing a lavendar 
 
 23 
 
gown, with a flower in her hair; but her mind wasn't on 
 the party. . . 
 
 Dr. Waltz went right on talking. After awhile she glanced 
 back at him, smiling apologetically. "What is the century 
 club?" 
 
 "It's made up of members who have cycled a total of a 
 hundred miles," he told her proudly. 
 
 Suddenly she was alert, younger. "How does it feel to 
 skim over the ground on a wheel?" 
 
 "Oh, fine! You ought to try it! Lots of women are 
 taking it up!" 
 
 She shook her head, wistfully. "I'm too old — " 
 
 "Nonsense." 
 
 "Foster — " she hesitated. 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "I'm trying to change the subject," she laughed. "Maybe 
 because I'm jealous of you, wheeling a hundred miles." 
 Then she sobered. "I have something else on my mind. 
 Do you know Dr. Will Barnes very well?" 
 
 "Yes, quite well." Then he told her what he'd heard — 
 that Dr. Barnes might soon be moving to New York City. 
 
 She was appalled. She cried out, "Oh — he mustn't!" 
 
 "We'd hate to lose him," agreed Dr. Waltz, "but maybe 
 he's too big a man for Decatur." 
 
 "He was born here!" 
 
 "But he went to Harvard," Dr. Waltz reminded her. 
 "He was subjected to strong eastern influences. He started 
 his butterfly collection under Agassiz and studied anatomy 
 under Oliver Wendell Holmes. Naturally his sights are 
 
 high.- 
 
 24 
 
"His practise is here!" protested Mrs. Hagaman. "I don't 
 like to think — " Her face was full of distress. 
 
 Dr. Waltz tried to cheer her up. "We'll hope for the 
 best. Maybe he'll decide against going; maybe it's only a 
 rumor — " 
 
 But she was persistent. "Has anything special happened 
 to make him want to leave Decatur?" 
 
 "Well," Dr. Waltz explained, "As I heard it, he showed 
 special kindness to a student who was poor while he was in 
 Harvard — helping him financially to get through medical 
 school. Now the poor boy has married a rich wife and 
 built a private hospital with all the latest equipment. Quite 
 magnificent, I hear. And he wants Will Barnes to come in 
 with him as a partner, to run the hospital." 
 
 As soon as she gracefully could, Mrs. Hagaman hunted 
 out Francis and urged him to take her on to the Decatur 
 Club where she knew Dr. Barnes was probably in the re- 
 ceiving line, as president. 
 
 Everything was festive there — the chandeliers hung with 
 asparagus plumosis, the women in beautiful bare-backed 
 gowns, the men in full evening attire, the opera house 
 orchestra playing, a sumptuous buffet supper laid out. The 
 crowd was happily dividing and subdividing into small con- 
 versational groups or dancing or playing cards. As the 
 Hagamans moved slowly up toward the receiving line, she 
 thought: Everything that Dr. Barnes runs, runs smoothly . . . 
 comes out well. 
 
 25 
 
... Is there anything I can say to him? she wondered. 
 Frank and Edward Powers were right in front of them, 
 and Mrs. W. B. Chambers was talking now with Dr. and 
 Mrs. Barnes. (. . . What do you suppose she was saying?) 
 Mr. and Mrs. G. D. Thomas passed by, nodding and smiling. 
 They reminded her of the picnic club which held six-hand 
 euchre parties in the wintertime. Dr. Barnes belonged to 
 it — so did the Thomases. Last Saturday evening Mr. and 
 Mrs. O. B. Gorin entertained the picnic club at their home 
 on West Prairie. 
 
 ... If only she and Francis knew the Barnes family 
 better! It would help, maybe, if Dr. Barnes knew her as a 
 person. 
 
 What can I say to him when I get up there? Maybe he 
 won't even remember me. She laughed a little. It was 
 funny, really. . . I walked out on him there in his office 
 because he swore at me — and now here I am wanting to 
 get better acquainted. But determination gripped her. 
 Maybe this is the last chance I'll ever have to speak to 
 him. . . If he's to help the hospital, I'd better think of 
 something pretty bright, pretty quick. Her mouth felt dry. 
 
 "Happy New Year," she said, taking his hand. 
 
 He looked at her closely. "I can't remember your name." 
 
 "Mrs. Hagaman." 
 
 He shook his head. "Having a good time?" he inquired 
 affably. 
 
 "No," she said. "I'm worried." 
 
 His mouth dropped open. "What kind of party- talk is 
 that?" he asked. 
 
 She knew she was holding up the line, but this might be 
 
 26 
 
the last time. . . She said, "Please don't go to New York." 
 "What?" he roared. "Who's been blabbing about that?" 
 "I won't tell you," she said. "But please — stay in De- 
 catur." 
 
 "I'll be damned," he muttered. Automatically he turned 
 toward Francis, and again she passed out of his sight. 
 
 It was late in the spring when Mrs. Hagaman decided 
 to have her teeth looked over. She still didn't know what 
 Dr. Barnes had decided about New York and she felt she 
 must find out as soon as possible. Priscilla hadn't kept her 
 promise to interview Dr. Barnes, and everything was at a 
 standstill. Dentistry seemed a small price to pay for ending 
 her uncertainties. She had an idea Dr. Foster Waltz would 
 know a lot — and maybe he'd talk a lot. 
 
 He greeted her pleasantly and crisply. While he was 
 helping her into the dental chair he talked about politics 
 and ruts in Macon County roads. Firmly he tucked a scrap 
 of towel under her chin. She knew she must say what she'd 
 come to say before he propped her mouth open, for now he 
 was speaking of Carrie Nation's crusade, and that could be 
 a long discourse. She tried to make a connection. When he 
 turned to scrub his hands, she said, "Carrie Nation is a 
 little like Dr. Will Barnes." 
 
 He paused and turned with visible surprise. She laughed. 
 "I don't mean her hatchet and his surgery. I mean they 
 both go after what they want. They really care." 
 
 Dr. Waltz assented, but before she could say another 
 
 27 
 
word, he had his back turned again and was talking about 
 the smallpox scare. It took quite awhile and when he came 
 back to her side, she said hurriedly, "Speaking of small- 
 pox, what did Dr. Barnes decide about the hospital in New 
 York? I understand they're having considerable smallpox 
 there." 
 
 This indirection failed. Dr. Waltz placed a cottony scrap 
 of cloth over her lower teeth and began angling around the 
 roof of her mouth with his little mirror. "Maybe now," he 
 answered smoothly, "I was premature in mentioning that 
 matter." And adroitly he went on to say how good a golfer 
 Dr. Barnes was — and had she heard how popular that sport 
 was in the east? 
 
 Helplessly she stared at the tin roof outside the window. 
 She thought ruefully: it serves me right; if this boy hurts 
 me, I'll never be so silly again. He did hurt her a little — 
 but not too much. Her frustration and uncertainty grew, 
 however, with every minute. Ridiculous ! she chided herself. 
 There must be some way to get him talking in the right 
 direction — Yet she couldn't even open her mouth! 
 
 When it was all over and he was helping her on with 
 her coat at the door, he was still talking without interruption 
 on a variety of subjects. Tiredly she knew she was defeated. 
 He didn't want to talk about Dr. Barnes' affairs; she 
 couldn't make him talk. 
 
 She found her way down the long flight of steps and out 
 into the bright sunshine of Main Street. The only com- 
 forting thing she could think of doing was to go to Brodess's 
 for a dish of ice cream. 
 
 GOOD THINGS ARE NOT CHEAP. . . CHEAP THINGS ARE 
 
 28 
 
not good. She read the gilt letters over the door thought- 
 fully. 
 
 About two weeks later Mrs. Hagaman had an unexpected 
 opportunity to see Dr. Barnes face to face. She was waiting 
 at St. Mary's hospital to visit a patient when he happened 
 to come by her chair. Uncertainly they spoke to each other. 
 Then he grinned. 
 
 "I've got it!" he said. "You're the one that wants a new 
 hospital and you're the one that gets worried at parties! 
 . . . Tell you something — " He beckoned her into a corner. 
 
 "So you want a hospital?" he asked in a conspiratorial 
 voice. 
 
 She could only nod her head. 
 
 "Well — I've just seen a humdinger of a hospital — beauti- 
 ful — wonderful — all the latest equipment. It's in New 
 York, and when I saw that hospital — I remembered you. 
 — What's your name?" 
 
 "Mrs. Hagaman." 
 
 "Yes. We're going to have a new hospital in Decatur. 
 Just as good as that one in New York. Better. I saw some 
 things we can improve." 
 
 "Oh, thank God." She said it very softly, reverently. She 
 smiled. 
 
 "You care that much?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Me, too!" he declared. "We'll do it." 
 
 "Where will we get the money?" 
 
 29 
 
"We'll get it," he promised. "I know a lot of people I'll 
 pry loose from their money." 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman asked in an awed voice, " — If you hadn't 
 gone to New York, you wouldn't be interested?" 
 
 He shrugged. 
 
 A bible verse came to her mind, ending, "... His wonders 
 to perform." 
 
 She said, "I'm glad you went." 
 
 "So'm I." 
 
 "I'm glad you came back." 
 
 "So'm I." 
 
 30 
 
4 
 
 celebration 
 
 The lazy pull of their paddles would soon bring the 
 Hagamans back to Maffit's landing. It was June of 1901 
 and they were celebrating their wedding anniversary — both 
 feeling romantic and young. The picnic supper at Riverside 
 Park had been good, and they still had the band concert 
 downtown to look forward to. Mrs. Hagaman, sitting for- 
 ward in the canoe, could not see her husband and this was 
 a handicap because she liked to read his face before em- 
 barking on a new subject. 
 
 "Frank," she said anyway, "we're going to get the money." 
 
 "What for?" he wanted to know. "Kitchen cabinet?" 
 
 "For the hospital." 
 
 "Oh." 
 
 "Does it bore you — the hospital?" Momentarily she held 
 the paddle poised, looking back over her shoulder. 
 
 "No." The answer was all right but the tone was not. 
 
 Suddenly she made a decision. "The hospital won't need 
 me any more. Dr. Barnes will do the rest. — Do you know 
 what his wife told me yesterday?" she asked dreamily. "She 
 said he said I was hell-bent on having a hospital and that 
 
 31 
 
he was going to see we got it." She drew her paddle back 
 into position and adroitly plunged it into the water. " — That 
 was the word he used. — Do you think I'm hell-bent, 
 Frank?" 
 
 She heard his chuckle. "You seem to like that expression, 
 Susie." 
 
 She laughed, too. "Well, if I am he should be 
 
 from now on. That's what it takes to build a hospital." 
 
 "Shame on you, Susie." 
 
 " — Do you know something else Mrs. Barnes told me?" 
 There was pride in her voice. " — She said he said we were 
 two of a kind." 
 
 "Huh?" 
 
 "Going after things, he meant." 
 
 "It's a man's job," her husband answered mildly. "A 
 doctor's job." 
 
 "That's what I've always said," she agreed. "But doctors 
 are so busy ..." 
 
 There was a lovely afterglow in the west. As he guided 
 them around the river's bend, she said, "We'll have to 
 hurry if we get downtown for the beginning of the concert." 
 She stared at a mass of wild roses growing on the river- 
 bank. "... Maybe I'll die there," she said. 
 
 "Downtown or on the river bank?" he asked. 
 
 "In the hospital," she said. 
 
 "Quit that talk, Susie! — Forget the hospital, can't you?" 
 
 But she couldn't. She knew she couldn't. They had only 
 $101.92 in the treasury. 
 
 He eased the canoe into its moorings and helped her out. 
 
 A little later, seated together on the Riverside car, she 
 
 32 
 
asked, "Have you heard about X-ray, Frank? Somebody's 
 discovered a way to see our bones!" He shook his head. 
 
 As the transfer station loomed ahead, Mr. Hagaman said 
 irrelevantly, "Smart fellow, that architect." 
 
 "What architect?" 
 
 "Architect for the transfer station. Notice how he got 
 that bandstand on top without using any extra real estate?" 
 
 She turned to face him. "Do you think he would plan 
 the hospital?" 
 
 "Susie — I swear — if you say one more word . . ." 
 
 Fortunately music by the Goodman band took over, 
 coming out to meet them in a big crescendo of marching 
 music. Mrs. Hagaman pressed her husband's arm, smiling. 
 After all, she thought to herself, he wasn't a doctor. Or a 
 mother. He was a husband, hers. It had been a beautiful 
 day. . . 
 
 . . . She had no way of knowing it would be the last 
 wedding anniversary they would celebrate together. 
 
 One annual midsummer event, taking place between 
 suppertime and sunset, drew people from all over the city 
 toward a seven-block stretch between "downtown" and two 
 imposing houses that faced Pine Street. These were known 
 as The Millikin Place and The Hill Place — each grandly 
 surrounded by a full city block of shady lawn. 
 
 On the night of the fire race Mrs. Hagaman and Mrs. 
 Troutman, a hospital co-worker, were standing at the curb 
 in front of the Culver house on West Prairie when they 
 
 33 
 
saw Dr. Barnes and his wife taking their little daughter up 
 to the Culver veranda, evidently invited there to watch the 
 show. There was a jostling crowd around them, but Dr. 
 Barnes spotted Mrs. Hagaman and came over to say, "You 
 girls working hard?" 
 
 They assured him they were. 
 
 "Good. I've got four firecrackers in my camp: Dr. Everett 
 Brown and four Wills." 
 
 "Four wills?" asked Mrs. Hagaman. 
 
 "Will Wood, Will Chenoweth, Wil-helmy." Then he 
 added with mock modesty, "Me, too." 
 
 They all laughed, and he moved on. 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman turned to Mrs. Troutman. "Five doctors," 
 she gloated. "Isn't that wonderful, Elizabeth?" 
 
 The crowd was growing restless. It was almost time. 
 Everyone around them was craning to see down Prairie, 
 toward town, but nothing was happening yet. All three 
 firehouses would be represented in the race, and excitement 
 was mounting. Children jumped up and down. 
 
 Mrs. Troutman made an altogether irrelevant remark. 
 "Sue — do you know there are fifty-six doctors in Decatur, 
 and only fifty-eight dressmakers?" 
 
 "How did you find that out?" 
 
 "Classified directory; I counted them; don't you think it's 
 queer?" 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman wasn't sure what her friend meant. "You 
 mean we should have more doctors?" 
 
 "No — more dressmakers!" declared Mrs. Troutman. 
 "Only a few people get sick, but everybody needs dresses." 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman laughed, teasing her. "Even the doctors? 
 
 34 
 
Elizabeth, you're vain. You think one-sided. Oh — look — !" 
 
 The firehorses were starting on their prideful march west. 
 At first sight of them through the trees, Mrs. Hagaman 
 found it difficult not to jump off the curb with the children 
 . . . Those beautiful horses! 
 
 Mrs. Troutman asked why they didn't race both ways — 
 going west as well as east. 
 
 "They have to show off, first," Mrs. Hagaman said — 
 "And it's downhill going west." 
 
 "It is?" 
 
 "Just a little downhill, but if they raced west, they could 
 never brake the wagons in time to stop at Pine Street." 
 
 "Oh." 
 
 It was better this way — they had a good look at the horses 
 as they strutted down the avenue, sleek and handsome, heads 
 high, nostrils wide, roses decorating their bridles, shoes 
 clanking occasional sparks against the brick paving blocks. 
 The wagons, too, were fiery red, manned by helmeted fire- 
 men. A small boy standing near Mrs. Hagaman tried rush- 
 ing out into the path of the parade; his father pulled him 
 back just in time. The child struggled, yelled, subsided 
 finally into an up-and-down dance on the boulevard. 
 
 By the time the last of the parade had passed, excitement 
 was hard to bear, for the show was reaching its climax. Each 
 firewagon would be clocked as it raced east. Mrs. Hagaman 
 stood her ground decorously, reminding herself that she was 
 adult, but when the splendid cacophony began, tension 
 crawled over the top of her head and tingled down her spine. 
 In a rush of clanging bells, shouting people, and racing 
 hooves, the horses came on at top speed, pulling equipment 
 
 35 
 
that spanked past in a blur of bright red paint and polished 
 brass. Children shrieked. Handkerchiefs waved. 
 
 It was a wonderful show — over too soon. 
 
 When the last firewagon had passed, Mrs. Hagaman 
 looked up at the Culver house to see if Dr. Barnes had en- 
 joyed it. He was sitting on the railing instead of in one of 
 the chairs — his long legs dangling over and banging back 
 and forth. "He'll scuff his shoes" was her first thought. 
 Then she said to Mrs. Troutman, "Look at Dr. Barnes! He 
 gets so excited about everything. — Aren't you glad?" 
 
 H 
 
corn carnival 
 
 The hospital gained a name in 1902 and was known as 
 Bethsaida Hospital for the next five years. Members of 
 the aid society proudly used that name in conducting their 
 country store at the corn carnivals of 1902 and 1903. 
 
 Decatur in 1903 was like an adolescent child — striving 
 for distinction, proud of new achievements, curious about 
 horizons — yet often naive and boisterous. America's finest 
 theatrical plays came to the Powers Opera House; a new 
 Carnegie library was opened in July; President Theodore 
 Roosevelt journeyed from Washington to make the dedica- 
 tion speech for James Millikin University in September — 
 yet droves of cows could still be seen on Decatur's streets 
 twice daily as they went to and returned from pasture — and 
 the fall corn carnival was the biggest event of the year. More 
 than seven thousand people came by train daily to join in 
 the fun. All downtown streets were blocked off for show 
 tents and amusements. After sunset, electric lights, mounted 
 on towers 125 feet high, kept the crowds coming. 
 
 It was Mrs. Hagaman's idea to take advantage of this 
 excitement for the benefit of the hospital. The aid society's 
 
 37 
 
country store was an instant success. It had a choice location 
 in Central Park between the merry-go-round and the tent 
 showing moving pictures (advertised as the "greatest marvel 
 of the age"). Priscilla Jacobs reported she herself had seen 
 the flickering performance of pictures and that it was sub- 
 lime — ; with her own eyes she saw some senators walking 
 down the steps of the White House; she insisted to Mrs. 
 Hagaman that "even the leaves on the trees moved". Best 
 of all, their country store was within a stone's throw of 
 King Corn, facing Prairie Street. King Corn was impressive 
 and much stared at — a life-sized figure constructed entirely 
 from grains of corn (white, yellow, red), seated on a corn- 
 stalk throne, holding a corn sceptre, and wearing a corn 
 crown. 
 
 One evening at dusk, Mrs. King, Mrs. Parrish, and Mrs. 
 Ullrich of the hospital aid society came to the country store 
 with about a dozen children from their neighborhoods. 
 They had already seen the diving girl leap into a tank of 
 water in the 100 block West William — and they had ridden 
 on the ferris wheel at the corner of William and State — 
 and they had seen the snake show in front of the Methodist 
 church — but the country store was saved until the last be- 
 cause that was where "Mama and Auntie and Grandma 
 worked" — and they felt they would be favored there. Sure 
 enough, Mrs. Troutman who was clerking beside Mrs. Haga- 
 man at the time almost spoiled the day's profits by giving 
 away corn necklaces instead of charging for them. Then, 
 abruptly, two little girls appeared, holding tight to Dr. 
 Brown's hands. Rebecca Alice continued to stay close to 
 her father's side, but Gillette Barnes who had witnessed the 
 
 38 
 
free transaction, broke away and confronted Mrs. Trout- 
 man indignantly. 
 
 "Those belong to the hospital!" Gillette scolded. "I'll 
 tell my papa." The other children looked up at Mrs. Trout- 
 man in alarm; it was clear that the situation required finesse. 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman addressed herself to Gillette. "Have you 
 seen the glass blowers?" The child nodded. "Did you get 
 a prize?" Gillette nodded again, holding tight to the little 
 package under her arm. "Is it pretty?" 
 
 "Oh — yes — " breathed Gillette, forgetting all else. "It's 
 a little ship! It has colored water in it. It's pink." Then 
 she said very earnestly, remembering that fairyland, "They 
 blow the colors!" 
 
 Rebecca Alice pulled her back peremptorily. "We haven't 
 seen the trapeze man yet." 
 
 Dr. Brown, meanwhile, had been listening in and laugh- 
 ing. Now he complimented Mrs. Hagaman for her manage- 
 ment of the situation and put a greenback on the counter. 
 
 Gillette saw that, too. She said, "My papa gives more 
 than that to the hospital." 
 
 "He does not!" cried Rebecca Alice. "My papa gives 
 millions of dollars to the hospital!" 
 
 It was a healthy kind of competition — the same spirit that 
 was fast building up the hospital fund. The following day, 
 during a morning lull, Mrs. Hagaman was doing sums in 
 her head. She turned to Mrs. Wykoff who was with her at 
 the time — "This will net $1,000 more. By 1908 we ought to 
 have $40,000." 
 
 "How?" Mrs. Wykoff was incredulous. 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman began writing figures on the back of a 
 
 39 
 
paper sack: money raised by tag days, bake sales, chicken 
 suppers, sewing projects, card parties, dances, auctions of 
 hogs, horses and poultry, baseball games, horse racing, 
 country fairs, rummage sales, trolley days. . . They all 
 added up to remarkable totals. "But this country store is 
 the best!" she gloated. 
 
 "Can we build a hospital for $40,000?" asked Mrs. 
 Wykoff doubtfully, shooing away flies. 
 
 "Oh, the men are donating money, too — a whole lot of 
 money," Mrs. Hagaman assured her. "I shouldn't be sur- 
 prised if the doctors alone gave $40,000 by the time we have 
 our $40,000." 
 
 She stared out over the park. King Corn was still on his 
 throne, but she had an idea that someday Decatur might be 
 too big for tents in the streets — might outgrow this corny 
 phase, as she put it. 
 
 — And then what? 
 
 40 
 
poetic rebels 
 
 In these uncertain years while the seed was planted and 
 the hospital idea took root in the community, there was little 
 hint that revolutions were gathering momentum in eco- 
 nomics, industry, and science. Nonetheless Bethsaida Hos- 
 pital began to feel the effects, and a period of eight chaotic 
 years followed. 
 
 The hospital name was changed twice, all accumulated 
 funds were sunk in a piece of real estate west of the uni- 
 versity, a financial panic was crippling business, and women 
 interested in the hospital were obliged to let go of the reins. 
 
 "It came like an earthquake," Mrs. Hagaman told Pris- 
 cilla Jacobs, regarding a meeting held by the men in 1906 
 when they voted to limit the hospital membership to men. 
 "Why did they do that?" she asked, bewildered. "What 
 do they mean?" 
 
 Priscilla shrugged. "They mean 23-skidoo." 
 
 And the next day a real earthquake hit San Francisco, 
 shocking the world and becoming, for some odd reason, a 
 symbol to Mrs. Hagaman that nothing is safe or durable 
 merely because it exists. She swallowed her pride and began 
 
 41 
 
to work even harder for the hospital, going about town with 
 a little brown book in which she wrote names and sums 
 of money promised by physicians and business men; there 
 were no signed pledges. Occasionally one of these donors 
 died before paying, and then she called on the administrator 
 of the estate, asking him to exhibit the little book to heirs, 
 as her only proof of the intended donation. 
 
 It happened meanwhile that Decatur's first movie theatre 
 opened in 1906, at the corner of William and Water Streets. 
 Known as the Nickelodeon, its management was sympathetic 
 to the hospital idea, and the ladies' aid society was able to 
 arrange for Nickelodeon days when a percentage of ticket 
 sales went to the hospital. 
 
 Also the women were in charge of collecting rents from 
 three small houses located on the West Main Street prop- 
 erty. Mrs. King, as treasurer of the hospital aid, went out 
 to the site once a month to collect $6 from each tenant. 
 
 One morning late in the fall she stopped off at Mrs. 
 Hagaman's house. Mrs. Hagaman, taller and sparer, looked 
 down at her, urging her in out of the cold. 
 
 When they were seated in the parlor, Mrs. King said, 
 "Sue, I have a problem." Her color was high and her eyes 
 were bright-blue, but her usual smile was missing. 
 
 "Life is full of problems," philosophized her friend. 
 "What's yours?" 
 
 "Well, you know that tenant who travels with the circus 
 in summer — the one with a pygmy head?" 
 
 "Yes—" 
 
 "He's asked me to do something about keeping his coal 
 pile out of the weather." 
 
 42 
 
"We can't afford to build him a coal shed," protested 
 Mrs. Hagaman. 
 
 "No, that's what I told him. So then the only thing I 
 could think of was to hunt for an upright piano box. I 
 went down to Mr. Lutz's store, and he offered to sell us a 
 box for $1.25. Do you think we could afford that?" 
 
 "No," said Mrs. Hagaman slowly. "We couldn't pos- 
 sibly." 
 
 "Then what should we do?" Mrs. King asked. "We can't 
 afford to lose a tenant. One month's rent would pay for 
 four or five piano boxes. 
 
 There was silence for a moment as they thought it over. 
 
 Finally Mrs. Hagaman went to the telephone and called 
 Mr. Lutz, explaining the situation and asking if he cared to 
 make a $1.25 contribution to the hospital. 
 
 "Of course!" he agreed. "I didn't know she wanted it for 
 that; tell Mrs. King to come and get the box, scott free. 
 It's for a good cause — " 
 
 "Oh, thank you, Mr. Lutz! That's fine of you!" Then she 
 hesitated. "But you know, Mr. Lutz, she isn't a very tall 
 woman; I doubt she could carry the box — " 
 
 She could hear him laughing. "I'll get it out there; what's 
 the address?" 
 
 Thus, one more problem had been solved. 
 
 During the next two years the young people were busy, 
 too. Miss Edith Durfee organized a group of little girls, 
 called hospital aid juniors, who made money by selling 
 bouquets gathered from the Durfee garden; among mem- 
 bers of this group were Virginia Hunt, Virginia Baldwin, 
 
 43 
 
and Frances Kuny. And a group of teen-agers including 
 Elizabeth Culver, Eleanor Barnes, Eloise Brownback, and 
 Bee McConnell earned money for the hospital by selling 
 bakery goods and lemonade from a storeroom on North 
 Main Street. The storeroom was rent-free, thanks to arrange- 
 ments made by Eloise's banker father, Mr. Brownback — 
 but it had no water, heat, or lights. That made little differ- 
 ence to the girls because their project operated only during 
 the summer months when days were long and they had more 
 heat than they needed. The water problem was solved by 
 carrying dishpans back and forth across the street, and get- 
 ting water for their lemonade from a barber shop across the 
 way. These girls also sold refreshments in the grandstand 
 at the race track during a benefit baseball game between the 
 bankers and the doctors. 
 
 Not to be outdone, the junior aiders, as they were called, 
 decided to have a lemonade stand of their own. With high 
 hopes and earnest intentions they set up a table on the 
 boulevard in front of the Durfee house. 
 
 But their first morning in business was oppressively hot, 
 with the cakes of ice melting down faster than customers 
 arrived, until they began to suspect that their beverage might 
 be growing warmer and weaker. Finally, around the mound, 
 came Mr. Edward Powers riding a handsome brown steed. 
 The girls stared admiringly and shouted their wares, but 
 Frances gasped to the others, "If he buys some, can we 
 reach up far enough to hand it to him?" 
 
 Before this could worry them long, Mr. Powers reined 
 in and gallantly dismounted, smiling encouragement and 
 treating them like grown-up ladies. Virginia Baldwin re- 
 
 44 
 
sponded in a grown-up voice, "How do you do, Mr. Powers? 
 Are you thirsty? We have lemonade. It's ice-cold. I — think. 
 It's lemony — " 
 
 "I should say I am thirsty!" their customer cried with 
 enthusiasm. "How much?" 
 
 Virginia Hunt spoke out of turn. "A nickel." 
 
 And Frances said persuasively, "That's only five pennies, 
 Mr. Powers. Do you have five pennies?" 
 
 "Well, I shouldn't wonder if I have." He grinned, 
 thrusting one hand into his pocket, while he held reins with 
 the other. His horse's tail was switching at flies. "I might 
 have ten pennies," he told them. "Would that buy two 
 glasses?" They nodded, beaming at him. 
 
 Finally, smacking his lips and returning the glass, he 
 arranged the pennies in a row on the oilcloth, making them 
 look like an awful lot of money. "What are you going to 
 do with your profits?" he inquired. 
 
 "We're going to give them to the hospital." 
 
 "Are you indeed? Well, then — here's a quarter for the 
 lemonade I didn't drink!" He placed the big silver coin 
 beside the pennies, lifted his hat, and in one graceful motion 
 re-mounted his horse and went clumping down North Street, 
 having made three friends for life. 
 
 Pennies and quarters really counted in those days, and 
 friends of the hospital felt encouraged. 
 
 But just as things seemed a little brighter, the financial 
 panic worsened. In 1908, with only $244.50 in the hospital 
 treasury — a piece of controversial real estate on their hands 
 
 45 
 
— and everybody tightening purse strings, Mrs. Hagaman 
 sought out Dr. Barnes in his office for the second time. He 
 had just been made president of the board of directors. 
 Sitting in front of his roll-top desk and purring on a Little 
 Rose cigar, he looked even fiercer than he had that first call. 
 Once again, however, a flower on his desk gave her courage. 
 
 "At your next meeting," she began, "will you please tell 
 the board they should keep that real estate on West Main?" 
 
 "Keep it!" he growled. "We're stuck with it. No one's 
 buying real estate these days. What makes you think that 
 spot's any good for a hospital, anyway?" 
 
 "It's better than nothing," she said a little uncertainly. 
 
 "It's noisier than hell. And not a tenth big enough — " 
 
 "Dr. Barnes, I have a hunch — " 
 
 "You have a what?" he asked irritably. 
 
 She looked back at him calmly and waited a moment. 
 "Your tobacco smoke is blowing my way," she said. 
 
 He turned his head, but impudently took another puff 
 and aimed three smoke rings toward the window; slowly 
 these drifted back toward her. 
 
 "You change seats with me," she ordered. She stood up. 
 
 He stood up. "Good thing all women aren't like you," 
 he grumbled. They changed seats. 
 
 This increased her courage. Secure in his chair, behind 
 his desk, she smiled straight into the rose and swiveled 
 toward him. "You're cross because you're worried," she 
 said. "Now please listen to me. We both want the hospital 
 terribly. I admit we may have made a mistake about that 
 West Main property. But I have a hunch," she repeated, 
 " — that we'll get more money out of it than we put into it." 
 
 46 
 
"The hell we will!" 
 
 She went right on. " — And when we do, it will be thou- 
 sands of dollars extra." She swiveled a little more, smiling 
 to herself. "Easier than quilting and trolley parties," she 
 added. 
 
 He shook his head. "You call that old brick yard out 
 there 'real estate'! What good is it now? Where's our hos- 
 pital? I want to get the damn thing built." 
 
 "Please tell your board," she continued — "it works both 
 ways. If it's hard to sell the West Main plat right now, it's 
 easier to buy some other real estate in another part of town 
 — cheaper, I mean." 
 
 "Buy it with what?" he wanted to know. 
 
 She looked aside. "You men will find a way." 
 
 "Humph." 
 
 "And then when prices go up again," she continued, 
 "we'll have two pieces of real estate — one for the hospital 
 site and one for selling at a profit. The profit will start the 
 buildings. — Don't you see?" 
 
 "No," he said abruptly. Then an expression came over 
 his face that was like a small boy's making a confession. 
 "I'm no good at arithmetic; you might as well know." 
 
 Immediately she came to his defense. "A good surgeon 
 can't be good at everything. You play golf — you run 
 the country club — you raise flowers — you collect butter- 
 flies—" 
 
 He snapped his fingers. "Tell you what — my butterfly col- 
 lection is worth something! As soon as it's worth as much 
 as I've put into it, I'll sell it and keep $100,000 for myself 
 and give the hospital the rest." 
 
 47 
 
"But Dr. Barnes — would that leave anything for the hos- 
 pital?" 
 
 "About $200,000." 
 
 "$200,000! You don't mean that. Your arithmetic is 
 no good. Who would pay $300,000 for butterflies?" 
 
 "I have." 
 
 " — You're that rich?" She checked herself. "How many 
 buildings would $200,000 pay for?" 
 
 "One." 
 
 "Oh — dear — " 
 
 "You put those butterflies down in your little brown 
 book," he said. 
 
 Her head was spinning. "Dr. Barnes — I know another 
 site. I've been looking at it. It's for sale. Let's buy it." 
 
 "You're crazy!" 
 
 She took a long breath. "It will cost $26,000," she added 
 quickly. "A perfect site. Air . . . sun . . . quiet . . . forty 
 acres!" 
 
 He stopped smoking and his eyebrows twitched. 
 "Where?" 
 
 "Two miles north," she answered, trying to keep emotion 
 out of her voice. "West of Church Street." 
 
 "Two miles north! — Trees?" he asked warily. 
 
 "Hardly any; not where the buildings will go." 
 
 "What kind of a place is that?" he hedged — "No trees — " 
 
 She said, trying to mend it, "There's a back woodland — 
 full of trees." 
 
 "Part of the forty acres?" 
 
 "Yes." She held her breath. 
 
 "Flowers?" 
 
 48 
 
He was stalling for time! She said, "Why I suppose — " 
 
 "You looked, didn't you?" 
 
 She remembered some violets. "Yes — flowers." There 
 was a moment of silence, unless you could count the flump- 
 ing of her heart. 
 
 He lighted another cigar. "You're crazy as hell, Mrs. 
 Hagaman, but — you show it to me, 'eh?" 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "Oh—" He hesitated. 
 
 "Soon!" she said. "The price might go up!" 
 
 "I'll think it over," he answered with unwonted caution. 
 "I'll talk to a real estate man." He stood up. "Now you've 
 got to leave me in peace. Patients waiting out there." 
 
 Slowly she stood up and held out her hand. "God bless 
 you." 
 
 It embarrassed him. He said, "God help you if you buy 
 more real estate!" 
 
 49 
 
beyond the trolley 
 
 Ihe West Main Street site discussed by Dr. Barnes and 
 Mrs. Hagaman, had been purchased by the board July 29, 
 1903 from the Decatur Brick and Tile Company — a tract 
 about 150 by 400 feet. The price, $3,800, was considered 
 outrageously high — the location too far out of town and 
 too noisy — yet only Dr. Barnes seemed to think it might be 
 too small. Later, when Mr. John A. Montgomery was 
 drafting plans for a "more beautiful Decatur", he visualized 
 possibilities in the old brick yard, and eventually the hospital 
 property was merged into Park Place and sold as high-class 
 residence lots for $18,600. 
 
 Meanwhile the board was investigating the forty acres of 
 ground two miles north of town, suggested by Mrs. Haga- 
 man, but by the time it voted to buy this tract, the price had 
 gone up $4,000. The decision did not come easily. Detailed 
 minutes of this board meeting are not on record, but it is 
 known that Dr. Barnes knocked down arguments like nine- 
 pins. 
 
 To the argument that the site was larger than needed, he 
 retorted, "Some day there'll be a whole medical center here 
 
 50 
 
— several hospitals. You want 'em to breathe, don't you? 
 And what's the harm in having a flower or two?" 
 
 To the argument that two miles north was beyond the 
 trolley — an entirely impractical distance — he laughed de- 
 risively. "Why, it won't be long before we're all rolling 
 places; private wheels, too — bicycles, autos — don't you know 
 this is the twentieth century?" 
 
 To the argument that $30,000 was an impossible sum to 
 raise for real estate, he said, "J ust wnat Macon County 
 needs — more money running around. Banks love to lend 
 money when they're not scared — don't you savvy that? 
 They've got a lot hidden away with the lid on. Let's make 
 all these fine banks in Macon County happy." 
 
 Yet the arguments kept coming, growing louder and more 
 insistent. Times were hard, whether you admitted it or not. 
 Money was scarce. It would be folly to mortgage the hos- 
 pital before plans were drawn up. 
 
 Someone asked, "What's the sense in that ten acres east 
 of Union Street? — Who wants a hospital with a street 
 running through it?" Dr. Barnes looked witheringly at the 
 objector, reminding him that the terms of sale were: forty 
 acres or nothing. 
 
 "And we'll need them all," he insisted, dragging deep 
 on his cigar. "If some of 'em hop Union Street, let 'em 
 hop!" 
 
 A cash payment of $6,000 was finally made, with arrange- 
 ments for the balance to draw interest at 5%, and with 
 hopes that the whole transaction could eventually be financed 
 by cutting up the ten acres east of Union Street and selling 
 them as separate lots. 
 
 51 
 
Mrs. Hagaman had always liked the name Bethsaida but 
 the board had changed the name to Macon County Hospital 
 Association in 1907, and once again on January 15, 1908 — 
 this time to the Decatur and Macon County Hospital Asso- 
 ciation. 
 
 By now all physicians in good standing were members, 
 and the hospital plans were conducted in a more business- 
 like manner. The office at 114 Merchant Street was a busy 
 place. Subscription blanks were printed and committees 
 were appointed to go after more money and draw up build- 
 ing plans. 
 
 One day, some time later, Mr. John A. Montgomery and 
 Mrs. Hagaman chanced to meet at the Main Street entrance 
 to Park Place. 
 
 Mr. Montgomery said musingly, "This is the only monu- 
 ment I'll need — these gate posts — " 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman shook her head. "The gate posts mean 
 nothing." 
 
 "To me, they do." Stalwart and very much in earnest, he 
 looked at her with directness. Then they both turned toward 
 what was to become a tree-lined avenue of wide lawns and 
 lovely houses where nothing beautiful had existed before. 
 "I'll never live here," he explained, "but other people will — 
 and they'll be happier because the gate invited them in; it's 
 a symbol." 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman finally saw his point and nodded. "But 
 that's not all of it," she reminded him. "The hospital had to 
 
 52 
 
sell before your dream could come true, and the Park Place 
 development had to buy before the hospital could go 
 ahead." Suddenly she smiled and a look of fun touched her 
 eyes. On impulse she held out her hand and smiled back 
 cordially. Then she said, "Let's congratulate each other; 
 we'll have to admit that no one will care after we are gone. 
 Park Place — Hospital — everyone will take them for granted, 
 forget our names — " 
 
 Mr. Montgomery nodded. 
 
 "But I don't care," she said. "Do you?" 
 
 He was silent for a moment. Then he said, "The worse 
 thing would be to have built nothing." 
 
 "Yes. If we hadn't created something during our life- 
 time, we'd have missed a lot of fun." Then she laughed. 
 "Let them forget our names; we're alive now and we're 
 enjoying it." 
 
 She went on home, leaving him there. After all, Park 
 Place was past business to her; the hospital had a new berth. 
 
 53 
 
getting ready 
 
 JMucH to Mrs. Hagaman's distress, Dr. Barnes had now 
 switched from smoking Little Rose cigars to the foolish 
 habit of rolling tobacco in little white papers, known as 
 cigarettes. The unsophisticated called them coffin-nails, pre- 
 dicting they would lead to early death. It worried Mrs. 
 Hagaman excessively, but one winter night she told herself 
 severely, "I can no more control Dr. Barnes' decisions to 
 do as he pleases than he can control mine. . ." She was 
 adjusting the taper in a gas lighter, and as she held it poised 
 over the jet on the newel post and absently watched it take 
 fire in a fan-shaped blue-and-white flame, she admitted, 
 Dr. Barnes and I both like our notions; if we get the hospital 
 built, we'd better, both of us, concentrate on that. 
 
 Existing records are contradictory in a few respects before 
 1911, regarding constitution, by-laws, and membership, but 
 the fact has been established that there were only five mem- 
 bers on the original board of directors: Dr. William Barnes, 
 
 54 
 
Dr. Everett J. Brown, Mrs. Sue M. Hagaman, T. T. Springer, 
 and John Mattes. It was they who chose architects and gen- 
 erally made detailed plans for the new building, but by the 
 time Mrs. Hagaman broke ground on November 16, 1911, 
 the number of directors had been increased to fifteen, in- 
 cluding representation from Niantic, Argenta, and Maroa — 
 and Mrs. Hagaman herself had been dropped. New men 
 from Decatur were listed as Dr. Cass Chenoweth, C. M. 
 Hurst, Robert Mueller, C. C. LeForgee, E. P. Irving, Theron 
 A. Powers, W. L. Shellabarger, Smith E. Walker, W. M. 
 Wood, and James A. Corbett. A year later the cornerstone 
 was laid. 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman didn't sleep much during the night of 
 November 27, 1912, but neither did she feel special excite- 
 ment. Lying awake, she reviewed announcements she had 
 read in the newspapers. The parade committee for tomor- 
 row's ceremonies had their final meeting the previous eve- 
 ning in the office of L. A. Mills, with James M. Cowan, 
 Marshal of the Day, giving last minute instructions. It was 
 promised that everything would move smoothly and on 
 schedule. She had no doubt of it, with Ted Hitchcock in 
 charge of general arrangements and Dr. Barnes appointed 
 as presiding officer. 
 
 Governor Charles S. Deneen would leave Springfield on 
 the 6:30 interurban Thanksgiving morning, tomorrow (or 
 was it morning already?) — and would alight in front of 
 Dr. Barnes' house where he would have breakfast with 
 several members of the hospital association. 
 
 In a way it was like a dream — all these goings-on; she felt 
 strangely apart, almost like a disinterested bystander. She 
 
 55 
 
supposed it was because the hospital still had no heartbeat, 
 was not yet ready to serve. Priscilla Jacobs had been storm- 
 ing for days saying that she, Sue Hagaman, should be the 
 one to lay the cornerstone — silly Priscilla! 
 
 Everyone was predicting a mammoth parade to the hos- 
 pital site — the largest number of persons ever gathered for 
 a Decatur parade — thirty-five fraternal and labor organiza- 
 tions, all city and county officials, school children from all 
 over Macon County, the faculty and students of James Mil- 
 likin University, and many others. . . All of them had 
 helped finance the hospital in one way or another — all of 
 them were interested. 
 
 Sixty automobiles had been promised for the parade — 
 the greatest gathering of autos ever to be seen in the 
 county; it only proved again how efficient the committees 
 were. There were rumors that members of the hospital aid 
 societies would not have to march on foot, and thinking of 
 that, the first tremor of excitement touched Mrs. Hagaman's 
 spine. She couldn't quite believe that she, Sue Hagaman, 
 might have her first auto ride out to the hospital grounds. . . 
 
 The pavements had been a problem. The line of march 
 would turn off Water on Eldorado to Main — and off Main 
 on Division, before reaching Edward, thus avoiding most 
 unpaved blocks; it couldn't be helped that Edward was un- 
 paved on out to the hospital. The marchers would be in 
 sight of their goal by that time and not mind. . . 
 
 Lying tense and straight in her bed, Mrs. Hagaman had 
 been staring at a beam of light coming from the street 
 lamp. Now she closed her eyes, imagining how the hospital 
 columns would look, rising at the end of Edward Street, 
 
 56 
 
flanked by solid masonry and brick, dignified, welcoming, 
 ready to serve. . . It wouldn't be long now. Drowsily she 
 hoped that tomorrow (today?) would be fine and clear. 
 So many people, working so hard and giving so much money 
 — surely the good Lord would not let it rain or sleet or snow 
 on them! 
 
 It was almost dawn when she awakened. . . . Thanksgiving 
 Day, 1912. 
 
 She thanked God for his goodness, and started to dress, 
 shivering with cold and the beginning of excitement, but 
 all the while keeping an eye out for the weather, glancing at 
 the sky as it brightened. At last she was almost ready, her 
 hair neat, her shirtwaist immaculate, her long petticoats and 
 skirt hanging as they should. And as she sat on the slipper 
 chair, buttoning her shoes, she thought: This is only getting 
 ready. We still have to get set — we still have to go. . . Yet 
 so far, it was good. She hung the buttonhook in its place 
 beside her bureau and smiled at her reflection. "You're an 
 old woman," she told herself, "but there's still a lot of work 
 for you to do." 
 
 It was a mile to the transfer house and she walked all 
 the way, enjoying the chill air, knowing now it would be a 
 fair day, thinking of the Governor eating breakfast in Dr. 
 Barnes' house, estimating the time, worrying a little about 
 the school children who would have to march so far on short 
 legs. 
 
 Long before nine o'clock, when the parade was scheduled 
 
 57 
 
to start, downtown streets rang with the hoof -beats of horses 
 while hurrying aides and division marshals guided restive 
 mounts in and out among the forming columns of people. 
 
 ... So many people! 
 
 As she stood shielded against wind on the north side of 
 the St. Nicholas hotel, she pushed her hands deep into her 
 muff. The sun was red in a cloudless sky, and in a perceptive 
 moment she knew that no future Thanksgiving day in her 
 lifetime would be finer than this. 
 
 As pre-arranged, other women of the original hospital aid 
 society soon joined her, exclaiming and chattering and con- 
 gratulating each other on the weather. While they waited 
 for instructions from their division marshal, Mrs. King 
 edged closer to Mrs. Hagaman. "They'll bring the Gov- 
 ernor in C. C. LeForgee's machine; let's watch for it." So 
 they moved farther out into West Main, peering down the 
 street toward Dr. Barnes' house. 
 
 "What do you suppose they ate for breakfast?" asked 
 Mrs. King, snuggling deeper into her coat collar. 
 
 "I was wondering that myself," admitted Mrs. Hagaman. 
 "Did you eat any breakfast?" 
 
 "Well of course! — Oatmeal, eggs, buckwheat cakes — 
 Oh!" she interrupted herself, bouncing ahead. "Here they 
 come!" 
 
 But just at that interesting moment the women's group 
 received its signal to form, and they had to move on before 
 waiting to see the Governor of Illinois drive up to the 
 transfer house and climb to the bandstand on top. From 
 there it was planned that he and his appointed hosts would 
 watch first divisions of the parade before taking their own 
 
 58 
 
places toward the end. Priscilla Jacobs gave many back- 
 ward glances, but Mrs. Hagaman reminded her that every- 
 thing must move on schedule, and soon it was their turn to 
 climb into machines waiting for them. They were — actually 
 and truly — going to be driven out to the hospital in an auto ! 
 (Even better than riding a wheel!) 
 
 As the first crash of music leaped from the Goodman 
 band, Mrs. Hagaman felt it all the way down to her toes. 
 Then as the sound lifted and beat against her senses, she 
 began to know the truth of today. . . Only by caring a 
 great deal could all these dear people make the hospital 
 dream come true. Comrade Martin, on a big horse, was 
 riding as well as in his cavalry days. He moved up near the 
 group of civil war veterans waiting across the street. Then 
 she caught glimpses of the Mueller Factory band, the MPL 
 drum corps, and bands from Maroa and Cerro Gordo. 
 Degree teams were standing by, resplendent in plumes and 
 stripes. 
 
 . . . All of them would be marching, helping the hospital 
 get built. She nudged Mrs. Troutman sitting beside her. 
 "Are you awake? — Am I?" Mrs. Troutman twinkled back 
 and swallowed. Mrs. King leaned over from the front seat 
 and asked Mrs. Hagaman — "How does the Queen Bee 
 feel?" 
 
 When they reached the hospital site it seemed that all 
 of Macon County was assembled. From vantage points on 
 every pile of bricks people peered out at the scene, waiting 
 
 59 
 
for the ceremonies to start. On the floor of what was to be 
 the administration building, chairs had been placed for 
 honored guests, and Mrs. Hagaman, affectionately known 
 as "mother of the hospital" was one of them. 
 
 The program began with singing of America in unison, 
 led by the band, everyone standing. Then there was a hush 
 as they raised the flag; all men had removed their hats. 
 
 . . . All except Dr. Barnes. Mrs. Hagaman, as well as 
 others, noted it. She wanted to give him some signal but 
 he was sitting in front of her, apparently oblivious to his 
 surroundings, staring at something beyond the platform. 
 She tried to understand and failed. Then a man standing 
 just outside the roped-off space said in an audible voice, 
 "He wouldn't take off his hat to the Lord Almighty." Dr. 
 Barnes evidently heard, and he removed his hat, but the 
 gesture appeared automatic rather than reverent — and to 
 the amazement of everyone, he strode off the platform and 
 jumped down off its edge. Uneasily and fearfully she 
 watched him. 
 
 He went directly over to a spot where a boy was lying 
 curled up, apparently asleep, tired from the march. Then 
 she recognized the boy as Floyd Hunt, his face flushed, his 
 body cramped. Gently Dr. Barnes lifted him in his arms, 
 asked him questions, handed him over to two other doctors 
 standing near. And worriedly but unselfconsciously he re- 
 turned to his seat on the platform and picked up the hat he 
 had dropped. 
 
 "Appendicitis," she heard him explain to O. B. Gorin. 
 "And St. Mary's miles away!" 
 
 The rest of the program continued without interruption. 
 
 60 
 
The speeches were short, and good. 
 
 Governor Deneen said, in part, "Popular support of such 
 an institution as this which pays no dividends, enhances no 
 property values, promises no financial returns, springs from 
 the highest and best motives. It refines the communal char- 
 acter and purifies the individual character . . . this hospital 
 is to become a center of education in health and correct 
 living." 
 
 Mr. Le Forgee ended his speech by saying, "We are mov- 
 ing forward. Let every man enlist for this contest and with 
 God's help may we meet upon Thanksgiving Day 1913 to 
 celebrate the victory and dedicate this hospital." 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman, sitting beside him, said, "That was fine, 
 sir. I want to shake your hand." 
 
 Dr. Penhallegon's address began with these words: "I 
 congratulate you and myself that this is our institution, 
 that when we are in bad health it is here to foster us and 
 when we are in good health we are here to foster it." 
 
 Dr. Barnes himself spoke tersely, without sentiment, re- 
 minding the audience it would have to loosen its purse- 
 strings still further in order that the hospital might be 
 properly equipped for its important work — that $100,000 
 more would be needed eventually. Then he explained that 
 the ceremony of laying the cornerstone would be in charge 
 of the Grand Lodge of Masons, and he introduced Grand 
 Master Delmar D. Darrah of Bloomington, requesting that 
 he lay the stone. 
 
 The big block hung suspended by its crane, ready to be 
 lowered into place, and on the face of it Mrs. Hagaman 
 read this inscription: Decatur and Macon County 
 
 61 
 
Hospital erected through the generosity and self- 
 sacrificing EFFORTS OF PUBLIC SPIRITED MEN AND WOMEN. 
 
 The big moment waited. 
 
 Grand Chaplain J. W. Van Cleve intoned a prayer, and 
 at a word from the Grand Master, A. T. Summers advanced 
 with a metal box containing, among other things a history 
 of the hospital written by Mrs. Hagaman, a Lincoln penny 
 and a 1912 penny, and a picture of the doctors' and bankers' 
 ball teams. 
 
 With the box deposited, the stone was slowly lowered 
 while the band softly played a hymn. Then the mortar was 
 applied and the stone sank into its place — was tested with 
 square, plumb, and level — and on it were poured the corn 
 of plenty, the wine of gladness, and the oil of peace. 
 
 Promptly at 11:30, exactly as Edward Bering Hitchcock 
 had planned it, the program was over and the crowd dis- 
 persed, hurrying home for Thanksgiving dinner. 
 
 62 
 
incredible goals 
 
 The fanfare was over and Mrs. Hagaman watched from 
 the sidelines for a month or two, feeling vaguely uneasy; she 
 thought that all might not be well with the hospital fi- 
 nancially. She said to Mrs. King, "Dr. Barnes is worried 
 about something, and so is Mr. Smith Walker." 
 
 "Have they said anything?" 
 
 "No— " 
 
 "Then you're just imagining it." Mrs. King smiled re- 
 assuringly. 
 
 But when the annual meeting of the hospital association 
 was held in January 1913, the official report didn't sound 
 good. Mr. Walker, treasurer, reported total assets of $62,- 
 580, including all unpaid pledges. Dr. Barnes, acting as 
 chairman, gave estimates of immediate costs as $266,000. 
 
 — Did that mean what it seemed to mean, Mrs. Haga- 
 man wondered: that over $200,000 more cash was needed? 
 — Had they been too ambitious? — Had they tackled the 
 impossible ? 
 
 The next night, sitting alone at her desk, she made a 
 resolution. In the white light from a Welsbach burner, she 
 
 63 
 
wrote it down: I will not bother Dr. Barnes any more; I 
 will not talk about the hospital to anyone; I will remember 
 my age and stay at home and take up painting again. 
 
 . . . That ought to keep me out of mischief, she thought 
 to herself, smiling. Once more she read over what she had 
 written, hid the paper between pages in her bible, and 
 straightway went to the closet shelf where her canvases, 
 paints, and brushes were stored. 
 
 Gillette Barnes had never heard of Mrs. Hagaman, nor 
 did she give thought to the hospital except as a new hobby 
 of her father's. When she finished with finishing school and 
 returned to Decatur, the world in general was bubbling with 
 promise, wars unthought of, entertaining lavish, house 
 servants plentiful. She was blond and pretty, lithe and 
 eager. Mrs. Gille called her "Little Sandpiper". 
 
 One bright spot in any day was climbing into the Loco- 
 mobile before lunchtime. Often Elizabeth Culver and 
 Eleanor Barnes went along. Earl, the chauffeur, opened the 
 doors for them grandly, and on fine days folded back the 
 canvas top. Then they would enjoy a glamour-drive down 
 to the transfer house, turning over to Wood Street, and pro- 
 ceeding on out to St. Mary's Hospital to pick up Dr. Barnes 
 after a morning in surgery. 
 
 On one particular day in May 1913 he was late in emerg- 
 ing from the hospital and when he finally strode toward the 
 auto, they could tell something was wrong. He didn't joke 
 with them; he didn't even light a cigarette; he just climbed 
 
 64 
 
into the seat beside the chauffeur, pulled his slouch hat 
 down over his eyes with a vicious tug, and folded his arms 
 tight. 
 
 Gillette motioned to her friends not to talk. Her father 
 explained after a moment, humbly: "Lost a patient." She 
 watched him worriedly. When Earl slowed down in front 
 of the house at 500 West Main, Dr. Barnes said, "Keep 
 going. Out to the new hospital." And immediately they 
 changed course, started north on College to Prairie and east 
 on Prairie to Edward, moving past Elizabeth's house without 
 stopping. Eleanor whispered a question about lunch, and 
 Gillette whispered back, "We'll eat at our house later." 
 
 No one said another word as they drove out Edward 
 Street. Gillette's friends didn't mind the bumps and ruts 
 because they loved to ride in the Locomobile and they loved 
 to have lunch at the Barnes' house. It was a surprise, though, 
 when Dr. Barnes pretended they had come on a special 
 errand. 
 
 "Wild flowers," he announced. His hat was on the back 
 of his head again as he climbed down from the machine and 
 he waved his arm in a wide arc, indicating all forty acres. 
 "You girls have got to help me make a flower garden out 
 here." He led them over rough ground, past the skeleton of 
 the hospital building, and around to the back woodland. 
 "Someday, right here," he promised them, "there'll be a 
 specimen of every wild flower growing in Illinois." His 
 voice was intense. 
 
 "Dandelions, too?" asked Eleanor. 
 
 He looked at her severely. "What's the matter with 
 dandelions?" 
 
 65 
 
"They're common," she mentioned giggling. 
 
 "They're weeds," said Elizabeth. 
 
 "They're pretty," said Gillette, trying to please. As a 
 little flag of wind whipped her skirts, she turned sidewise. 
 Here was outdoors — here was her father — here were her 
 friends — it was somehow moving, like music. Clouds with 
 lavendar shadows hung in the sky. . . The hospital was 
 nowhere in sight. 
 
 . . . What had they been talking about ? She looked back 
 at her father. 
 
 He was motioning them toward a patch of yellow, and 
 they strode over with him. Solemnly they looked down at 
 a clump of dandelions — one clump. Solemnly he told them, 
 "This will be the rarest specimen in the garden; all progeny 
 will be destroyed at birth. But this grand-daddy — we'll save 
 him." 
 
 They all laughed, their hearts lighter, and he made a 
 pact with the girls that was the beginning of a project 
 lasting a long time. 
 
 "Eleanor — you're to find specimens of verbena, catnip, 
 and pennyroyal; Elizabeth — bring us larkspurs, violets, 
 bergamots. Gillette — wild roses, blue bells, and lady's 
 slippers." 
 
 "But Uncle Will — " protested Eleanor. 
 
 "No excuses. That's just a starter. Each family of wild 
 flowers has relatives and in-laws; we've got to have them 
 all for the hospital garden." 
 
 "Dr. Barnes — how are we to know some of those when 
 we find them?" It was Elizabeth speaking, reasonable, 
 matter-of-fact. 
 
 66 
 
"Book back home," he answered. "Big book; several 
 books; lots of pictures. Let's get home to lunch." 
 
 As it turned out, lady-slippers were the toughest assign- 
 ment. Earl drove the girls over five counties, hunting for 
 months, before a specimen of lady-slippers was finally found 
 near the Antioch church. Tired, triumphant, and sharing 
 the honor, all three girls proudly presented it to Dr. Barnes 
 — a handsome plant a foot tall, the flower showing a white 
 lip marked by a purple stripe which they knew was there 
 to guide insects into the nectar. 
 
 Dr. Barnes grunted, looking from one girl to the other. 
 "Just like detective work — eh?" 
 
 "What do you mean — detective work?" his daughter 
 asked, a little disappointed. 
 
 "Butterflies — flowers — man hunts — all the same," he ex- 
 plained. "First you get clues, like a name and markings 
 and habits and places it's likely to be found — then chase 
 it and cop it." 
 
 As they gazed into the heart of the flower, she began to 
 understand. Medical diagnosis was like that — and surgery 
 — and raising a country club — and playing golf — and build- 
 ing a hospital: — where's the microbe? — where's the 
 membership? — where's the ball? — where's the money? 
 . . . You hunt for one or the other tirelessly, using your 
 wits, never faltering, and never, never quitting until you 
 follow through. 
 
 As if he could read her thoughts, he added, "But don't 
 
 67 
 
be too proud of yourself. This is only a white lady's slipper. 
 You'll also have to find a gold slipper, a silver slipper, and 
 the pink moccasin flower." 
 
 Then she knew it was true; she knew she'd have to go 
 all the way. But by this time she didn't mind; she was 
 fascinated. And she was discovering something else — her 
 father was scared to death someone would think he was 
 soft-hearted. He was proud of her, really — and that called 
 for big, tough, cover-up language. 
 
 It was the following month that an auto accident away 
 from home set off a chain of events that almost cost the 
 hospital its life. Dr. Barnes and two other men were on 
 their way to Peoria for the Central Illinois golf tournament 
 in Mr. Chan Powers' open machine, when it happened. The 
 auto turned upside down, severely injuring the doctor. His 
 head hit a rock, his legs were badly cut, and it was feared he 
 had internal injuries. But after staying in bed for two or 
 three days, and despite infection, he declared he was all 
 right. 
 
 The trouble was — he wasn't all right. And Nature, as 
 if obliged to exert discipline, struck him down with acute 
 appendicitis. In anger and pain, he ordered his wife to 
 get him to Chicago immediately and see that Dr. Lewis 
 McArthur performed the operation. 
 
 Then, for the third time, Dr. Barnes found himself en- 
 meshed in circumstances he couldn't handle. Dr. McArthur 
 was traveling in Europe, and another surgeon had to be 
 
 68 
 
called. . . This was a fine kettle of fish! He was obliged to 
 go down under ether fumes like any other helpless soul — 
 and he informed his family that this was the end ... of him 
 and the Decatur and Macon County Hospital. 
 
 When consciousness returned and he found he had sur- 
 vived, humility left him at once. He ordered himself taken 
 to Mackinac Island as an uninvited guest at the Ewing 
 cottage there; he considered it a good place to recuperate — 
 and what were friends for? 
 
 But Nature was still reckoning with an unruly character 
 and was obliged to take further drastic action. To keep 
 him in bed, after his arrival at the island, complications set 
 in from the auto injuries, not yet healed, and now stirred up 
 in the process of surgery. 
 
 A few days later young Dr. Selim McArthur, bachelor 
 and surgeon, arrived at Mackinac Island anticipating his 
 usual vacation there, but his mother's greeting at the ferry- 
 boat was brief. She said, "Before we do anything, Selim, 
 you must go to the Ewing cottage; Dr. Barnes is there, 
 desperately ill; they haven't been able to get a doctor for 
 him." 
 
 He shook his head. "Nothing doing. I've only been prac- 
 tising for a month, and besides I haven't any Michigan 
 license; let them find another doctor." 
 
 But in the end he was marched up to the Ewing cottage, 
 briefly introduced to Mrs. Barnes and Mrs. Ewing, and 
 ushered into the patient's room. There lay a long, lanky 
 
 69 
 
man in obvious pain, furiously taking it out on a cigarette 
 that smoked like a railway engine. When they faced each 
 other, the patient grunted at what he saw, then groaned 
 helplessly. 
 
 Selim, conscious of his power, looked over the situation 
 and at once became a doctor again. This was serious. . . He 
 knew himself in command and that brought out his dedi- 
 cated skill. He approached the patient calmly, examined 
 the swollen, discolored legs, counted pulse, and reached a 
 diagnostic conclusion. Feeling that he could afford to be 
 generous and kind, he sat down at the bedside, explaining 
 in elementary terms what was wrong and what needed to 
 be done; he forebore to use frightening words like throm- 
 bophlebitis or edema. But the patient was acting peculiarly; 
 he laughed and cursed in the same breath, seeming to enjoy 
 himself thoroughly — or perhaps going into delirium. 
 
 As Dr. McArthur prepared to leave, he turned uncertainly. 
 "Is your wife here?" 
 
 The patient grunted. "She'd better be; sent her to the 
 store a long time ago for more Pall Malls." Then a quizzical 
 gleam came to his eyes. Very deliberately he said, "So you're 
 the great Dr. Selim McArthur — well — well — well — " 
 
 When the puzzled, uncomfortable young man finally 
 went home to lunch, he was frowning. "Who is that Barnes 
 bird?" he demanded of his mother. " — a reverend or a 
 veterinarian or a Kentucky colonel?" 
 
 She was mixing the salad dressing; now the oil bottle 
 
 70 
 
halted in mid-air. "Why, Selim! He's just about the most 
 famous surgeon in Illinois, not counting your father, of 
 course." Slowly she laid aside the salad things, and stared 
 at him. "You gave him proper respect, didn't you? Lewis 
 and Dr. Barnes are friends; didn't you know that? I under- 
 stand he's in charge of building a hospital at Decatur, Illi- 
 nois." 
 
 It was Selim's turn to groan. He recalled the scene — his 
 words — his manner — the patient's amusement and fury. 
 Then he said to his mother, with heartfelt vehemence, "I 
 hope to heaven I never have to lay eyes on him again as long 
 as I live!" 
 
 He should have known better, for a flat statement like 
 that often tempts Fate. It had no sooner been said than 
 Dr. Selim McArthur was destined to become his patient's 
 son-in-law. 
 
 71 
 
crisis 
 
 As 1913 dragged to a close and Dr. Barnes' health slowly 
 improved, it became clear that his championship of the hos- 
 pital had been interrupted at a crucial time. The cornerstone 
 was safely in place, but where were those $200,000 for com- 
 pleting the building? When the annual report was pub- 
 lished early in 1914, all of Macon County knew the truth — 
 that the amount of unpaid bills for the hospital ran high 
 into five figures, while the cash balance in the treasury was 
 only $132.11. 
 
 On January 20th, the hospital association's annual meet- 
 ing was held at 2 p.m. in the YMCA, President Barnes pre- 
 siding. Twenty-five qualified life members responded to the 
 roll call, each having subscribed $100 or more in the past. 
 A financial report was given by Charles T. Kellam for the 
 total period of time, beginning October 27, 1902 and ex- 
 tending through January 3, 1914. It was revealed that re- 
 ceipts during these years were $115,381.78, and disburse- 
 ments during the same period were $115,249.67. 
 
 72 
 
During this crisis in the affairs of the new hospital, Mrs. 
 J. R. Holt was a surgical patient at St. Mary's, and late one 
 afternoon she was so thoroughly miserable that the presence 
 of Dr. Barnes triggered a smouldering resentment. When 
 he came into her room about 4 o'clock, letting out his usual 
 invective, she said, "Dr. Barnes, I can't take it any more; I 
 won't listen to your swearing around here; I'm a sick woman 
 and you can't add that to my miseries. I won't let you." 
 
 His mouth opened and he held it ajar. 
 
 "I mean it," she added. 
 
 "You mean," he finally asked, "I have to go out into the 
 hall to talk?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He exchanged quizzical looks with the nurse, but there 
 was no ghost of a smile on Mrs. Holt's face. When he 
 finally left the room he muttered something and she called 
 after him. "You wait 'til you get out in the corridor!" 
 
 It was late that night when she wakened from a deep 
 sleep, sitting suddenly upright, ignoring pain and bandages. 
 Newsboys on Webster Street were calling out: "Powers 
 block burning!" 
 
 The nurse rushed to her side. "Don't, Mrs. Holt! You 
 mustn't. Lie back — please." But Mrs. Holt was pointing 
 toward the window where an angry red glow painted the 
 sky. They watched in horror as the light flickered, shifted, 
 grew stronger, spewed burning embers. The Powers Opera 
 House and Linn and Scruggs were feeding those flames! 
 
 "Reaves is there!" 
 
 "No, no, Mrs. Holt! I'm sure your husband is all right!" 
 But Mrs. Holt would neither lie back nor stop talking. "The 
 
 73 
 
other time when Linn and Scruggs burned," she moaned, 
 "Reaves said they made an awful mistake in not getting out 
 the records; I know he's down in the basement getting the 
 records out!" She was shaking, ready to jump out of bed. 
 
 Dr. Barnes appeared in the doorway, came over, his man- 
 ner strange and subdued. "Wanted to see if my little lady 
 was all right," he said. 
 
 "Reaves is hurt!" she cried. "You've come to tell me. 
 Have they brought him here?" 
 
 Dr. Barnes swallowed in the way most men bite their 
 tongues. "What gave you those looney ideas?" he de- 
 manded. 
 
 Mrs. Holt swayed from side to side. "Don't you lie to 
 me!" 
 
 He grunted. "Can't lie; can't swear." He looked as if he 
 wanted to run, but he said, "I'll go downtown and see for 
 myself; that suit you? If I talk to your husband and come 
 back and report he's all right, will you be satisfied?" 
 
 "No," she replied hotly. "You'd just tell me lies ... be- 
 cause I'm sick." She moaned. 
 
 He hesitated. "You need some of my words," he told her. 
 "That's all that ails you. Get down in that bed and behave 
 yourself." 
 
 She lay back and he surged out of the room. 
 
 When he returned, half an hour later, he had Mr. Holt 
 with him. "Here's your husband," he said, pushing him for- 
 ward. "Same old gink, but he stinks." 
 
 Mr. Holt came over to her bed, smelling of smoke, his 
 eyebrows singed, and he said, "How do you feel?" ... He 
 said it just as if it were yesterday. 
 
 74 
 
"Reaves — are you hurt?" 
 
 "Not a bit. But your surgeon certainly interrupted my 
 night's work." 
 
 Dr. Barnes disappeared. "I love Dr. Barnes," Mrs. Holt 
 said. 
 
 Her husband raised an eyebrow. "You do?" he asked, 
 grinning. They held hands for a moment. "Don't you want 
 to know about the store?" he asked. 
 
 She shook her head and muscles all over her body let go 
 their hold on her pain. "Later," she said, smiling up at him. 
 Then, without transition, she added, "Reaves, I think we 
 should give more money to the new hospital." 
 
 Two months later the board of directors met in the 
 Chamber of Commerce room, with nine members present. 
 Dr. Barnes got to his feet and announced there was an over- 
 draft of $8,100 at the Millikin National Bank and suggested 
 that perhaps subscription certificates might be deposited as 
 collateral for borrowing some money. 
 
 "Borrowing how much?" asked someone. 
 
 He teetered on his heels, defying all financial institutions. 
 "$50,000 to start with—" Then he sat down heavily. 
 
 "Will that complete the hospital?" 
 
 He replied "No," staring straight ahead of him; his 
 mouth was grim; he smoked one cigarette after another, 
 inhaling fast and deep, while the discussion went on. Then 
 he stated that $50,000 would only be enough to continue 
 with the building; it didn't include any allowance for beds 
 
 75 
 
or other furnishings. 
 
 There was a hush. It was admitted that patients couldn't 
 lie on the floor. 
 
 Mr. LeForgee pulled notebook and pencil from his pocket, 
 and began to write. Most of those present were watching 
 him, but there were no further questions. After a few 
 minutes he read it to them — offering it as a resolution: 
 
 "WHEREAS, the Decatur and Macon County Hospital 
 Association is without funds with which to complete 
 the building now in course of construction . . . the 
 building committee is hereby authorized and directed 
 to cease all work and labor upon the hospital and to 
 make no other or additional contracts for either work 
 or material on the same until sufficient funds are sub- 
 scribed and raised to finish and complete the building." 
 
 The resolution was unanimously adopted. 
 
 76 
 
getting set 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman knew little of what was going on, and 
 she had kept her promise to herself not to interfere. But 
 she stood one day in front of the boarded-up hospital build- 
 ing in 1915, and experienced the greatest weariness she had 
 ever known. All those years of work ... all those self- 
 sacrifices . . . were they for nothing? It was early in March, 
 the sky overcast and brooding, but the temperature mild. 
 Here, spread out before her, were the beautiful forty acres, 
 soon to come into bloom, but with only a tombstone of a 
 building — barren and forsaken. She was seventy-four years 
 old and faced the truth that no matter how much she wanted 
 the hospital finished and put into service, she, Sue Haga- 
 man, was too old and too poor to help further. Dr. Barnes 
 was younger and he still cared, but the brutal fact was that 
 something stronger than both of them had throttled their 
 hopes. Sadly she turned away, starting back toward the 
 street-car tracks. Her daughter would worry about her if 
 she didn't hurry home. Then she caught sight of a robin 
 hopping in the grass, and her deep religious convictions 
 
 77 
 
stirred. Renewal — that was a law of nature. Everything 
 alive was doomed to die, but also to live again, and her hope 
 for the hospital which had several times stirred with new 
 life, only to falter later, and then live again . . . surely it 
 could be stirred to new life once more. 
 
 . . . Somehow. 
 
 As she thought this, she remembered Dr. Barnes' butter- 
 flies. 
 
 . . . Would he be willing to sell them now ? 
 
 . . . Would anyone want to buy them ? 
 
 She trudged on, and her next thought was brisk and 
 businesslike: — When the hospital opens, I must get Con- 
 gressman McKinley to extend the streetcar tracks all the 
 way to the hospital. 
 
 Summer came. The newspapers reported little. People 
 generally seemed apathetic about the hospital. A war had 
 started in Europe. The fifteen hospital board members, indi- 
 vidually and collectively, were unhappy and unquiet. It was 
 as if they felt impelled to explode into action, yet were 
 paralyzed by the weight of their trust. Even Dr. Barnes 
 sometimes had the far-away look of a tired man, and said 
 very little out loud. If he ever thought of that blithe entry 
 made one day in Mrs. Hagaman's little brown book, he 
 gave her no indication of hope that butterflies might save 
 the day. 
 
 In March J. A. Corbett had resigned as a board member 
 and now a woman was elected to fill his unexpired term — 
 
 78 
 
Mrs. William Gushard. 
 
 Later, Mrs. Gushard said to Mr. Shellabarger, "We dare 
 
 not make a false move." 
 
 And Mr. Shellabarger replied: "We dare not do nothing." 
 As it developed, the board took three important steps 
 
 during the summer of 1915: 
 
 First, extra funds were solicited from outside Macon 
 County by making this proposition: Anyone subscribing to 
 the hospital fund would have the privilege of sending 
 patients unable to pay their own expenses to the hospital 
 under terms that would give the patient free services equiv- 
 alent to one-half of the amount subscribed. 
 
 Next, a special committee was appointed, with Charles 
 R. Murphy as chairman, to raise $40,000 for furnishing and 
 equipping the hospital, once it was built. 
 
 Then a strange and unexpected proposition came before 
 the board. Mr. J. J. Wiley of Sullivan offered $10,000 to 
 the hospital, provided — (1) that his invalid wife, then in 
 St. Mary's, would be moved to one of the best rooms in the 
 new hospital when it was completed, (2) that this room 
 was to be selected by him and that his wife would be fur- 
 nished room, board, and nursing service to properly care for 
 her as long as she lived, (3) that if she lived only for a 
 limited number of months, the same provisions would be 
 made for Mr. Wiley himself, and (4) if Mr. Wiley needed 
 hospitalization himself during his wife's lifetime, he would 
 be furnished the necessary room, board and nursing care for 
 $10 per week. 
 
 The Board of Directors agreed to this proposition. 
 
 79 
 
No one at that time could guess that No. 203 would be 
 the Wiley room for twenty-four years. 
 
 Just as the stock market rises or falls on the slightest of 
 signs, those connected with the hospital's destiny now found 
 their spirits lifting, their bank more lenient, their friends 
 more open-handed. The few who most cared redoubled 
 their efforts, and through the torrid July weather of 1915 
 they caught at every straw of hope and ran down every clue 
 leading to new money. Finally, on July 27th, the board of 
 directors voted to resume work on the building. And the 
 "furnishings" committee was hard at work. 
 
 One day L. A. Mills and C. R. Murphy climbed onto 
 adjacent stools at Greider's lunch counter, intending to 
 talk committee business. 
 
 Without being asked, the waitress put apple pie and 
 coffee before Mr. Murphy. Mr. Mills looked at this fare 
 and grimaced. "You'll be using the hospital soon. Ham and 
 eggs, please." Then he stared ahead of him, through a pile 
 of doughnuts arranged on the back counter. "You know — " 
 he said from his legal mind, "our wives wouldn't stand for 
 a house without furnishings. The women of this town ought 
 to understand and back us up." Mr. Murphy nodded. He 
 pulled index cards from his pocket and both men began 
 talking in earnest, jotting down names. "John Byrne will 
 help over at the Chamber of Commerce, and we can count 
 on Thord Ewing. . ." The conference lasted past several 
 more cups of coffee. They'd figured out the cash on hand, 
 
 80 
 
consulted the estimates, done some mental digging for more 
 gold, and come up with a little head-shaking. 
 
 When they emerged from the restaurant, Dr. Barnes, 
 heading for his office across the street, came alongside. He 
 asked, "Got any beds for our hospital yet?" 
 
 Mr. Mills answered laconically. "The first four." 
 
 "Good! We'll open her up, then." 
 
 "No," cautioned Mr. Murphy. "Better wait for some 
 curtains and the x-ray machine." 
 
 "Pshaw," gestured Dr. Barnes. "I'll see to it that the first 
 four patients have snake-bite." 
 
 It was thus — disregarding caution and denying defeat — 
 that the hospital finally took off its wraps, opened its win- 
 dows to the sun again, and groomed itself for business. 
 Architects were advised to arrange for walks, drives, land- 
 scaping. And just to clinch things, Dr. Barnes decided that 
 a hospital superintendent, installed before the end of sum- 
 mer, would guarantee a continuation of the forward course. 
 He accordingly wrote to the most gifted nurse he remem- 
 bered at Massachusetts General Hospital, giving her the 
 general idea. Then, early in August — with formalities 
 handled and consultations completed, the board sanctioned 
 employment of Miss R. Helen Cleland of Boston as the 
 hospital's first superintendent, and ordered her to report for 
 duty as soon as possible at a salary of $2,000 per year. 
 
 Miss Cleland, with reddish hair, having buried her per- 
 sonal problems in New England, came to the corn belt with 
 
 81 
 
dedicated zeal. Not tall, not austere, she was nevertheless 
 impressive, and she had a backbone of steel. Standing 
 starched and crisp that first day in her new home, she 
 adopted the hospital as her only aim in life, seeing right 
 through its sinews of steel to the soul it would have, en- 
 trusted to her care. She would not only make it benign and 
 gracious — ready to heal the sick and mend the injured, but 
 also to comfort the fearful. She would staff it with nurses 
 that were human beings — her family — cherishing them, dis- 
 ciplining them, and guiding them on their appointed ways. 
 She saw it dependent on physicians and surgeons, and she 
 saw physicians and surgeons dependent on it. People: this 
 hospital was people. And she loved people. As soon as she 
 had unpacked her trunk and settled into the southeast corner 
 room, near the main entrance, she was altogether on duty as 
 professional nurse, hostess, and efficient administrator. 
 
 Her first glimpse of Mrs. Hagaman came when Dr. Barnes 
 introduced them the following week. "Culture around 
 here," he said, winking at Mrs. Hagaman, and lighting a 
 cigarette. They sat down in the only three chairs on the 
 main floor. "And more culture coming," he added. "She's 
 already importing Miss Goss of Boston as her superintend- 
 ent of nurses." 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman made no reply, but Miss Cleland felt 
 amused and tolerant. She knew this Dr. Barnes for exactly 
 what he was: a genius and a dare-devil and the sweetest 
 man she'd ever seen in a sick room. Yet there was one thing 
 he did that offended her intolerably: he smoked in the 
 presence of ladies, and she knew of nothing in the world she 
 could do about it. 
 
 82 
 
Early in November, the directors assembled for their first 
 meeting in the new hospital building, with Miss Cleland 
 attending. It was reported that the campaign for $40,000 to 
 furnish and equip the hospital, had been over-subscribed 
 $2,000 and that the board was especially indebted to Mr. 
 Charles R. Murphy acting as chairman of the committee, to 
 Mr. L. A. Mills, a committee member, and to Mr. John 
 Byrne and Mr. C. A. Ewing, officers of the Association of 
 Commerce. 
 
 At this meeting, also, a letter was read from Mr. R. S. 
 Patton, applying for the position of bookkeeper for the new 
 hospital, and it was voted to offer him the position at $75 
 per month and his mid-day meal. 
 
 Things were moving fast now, with the proud new 
 building getting bathed, polished, and outfitted. Miss Clel- 
 and wondered sometimes where all the money was coming 
 from, but that was not her responsibility. A landscape 
 architect of international fame — Jensen of Chicago — was 
 working out exterior plans, for a fee of $300, and Dr. Barnes 
 was carrying sheafs of blueprints with him wherever he 
 went. Everybody — architects, contractors, gardeners, pro- 
 fessional and non-professional men and women about the 
 place were being quizzed and advised by Dr. Barnes. He 
 had notions of his own that no one else had thought of. The 
 woodland garden must have a rustic bridge; the narcotic 
 closet must have a lock; the nurses must have a house of 
 their own (they had no right to patients' rooms!); the 
 
 83 
 
operating room must have auxiliary power; the elevator 
 must be made quieter; the room rates must be fixed. 
 
 Miss Cleland supposed that some day she would feel like 
 the superintendent of this place, but meanwhile she watched 
 Dr. Barnes with wonder and admiration. His chief concern 
 was that no hospital on earth should have finer, better, or 
 more up-to-date surgical and medical equipment than this 
 one. He talked it morning, noon, and night. He pounded 
 the table with it at board meetings. He rocked with pure 
 delight as he watched each new marvel of scientific equip- 
 ment being uncrated. 
 
 It wasn't long before Miss Audrey Bullock — also from 
 Boston — had joined the staff as dietitian and chief store- 
 keeper, responsible for hiring all non-professional help. 
 Miss Cleland could see she was homesick, but her immediate 
 business kept her rushing — cooking food on a single-burner 
 sterno for six people "living in". Barrels were used for 
 tables, and boxes for dining chairs. Piles of linen were 
 waiting to be marked D&MCH, heaps of new mattresses 
 were ready to be distributed; bedsteads needed setting up 
 and boxes of supplies needed opening. One day Miss Bul- 
 lock said, with a hint of a sigh, "Why are kitchen supplies 
 always delivered to the top floor, and those for the fourth 
 floor operating room dumped in the basement?" 
 
 She told it to Miss Cleland and that was a mistake. Miss 
 Cleland answered that there was no time to talk about such 
 things but plenty of time to do something about them. Then 
 she relented, quoting a line from Margaret Widdemer's 
 poetry: "Every horror ends; there will be kind hours after 
 these hours are done — " 
 
 84 
 
Magically, her prediction came true the next night. Mrs. 
 H. I. Baldwin invited them all to her house for dinner. 
 
 As they entered the beautiful home on West Main Street, 
 just a few doors from Dr. Barnes', tiredness dropped away 
 and they were suddenly hungry, sniffing the remote fra- 
 grance of roast beef and relaxing in the carpeted, gracious 
 quiet. Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin bade them welcome, had a 
 wood fire burning, and candlelight in wall sconces. No 
 sound of hammers, no swish of brooms, no hint of dust: 
 just lovely, beautiful peace — and the hand of friendship. . . 
 Decatur began to have a new meaning for three homesick 
 New Englanders. 
 
 The first class of probationers arrived in a thick swirling 
 snow storm between Christmas and New Year's, and were 
 tucked in under the roof on the fourth floor, north — then 
 immediately put to work scrubbing the hospital in prepara- 
 tion for open house. One member was Nellie Callaway, a 
 granddaughter of Mrs. Hagaman — one a doctor's daughter 
 — one an undertaker's daughter — one a telephone exchange 
 operator — one a widow — several stenographers and teachers 
 — and some others referred to as her "corn fed girls" by Miss 
 Goss of Boston. 
 
 Miss Cleland wrote in her record book: "Out of forty- 
 five applicants for nursing school, we accepted eighteen, 
 and sixteen are staying with us. We want to set high stand- 
 ards." 
 
 The girls wore black-and-white checked gingham dresses, 
 white aprons and bibs, black lisle stockings, black shoes, 
 
 85 
 
and white caps — their skirts four inches from the ground 
 to enable them to walk rapidly. 
 
 Graduate nurses from the community, recruited to "live 
 in", occupied small rooms on the same floor. 
 
 . . . Soon they would be ready for the first patients. 
 
 . . . Would patients come? 
 
 86 
 
12 
 
 going: first year 
 
 Christmas was over; hospital open house for the public 
 was over; now it was New Year's Day 1916 — with two im- 
 portant events on Dr. Barnes' calendar: the Decatur and 
 Macon County Hospital would open its doors to patients 
 for the first time, and the wedding of his daughter Gillette 
 to Dr. Selim McArthur of Chicago would be solemnized at 
 six o'clock that evening in their home. 
 
 When Gillette awakened, the house was already bumb- 
 ling with little sounds, subdued for her sake. She turned 
 over on her side, seeing the familiar curve of windows that 
 looked up and down Main Street and College Street. . . 
 This was the last day this would be home. . . 
 
 Selim, she knew, was waiting it out alone in his room at 
 the St. Nicholas hotel, counting the hours until the after- 
 noon train would bring a chartered car full of his family 
 and friends — most of them bigwigs from the Chicago 
 medical world. 
 
 . . . Her father would meet the train — if he didn't forget. 
 
 ... He would give her away in marriage tonight — if he 
 didn't forget. 
 
 She recalled the time Selim had first come down to De- 
 
 87 
 
catur; he wanted to see Chick Evans play champion golf at 
 the country club tournament; he seemed shy that day — al- 
 most as if trying to hide from her father. She smiled, 
 thinking how impossible that would have been; didn't he 
 know her father had arranged the whole affair? While she 
 and Selim were talking together briefly her father came up 
 with a very special gleam in his eye, and said, "Well — 
 well — ! How's the great Dr. Selim McArthur?" And Selim 
 had turned geranium-red. 
 
 . . . Later, when he came down as a family guest, she 
 overheard her mother asking her father one evening, "Will, 
 — do you see what is going on right under your nose?" . . . 
 and her father answered promptly, "Sure — and he can have 
 her in a minute if he wants her!" That response had 
 puzzled her. . . Did he mean that he heartily approved of 
 Selim? — Or did he mean he would be relieved of the re- 
 sponsibility of his daughter? 
 
 . . . She didn't know — she hadn't any idea of how she 
 rated with her father; she only knew that to her, he was a 
 god. 
 
 In mid-afternoon Selim telephoned, saying it was an hour 
 past train time and what had his future father-in-law done 
 with the Chicago guests? — Had he brought them to the 
 house by mistake? 
 
 Gillette made a good guess: "Maybe he's showing them 
 over the hospital. . ." 
 
 After that, the afternoon alternately dragged and raced 
 
 88 
 
for her. Doors thumped open and shut; florists were all over 
 the house; the telephone kept ringing; the caterers were 
 working feverishly; the clock said "only four" — and three 
 minutes later it said, "five! It's five o'clock! — where's the 
 bride's father?" 
 
 . . . He's at the hospital; where else? 
 
 But the wedding was on time. 
 
 When Gillette heard the first full, throbbing notes of 
 Lohengrin's wedding march, she felt very calm, very happy; 
 she held her head high and proud. Music . . . music en- 
 hanced everything. . . Miss Bunn at the piano, Ruth Lavery 
 playing the violin obligato. But then, as she started down 
 the broad stairway, the most curious irrelevant thought 
 came to her about that crazy father of hers who had been 
 worrying them all to the point of desperation during the 
 past half-hour. In a fleeting, perceptive moment she 
 thought — "Why, we've been jealous of the hospital all 
 these years! ... As far back as I can remember: all of us. . . 
 Mother. . . June. . . I. . ." 
 
 Yet there her father stood, tall and dear and bushy-eyed 
 at the foot of the stair, waiting for her — a flower in his 
 buttonhole. 
 
 He escorted her to the bower at the end of the hall. . . 
 
 Other faces came clear only after she and Selim took 
 
 89 
 
their places in the receiving line; then they laughed back at 
 all the laughing people, and her spirits took wing; she and 
 Selim were free in a world of their own, despite the fuss- 
 fuss and loving kindness. 
 
 Dr. Frank Billings kissed her. "Happiness, my dear — 
 lots of happiness. . ." 
 
 Aunt Jessie was still crying a little. "You look beauti- 
 ful. . ." 
 
 Aunt Annie, loving her, said, "I knew you'd look like 
 this!" 
 
 Miss Cleland, in a silk dress, puzzled her briefly, but 
 then Gillette said, "Take care of my father, will you?" Both 
 of them turned a little to glance his way, seeing that he 
 was exactly himself, as usual. — That familiar earnest look, 
 thought Gillette — he's thinking about the hospital. 
 
 And then, after awhile, it was time for the wedding 
 supper, and the Millikin male quartet was singing The Old 
 Oaken Bucket which had been written by Selim's great 
 grandfather; miniature oaken buckets served as nut cups 
 on all the tables. 
 
 Gillette was moving toward the bridal table, when just 
 for a tiny crystal instant — as Selim turned to answer some- 
 one's question — she felt herself alone in a sea of generations, 
 seeing the older guests with smiles turned on at half-pres- 
 sure, the middle-aged ones vivacious and charming, her own 
 generation making high, wide and handsome fun. 
 
 "... Little Sandpiper," she heard in her left ear — and 
 there was her father close beside her, looking peculiar. 
 — Had she heard it right? — Little Sandpiper? It was Mrs. 
 Gille's pet name for her; she hadn't known he'd ever heard 
 
 90 
 
it; he'd never before called her by any nickname at all. . . 
 
 With sudden abandon she lifted one hand and touched his 
 cheek — a gesture so delicate and improbable that she hardly 
 felt the roughened skin. Then, as she turned, the whole 
 fabulous evening was suddenly gay. She gathered up her 
 train and smiled brilliantly, putting her arm into Selim's and 
 pressing it close. 
 
 In the cold January light of next morning, Dr. Barnes in 
 a business suit strode into the hospital and found Miss 
 Cleland in uniform. He spoke bluntly. "Any patients yet?" 
 
 Miss Cleland shook her head. 
 
 "This is January 2," he said unnecessarily, puffing on 
 his cigarette. "Maybe we should advertise." 
 
 She tried to divert him. "Will you kindly approve my 
 rules for nurses?" 
 
 "Probably not," he answered. "Let me see." 
 
 She handed him a slip of paper: 
 
 "No short hair — no curled hair — 
 
 "No wrist watch, rings, jewelry or rouge 
 
 "House locked at 10 p.m. except Saturday 10:30 
 
 "No bathtubs used after 9:45 
 
 "No piano or victrola played before 5 p.m. nor on Sun- 
 day." 
 
 He looked up, scowling. "What are you trying to do?" 
 he asked, "get rid of 'em before they learn anything?" 
 
 She stepped away from his cigarette smoke, her mouth 
 resolute, saying nothing. 
 
 91 
 
He raised his voice to bridge the new distance. "Sounds 
 as if you had a nurses' home up your sleeve — bathtubs, 
 piano, door-locks — " 
 
 "We will have — soon. It will be more economical to 
 print all of the rules at one time." 
 
 "Oh?" He was teasing her. "All right — they're yours. 
 Bring 'em up like Puritans if you want to. What I want is 
 patients 7" And he handed the paper back without reading 
 further. 
 
 The next morning — still no patients. 
 
 Dr. Barnes grumbled to Miss Cleland, "If nobody's sick, 
 they can come in here to rest, can't they? — Lots of people 
 going to Hinsdale Sanitarium all the time. — And Battle 
 Creek and French Lick." He looked at her for corroboration 
 but she was settling her nose-glasses delicately and smiling. 
 
 "They'll come — the ill," she said with complete confi- 
 dence. 
 
 It was only five minutes later, just as if she'd rubbed a 
 lamp for him, that the first patient did arrive — and before 
 the day was over, this entry was made on page one of 
 Medical Records: 
 
 "January 3, 1916 — William Hitchcock, Decatur — Pneu- 
 monia . ." 
 
 Within a week there were seventeen more patients — one 
 of them Rose Ruckle, Dr. Barnes' office manager. 
 
 And on January 19th, the first baby, Thomas Duke Sel- 
 domridge, was born, weighing ten pounds. 
 
 92 
 
Finally, at the end of the first month of hospital service 
 the following statistics were recorded: 
 
 number of beds 65 
 
 number of nurses (including orderly and 
 
 probationers) 35 
 
 admissions 78 
 
 operations 23 
 
 days of free service 385 
 
 days of paid service 251 
 
 cash received from paying patients $ 640.96 
 
 cash value of free service $ 660.31 
 
 cash expenses (including salaries and 
 
 wages) $3,076.06 
 
 cost per patient per day $ 4.23 
 
 It's not often that a surgeon personally conducts his 
 patient to the operating room. But Dr. J. Foster F. Waltz 
 was a good friend of Dr. Barnes; they both thought it fitting 
 that he should be one of the hospital's first patients. An 
 appendectomy was scheduled for 8 o'clock in the morning 
 and Dr. Barnes ruled that the shot of morphine could wait 
 until they reached surgery; he waved his hospital-robed 
 friend into the elevator. 
 
 "I'm not laid out yet," Dr. Waltz protested. "Why should 
 I use the elevator?" 
 
 "You'd better," Dr. Barnes answered, "It'll be in the 
 bill." 
 
 93 
 
Dr. Waltz tried to laugh. He said, "Are you nervous 
 about cutting up an old friend?" 
 
 "Hell, no." 
 
 "Incidentally, before you put me under, I'd like to ask 
 if you ever get into trouble with that picturesque language 
 of yours?" 
 
 Dr. Barnes opened the door at the fourth floor, led his 
 patient toward surgery. "Confidentially, no. But one time 
 I had a close call. A patient had just died and I mentioned 
 the fact that he was something of a skunk and no one would 
 mourn him. You knew him — " (He put his hand to his 
 mouth and mentioned a name) Dr. Waltz smiled appreci- 
 atively. "Blame me?" asked Dr. Barnes. "The only trouble 
 was, his wife overheard me. She was on the other side of 
 the door — " 
 
 "Oh no!" said Dr. Waltz. 
 
 "Damndest thing, though," Dr. Barnes went on. "She 
 was more cordial to me after that than she'd ever been 
 before." 
 
 Two weeks later Dr. Waltz was allowed to take his 
 first steps about the room; the stitches were out and no 
 complications had set in. He was trying to screw up his 
 courage to ask when he might go home. 
 
 Dr. Barnes came in on his usual visit and looked at him 
 severely. "What do you think this is — a summer hotel?" he 
 asked. "When in blazes are you going home?" 
 
 94 
 
The spring rains came with violence that year, as if to 
 drown out the hospital, and Dr. Barnes watched in vain for 
 the first spring flowers planted on the grounds. The building 
 stood in a sea of mud with only a single plank walk from 
 the door to the cinder sidewalk down on Edward Street. 
 Everyone — patients, doctors, visitors, grocery boys — came 
 in the front door, knowing that other entrances were im- 
 passable. No street paving was in sight. Often motor 
 ambulances on their way to the hospital had to be towed 
 from the end of Union Street to the front door by stout 
 horses. Physicians and surgeons walked for the last few 
 blocks, wearing boots. 
 
 Nevertheless, everything inside was kept immaculate and 
 there was a cordial spirit of helpfulness shared by proba- 
 tioners, staff, and trained nurses. Patients felt it at once. 
 When Mr. Moran's men brought the first fourteen county 
 patients, they looked about eagerly, all of them smiling. 
 Grandma Ladd's cheery, cackling laughter — Ben Dodson's 
 chatter — and little Gracie Hummel' s bright eyes — attested 
 to the fact that they were entering a new and marvelous 
 home. 
 
 Two of the probationers — Neva Bridgman and Lucile 
 Rammel — shared sleeping quarters with Mrs. Moll, the cook. 
 One night after Lucile had finished practising the day's 
 lesson on Neva, pretending she was a measles patient, they 
 found themselves wide awake and adventuresome; on im- 
 pulse they decided to go after the mail. Since the hospital 
 
 95 
 
was outside the city limits, it was customary for one of 
 the night nurses to walk to McKinley Avenue and wait 
 there for the rural mail carrier to come along; tonight, 
 because wind and rain were tearing around the building, 
 the girls had no trouble in getting permission to take over 
 the chore. 
 
 After putting on rubbers, slickers, and bathing caps, 
 they left the hospital lights behind them, holding up their 
 long skirts and struggling, single file, to keep their footing 
 on the slimy plank walk. Soon the darkness ahead was 
 like black velvet, the nearest pricks of light far ahead down 
 the street; and abruptly they were walking ankle-deep in 
 mud. 
 
 Lucile giggled. "It's a good thing you go glug-glug; 
 otherwise I'd lose you — " 
 
 "We'll probably both lose our rubbers — " 
 
 Neva commented that this kind of exercise should be 
 contraindicated for a measles patient fresh out of bed. . . 
 
 "How much farther is it?" 
 
 When they thought they were approaching their goal, 
 the storm suddenly worsened and a vicious gust of wind 
 almost knocked them down. Neva reached out, trying to 
 find Lucile, but the noisy, punishing rain had separated them, 
 and their words were torn apart. "Lucile!" 
 
 Lucile's answer was a sudden terrified scream. When 
 Neva wheeled toward the sound, she could see Lucile 
 silhouetted against the hospital lights, trying to run toward 
 them. 
 
 Neva hurried after her. . . 
 
 When they finally reached the portico, they dropped down 
 
 96 
 
to the curb in a muddy mess, breathing hard, their backs 
 to the dark. 
 
 "What was it?" demanded Neva. 
 
 "I don't know!" 
 
 "Well, what made you yell like that?" 
 
 "Something — t-touched my shoulder! It was big, and 
 alive!" 
 
 "Who screamed?" Miss Cleland, still in uniform, was 
 standing in the vestibule, surveying them. 
 
 "I — did," said Lucile. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I — was scared!" 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I — don't know." 
 
 "Why don't you know?" Somehow Miss Cleland looked 
 dwarfed in the frame of light, but her voice was stern. 
 
 The rain was still pounding all around them, but a man's 
 voice coming in out of the night rescued them. 
 
 "What have we here?" It was Dr. Anderson, booming and 
 friendly. He laughed as he stomped the mud from his feet. 
 Then he handed a package of mail to Miss Cleland. "The 
 postman came along just as I was hitching my horse," he told 
 her. "These young ladies were out there, but they couldn't 
 see me and my beast, I guess." He turned toward the girls, 
 laughing. "Which one of you screamed?" he asked. Their 
 mouths were open but neither of them answered him. "I 
 was going to announce my presence," he chuckled, "when 
 one of you got too near my horse. He nuzzled against you 
 with real affection; your scream could have scared him to 
 death!" Still laughing, he removed his boots and shook 
 
 97 
 
himself like a wet bear. Then he gestured goodbye and 
 proceeded on into the hospital. 
 
 Miss Cleland was smiling now, but she didn't invite the 
 girls into her house. "The charwoman," she reminded them, 
 "won't be back until morning." The crinkles around her 
 eyes deepened. "You may return to your room by way of 
 the fire escape; take care not to frighten Mrs. Moll." 
 
 "Yes, Miss Cleland." 
 
 Later in the spring Miss Cleland asked for an advisory 
 board of citizens from the community, to consult with her 
 regarding problems in the school of nursing, and the fol- 
 lowing were appointed in this capacity: Mrs. Robert 
 Mueller, chairman — Mrs. H. I. Baldwin, Mrs. C. G. Powers, 
 Miss Grace Conant, and Dr. H. C. Jones. At their first 
 meeting Miss Cleland stressed the immediate need for an- 
 other class of probationers, although none of those present 
 had any idea how rooms could be provided for additional 
 girls. "There's no such thing as an 'amateur nurse'," she 
 reminded them. "We must get the girls — and house them 
 — and train them!" 
 
 On the day after the fourth of July, Mrs. Hagaman was 
 on the street car, going out Edward Street, on her way to 
 a conference with Miss Cleland regarding the hospital 
 nursery. It was an open car and the air felt good brushing 
 
 98 
 
past her hot face. As it rocked and clanged along she 
 thought, "Now that the board has petitioned the city to have 
 the hospital grounds annexed to the city, there's no earthly 
 sense in having the car tracks stop so far from the hospital. 
 We'll have to do something about that!" Then she began 
 to laugh at herself inwardly. . . Here I go again — the hos- 
 pital. 
 
 Once she had promised Francis to leave the hospital to 
 others. And only last week she had come across a slip of 
 paper left between pages in Deuteronomy. In her own hand- 
 writing it said: "I will not talk about the hospital with any- 
 one any more. I will remember my age and stay at home." 
 It was funny, really, because she had no sooner read her 
 resolution of long ago than she caught sight of the twenty- 
 sixth verse in the third chapter of Deuteronomy, directly 
 under it, which said, "And the Lord said unto me, Let it 
 suffice thee; speak no more unto me of this matter." The 
 Lord had been talking to Moses but it made her feel guilty. 
 
 Funny or not, she said to herself now, the Lord knows I 
 mean well. He has a plan for us all; He will stop me when 
 my work is done. She sat forward a little, away from the 
 cane back of the seat, slipping her hand into the brass hold 
 of the seat ahead, to steady herself from the jolting. There 
 were only two or three other passengers and they were seated 
 behind her. God's handiwork was in the tree-lined street, 
 the white clouds yonder, underfluffed with lavendar. She 
 wondered how one could best paint them, to get that fluffy 
 effect. . . 
 
 When they reached the end of the line, she picked up her 
 long skirts and nodded a farewell to the motorman as she 
 
 99 
 
started to alight. No one ever knew quite how it happened, 
 but she was suddenly in a heap at the bottom of the steps — 
 hot pain tearing at her hip, elbow, and shoulder; the agony 
 was so great that she soon lost consciousness. 
 
 When she awakened, she looked about wonderingly. Dr. 
 Meriweather was watching her from the foot of the bed, 
 and beside him stood Miss Cleland, smiling encourage- 
 ment. Nellie, her granddaughter, was in a corner, properly 
 uniformed but looking very un-nurselike with red eyes. 
 
 . . . This was her hospital ? Northwest room, main floor ? 
 
 "What broke?" she asked out loud. 
 
 "Your hip," Dr. Meriweather answered. "But we have 
 you all fixed up now." 
 
 She tried to smile. "You certainly have." The pain was 
 pretty awful. The sandbags fretted her. But she tried to 
 be brave for Miss Cleland's sake. "I'm not here to die, any- 
 way — not this time." It was a pretty feeble attempt at 
 courage. 
 
 She remained in the hospital for over two months, and 
 managed to enjoy part of it. She had visitors from all walks 
 of life — she'd never dreamed she knew so many people. 
 Dr. Barnes looked in every day, too, and Nellie petted her 
 when Miss Cleland wasn't looking. 
 
 One Saturday she had a particularly enjoyable visit from 
 Congressman McKinley and she brought up the subject of 
 extending the street-car tracks to the hospital. He was 
 sympathetic, agreeable, even cordial, but he promised 
 
 100 
 
nothing. She was not satisfied. When he got up to go, she 
 suddenly caught hold of his coat-tails. Without coquetry 
 or humor she declared in all earnestness, "I'll hold on 'til 
 you promise." 
 
 He laughed a great shaking laugh. "I promise!" And he 
 was still laughing when he left her room. He hadn't men- 
 tioned to her that the board of directors, a few days after 
 her accident, had moved, seconded, and duly carried a reso- 
 lution full of whereases, addressed to the Decatur Railway 
 and Light Company — g'^ing "the right to the use of said 
 lands for the purposes aforesaid." 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman was going to get her car tracks all the way 
 to her hospital. 
 
 101 
 
1 
 
 growing pains 
 
 Ihat first summer, up under the roof, was frightfully hot 
 for the student nurses — impossible for sound sleeping. 
 Several experiments were tried to lessen their discomfort 
 and avoid overcrowding when a new class started. 
 
 Sleeping porches, open to the sky, were built on the roofs 
 of the wards, reached by climbing out from windows on 
 the fourth floor. This was all right except on nights when 
 it unexpectedly rained; then they had to pick up their mat- 
 tresses and other bedding and parade back to their hot 
 rooms. Canvas tops and side curtains were added to the 
 porches, but whenever the wind rose there was so much 
 flapping and slapping of canvas that sleep was still dis- 
 turbed — and one night Macie Saylor, a big, sensible girl, 
 frightened all the rest of them by walking in her sleep to 
 the very edge of the roof. That ended the sleeping porch 
 experiment. 
 
 In the early fall it was proposed that a bungalow of five 
 rooms adjoining the hospital grounds be rented for $250 
 per year, including water. When the hospital board of 
 directors voted to pay the rent and get some of the nurses 
 
 102 
 
moved to this location, Dr. Barnes snorted impatiently. 
 "What we ought to do," he declared, "is go out and raise 
 money for a nurses' home built to our own specifications 
 and able to accommodate half a hundred." 
 
 Miss Cleland, seated near him, nodded. "In time you 
 will," she said. 
 
 Someone else protested, "The community has already 
 given so much to the hospital — I think this is hardly the 
 time — " 
 
 Some day — they all hoped — there would be a nurses' 
 home, but where the money would come from they couldn't 
 dream; it would take more than the sale of Union Street 
 lots. Meanwhile, though, they had a bungalow, offering 
 shelter but no furnishings. Miss Cleland' s advisory board 
 considered all possible ways and means for making it com- 
 fortable and finally decided that each member would raise 
 $40 or more for buying furniture. 
 
 All this while, the first class of student nurses felt itself 
 unique in the new hospital's beginnings — as it was. No 
 other class would ever come to Decatur and Macon County 
 Hospital with more earnest intentions — nor would any other 
 class be more carefully supervised. This was because grad- 
 uate nurses living in the hospital at that time watched every 
 step, corrected every fault, and were always available for 
 guidance when Miss Goss and Miss Cleland were busy with 
 other matters. 
 
 From the day of their arrival when Miss Layah Riggs in 
 
 103 
 
the office relieved each girl of $10 (a breakage fee for three 
 years) they knew this hospital meant business. Their slight- 
 est slip was noticed and their highest ideals were nourished. 
 And now that most of their first year was done, they knew 
 they had grown in grace and integrity as well as in knowl- 
 edge. What they didn't know was that before their training 
 was done, they were to be tested by tragedy. 
 
 In uniform these girls looked much alike except for size 
 and height, but off-duty there was the serious girl, the clown, 
 the romantic, the practical joker, the organizer, and the cre- 
 ative thinker — just as in any group of young women. 
 
 One night Miss Nonie Ellis, assistant to Miss Cleland, 
 was trying to sleep downstairs, when there was undue com- 
 motion up on the top floor. She occupied a cot behind a 
 screen in her little office north of the entrance lounge. Miss 
 Cleland, living similarly on the south side of the lounge, 
 also heard. It was definitely after 10 o'clock; she walked 
 across to Miss Ellis's door and knocked. 
 
 Hurriedly Miss Ellis put on her kimona and slippers and 
 opened the door. Miss Cleland said in decisive, well- 
 enunciated words, "Will you please retire to the upper floor 
 and ascertain the cause of that commotion?" 
 
 Of course Miss Ellis promptly obeyed. Tall and note- 
 worthy, even in a kimona, she was soon standing in the 
 doorway of the dormitory. At first her presence was not 
 noticed and she paused to regain her breath after run- 
 ning up the stairs. Everybody was choking with laughter — 
 girls sprawled over every bed — evidently watching a one- 
 woman style show. Maude Ward, a graduate nurse and 
 operating supervisor at the time, was modeling a new 
 
 104 
 
kind of night attire — pajamas; she was also lecturing in 
 Boston accents. 
 
 "The most advanced fashion," she proclaimed, patting 
 her thighs. "Pants, yes. But you will have to admit that no 
 more modest night garment has ever been conceived. In a 
 reclining position, pajamas have the advantage of staying 
 with you. In a sitting position (and she sat) they allow one 
 to cross one's patellas without being indecorous." When 
 the hilarity died down, she continued, reaching her climax 
 and suddenly standing on her head. From that position her 
 voice was gurgly but it said, "Even if you come from Boston 
 you can maintain poise — d' y' see?" 
 
 It was just at that moment that she seemed to freeze; her 
 eyes blinked and widened, discovering Miss Ellis in the 
 doorway. Then suddenly she collapsed on the floor, her 
 hands across her eyes. "Do you see what I see?" she asked 
 in straight-Illinois, refusing to look again. 
 
 There was complete silence. 
 
 Miss Ellis came forward in mock severity and towered 
 above her. "I see you're a floor supervisor," she said. Un- 
 certain giggles came from the girls at this. "But — " she con- 
 tinued, "seriously, girls, you are disturbing the peace." 
 
 "It's my fault . . ." Maude began. 
 
 Cora Scott was the one most concerned. Miss Ellis thought 
 how lovely the girl was — her black hair tousled, her face 
 which had been dimpling with fun a moment ago, now 
 suddenly serious. "Did we disturb any patients, do you 
 think?" 
 
 Neva Bridgman, tall as Miss Ellis, joined in. "Oh — I hope 
 not. For awhile we thought — we almost forgot — " 
 
 105 
 
"That this is a hospital," Miss Ellis finished for her. Then 
 she added, "Laughter is sometimes good medicine — even at 
 a distance. But not always. Better throttle it next time." 
 
 "Yes, Miss Ellis! Oh — we will!" Several said it out loud 
 — the eyes of the others promised it. 
 
 But Cora Scott . . . Cora was so much in earnest that her 
 paleness had a light in it. She would never, never, never, 
 again forget that patients were in the house, Miss Ellis 
 knew. What a wonderful nurse that girl will make — I hope 
 she'll graduate — and stay — 
 
 Miss Cleland was beginning to feel concern over the hos- 
 pital figures. Average occupancy for the first eight months 
 of service (January to August, 1916, inclusive) was 44, or 
 almost 70% of capacity. With normal growth, might not 
 that get out of bounds ? What would happen when some of 
 the "average" was figured from days beyond capacity? How 
 could the hospital manage to care for patients in the event 
 of a catastrophe or an epidemic? 
 
 It wasn't long before she experienced the grim truth. 
 
 The first typhoid patients came from Tuscola. Soon there 
 were others from Areola, Arthur, Shelbyville, and Decatur 
 itself. The mayor of Tuscola died. Every room in the hos- 
 pital was occupied — some patients delirious and hemorrhag- 
 ing, others dying. Odors were hard to control; noises were 
 
 106 
 
frightful at all hours of the day and night — groans, screams, 
 delirious cries, ambulance whistles. The young nurses hardly 
 stopped to eat or sleep, giving ease where they could, using 
 their new knowledge in hard experience. Cora Scott fainted 
 from fatigue one day, but after a brief period of unconscious- 
 ness, she insisted that it had refreshed her and she went 
 back to work immediately. 
 
 At 2 o'clock one morning, Miss Hancock, night super- 
 intendent, was alone in the kitchen, filling ice bags, when — 
 without warning — a delirious patient ran into the room, 
 lunged at her, and snatched away the ice pick. "Murder!" 
 he cried. "I'm going to kill you!" And with the superhuman 
 strength of fever, he chased her up and down corridors until 
 a special nurse ran panting to the telephone, calling Dr. 
 Barnes and asking him what to do. 
 
 He said, "'I can't understand you; wait until you catch 
 your breath." But just at that moment the madman turned 
 from Miss Hancock and lunged toward the nurse at the 
 telephone. Dr. Barnes heard her scream. . . 
 
 He was almost instantly on his way to the hospital, bring- 
 ing the police with him. 
 
 Other crises kept puncturing every day and night — some 
 minor, some major, some tragic, a few of them amusing. 
 
 Private nurses were on duty twenty hours a day which 
 meant that cots were often set up in private rooms, and 
 when she could, the special nurse removed her uniform 
 during the night and lay down for cat-naps. Miss Ruth 
 Bingman was on duty one night in a private room and had 
 just dozed off when she sensed something moving in the 
 room, and awakened with alarm. A patient in delirium was 
 
 107 
 
slinking in barefoot and she watched in horror as he went 
 to lean over the bed where her patient was asleep. She told 
 herself to be calm, to keep her wits. The man was clad only 
 in a hospital gown and she could see that he carried no 
 weapon. She pulled her kimona close about her and noise- 
 lessly went to the other side of the bed. Then he looked at 
 her, but made no move. She thought: maybe I can reason 
 with him. 
 
 Taking a deep breath she chided him in a very low voice 
 — "Aren't you ashamed to be running around here looking 
 like that!" 
 
 His eyes glittered with fever, but he answered promptly, 
 "Well, Sister, you aren't so well dressed yourself!" 
 
 Despite the amusing things, this crucial time meant 
 jangled nerves for everyone. The hospital was not only 
 overcrowded — it was understaffed. There were only twenty- 
 five private rooms (and typhoid patients sorely need private 
 rooms); the other forty beds were in the wards. Miss Clel- 
 and, bone-tired, sometimes felt herself in the center of con- 
 flicting eddies of authority. Whose hospital was this — Dr. 
 Barnes' or hers ? — Was the medical staff boss, or was she ? 
 She didn't feel personal about it; she felt passionately ob- 
 jective — but she cared so much about the welfare of every 
 patient under the hospital roof that she was determined to 
 protect him or her, despite cost or circumstances. If she 
 crossed swords with the doctors, it had to be; if she needed 
 to fire a nurse, it had to be. For she always came back with 
 the same answer: 
 
 THIS HOSPITAL BELONGED TO THE PATIENT! 
 
 That was her one and only criterion. 
 
 108 
 
One day Dr. W. J. Saling brought in a child and 
 called for Dr. Will Wood to perform a chest operation on 
 the little girl. Dr. Wood could not be located immediately, 
 so Dr. Saling decided to go ahead with the operation him- 
 self. 
 
 "You're not a surgeon," Miss Cleland told him. "You 
 must wait for Dr. Wood." 
 
 "I can't wait," he protested. 
 
 "You will wait," she said. 
 
 Dr. Saling's color rose and he said angrily, "I am Dr. 
 Saling. I brought the patient in, and I can take her out in 
 five minutes!" 
 
 Miss Cleland rose to her full height and retorted. "1 am 
 Miss Cleland, and you can take her out in three minutes!" 
 
 Both of them now were fighting the patient's battle — each 
 in a different way — but neither of them meant the words 
 they were saying. To save the day, Dr. Wood walked into 
 the lobby, a carnation in his lapel, and he was charming to 
 both of them. As soon as Dr. Saling explained the case to 
 him, Dr. Wood had one foot forward, headed for duty. But 
 he glanced back at the antagonists. "Shake hands, you two," 
 he suggested. "Eh?" 
 
 Dr. Saling and Miss Cleland shook hands, looking at 
 their hands. And history records that the patient recovered. 
 
 Later that year the board of directors announced that the 
 late Judge William C. Johns had made a bequest to the hos- 
 pital, with $10,000 available in cash now and with other in- 
 come expected to mount to almost $30,000. 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman was discussing this bequest with Miss 
 Cleland while they were lunching together in the hospital 
 
 109 
 
dining room one day. "We need more room immediately," 
 said Miss Cleland. 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman hadn't touched her prune whip. She 
 leaned forward and asked, "Does Dr. Barnes think this be- 
 quest justifies more building?" 
 
 "I don't know; I haven't discussed it with him." There 
 was something chilly about her voice. 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman looked at her closely and thought, two 
 strong wills. . . She ventured to say aloud, "He always has 
 a lot of ideas up his sleeve; he means well." 
 
 Miss Cleland smiled — just a shade. "All doctors mean 
 well." 
 
 The conversation wasn't going very well, and Mrs. Haga- 
 man decided to change the subject. "I've heard that the city 
 fire department is giving up horses and going to motor- 
 pulled equipment." 
 
 "Why did you say that? We were talking about the hos- 
 pital." Miss Cleland didn't look cross or sound cross as she 
 said it, but Mrs. Hagaman knew she was cross. Hooking 
 her cane over the back of her chair she began to eat her 
 dessert. After a moment she asked, "Miss Cleland, can't 
 you take a vacation? You must be worn out." 
 
 "A vacation?" Miss Cleland repeated it as if a crazy 
 round-the-world cruise had been proposed. "Does a mother 
 take a vacation when she has an infant at home?" Her 
 wide mouth was relentless. 
 
 "But this hospital has lots of help," argued Mrs. Haga- 
 man. "It could run for a little while without you." 
 
 "I don't want it to run without me." Slowly she pushed 
 the dishes to one side and put the palm of one hand flat on 
 
 110 
 
the table. 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman was staring at this hand, wondering what 
 
 to say next. When a tear dropped on the hand, she felt 
 
 sorrier about it than anything she had ever witnessed. For 
 
 she knew that a New England tear was exceptional. "I'm 
 
 sorry," she murmured earnestly. 
 
 "Why?" asked Miss Cleland with the clearness of steel. 
 M j_„ 
 
 "So let us go on from there," Miss Cleland said. She 
 locked both hands together against the table's edge. "We 
 need a new wing and we need a nurse's home; which shall 
 it be?" 
 
 "We have no say about it," Mrs. Hagaman reminded her, 
 feeling confused. 
 
 "You care, don't you?" 
 
 "Care about what?" 
 
 "The hospital." 
 
 "Of course. I care. You care. Dr. Barnes cares." 
 
 "Very well." Miss Cleland's hands relaxed and she ad- 
 justed her eyeglasses. "We'll make our plans with Dr. 
 Barnes." 
 
 "You won't need me." 
 
 "We will need you," contradicted Miss Cleland. "We 
 need everybody who cares. This hospital must grow bigger." 
 
 With embarrassment, and then with warmth, they sud- 
 denly smiled at each other across the table. 
 
 1917 started calmly after the waning of the typhoid epi- 
 
 111 
 
demic, and the first nurse's class was showing great progress. 
 Cora Scott and Macie Saylor were exchanging confidences 
 about their boy friends one night when Cora said, "I don't 
 see how European girls stand it — " She was brushing her 
 hair and looking through the mirror at Macie stretched out 
 on the bed behind her. 
 
 "War, you mean?" Macie turned toward her, propping 
 herself on an elbow. . . The war seemed far away to her. 
 She thought — how earnest Cora is — how pretty — she's the 
 sweetest girl in our class. She said, "The Czar of Russia 
 abdicated yesterday. — Will that make the war worse, do 
 you suppose?" 
 
 "I don't know — I only know — " began Cora. But she 
 didn't go on with it. 
 
 Macie finished for her. "... that if our country gets into 
 the war, boys won't be the only ones to go — ?" 
 
 "No. We'll go, too." 
 
 Macie's voice was still lazy. "Being a war nurse is some- 
 thing we didn't bargain for — " 
 
 "I did," said Cora surprisingly. She put the last pin into 
 her hair and sat down, clasping her knees. "Macie — I have 
 a feeling — " 
 
 "What kind of feeling?" 
 
 Cora looked at her unhappily. ". . . Nothing; never 
 mind." 
 
 Macie left it at that. "I'm hungry; what about a hot 
 dog?" 
 
 Both of them were strong, big-boned, with healthy 
 appetites. As they left the room they were laughing to- 
 gether. 
 
 112 
 
The United States declared war on Germany in April, 
 and as soon as possible after the news was out, Miss Goss 
 called a special meeting of the student nurses. They were 
 grouped in a tense huddle in their one-arm chairs in the 
 classroom. When Miss Goss started speaking, Macie noted 
 that her cap quivered; she couldn't see anything else about 
 her quivering — only her cap. Neva Bridgman was listening 
 intently, not moving a muscle. It was strange and exciting — 
 this war. She wondered what Cora was thinking now. She 
 wondered how the war might change the lives of all of 
 them. And yet — the war was being fought far away; she 
 couldn't sense its presence here in the class room. . . 
 
 . . . They wouldn't be sending American soldiers right 
 away, would they? Soldiers would need training first, 
 wouldn't they? . . . like nurses? 
 
 Miss Goss ended her little talk with this statement: "Some 
 of the graduate nurses are already making plans to go over- 
 seas. You, of course, haven't had enough training to go 
 overseas. It only means that those of us who stay at home 
 will have to work harder." 
 
 Afterward, Macie took Cora's arm. "You won't have to 
 go." She offered it as comfort. "We don't know enough 
 yet — " she quoted Miss Goss. 
 
 Cora looked at her with big expressive blue eyes. "I'm 
 sorry," she said. Then, as if girding for battle at home, she 
 began to walk faster. 
 
 On the following morning Dr. Barnes and Dr. Clyde 
 
 113 
 
Teaman came into the hospital together. "Beds first," Dr. 
 Barnes was saying. 
 
 "Nurses first," argued Dr. Teaman. "Judge J onn s would 
 have preferred a nurses' home — " 
 
 Miss Cleland heard their voices and stepped forward, ad- 
 dressing herself to Dr. Barnes. "Dr. Frank Billings just 
 telephoned long-distance that he is coming down from Chi- 
 cago this afternoon to see you." 
 
 "About the damn war?" he asked. 
 
 She answered coolly, enunciating clearly. "He didn't 
 convey the reason for his coming." 
 
 Dr. Barnes studied her and cut through her defenses. 
 "This hospital getting too big a job for you?" he asked 
 rudely. 
 
 The office was near by; Layah Riggs heard him, and so 
 did Ina Finnell — as well as Dr. Teaman. She raised her 
 eyes, looking him full in the face. She said, "It is — not." 
 
 "You ought to be a man," he told her. 
 
 "Well, I am not." 
 
 "Women! — Hell!" His bushy eyebrows seemed to tangle 
 and he hunched his bag higher under his arm. 
 
 She glanced toward the office but she said it anyway: 
 "This hospital needs more than a man," she said distinctly. 
 
 "And you're it — eh?" He was laughing now and seem- 
 ing to enjoy himself. "Tell you what, Madame Superintend- 
 ent — suppose we fire you long enough to have a vacation?" 
 
 . . . This was the second time she'd been asked to 
 take a vacation, and she made no answer. She walked 
 away sedately — crisply — and closed the door of her office 
 behind her. 
 
 114 
 
He went right after her, reopening the door. "Miss 
 Cleland," he said from the doorway, "when Frank comes, 
 tell him I'll confer with him in your office here." 
 
 There was high color in her cheeks. "I'll be in my office 
 this afternoon. You may take Dr. Billings for a walk in the 
 garden and have your discussion out-of-doors." 
 
 Abruptly he capitulated, snapping his fingers. "Not a 
 bad idea! It's April — time for violets. — Hear me, Boston? 
 It's time for violets!" 
 
 She began smiling with her eyes, but she said, "Dr. Barnes 
 — you are unforgiveable. You are rude. You are — uncouth." 
 
 "Yeh — I know. Left Harvard too soon." 
 
 Dr. Billings' errand was to discuss the possibility of hold- 
 ing a clinic at Decatur and Macon County Hospital later in 
 the spring. He and Dr. Barnes were strolling near the rustic 
 bridge back of the hospital. 
 
 "Permission granted," said Dr. Barnes. " — Could have 
 told you that over the telephone. You wasted your train 
 fare." 
 
 "We'll have to plan it," his friend answered. "There will 
 be doctors from all over Illinois." Then he grinned. "Be- 
 sides — I'd like some of Charlotte's oyster stew tonight." 
 
 Dr. Barnes growled, "My wife doesn't cook; she plays 
 the piano." 
 
 "You're unfair to your wife." 
 
 "Could be," Dr. Barnes admitted. "When you praise the 
 cook, she's pretty good." 
 
 115 
 
"Am I invited to dinner, then?" 
 
 "Yes. But get your big feet off my flowers!" Dr. Barnes 
 warned. 
 
 Dr. Billings watched his step. "What do you think about 
 the war?" he asked. 
 
 "Why think?" Dr. Barnes was lighting his fourth cigar- 
 ette. 
 
 "You smoke too much, Will," his friend said. 
 
 "Trying to help science," Dr. Barnes defended himself. 
 "I'm going to will my lungs to Harvard; if they aren't plenty 
 black, they won't be interesting." 
 
 "Seriously, your heart — " 
 
 "Dammit," snapped Dr. Barnes, "who's boss of my life, 
 anyway? The lady superintendent has been pushing me 
 around today, too." 
 
 "Miss Cleland?" Dr. Billings said her name with admira- 
 tion. 
 
 Dr. Barnes looked around. " — Want her for your hos- 
 pital? I'm fed up with her." 
 
 "Seriously — ?" 
 
 "Hell, no. She's the best superintendent in the country; 
 we're going to hang onto her." 
 
 "I thought you said — " 
 
 "Well, I didn't. I didn't say anything of the kind!" 
 
 When they returned to the lobby, Miss Cleland herself 
 was there to welcome them. "Wouldn't you like to finish 
 your conference in my office, gentlemen?" She offered it 
 with a smile that included the president of the board of 
 directors. 
 
 116 
 
The clinic which the two doctors were planning that after- 
 noon finally came off, with the first meeting in session behind 
 closed doors. Everyone in the hospital knew of it but only 
 one of the nurses said she'd like to be present. Macie Saylor 
 was always imagining herself in the operating room, masked 
 in white except for her eyes, and deftly handing instruments 
 to the surgeons a breath before they were needed. . . "I 
 wish I could hear what they are saying up there," she con- 
 fided to Neva Bridgman. 
 
 Neva said thoughtfully, "When we're old enough to go 
 to war, there'll be plenty to do over there — and it will be 
 messy." 
 
 "I know. . ." 
 
 "Miss Bridgman!" Layah Riggs was calling her name 
 imperiously. Neva hurried over to the switchboard. "Mrs. 
 Barnes just phoned that June's house is on fire! Run up and 
 tell the doctor! Hurry!" 
 
 Neva hesitated a split second. "You want me to tell 
 him?" 
 
 "Yes! Hurry! Just open the door and barge into the 
 meeting!" 
 
 "Will Dr. Barnes like that?" Neva asked uncertainly. 
 
 "For Pete's sake — go!" 
 
 When Neva reached the classroom and opened the door 
 she was out of breath and choking on the fog of tobacco 
 smoke. All heads turned toward her and Dr. Barnes paused 
 in his lecture. "Dr. Barnes — " she managed to announce 
 without leaving the doorway, "Your son's house is on 
 fire!" 
 
 117 
 
He turned on her and inquired, "Why tell me? Go tell the 
 fire department!" 
 
 There was a roar of laughter which gave her opportunity 
 to slam the door (a little slam) as she left. She was in- 
 dignant. When she met Cora on the stairway she said, "Dr. 
 Barnes is an inhuman beast ! He just goes right on lecturing 
 while Rome burns!" Then she told her. Then they both 
 laughed. Soon the whole hospital was laughing. Only Layah, 
 still at the switchboard, knew that Dr. Barnes had gone to 
 the fire. 
 
 On May 2, 1917, the board of directors received word that 
 trustees of the estate of James Millikin were giving $100,000 
 to construct a new wing on the hospital "since the present 
 buildings are not adequate to care for the sick of this city." 
 The statement was signed by O. B. Gorin, J. M. Brownback, 
 S. E. Walker, S. E. McClelland, and W. H. Penhallegon. 
 
 Two days later a building committee was appointed and 
 within a week architects Brooks and Bramhall were selected 
 to draw up plans and specifications for the Millikin wing — 
 these plans to be completed within sixty days. Interest was 
 so keen, however, and Dr. Barnes so insistent on speed, that 
 the architects were ready in half that time. By mid- June the 
 plans were approved and architects were instructed to ask 
 for construction bids. 
 
 Dr. Everett Brown, enthusiastic over these new develop- 
 ments, was talking the matter over with his brother-in-law 
 who reminded him that a building was no good without 
 
 118 
 
furnishings. Dr. Brown made a note of it — told Will Barnes 
 about it the next day — and the day after that eighty-five new 
 beds were on the agenda for the Millikin wing, not yet exist- 
 ent. 
 
 Early the following summer, ground was broken for the 
 new building and President Barnes appointed the following 
 committee of women to get bids and buy furnishings for 
 the new wing: Mesdames Charles Powers, T. T. Roberts, 
 and William Gushard. 
 
 "Now," said Dr. Barnes — "the nurses' home — " He said 
 it to Miss Cleland, and she said, "Yes." 
 
 "We already have the Johns' bequest — " 
 
 Afterward, Mrs. Hagaman said to Miss Cleland, "And 
 there's Dr. Barnes' butterfly collection. . ." 
 
 Quietly and happily Miss Cleland said, "This will be a 
 fine medical center someday — just as Dr. Barnes dreamed 
 it." 
 
 119 
 
did <dte 
 
 heroism 
 
 Spanish influenza came stealthily. No one seemed to 
 know exactly what it was except that it started with the war 
 in Europe and was jumping the oceans. Physicians recalled 
 that something called Russian Grippe had raged in 1889 
 and now they watched newspaper reports uneasily, noting 
 that this new variety of grippe had spread to the Atlantic 
 seaboard. Still, they were optimistic about any onslaught of 
 the disease that would compare with that of the nineteenth 
 century; the United States now had good hygienic controls. 
 
 Early in September of 1918 a few cases were reported 
 among the soldiers in training at Camp Grant. 
 
 Dr. Barnes told Mrs. Hagaman, "Good thing we got our 
 hospital built!" 
 
 She looked up, startled. "You mean that Spanish dis- 
 ease?" 
 
 He nodded and predicted, "It's going to be a killer." They 
 were on Water Street, downtown; it was a chance meeting. 
 
 She leaned on her cane and sighed. "I'm getting too old 
 to be any good. If there's to be an epidemic, others will 
 have to do the work." 
 
 120 
 
"Hell, Mrs. Sue! We only have two choices: either grow 
 old or die young." 
 
 She laughed then. "I've decided to die old." Then she 
 repeated, "But as you say, we have our hospital built." 
 
 "We can't be too damned proud of it, though," he 
 warned. "We'll need that Millikin wing before it's built. 
 — And where's our contagion hospital?" 
 
 "Dr. Barnes — you're so wasteful of words! In a lifetime 
 — think of how many words you've wasted!" 
 
 "Swear words?" He grunted and counter-attacked: "Well, 
 you're wasting my timet Haven't you anything better to do 
 than stand around on Water Street talking with me?" He 
 raised a ragged eyebrow. 
 
 She looked at him with sudden affection. "You're the 
 funniest man I ever knew. Good day, Doctor!" And she 
 hobbled away from him into the five-and-dime store. 
 
 By the end of September two or three suspicious cases of 
 flu turned up in Decatur, but no one was especially alarmed. 
 Bed rest was recommended and advice was given to keep 
 patients in chilly rooms because cool air was fresher. There 
 was no known specific. 
 
 Toward the end of the following week there were a dozen 
 cases sprinkled over the city — a single patient in each family 
 — but physicians could not determine whether this was 
 ordinary grippe or the so-called Spanish influenza. They 
 warned against anxiety, and for several days no new cases 
 were reported. 
 
 121 
 
Then, within forty-eight hours, whole families were 
 afflicted and the plague spread down and around solid blocks 
 like a forest fire. Complications of pneumonia came almost 
 immediately. Before mid-October there was a genuine 
 emergency, crippling schools, churches, industries, retail 
 trade — everything. Patients who survived without compli- 
 cations felt such deep depression and weakness that they 
 were useless for everyday activities. 
 
 Most graduate nurses had gone to war by this time and 
 the new Decatur and Macon County Hospital was swamped 
 overnight with an emergency that so far outdistanced the 
 typhoid epidemic in horror that horror itself was hardly 
 sensed. Everyone was overworked to the point of numbness. 
 Dr. C. Martin Wood, surgeon for the two SATC companies 
 (Student Army Training Corps) at the university, sent over 
 twenty men to the hospital from there. The census jumped 
 from forty-eight to seventy-four. Minutes and hours were 
 simply strung on time like painful beads of sheer endurance. 
 Patients coming into the hospital often were in cyanosis 
 when they reached the front door; some of them died 
 while being helped out of ambulance or taxi. The hospital 
 was so overcrowded that families of six or seven were 
 packed into rooms off the library. Many of the nurses them- 
 selves were gravely ill, with no one to wait on them. The 
 only trained nurses on day duty were Miss Cleland, Miss 
 Goss, and Miss Ellis — who already had their hands full 
 of administrative duties. Miss Ida Miller was on duty at 
 night. 
 
 Many families, debilitated and helpless, unable to gain 
 admission to hospitals, tried to care for each other. Doctors 
 
 122 
 
were unable to make any calls at all except on the critical 
 or dying. 
 
 Training school classes at the hospital were abandoned 
 temporarily. Each student-nurse, in her own way, was be- 
 coming a heroine in this test of her knowledge, character, 
 and stamina. Girls too tired to take another step took an- 
 other step. Girls too ill to care what happened, cared for a 
 classmate in the next ward bed. And all over the hospital, 
 people — sick or well — shivered. Room temperatures were 
 kept low even when the thermometer was dropping outside. 
 Only the critically ill patients had their chests protected with 
 pneumonia jackets made of quilted gauze and taped into 
 place. It was noted that most of the seriously ill patients 
 were young people, strong people. The disease seemed to 
 strike hardest at big, strapping men and women in their 
 youth or in their prime. 
 
 During this time Miss Cleland's ideal of protecting the 
 patient at any cost almost cost her her life. 
 
 White and shaken one morning, she conferred with Dr. 
 Barnes in her office. Invariably erect and never making un- 
 necessary gestures, she was now still as a statue. Only her 
 voice trembled. She said, "Something will have to be done. 
 Room will have to be made for more patients." 
 
 He said, "Beds have been delivered for the Millikin 
 wing." 
 
 She said, "The Millikin wing has no walls or roof." 
 
 Both of them knew these things — and they also knew 
 that snow flurries were flying outside. Neither of them was 
 in the habit of groping or stalling, yet they were saying these 
 unnecessary things, and it was symptomatic that they 
 
 123 
 
couldn't think beyond what they already knew. 
 
 "What about ripping the pews out of some church around 
 here — or the seats out of some school?" He offered it with- 
 out conviction. 
 
 She said, "I've already investigated; they won't let us do 
 it." 
 
 These were fighting words to Dr. Barnes; he roused. 
 "Won't let us," he echoed. "What d' y' mean? I'll phone 
 Father Murphy and tell him to turn over the Catholic church 
 to us!" 
 
 "Now you are talking nonsense," Miss Cleland told him. 
 "There is no time for nonsense." 
 
 "Dammit — Father Murphy is a good friend of mine," he 
 countered. "What are friends for?" But he sat still. "Do 
 you know what he said to me when we had open house for 
 this hospital? He said — " 'You built it; we'll get it' — I'll be 
 damned if I know what he was talking about — " He glanced 
 toward snow fretting at the window, and faced Miss Cleland 
 again. " — What do you make out of that remark of Father 
 Murphy's?" 
 
 She said tiredly, "We are wasting time, Dr. Barnes." She 
 stood up. 
 
 He said, suddenly full of life, "Sit down! I've got an 
 idea!" He reached for the phone and she sat down again. 
 
 "Whom are you calling?" 
 
 "Mrs. Carl Dick," he answered. "She's a good guy. . ." 
 When the connection was made, he said into the instrument, 
 "This is Doc Barnes. Get about a dozen of your friends 
 together and go over to the Millikin home; corner of Pine 
 and Main. Start cleaning it up; we need it for a contagion 
 
 124 
 
hospital — 
 
 " — I don't care if it is; it's not going to be any damn art 
 institute this year! 
 
 " — If your friends are all sick, get some new friends! 
 Clyde's wife will help — call Elsa — 
 
 " — I don't care what it looks like now — pitch in — scrub 
 the floors and woodwork, eh? 
 
 " — No, I'm not asking you! — I'm telling you! 
 
 — "All right, good. We'll send over a bunch of beds as 
 soon as it's ready. 
 
 " — that's the ticket! — Women are pretty good scouts . . . 
 in emergencies." He blew her a kiss she couldn't see. 
 
 He had just turned away from the telephone when another 
 crisis faced them. Miss Bulloch, over in Miss Ellis's office, 
 said, "My only two helpers are sick this morning; I don't see 
 how I can manage the kitchen alone." This was relayed to 
 Miss Cleland and Dr. Barnes, who joined them. 
 
 For a moment they only looked at each other. Then Dr. 
 Barnes grabbed another telephone and told the switchboard 
 operator to call his house. "Charlotte," he said when the 
 connection was made, "You and Annie put on your aprons 
 and come out here to the hospital — 
 
 " — We need a cook and dishwasher. 
 
 " — No, now. There are eighty people to feed." 
 
 When he hung up, he was pompous. "Women are useful 
 now and then," he conceded to the women watching him. 
 
 Miss Cleland asked uncertainly, "Do your wife and sister- 
 in-law know how to cook?" 
 
 He winked at her. "We'll soon find out!" 
 
 Within an hour Mrs. Albert Barnes and Mrs. William 
 
 125 
 
Barnes were cleaning vegetables and stirring soup in the 
 hospital kitchen; they continued to work sixteen hours a 
 day for three days; Miss Ellis helped them when she could. 
 
 The Millikin residence, having stood vacant for four 
 years, was now clean and shining, ready for hospital service 
 under Red Cross direction. When the last bed that any room 
 could hold was set up and made up, the women who had 
 done the work, stood by with blistered hands and broken 
 fingernails, satisfied that they had done a good job, sorely 
 needed. But they also knew that the bigger job was still 
 ahead — and it would be grim. A morgue was set up in the 
 basement. Mrs. C. H. Teaman who had recently come to 
 Decatur as a bride, was a registered nurse, ready to help. 
 Miss Daisy McMurphy, a private-duty nurse, was put in 
 general charge. 
 
 Miss Eugenia Allin and Miss Maria Buckingham, Dr. 
 Lynn Barnes' sister-in-law, were helping as volunteer work- 
 ers the night the emergency hospital was opened, and the 
 first three patients admitted were delirious — their delirium 
 making them violently opposed to staying in bed. Miss Allin 
 took a blow from a brawny coal miner which nearly knocked 
 her out. Mrs. Lowell Gill and her sister Elizabeth, and her 
 mother, Mrs. James Miller, came as a valiant trio day after 
 day — but there were never enough volunteers to do all that 
 needed doing. Most people were either ill themselves or 
 afraid of being exposed to the disease. Mr. A. H. Cope trans- 
 ported volunteers to and from their homes. Often these 
 
 126 
 
workers were barely given time for a bite to eat and a cat- 
 nap at home before being called back; sometimes they were 
 on duty for more than twenty-four hours at a stretch. Miss 
 Cleta Andrews, registered nurse, arrived every morning at 
 six, and stayed until ten at night. Louella King faithfully 
 served the rest of the night. 
 
 The work was not only hard, but it sorely taxed the sensi- 
 bilities of gentle people. Many patients arrived unwashed 
 and infected with vermin — their clothes had to be burned 
 immediately and they themselves put into the tub and 
 scrubbed before they could be put to bed. There was an 
 understanding with the Red Cross that they would be re- 
 outfitted later, if they survived. 
 
 In the midst of this grilling, heroic labor, someone 
 brought news that the Kaiser had abdicated, that an armistice 
 had been signed, that air mail service had been inaugurated 
 between Washington and New York as an experiment, and 
 that the eighteenth amendment had been ratified. . . 
 
 But all this was dreamlike news to the volunteer workers 
 who were still giving their time, thought, and strength to 
 flu patients. They kept on doggedly working, day and 
 night; they were glad that soldiers would be coming back 
 and that the armistice would bring peace after a world war 
 — but with most of their minds and hearts they kept on 
 fighting this battle at home. 
 
 In the hospital at the end of Edward Street, a similar battle 
 was continuing. Doctors, faithfully making their rounds, 
 recommended relief for nurses, yet took no vacations them- 
 selves. At one time Miss Ellis was bundled off for a brief 
 respite but was called back almost immediately. The message 
 
 127 
 
from Miss Cleland said, "Saylor has expired; we need you." 
 
 . . . Made? Made dead? Miss Ellis couldn't credit it at 
 first — Macie who was big and strong and capable, who had 
 labored unselfishly all this past winter — how could she be 
 gone ? 
 
 The first person she saw after returning to the hospital 
 was Cora Scott, Macie's closest friend. 
 
 Cora had tears in her eyes. "We've been watching people 
 die all winter — so many people — but Macie was my friend — 
 she didn't even live to graduate with us." Miss Ellis put 
 warm, shielding arms around the girl, holding her close and 
 trying to offer comfort. 
 
 It was a week later that Miss Ellis warned Miss Cleland 
 about Cora Scott herself. "She's utterly exhausted, and 
 feverish; I'm worried about her." 
 
 Miss Cleland frowned. "Maybe she's grieving for Say- 
 lor?" she suggested. "I don't see how we can do without 
 her. Perhaps after Sunday — her day off — she will feel 
 rested." 
 
 "This is Friday, Miss Cleland. Could we give her Satur- 
 day off instead of Sunday? Then she could go to bed to- 
 night and stay in bed all day tomorrow." 
 
 "Very well. 207 has just been vacated; she can go in 
 there. Ask Dr. Teaman to examine her before he leaves the 
 hospital." 
 
 When Cora was told about it she laughed. "Why if I 
 go to bed to sleep, you'll never get me up again!" 
 
 But Dr. Teaman ordered it, and right after supper she 
 went into Room 207, closing the door behind her. Trembling 
 with fatigue and chill, she looked out into the bleak wintry 
 
 128 
 
night. Light rays from the entrance lamps fell across new 
 snow. . . The epidemic was waning a little now. . . There 
 were fewer casualties. She pressed her cold hands against 
 her hot cheeks. 
 
 Tired. . . 
 
 . . . Macie, she whispered, were you — as tired — as this? 
 
 Slowly she unfastened her uniform, slipped out of it, 
 straightened it onto a hanger, and hung it in the closet. And 
 very soon she was in bed, lying between clean sheets which 
 she had put on this bed this morning. She sighed a great 
 shivering sigh and almost instantly fell asleep. 
 
 The next morning Dr. Teaman reported to Miss Cleland. 
 "Miss Scott's fever is down." 
 
 "A good sign?" she asked, watching his face. 
 
 "No, it's a bad sign," he said. 
 
 She nodded ever so slightly and hurried up to 207. Cora 
 was sleeping just as she'd fallen asleep last night. Gravely 
 Miss Cleland counted her pulse. . . She's so young and 
 strong, she thought. . . And sweet and good. 
 
 Miss Cleland stayed in the room with her all night Friday 
 night. And Saturday night. And Sunday night. And Monday 
 night. 
 
 Tuesday morning Cora Scott died. Dr. Teaman was there 
 with Miss Cleland, and so was Miss Ellis. The sun was 
 shining, and white snow-light was strong in the room. 
 
 A little later Neva Bridgman and Lucile Rammel, her 
 classmates, came in to clear the room, just as they had cleared 
 so many rooms. But for a moment they clung to each other, 
 and they cried. In the pocket of Cora's uniform they found 
 a folded piece of paper with this quotation copied on it: "I 
 
 129 
 
expect to pass through this world but once; any good thing 
 therefore that I can do, or any kindness that I can show to 
 any fellow-creature, let me do it now; let me not defer or 
 neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again." 
 
 130 
 
transitions 
 
 Jdy the middle of March 1919, the new Millikin wing was 
 practically completed, with a few nurses living in the south 
 rooms and a few patients installed in the first beds. Rates 
 were established at $1.50 per day in the ward rooms and 
 $3.00 per day for the corner private rooms. 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman made a farewell visit to the hospital before 
 going to Chapin, Illinois where she was to visit a daughter, 
 Mrs. A. B. Callaway. She and Miss Cleland stood in the 
 new east-west corridor of Millikin, admiring the battleship- 
 linoleum floors and other details of the modern structure and 
 congratulating each other that if another epidemic ever 
 came, the hospital could care for it. 
 
 "Forty-three more beds will be ready next month; it won't 
 be long before we can offer the community hospitalization 
 for a hundred and fifty." Miss Cleland said it proudly but 
 she turned to the woman known as "mother of the hospital" 
 and admitted that running a hospital was easier than build- 
 ing one. 
 
 "Not easier," countered Mrs. Hagaman, "just different; 
 it takes different kinds of caring." 
 
 131 
 
"Caring?" 
 
 "Nothing is any good unless one cares a lot; otherwise 
 it's just a job." 
 
 Miss Cleland nodded. Then a peculiar expression came 
 over her face and she invited Mrs. Hagaman into a room 
 facing north, where they both sat down. Mrs. Hagaman 
 sighed faintly and hooked her cane over the foot of the 
 bed. 
 
 Miss Cleland looked white and strained, but her back 
 was ramrod-straight as she made a strange confession. "I 
 haven't cared enough about nurses' accreditation," she said. 
 
 "What is that?" asked Mrs. Hagaman. 
 
 Miss Cleland said, "I wish I knew. It's something to do 
 with the training school. I don't like details. All those 
 records — it seems nonsense. Yet here it is the beginning of 
 spring, and the first class of nurses can't graduate yet." 
 
 "Is it time?" 
 
 "Past time; they were ready to graduate in January." 
 
 "But I don't understand — " 
 
 "Oh, they know enough. But Ethel Goss and I came 
 from Boston and I'm afraid we looked down our noses at 
 Springfield, Illinois. It seems that if our school of nursing 
 isn't accredited by the state board of nursing examiners, our 
 graduates won't be able to write state board examinations 
 or be eligible to practice in Grade A hospitals in Illinois 
 or, by reciprocity, in other states." 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman was still confused. "Isn't this hospital 
 Grade A?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, of course it is. But it seems that there are out- 
 side rules governing us; I have been concerned only with 
 
 132 
 
training good nurses and running a good hospital; I have 
 now been informed that this is not enough." She adjusted 
 her eye glasses and her face grew pink. 
 
 "But how could you do any more than you have done?" 
 Mrs. Hagaman defended her. "The influenza epidemic is 
 hardly over!" 
 
 Miss Cleland walked to the window, staring out at the 
 excavation for the nurses' home. She said, "I have demoted 
 Ethel Goss to instructor. Nonie Ellis is now superintendent 
 of nurses." 
 
 "But why? I thought Miss Goss was doing wonderful 
 work with the nurses!" 
 
 "She has; she is; she can do anything." 
 
 "Then I don't understand." 
 
 Miss Cleland turned and said in measured New England 
 accents, "Massachusetts General is not important to Illinois. 
 Therefore," she went on with spirit, "I have changed my 
 tactics. Instead of efficiency I am bowing to the rules of 
 Illinois." 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman, in the midst of this revealing conversa- 
 tion, couldn't help smiling; she couldn't imagine Miss Cle- 
 land bowing to anyone or anything. Aloud she asked, "Have 
 you talked this over with Dr. Barnes?" 
 
 "No," answered Miss Cleland, "he would agree with me, 
 so it wouldn't be any use." 
 
 This, too, surprised Mrs. Hagaman. She watched Miss 
 Cleland come back to sit on a straight chair, facing her. She 
 explained tersely, "I have been stationing student nurses 
 according to their abilities, at posts where they could help 
 most. Miss Goss has worked out all curricula for the train- 
 
 133 
 
ing school and done most of the teaching. During the 
 epidemic I kept Miss Ellis away from the contagion areas 
 and put her in charge of obstetrics and surgery. That was 
 efficient — that was good." She paused, locking her hands in 
 her lap. "But now," she continued, "it seems that a lot of 
 statistics should have been recorded and a lot of blanks filled 
 out; it seems that my student nurses should have taken their 
 turns in all departments of the hospital instead of where 
 they could serve best." 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman said, "Oh. And is the delay in graduation 
 due to that?" 
 
 "Partly. Miss Ellis is now telling the nurses where to go 
 instead of my doing it. She is also compiling pages of 
 figures." 
 
 "How can she find time for all that?" 
 
 "Ina Finnell in the office is helping her." 
 
 "Does Miss Goss mind being demoted?" asked Mrs. 
 Hagaman. 
 
 For the first time, Miss Cleland relaxed and smiled faintly. 
 "No, she seems happy as a lark; she just dumped all the 
 work she had been doing into Miss Ellis's lap and went 
 merrily back to teaching." 
 
 "Why is it necessary for Miss Ellis to have the title 'super- 
 intendent of nurses' ?" 
 
 Miss Cleland looked sly. "She and Anna Tittman are 
 old friends; they both come from Wesley Memorial." 
 
 "Who is Anna Tittman?" 
 
 "She is an employee of the state of Illinois in the office 
 of the state board of nursing examiners." 
 
 "Oh." 
 
 134 
 
On April 1, 1919, Miss Cleland was officially notified 
 that the Decatur and Macon County Hospital School of 
 Nursing was accredited. 
 
 On April 2, graduating exercises were held at James 
 Millikin University. 
 
 On April 3, the nurses went to Chicago to take examina- 
 tions for the state board. 
 
 Members of the first graduating class were Bessie G. 
 Bartley, Neva Bridgman, Nellie Callaway, Helen Blank, 
 Leonora Cloney, Edith Gruenewald, Florence Burgess, Mar- 
 garet Lynch, Anna Lucile Rammel, Rose Safar, Dollie Webb, 
 and Clarabelle Stoy. Added to these twelve were listed two 
 other names: Macie Fern Saylor and Cora Agnes Scott, 
 deceased. 
 
 The graduation address was given by Mr. Francis W. 
 Shepardson, director of registration and education for the 
 state of Illinois. Music was furnished by Miss Helen Cantrall 
 at the piano and by a male quartet made up of Harold Lucas, 
 Jack Rubottom, Preston McClelland, and Clarence Deakins. 
 Presentation of the diplomas was made by Dr. William 
 Barnes. 
 
 And so the scene was gradually shifting from sheer sur- 
 vival to establishing new bases for the future. 
 
 In May, Dr. C. M. Jack, H. R. Woodcock and T. W. 
 Samuels appeared before the board of directors as a com- 
 mittee from the Macon County Tuberculosis and Visiting 
 Nurses' Association, stating that the board of supervisors 
 
 135 
 
had voted to put up a tuberculosis sanatorium and suggesting 
 the possibility of building it on the Decatur and Macon 
 County Hospital grounds. This idea was well received by 
 the board and Dr. Barnes appointed three members as a 
 committee to find a suitable spot. 
 
 In October Dr. Parrish reminded the board that the 
 hospital had not been paying the student nurses any- 
 thing, but had furnished them with board and room, 
 uniforms and books, as well as instruction and training. 
 He then said that the hospital might secure more stu- 
 dents if a wage were paid, and he recommended $6 per 
 month during the first year of training, $8 during the 
 second year, and $10 during the third year. Under this 
 plan no more books would be furnished, nor any uniforms 
 after the first year. Such a motion was made, seconded, and 
 carried. 
 
 1919 also clearly marked the end of early hospital history. 
 
 On the Sunday following Thanksgiving day, Dr. Barnes 
 went to the hospital in mid-morning and found Miss Cleland 
 at the partially built nurses' home. She was wearing a top 
 coat over her uniform, shivering in the cold, and looking 
 strangely vulnerable. 
 
 He gave her the news without preamble: "Mrs. Hagaman 
 died at 7:30. Cerebral hemorrhage." 
 
 She stiffened and looked up with shock in her eyes, not 
 answering. 
 
 There was silence between them for a full minute. Then 
 
 136 
 
he said, roughly, "Why didn't they bring her to the hos- 
 pital?" 
 
 "Maybe because of the cost," she suggested. 
 
 "What do you mean — cost?" 
 
 She explained: "Mrs. Hagaman hasn't been well since 
 June, but she was still paying on her old hospital bill." 
 
 "Damnation!" he exploded. "Now you listen to me, Cle- 
 land! This hospital has to be endowed. Endowed — do you 
 hear? It's the people who can't afford it who most need the 
 hospital — " 
 
 She listened passively, sadly. 
 
 "A dollar a day!" he declared. "We've got to fix it so any- 
 body — rich or poor — can come to this hospital for a dollar 
 a day — " 
 
 "What if they should stay a year?" she finally asked. 
 
 "Then we'd bill 'em $365— that adds, doesn't it?" 
 
 Decatur now was poised for sudden growth. There was 
 talk of building hard roads connecting it with surrounding 
 towns — and a proposition had been made for damming up 
 the Sangamon River to make a lake. 
 
 Newspapers told of the first radio broadcasting station 
 KDKA, and a New York editorial declared: "Things are 
 getting out of hand; progress is all right, but as new inven- 
 tions multiply, the people of this country take license. The 
 American woman has lifted her skirts far beyond any modest 
 limitation — now nine inches above the ground, clearly 
 exhibiting the ankles." 
 
 137 
 
At Decatur and Macon County Hospital, the nurses' home 
 was formally opened May 20, 1920, and christened the 
 William C. Johns Home for Nurses — a spacious building 
 where nurses in training could at last feel themselves in a 
 changed environment — away from patients' areas — while 
 they played and slept and attended classes. It was still an- 
 other dream come true, made possible by the generous be- 
 quest of William C. Johns; one proof of its value came soon 
 afterward when it was the scene of an evening wedding. 
 
 Clarabelle Stoy from the first class of nurses was married 
 there to a doctor's son, Stanley Grimes. Romantic excite- 
 ment ran high; many of the nurses had new party dresses 
 for the occasion; floral decorations came from the hospital 
 gardens; Harry Haines, the tennis player, was best man. In 
 the midst of the festivities someone remembered that 
 Stanley's sister, Frances, was the New York sculptress who 
 had created the bronze bas relief of Dr. Barnes, which they 
 knew so well. 
 
 There was only one hitch, at the last moment: no rice 
 could be found on the hospital campus, and butter-beans 
 had to be substituted; happily the bride and groom didn't 
 seem to know the difference. 
 
 Transitions were also marked in hospital personnel. Miss 
 Riggs had left the office. Miss Ellis had left her post as 
 superintendent of nurses to go to Wesley Memorial Hospital 
 in Chicago. 
 
 One day in June Mrs. Iva Shannon, petite, with big brown 
 
 138 
 
eyes, lately from Kentucky, heard something that interested 
 her. She was visiting in Maroa when Dr. McLean mentioned 
 that the switchboard operator at Decatur and Macon County 
 Hospital would be away for a two week's vacation and the 
 hospital needed a replacement. 
 
 "For two weeks. . . ?" she asked, smiling tentatively. 
 "Could I — do you think — ?" 
 
 "Yes. Why don't you apply for the job, anyway? It would 
 be a new experience; you might like it." 
 
 It was a two-weeks that stretched into thirty-six years, 
 and it is interesting to note that her first month's salary in 
 1920 was less than her monthly retirement check, beginning 
 in 1956. Iva, later known affectionately as "Shannon" to 
 everybody, began watching the historical scene as it unfolded 
 before her eyes, day by day, person by person, change by 
 change. Alert and deeply caring about all of it — guarding 
 the hospital's good reputation but never jealous of those 
 who ruled above her, she became one of Decatur and Macon 
 County Hospital's greatest assets. She had learned early in 
 life to take herself for granted and to go on from there. And 
 so, in her work for the hospital, she left herself behind, so 
 to speak — attending to the troubles, joys, and problems of 
 others — hundreds, thousands of others — patients, doctors, 
 nurses, and fellow- workers — meanwhile and invariably 
 doing her work to the very best of her ability. She knew 
 how to chuckle over ridiculous situations, how to relieve 
 anxieties, how to ease broken hearts, how to rail against in- 
 justices, how to come up smiling, no matter what. 
 
 139 
 
«1L> 
 
 percussions 
 
 As the 1920's exploded into fireworks of prohibition, stock 
 market run-aways and other excesses, so the hospital and its 
 rulers felt percussions that tested character to the core. 
 Should prices be raised or lowered? Should old debts be 
 paid or new loans be secured ? What about that pre-prohibi- 
 tion stuff stored in the pharmacy — where was the key? 
 Couldn't a secret marriage be managed despite the rule 
 against married nurses ? What was going on under the sur- 
 face of sub-organizations such as the medical staff and the 
 school of nursing ? Was everyone still dedicated to the work 
 of this hospital, exhibiting sterling character, or were there 
 a few being swayed by excesses of the times to rebel, to 
 weaken, or to go off on tangents? 
 
 After the covering cloak of years, it is interesting now to 
 fold back the recorded facts and find that Decatur and 
 Macon County Hospital essentially stood steady as a rock, 
 respecting the ill and injured entrusted to its care, and oper- 
 ating as a well-coordinated whole. The flaws of character 
 that did show up were human rather than premeditated or 
 vicious. When selfishness reared its head it was likely to be 
 squelched by the sound of sirens screaming their way to the 
 
 140 
 
emergency entrance. Then, in a flash, the hospital was whole 
 again, ready to gi\e its best. 
 
 Mrs. Shannon was surprised one morning to have Dr. 
 Barnes hand her three packages of cigarettes. "Not for you," 
 he enlightened her, "just want them opened." 
 
 She stared briefly at the red boxes and then at him, but 
 accustomed always to doing what she was told, her supple 
 fingers went to work and she asked no questions. Nor did 
 he answer the questions in her mind; he merely said, 
 "thanks" and put them into his pocket. As he did so, she 
 noticed with sudden solicitude that he couldn't grasp them 
 properly; he had trouble making his right hand work. . . Is 
 that why he does fewer operations? The little episode 
 bothered her all morning, but she told no one about it. Im- 
 mediately after lunch he came back with some more boxes 
 and handed them to her silently. 
 
 She opened them, too, and dropped them into his pocket 
 for him. 
 
 "Good girl," he said. "Tell anybody?" 
 
 "No," she said. 
 
 "Then you have a regular job. I'll pay you with empty 
 boxes — good for paper-clips, rubber-bands, and stuff." 
 
 "Fine," she smiled. 
 
 It was not long before the red boxes began appearing on 
 desks all over the hospital; there seemed to be an everlasting 
 supply. 
 
 Surgical nurses were in the habit of making green soap 
 
 141 
 
in the diet kitchen and one day while this was going on, 
 Shannon went in to make a big announcement: "Miss Cle- 
 land has an electric automobile!" 
 
 Miss Wheeler asked, "Does it work?" 
 
 Miss Connors commented, "It ought to take her away 
 from the hospital now and then, wouldn't you think?" 
 
 Shannon said, "It works all right. It's one of those new 
 closed models, too. I've been promised a ride in it!" And 
 she swung out of the room to tell her news to other audi- 
 ences. 
 
 It was some time later that she heard Mr. Ewing's story. 
 He had driven all the way to Arizona from Decatur — a rare 
 cross-country achievement. As he told her about one episode, 
 it went something like this: 
 
 When he approached a gas station near Tucson, he was 
 thinking of the pledge he'd made to Will Barnes' hospital. 
 — Bigger than he'd intended. But Will could make anyone 
 do anything. He even hired professional etymologists to 
 leave their own research projects to go out into the field for 
 him, collecting new specimens of butterflies. One of them 
 finally had to move his whole family to Decatur just because 
 Dr. Barnes insisted he needed him to help classify the bugs 
 — and it might take years — 
 
 He stopped the car and noticed that as the operator of 
 the gas station sauntered up, he was staring curiously, 
 scratching his head. "Illinois license. Hum." He spoke past 
 a dangling cigarette. "Ain't never seen but one other feller 
 from Illinois and he's crazy." He peered up at Mr. Ewing, 
 blinking against the sun. "D' y' know that feller stayed 
 
 142 
 
'round here a whole durn month, doin' nothin' but catchin' 
 butterflies — runnin' around with this here net — " He illus- 
 trated with a sweeping action of his right arm — "chasin' 
 bugs — can you beat it? — Thrashin' all over the county!" 
 
 By this time Mr. Ewing was smiling to himself. He said, 
 "That so? Well, I can tell you about a crazier man than 
 that. He also lives in Illinois. He's the guy who pays this 
 other guy to catch the butterflies." 
 
 Spiraling costs now began to worry Shannon. She read 
 the following complaint in an annual report: "Help re- 
 ceiving $4 per week now receive $7. Cloth for probationers' 
 uniforms which was 15$ per yard, now 75^. Nearly every- 
 thing else has gone up in the same way." 
 
 She wondered if that meant her own salary would rise 
 with the trend or if the hospital would soon go broke and 
 she'd be out of a job. She didn't understand finances any 
 too well; she only knew that Dr. Barnes was worried about 
 the hospital and that she herself was finding it hard to make 
 her salary pay expenses. 
 
 At one time Miss Jessie Gillette, Dr. Barnes' sister-in-law, 
 was a hospital patient. When she was ready to be dis- 
 charged, Dr. Barnes asked Shannon to let him see the bill. 
 He looked it over sourly and grumbled, "Couldn't you put 
 another $100 onto that? She hasn't anybody to leave her 
 money to except my wife." 
 
 It was the gardens back of the hospital that seemed to 
 comfort him during these days of money-worries. Shannon 
 
 143 
 
could tell what his thoughts were just by the line-of-march 
 he took. When he had secured new subscriptions and was 
 feeling good, he'd take a vigorous march all through the 
 hospital interiors, including the engine room, and come back 
 to give her a full report of what was right and what was 
 wrong. Then, like as not, he'd issue an invitation to take 
 everybody to the ball game. But on days when new sub- 
 scriptions had not been forthcoming, he'd go quietly out to 
 the back woodland, walking slowly, and making an inven- 
 tory of the flowers. 
 
 One day Miss Cleland stood in her usual starched per- 
 fection beside the switchboard and said to Shannon: "I have 
 three requests to make. Please listen carefully and then pass 
 the word on to others." Shannon nodded and smiled. Miss 
 Cleland, with her hands clasped in front of her said, "First, 
 I want you to act busy at all times whether you have any- 
 thing to do or not. Do you understand?" Shannon nodded 
 again. "Second, there is to be no more talk of cutting hair. 
 Any woman in the office or any nurse on the staff will be 
 dismissed if she cuts her hair." Shannon said nothing to 
 that, made no movement. "Third, when people call up and 
 ask about what is the matter with patients, you are to tell 
 them: 'I'm sorry; I cannot say.' " 
 
 "Yes, Miss Cleland." 
 
 Later, when she conveyed this information to the others, 
 someone remarked, "Charlotte Connors' hair is so long she 
 can sit on it." 
 
 144 
 
Shannon chuckled. "She'd better keep it on top of her 
 head instead of on the chair." 
 
 The nurses' yearbook a little later declared the class's 
 fondest wish: "To see Miss CI eland with bobbed hair, chew- 
 ing gum — and Dr. Barnes without a cigarette." 
 
 Thus the hospital, being people serving people, was 
 alternately shadowed by worry and fear — lighted with hope 
 or humor — but influenced always by signs of the times. 
 
 To those who deeply cared — and Shannon was one of 
 them — every sign brought a sensitive response. She asked 
 no questions but she knew that if she listened well, many 
 people would stop at the switchboard to tell her what was 
 going on. From that position, too, she learned much about 
 individual doctors and their patients because they all had 
 to come to the telephone beside her to put in their calls. 
 She wondered why Dr. Chenoweth always closed his eyes 
 while talking; she wondered why Dr. Clarence McClelland 
 held so tight to the instrument; she wondered why Dr. 
 Garber's voice clicked with business-like emphasis sometimes 
 and at other times became patient and long-suffering. 
 
 When minutes of the board meetings came in for typing, 
 she was the first to read them and she digested them well. 
 
 She knew when the board decided to advertise and go 
 after additional business, when it appointed Messrs. Mueller 
 and Irving to interest factory employes in the facilities of 
 the hospital, when Mr. H. C. Schaub prepared a pamphlet 
 giving reasons why the hospital should be supported by the 
 
 145 
 
community and an endowment fund created, and when the 
 decision was made to carry advertising in both newspapers 
 every Sunday. 
 
 1921 was an important year financially. The president 
 and secretary of the board of directors were authorized to 
 execute a deed to the Tubercular Hospital for the ground 
 sold to it, specifying that the ground so deeded was to re- 
 vert back to the Decatur and Macon County Hospital "when 
 the buildings erected thereon are not in use for a Tubercular 
 Sanitarium." 
 
 Standing committees were formed to study and make 
 recommendations for future action in many directions and 
 at Dr. Barnes' suggestion, a board of governors was ap- 
 pointed from among doctors of the city, naming Drs. M. P. 
 Parrish, C. E. McClelland, Otis O. Stanley, and R. L. Morris. 
 
 The campaign committee advised that they expected to 
 be able to raise the $100,000 which they had set out to do. 
 Two months later, Mr. Snerly, chairman, reported that 
 $99,298 was actually collected and that enough more was 
 pledged to make up the sum they had set out to raise. 
 
 At the same time Dr. Barnes reported negotiations with 
 the Smithsonian Institute regarding purchase of his butterfly 
 collection, and stated his desire to give at least $100,000 of 
 such an amount to the hospital. He named Mr. Snerly, Mr. 
 Lindsay, and Mr. Irving as a committee to represent the 
 hospital in the sale of the collection. 
 
 Shannon noted these items solemnly: committees, board 
 of governors, sale of the butterfly collection. Did all that 
 mean Dr. Barnes was loosening the reins of his control and 
 bringing out his last ace financially? 
 
 146 
 
What was the matter with him? Was he ill? 
 
 She devoutly hoped she was just being silly, just imagin- 
 ing things. . . 
 
 It would seem so when Dr. Barnes had his picnic dinner 
 served on the hospital grounds under the trees, in June of 
 1922. He invited the board of directors, the board of super- 
 visors, city and county officials, and miscellaneous guests. 
 
 After the picnic he stated future needs of the hospital 
 to them and called for expressions of how the work could 
 be improved. 
 
 Miss Swank, superintendent of nurses at the time, made 
 a plea for additional room to be built on the nurses' home 
 at once. The general sentiment of others who spoke was that 
 the addition to the home was imperative and that the hos- 
 pital should immediately begin to erect it, even though 
 money had to be borrowed. 
 
 Dr. Parrish moved that the president and secretary be 
 given authority to sign notes for the necessary money and 
 the executive committee be authorized with power to act. 
 This motion was seconded and carried. Then Mr. Brooks 
 estimated that the addition would cost approximately $43,- 
 000, plus furnishing at $174 per room. 
 
 Shannon read about it all with admiration and concluded 
 that Dr. Barnes had not lost his touch — that indeed he had 
 assembled all the "properties" before staging the picnic. 
 
 Shannon always thought of 1923 as a turning point. For 
 one thing, it was the year she broke her hip. And within 
 
 147 
 
the space of one summer month, Decatur celebrated the 
 completion of its man-made lake, the tuberculosis sanatorium 
 opened for service, and Miss Cleland resigned. 
 
 For a long time, Shannon stared at that piece of paper 
 dated July 11, 1923 and addressed to the board of directors: 
 
 "I wish to tender my resignation as superintendent of 
 the Decatur and Macon County Hospital to take effect 
 August first, nineteen hundred and twenty-three. 
 "I have enjoyed my seven years with you and wish to 
 take this opportunity to thank you all for your many 
 kindnesses to me. 
 
 Very sincerely yours, 
 
 R. Helen Cleland, R.N." 
 
 Her first thought was: She's part of this hospital; if 11 
 never be the same under another superintendent. 
 
 Her second thought was: Can't Dr. Barnes change her 
 mind? 
 
 It never entered her head that she herself would be re- 
 sponsible for detaining Miss Cleland awhile longer. She 
 only knew that her vacation would coincide with the last 
 of Miss Cleland's tenure — so that "goodbye" must come 
 very soon. 
 
 Remembering Mr. Ewing's cross-country automobile tour, 
 Shannon felt happy and adventuresome starting out in Mr. 
 and Mrs. Arnold Judy's touring car for a vacation in Ken- 
 tucky. Erna Pritchett was another passenger. There were 
 
 148 
 
no paved roads but their little party arrived safely and 
 thoroughly enjoyed the trip. 
 
 It was coming back that the accident happened in the 
 rain, at night. They encountered a washout near Seymour, 
 Indiana, where the car went into a ditch and turned over. 
 Shannon was the only one hurt, but she was hurt seriously, 
 her hip fractured. When the ambulance driver came, she 
 asked if he were taking her to Illinois. 
 
 "No," he answered, "to a hospital in Seymour." 
 
 "You can't!" she wailed. "I've just got away from one 
 hospital on my vacation; you can't take me to another." 
 Then she lost consciousness. 
 
 As it happened, she returned to her own hospital in a 
 baggage car. "Now we got you," the intern said, lifting her 
 in on a stretcher and gently setting the stretcher down on a 
 cot. She had a horrible cast on; sharp spasms of pain shot 
 through her body when she moved a muscle. Mrs. Judy and 
 Erna Pritchett stayed by her side. The train, after starting 
 to move, seemed possessed of the devil, a bad switchman, 
 and it jerked unmercifully all the way to Indianapolis. The 
 agony she felt was so great that her companions, anticipating 
 other jerks, lifted the cot and swung it free, to avoid the 
 shocks. 
 
 But it was different from Indianapolis, on. Easy chairs 
 were brought into the baggage car for her companions, and 
 the ride was smooth as velvet, even though the train had to 
 pick up milk cans at every stop. The fireman, the brakeman, 
 and the engineer all came back to see her from time to time, 
 inquiring how it was going. Shannon, with tears in her 
 eyes, said, "I'll be grateful to you all for the rest of my 
 
 149 
 
life." She didn't know then that the verdict was she would 
 never walk again. 
 
 At the Decatur station, Dawson and Wikoff, with Ina 
 Finnell were waiting, and when the ambulance reached the 
 hospital, Neva Bridgman was standing at the emergency 
 entrance. 
 
 These were her friends . . . these were her family. . . 
 
 She was safely in bed on second Millikin before she saw 
 Miss Cleland. But Miss Cleland turned out to be more 
 than an R.N., more than a superintendent. She promised 
 to stay in the hospital as its head until Shannon was able 
 to be up and about. 
 
 "Oh Miss Cleland, that isn't necessary. . ." 
 
 "Hush; you're one of my girls and I'm going to take care 
 of you." 
 
 "But you're resigning on account of your health," Shan- 
 non protested, "I don't want you to make such a sac- 
 rifice." 
 
 Miss Cleland smiled and a spark of humor touched her 
 eyes. "I want to see that you get the pretty dishes," she con- 
 fided. 
 
 At first Shannon didn't understand; then it dawned on her 
 that Miss Cleland was showing her favoritism. Different 
 china was provided for different floors, and second Millikin, 
 she knew, was treated a little like an orphan child. It tickled 
 them both when Miss Cleland ordered third Millikin china 
 down to second floor, for Shannon's use. 
 
 But the pain continued, and in spite of the pretty dishes, 
 Shannon suffered through days and nights of torture — week 
 after week. It was not customary at that time to turn a frac- 
 
 150 
 
ture-patient in bed. She lay there immovable, helpless, with- 
 out pulleys to reach for. 
 
 Dr. Barnes came to the bedside one day, trying to cheer 
 her up, but it was a particularly painful time and Shannon 
 couldn't respond to his sallies. 
 
 He frowned, studying her. "You know," he said finally, 
 "if I were in your place, I'd damn well do something!" 
 
 She was so surprised, she could only ask, "What?" 
 
 "I'd get the hell out of here. It's against nature to do 
 without exercise!" 
 
 She stared. . . Here was a famous surgeon — a man she 
 revered — inciting her to mutiny and saying the most out- 
 landish things! Hesitantly she told him, "I swing my arms." 
 Weakly, drearily, she raised them above her head, wincing. 
 
 "What hurts?" he demanded. 
 
 "All of me," she answered — "everywhere. Whenever I 
 move." It sounded like self-pity, and she turned her head 
 away from him, feeling ashamed. When he said nothing 
 more for what seemed a long time, she turned back to look 
 at him, expecting to be scolded. But his face was creased 
 up and he was standing there silently, like a wounded boy, 
 with tears running down the creases. . . 
 
 "Every day in every way I'm getting better and better — " 
 This saying of Coue's was all the rage at the time, and for 
 awhile Shannon thought it might work for her. 
 
 She tried it out religiously, saying it to herself silently, 
 wistfully, again and again, until it began to have a brassy 
 
 151 
 
sound. Then suddenly one day she threw it into discard, 
 thoroughly mad. 
 
 I'm not better. . . I'm not better . . . she moaned. It 
 seemed such a long, long time. . . 
 
 Miss Cleland came to her rescue by making a correct 
 diagnosis, and after that, things brightened. "You're lone- 
 some for the hospital," she said gently. 
 
 "Why — I'm in the hospital!" Shannon said, puzzled. 
 
 Miss Cleland stood at the bedside with her hands clasped 
 neatly in front of her, and she smiled. "You love this hos- 
 pital, don't you?" 
 
 Shannon looked at the four walls surrounding her. "Well, 
 I'm not sure — " she said honestly. 
 
 "I mean — you love the work it does and the people in 
 it. And you don't know as much as usual about what is 
 going on," she guessed. 
 
 "No—" 
 
 "The girls don't give you much news — ?" 
 
 "No — " She hesitated. "They aren't especially interested. 
 — Or maybe they think I'm sick. . ." 
 
 "I'll tell you, Child," said Miss Cleland, "How would 
 you like to read minutes of the last board meeting?" 
 
 "Oh yes—!" 
 
 "We've started a physio-therapy department downstairs; 
 did you know that?" 
 
 She shook her head, but her mind quickened with interest. 
 
 "You'll need it shortly," Miss Cleland told her. "And 
 have you heard that a new auxiliary of ladies is being formed 
 for volunteer service?" 
 
 "No — Oh, that's wonderful!" 
 
 152 
 
Miss CI eland moved on to her climax. "A man is going 
 to be the next superintendent — you're the first to be told 
 that; his name is Dr. Paul Wipperman. He's 6 feet 5 inches 
 tall, and strong and energetic. I think he will be good for 
 this hospital. He will be able to raise money, too." 
 
 Shannon didn't know what to say now. She wanted to 
 express sadness at Miss Cleland's leaving. She wanted to 
 know if Dr. Wipperman was nice. She wanted to know if 
 he was good looking, and when he would start his duties. 
 But habit was strong in her against asking questions, perti- 
 nent or impertinent. And while she was floundering in her 
 mind for some response, she hit upon the worst-possible 
 thing to say; perhaps because it had been in her mind for a 
 very long time, it popped out with suddenness. 
 
 "Miss Cleland — may I cut my hair?" 
 
 Instantly her friend and news-bulletin stiffened. 
 
 Shannon went on breathlessly. "I mean — while I'm not 
 in the office, or a nurse? — It would grow out again." But 
 now she was frightened, trying to make it sound reasonable. 
 "It would save so much time — " 
 
 Miss Cleland said coldly, "'Don't you have time?" 
 Abruptly she turned and walked down the corridor. 
 
 "Oh dear — " Shannon moaned, conscience-stricken. "Oh 
 dear — " . . . That's the trouble with women, she confessed 
 to herself . . . women are like you and me, Miss Cleland. . . 
 
 She spent a bad night, worrying over it. But early the 
 next day Miss Cleland came back, smiling at her as usual 
 and handing her a sheaf of top-secret data from the office. 
 
 Word must have got around soon after that that Shannon 
 was suffering from malnutrition of news, because every- 
 
 153 
 
body, including the doctors, began stopping by and chatting 
 with her as if she were still at the switchboard. There were 
 no phones on second Millikin, and it was the end of a long, 
 dry spell. 
 
 154 
 
shadows 
 
 It took Shannon a long time to learn to walk again — a 
 painful, suffering business — but she was determined to 
 make it, and did, despite all predictions to the contrary. 
 Finally the day of triumph came when she was back at her 
 beloved switchboard; now she could see things for herself 
 once more; now she could keep her ear to the ground and 
 divine many happenings before they happened. 
 
 Collections were becoming more difficult and there was 
 an unprecedented demand for free service. Dr. Barnes 
 fretted about it and told her that some heads needed 
 knocking together. 
 
 One day in the spring she decided his head and Herman 
 Schultz's head needed knocking together. Herman was the 
 hospital's gardener; sometimes the two men endeavored to 
 take the world apart out there in the woodland, and philoso- 
 phize it back together again. Both of them knew there 
 wasn't time for this, and usually they merely nodded at each 
 other, saying nothing; but when the boss was ready for it, 
 Herman was obliged to sit down in the arbor beside him 
 and talk things out. 
 
 Shannon knew that much, but she had never been privi- 
 
 155 
 
leged to listen in on their conversation until the day Mrs. 
 Barnes sent her out to look for the doctor. Both men saw 
 her arrive, but Dr. Barnes waved her away as if she were a 
 fly, and they went right on talking. 
 
 She sat down on the next bench, knowing she must wait 
 until she was invited to give her message. . . Don't mind me, 
 she thought amusedly, I'm just another wild flower. . . She 
 didn't object to waiting; it was a lovely day. Lazily she 
 looked out over the three little lakes — the greenhouse where 
 Herman grew flowers for patients' rooms or for transplant- 
 ing to the front borders — the vegetable garden — the neat 
 paths leading up to the t.b. san and forking out toward 
 Monroe Street. Flowers were coming up everywhere — starry 
 little colors dotted the grass at her feet. 
 
 At first she was hardly aware of what the men were 
 saying. Then it began to sound interesting and she listened 
 in. 
 
 "You know," Dr. Barnes was saying — "I've always been 
 on the side of the working man, but there's so few of him 
 left." 
 
 Herman agreed. 
 
 "Do you believe in God?" asked the doctor. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Who else makes flowers?" asked Herman. 
 
 . . . There they were on common ground. 
 
 "Do you go to church?" pursued Dr. Barnes. 
 
 "Yes, don't you?" 
 
 "No—" 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 156 
 
"Well, it's like this," Dr. Barnes confided. "When I was 
 ten years old, I won a certificate for perfect attendance at 
 Presbyterian Sunday School and figured that would do me 
 the rest of my life." 
 
 "It won't get you into heaven," said Herman. 
 
 "Won't it?" 
 
 "I dunno." 
 
 "If you get there first will you save me a place?" 
 
 "Sure will, Doc." 
 
 "Then you'd better go first." 
 
 "I'd hardly like to do that." 
 
 There was quite a long pause then and Shannon sat for- 
 ward, expecting her opportunity. 
 
 Dr. Barnes said just one more thing. "Better make it 
 soon." Nobody answered him. " — What the devil do you 
 want?" he asked Shannon, pretending he'd just seen her. 
 
 "Mrs. Barnes wants you to call her about going to the 
 country club." 
 
 "There's a place — " He turned back to Herman. "The 
 country club takes me in. . ." He got up off the bench and 
 aimed his Pall Mall into a clump of trilliums. 
 
 Herman carefully picked it out. 
 
 " — Must be slipping," acknowledged the doctor, shaking 
 his head. Then he asked Shannon crossly, "What are you 
 getting paid for?" She scurried on ahead of him, smiling 
 to herself. 
 
 Dr. Wipperman, the hospital's new superintendent, was 
 
 157 
 
busy figuring things out for himself and one day he told 
 Dr. Barnes, "The hospital ought to be accredited. Then we 
 could have interns." 
 
 "Right; look after it, will you?" He hesitated a moment 
 and then said grudgingly, "I'll bring it before the board." 
 
 "It will mean a lot of reorganizational work," warned Dr. 
 Wipperman. "We have a fine plant — the best equipment — 
 but we would need to prove everything about our service." 
 
 "Prove ahead!" 
 
 This conversation took place beside the switchboard, and 
 Shannon could tell that Dr. Barnes cared as little as Miss 
 Cleland had about rules and regulations made by outsiders 
 — although if that was what it took to make this hospital 
 one of the elite, he was perfectly willing to have Whip 
 handle it Actually, Drs. C. E. McClelland and M. P. Par- 
 rish, representing the board of directors, had already made 
 suggestions to the medical staff, and toward the end of 1924 
 they announced that a resolution had been adopted by the 
 staff recommending that the hospital adopt the minimum 
 standard formulated by the American College of Surgeons. 
 
 During this time one of the local newspapers ran a daily 
 feature entitled Life's Lighter Hours. In it, for several 
 summers, were glowing accounts of picnic-dances given by 
 the doctors for the nurses, aboard "Commodore Decatur". 
 This proud boat, cruising over Lake Decatur under a full 
 moon, left the hospital temporarily short-staffed, but there 
 was no evidence that any patient suffered. 
 
 158 
 
Shannon was happy to note that things were relatively 
 calm and peaceful now. The hospital had plenty of patients, 
 but not too many. The new women's service league was 
 busy earning money as well as contributing service, and a 
 contract was pending for sale of Dr. Barnes' butterfly col- 
 lection. Once in awhile she had an uneasy feeling that calm 
 is supposed to precede a storm, but that was silly of course. 
 It was not until 1926 and extending into 1929 that the 
 hospital became cramped for space again. Various proposals 
 were made for building a new wing, or a new story atop 
 the Millikin wing, but the old power plant was worn out 
 and in the spring of 1927 a new power plant had to be built 
 at a cost of $112,000. That made other construction out of 
 the question for the time being. 
 
 Dr. Barnes flattered Shannon occasionally by asking her 
 opinions, just as he asked Herman Schultz's opinions. One 
 day he stopped with that quizzical look in his eye, and 
 waited for her to plug several calls in and out. Then he 
 said, "They want to re-name this hospital; what do you 
 think?" 
 
 She answered cautiously, "What did you have in mind?" 
 "They want to name it Stephen Decatur Hospital." 
 She said, "Wasn't Stephen Decatur in the navy?" 
 "Yep." 
 
 "Then what did he have to do with this hospital?" 
 "Thanks. Thought you would agree with me." 
 Then there was the time when he asked her what she 
 thought of a contagion hospital. 
 
 "It would be nice, wouldn't it?" she said agreeably. "But 
 maybe it can wait until some of these other things. 
 
 159 
 
"No, it can't wait. It's got to be built while I'm here." 
 
 Shannon didn't know what to say then. She ventured an 
 opinion off the top of her head, just to divert him. "Maybe 
 this boom won't last; maybe patients will stop coming if 
 they find they can't afford it; maybe some of them will stay 
 at home." 
 
 Later she was to recall this off-hand statement when she 
 read the board meeting minutes for November 19, 1929. 
 Dr. Castlelaw was superintendent at that time and he re- 
 ported to the board that he had arranged "and it had been 
 approved by the executive committee, that the rooms open 
 to patients be reduced from 150 to 100 and thereby effect 
 a saving on account of the lack of demand for a greater 
 number of rooms and, further, for a dismissal of employees 
 in various departments which would save in operating ex- 
 pense some $1,100 per month." 
 
 Thus, suddenly, out of a clear sky, the need for money 
 to construct new buildings became a money-panic concerned 
 only with holding body and soul together. But this fact was 
 hard to accept all at once. Shannon reminded herself that 
 business charts never go up forever, nor down forever; they 
 always see-saw interestingly and if you can look ahead only 
 a little, you can usually know that good times will get worse 
 and bad times will get better. 
 
 The Association of Commerce, putting up a brave front, 
 sponsored a public banquet for the hospital, with Mr. Le- 
 Forgee as toastmaster and Dr. Frank Billings as principal 
 speaker. About six hundred attended the banquet and were 
 told by Dr. Billings that Decatur and Macon County Hos- 
 pital was the only Illinois hospital outside Chicago ac- 
 
 160 
 
credited by A.M.A. for medical education, teaching interns, 
 residence technicians, and nurses. 
 
 After the dinner a few close friends of Dr. Barnes 
 gathered at his house to chat with Dr. Billings and Dr. Cald- 
 well, also from Chicago and executive secretary of the 
 American Hospital Association. Late in the evening Dr. 
 Billings asked Dr. Barnes, "How's your health?" 
 
 "Heart's pretty bad; probably won't hold out much 
 longer." 
 
 "Why, look at me, Will! I'm six years older than you; 
 cheer up." Then the two doctors clasped hands, and Dr. Bil- 
 lings made a gentle, impulsive movement, bending over his 
 friend and pressing his lips on Dr. Barnes' forehead. It was 
 a tribute of love that touched the little group witnessing it. 
 
 When Shannon heard of it, she said, "I hope he's wrong 
 about his heart. . ." But she couldn't think of any other 
 time he'd ever been wrong, and it troubled her like a 
 shadow. 
 
 Another shadow hovered over Dr. Barnes. Not only was 
 he worried about the financial condition of the hospital, but 
 he was constantly worried about his sister, Mrs. George 
 Stanton, who had come into the hospital the year before 
 with hemiplegia — and who was still there, unable to com- 
 municate with anyone. "Mary" he called her. And when 
 Shannon protested his going out for garden walks on cold 
 days, he said simply, "Mary watches for me from her 
 window." 
 
 161 
 
One day he told her, "Mary understands what's going on; 
 it's just that she can't talk. She smiles; she wears a pink 
 bed jacket." 
 
 To Shannon this was pathetic; she offered to go in and 
 visit with Mrs. Stanton occasionally if he thought she'd like 
 it. 
 
 He nodded. "Do that." Then he added, "Just talk about 
 things — and me. She likes me." 
 
 Shannon blinked back tears; he saw them and seemed 
 grateful. "You know," he said, "I've tried everything. I 
 got some building blocks with the alphabet on them; I 
 thought maybe she could spell out the words she tries so hard 
 to say. But she doesn't play the game." 
 
 162 
 
«Hr> 
 
 confusion 
 
 Out of the shadows of 1929 rose three new faces destined 
 to play roles in the Decatur and Macon County History 
 story. One was the spectre of hunger following the stock 
 market crash, when things got so bad for the hospital that 
 the directors saw no way out. 
 
 One day early in 1930 Dr. Barnes was sitting idly at a 
 table in the doctors' room when Shannon went in with a 
 message for him. He looked up dully, all spirit drained 
 from his face. 
 
 She was alarmed. She said, "I hope you're feeling all 
 right. . ." 
 
 He said, "No." 
 
 "I'll find Dr. Teaman — " 
 
 He shook his head numbly. 
 
 Not quite understanding, she said, "Isn't there anything 
 I can do?" 
 
 "You might fetch half a million dollars," he said. It 
 wasn't a joke. 
 
 She didn't know what to say; she hesitated; then she 
 watched his arms go down on the table in utter dejection. 
 He said, "I'm afraid Father Murphy's prophecy is coming 
 
 163 
 
true. He told me once, 'You built it; we'll get it.' Well—" 
 
 Another face was that of a man who owned a great deal 
 of land because he had always been a good farmer, shrewd, 
 and thrifty. When he moved to Decatur he rented a room 
 in the Merchant Block, sparsely furnished but sufficient for 
 his needs, and since he had no family he was free to save 
 his pennies without argument. The gaslight in the room 
 served two purposes: to read market reports by, and to cook 
 hamburgers over; that saved the expense of a cookstove or 
 a restaurant. He apparently had no friends, but on cold 
 mornings he usually walked over to the Evans' Elevator 
 office and spent a few hours in the customers' room, watch- 
 ing reports; it was warm in there and he'd known Frank 
 Evans and son EB Evans for a long time — their mutual 
 respect having begun down at Radford where there was an 
 Evans elevator. 
 
 In those days, when he had money to "deposit" he'd bring 
 a canful of $20,000 or $30,000 into the elevator at Radford 
 and plunk it onto the counter. They were used to it, but 
 they always said, "Wait — we'll count it." 
 
 But he never waited; he just went on his way. Some 
 other time he was just as likely to "borrow" more than he'd 
 deposited, and he knew he'd get it — enough, perhaps, to 
 buy another farm. "Don't trust banks," he explained. 
 
 On one nippy morning in February 1930, EB smiled at 
 him and asked how he was getting along. 
 
 "Right." 
 
 "Opened a bank account yet, as I told you to?" 
 
 "Nope." 
 
 164 
 
"You owe us a canful now, you know." 
 
 "Yep." 
 
 "Don't you even keep books?" 
 
 "Nope." 
 
 "Don't you know we could cheat you out of thousands?" 
 
 The man smiled then, his mustache twitching. He had 
 gray hair, was newly shaved, diffident. Without bothering 
 to answer, he held onto the half-smile, looking full at EB, 
 and their understanding was perfect. 
 
 At that point Frank Walker of the Connecticut Mutual 
 Life Insurance Company came in. 
 
 EB said, "Mr. Walker, this is Mr. Dorr." Then, mis- 
 chievously, "Frank — Oscar doesn't believe in banks or taxes; 
 what should we do with him?" 
 
 Frank chuckled and sat down to get acquainted. . . 
 
 And then there was the day when Shannon was called 
 to help with an admission sheet. Few patients were coming 
 in nowadays and she had never seen this man before, but 
 she smiled reassuringly and wrote his name clearly: Jacob 
 Latham, attorney. 
 
 He was a rather small man, looking pinched with illness. 
 When Shannon asked about his relatives he said, "None". 
 She felt sorry for him coming in here all alone without any- 
 one to be anxious over him. But she never let on; she com- 
 pleted the form and helped him find the way to his room. 
 
 Thus it was that individuals and circumstances were 
 
 165 
 
shifting in the kaleidoscope of hospital history. Shannon 
 came across a quotation from Louis Pasteur: "In the field 
 of observation, chance only favors that mind which is pre- 
 pared." But she made no connection between those words 
 and something that Alexander Fleming was doing in 1929. 
 He discovered that the presence of a mold called penicillin 
 on a dish prevented the growth of bacteria in a culture he 
 had placed there. After countless experiments he turned to 
 the medical profession and said, "Gentlemen, I have a drug 
 made from a mold that will be useful in the cure of in- 
 fectious disease." No one took him seriously, however, and 
 nothing came of it for over ten years. 
 
 After a board of directors meeting at the Decatur Club 
 on April 15th, 1930, President Barnes returned to the hos- 
 pital and sought out Herman Schultz whom he found over 
 by the lake nearest the nurses' home. It was a warm day, 
 and a conversation started. 
 
 "How many varieties now?" asked the doctor, panting 
 a little. 
 
 "Two hundred sixty-two flowers, ninety-three shrubs." 
 
 Dr. Barnes' eyebrows went up. "Where'd you get those 
 last three?" 
 
 "Leroy Hunter," Herman answered. "He has flora on 
 that hill east of Lakewood he claims hasn't grown elsewhere 
 since the land was cultivated." 
 
 "Where's Lakewood?" 
 
 "Near the lost village of Williamsburg — used to be a 
 stopping place for the Shelbyville-Vandalia stage line." 
 
 166 
 
"How can you locate a place by lost places?" 
 
 Herman ignored that; he said, "He wants to see your 
 butterflies; says he has two he bets you don't know live 
 around here." 
 
 "Let's sit down," suggested the doctor. They started 
 walking toward the pavilion. "Dammit, Herman, I thought 
 it was a total of three hundred and fifty- two — " Then with- 
 out waiting for an answer, he interrupted himself again. 
 " — Like your job here?" 
 
 "Sure — sure — " 
 
 "Know who pays you?" 
 
 "Well—" 
 
 "I pay you." 
 
 "I didn't know that." 
 
 "No matter; just for the record; keep it in storage." 
 
 "Sure." 
 
 "What do you think," asked the doctor, "of that rock 
 garden put in for us by the experts?" 
 
 "Do you really want to know?" asked Herman. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I don't like it." 
 
 "Neither do I." Once again the doctor jumped to an 
 irrelevant subject. "There was only one absent." 
 
 "Huh?" 
 
 "Board member. He'd have been at the meeting, too; if 
 he'd been in town." His voice sounded proud, but weak. 
 
 Herman made no answer as they walked on together. 
 When they reached one of the stone benches, Dr Barnes said, 
 "May is the prettiest time of year; in a month from now — " 
 He took a long breath. 
 
 167 
 
It was a fortnight later that he died in his home, at the 
 age of sixty-nine. 
 
 Shannon heard the news before anyone else in the hos- 
 pital — and before she told anyone else she limped down 
 to the woodland, seeking Herman. The waterfall in the 
 garden continued its soft chatter, as if nothing had hap- 
 pened. . . 
 
 She was crying a little, and Herman guessed. "The boss?" 
 She nodded. Herman looked down at the good earth, say- 
 ing nothing. His feet were wet from the dew, she noticed; 
 bits of grass clung to his shoes. 
 
 All around them were flowers. . . Shannon looked up, 
 saw the day's loveliness, heard the birdsong, and wondered 
 how to help Herman — how to help everyone around here. . . 
 "I must hurry back," she said, turning to go. 
 
 He looked at her then, and asked, "Think he sees us 
 here?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," Shannon answered without hesitation. "He'll 
 always see whatever's going on around this hospital — " 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "I know," she said with conviction. Then she went limp- 
 ing back to the main building. 
 
 It was the end of a mighty reign, and the newspapers 
 were full of it, reporting comment from many parts of the 
 world . . . testimonials from physicians and surgeons, 
 lawyers, politicians, etymologists, and common men, who 
 had known Dr. Barnes personally or who had heard of his 
 
 168 
 
collection of lepidoptera. 
 
 Mr. LeForgee, his friend from boyhood, spoke of him as 
 "a man of tremendous force, superb ability, integrity, and 
 a genius with uncanny skill in surgery — a scientist who felt 
 his butterflies were not a fad but a distinct contribution to 
 the world — a great reader of all kinds of books but with a 
 weakness for western stories, sometimes asking about a new 
 one: 'how many killed on the first page this time?' ' 
 
 Dr. Clyde Teaman, associated with him for fourteen 
 years, said, "The community has lost a great and beloved 
 man — his kindnesses, his charities, his great desire to help 
 his fellow men — his intense interest in civic affairs and the 
 hospital — a master surgeon with excellent judgment, skillful 
 hands, keen in diagnosis, with quick perception, gentleness, 
 and true sympathy. He performed many operations without 
 fee, provided crippled children with braces ... he had a 
 faculty of knowing everything that went on in the hos- 
 pital. . ." 
 
 Rev. Jeremiah Murphy of St. Patrick's Catholic Church 
 said, "He was a good old scout" — a forthright tribute that 
 Dr. Barnes would have appreciated. "I had known him 
 almost ever since I came to Decatur 32 years ago. I re- 
 member a letter I had from him after the newspaper pub- 
 lished a story about my 74th birthday. It began, 'Holy 
 Smoke! Are you 74 years old and getting around as fast 
 as you do?' " 
 
 An item from Dr. Mc Dunnough representing the Ento- 
 mological Branch of the Department of Agriculture, On- 
 tario, Canada, said "For the last 20 years his collection of 
 lepidoptera has ranked as the most complete collection of 
 
 169 
 
North American butterflies and moths in existence . . . 
 hundreds of species new to science have been discovered 
 and described ... he and his curators have visited constantly 
 in museums of America and Europe, and material in col- 
 lections have been published in 5 volumes, copiously illus- 
 trated." 
 
 A local editorial said, "During the world war, he was 
 active in the service of his country and chairman of the 
 medical advisory board of District No. 14, as well as chair- 
 man and inspector of the American Protective League. At 
 the time of his death the Decatur and Macon County Hos- 
 pital gardeners were busy carrying out his last orders for 
 changes in the sunken gardens northwest of the nurses' 
 home, changes in the rock garden, and the setting out of 
 shrubs on the hospital lawn. Everything was a mass of 
 colorful bloom Thursday. Gardens extending along the 
 entire length of the hospital grounds on the north side are 
 laid out in beds that have the aspect of natural flower dis- 
 plays and the most skillful landscaping." 
 
 Another editorial was entitled "Great Heart": 
 "Tributes to Dr. Will Barnes are coming from all kinds 
 of people. Everybody knew that here was a man that long 
 since had ceased to care about himself. No ambition for 
 wealth or fame moved him. He was utterly selfless. The 
 body that he had so recklessly driven housed a spirit aflame. 
 His great and only passion was human welfare. 
 
 "People thought they knew Dr. Barnes. Did they? Men 
 like him are rare. Sometimes he banteringly suggested that 
 his friends probably thought him a damned fool. 'You 
 
 170 
 
fellows can't understand my fussing around with butter- 
 flies,' he used to say. Nor did they. To nine-tenths of the 
 men that waved to him on the street, or met him in his 
 club, the scientist was simply incomprehensible. He had 
 companions in his play, and in his hospital enterprises he 
 had followers and helpers, but in his laboratory he 
 worked alone and that solitude was eloquent. He paid 
 the penalty that great men have to pay, the penalty of lone- 
 liness. 
 
 "As a young man he came back to his native town with 
 a surgical technique developed by the greatest hospitals of 
 this country and Europe. He would have made a name for 
 himself in any large city. Decatur and Central Illinois 
 profited by his skill. 
 
 "His later work, his money, his talent, his prestige all 
 went for the cause that was nearest his heart. The hospital 
 was his life. In its behalf he spurred himself and his 
 friends. His hopes for it were boundless. The greatest 
 help to the greatest number at the smallest price was his 
 ideal. 
 
 "He had faults; he did not try to conceal them. He had 
 weaknesses; they were perfectly apparent. But his virtues 
 so far outweighed his defects that the defects can be for- 
 gotten. His strivings were not for himself. Like a thorough- 
 bred he ran until he dropped. The end found him still 
 working and planning for the well-being of people he might 
 never see or know. 
 
 "Dr. Barnes loved his fellow men." 
 
 As Shannon read column after column about his work 
 
 171 
 
on earth, she resolved she would never do or say anything 
 in her job that Dr. Barnes would object to. . . 
 
 It was about three weeks later when she made another 
 call on Mrs. Stanton, guessing that no one had told her 
 about her brother. Mrs. Stanton smiled, welcomed her 
 prettily, and for awhile Shannon chattered inconsequentially 
 about this or that. The patient seemed to understand, and 
 laughed at cheerful bits of news, but after several minutes 
 her face clouded over, looking toward the window. 
 
 The nurse explained. "We think she misses the doctor; 
 she watches for him every day." 
 
 Shannon said then, "I haven't seen the doctor myself for 
 quite awhile, but I'm sure he's around; he knows what's 
 going on." 
 
 Mrs. Stanton relaxed and smiled. 
 
 The superintendent and his wife were living in the hos- 
 pital, and the superstructure of routine appeared to be con- 
 tinuing as usual. It was the foundation that was shaky. 
 Dr. Castlelaw was not in good health, and no one found it 
 easy to consult him about hospital problems. Shannon 
 knew this wasn't because anyone doubted his authority; it 
 was only because everyone was in the habit of watching for 
 Dr. Barnes to come by on his daily rounds, looking to him 
 for quick solutions and leadership. Now there were subtle 
 
 172 
 
indications of change — almost as if the colors of the hospital 
 were different; doctors, nurses, and other professional 
 groups, as well as office personnel and other employees, 
 were groping for independent action. Noting these things, 
 it was impossible to say whether there was new strength in 
 them or slow deterioration. The only clear and obvious 
 thing was that the hospital was in financial distress, facing 
 ruin. 
 
 And yet, small things brought comfort — small things 
 that were normal in happier years: One Sunday, during 
 the noon hour, Shannon saw the Barnes' chauffeur come in 
 bringing a sheaf of flowers, as he had so often done before. 
 And as usual, he said, "These are from Mrs. Barnes' church 
 to Dr. Barnes' hospital." 
 
 Shannon accepted them and thanked him. . . 
 
 173 
 
panic 
 
 When a child wakes up alone in the dark, having dreamed 
 or heard something frightening — and no one answers his 
 call — he senses panic of an unreasonable kind — blind panic. 
 He can neither understand nor see; he has no idea what will 
 happen to him; he only feels he is threatened and deserted, 
 with unnamed terrors lurking near. 
 
 The hospital's board of directors, administration, and 
 employees — individually and collectively — felt similar terror 
 during the early 1930's, but being grown men and women, 
 they faced the fact that Dr. Barnes could not give them 
 reassurance, help, or advice — that they would have to try 
 to reason things out for themselves. Here was a great 
 plant, built by sacrificial offerings from the community, 
 equipped with the latest known to medical science — yet it 
 was deep in debt, and few patients seemed to need it or want 
 it; it was an enormous responsibility, threatened with leader- 
 less confusion, like a ship without a rudder. 
 
 Several physicians tried to assume the role of dictator 
 but succeeded only in angering each other. Members of 
 
 174 
 
the board worried, groping for some way out, but there 
 were many meetings adjourned for lack of a quorum as if, 
 after all, there was nothing concrete on which to act. Super- 
 intendents changed in quick succession during the decade. 
 Dr. Castlelaw, Mr. Hodge, Mr. Pohlman, and Mr. Hoover. 
 The school of nursing, too, had four different heads, and 
 was finally discontinued — the nurses' home closed. 
 
 Only Shannon stayed on, it seemed — and Mrs. Baird, the 
 housekeeper. Sometimes the two women talked it over, 
 wondering what would become of the hospital and their 
 jobs. 
 
 But it was the apathy of the community that was most 
 serious. Citizens of Decatur and Macon County, feeling 
 themselves personally sucked into the deepest depression 
 and financial panic the country had ever known, were 
 obliged to let the hospital shift for itself while they strug- 
 gled with private financial crises. 
 
 Hundreds of letters were received from former patients, 
 expressing sympathy but sending little or no money. 
 
 In its determination to maintain standards and accredita- 
 tion, the hospital made hundreds of enemies by denying 
 practicing privileges to osteopaths — and this caused addi- 
 tional trouble. 
 
 The women's service league, with a membership of over 
 eight hundred, was valiantly trying to help, with jelly drives 
 for hospital patients, and money-making plans for the 
 crippled children's fund, and a free maternity fund — but 
 their efforts met with discouragement. 
 
 Two thousand letters were mailed in a drive for free 
 service funds to meet deficits rising out of free care given 
 
 175 
 
to persons unable to pay for hospital services, but the results 
 were disappointing. 
 
 Expenses were slashed heroically, and the hospital was 
 operating on a skeleton force, but it held rigidly to its high 
 standards. Everybody worked harder at the professional 
 jobs, and took less pay. Office and maintenance crews re- 
 maining did their best. 
 
 A newspaper editorial said, "A hospital of high stand- 
 ing, which has set standards for other institutions, is in 
 danger. The board having done all that it could, wishes to 
 know what Decatur will do about it." Nobody replied to 
 the editorial. 
 
 Finally Shannon prayed for a miracle. 
 
 . . . Only a miracle could save the hospital now. 
 
 She thought, what would Dr. Barnes do if he were here ? 
 . . . He would do something; that she knew, yet she re- 
 membered his despair that day in the doctors' room, only a 
 little while before his death, bowing his head and looking 
 defeated; he had seen this coming. 
 
 In a way, Dr. Barnes had done something, for Mrs. Barnes 
 had sold his butterfly collection and given the hospital half 
 of the proceeds. 
 
 The doctors now living? No, Shannon knew that most 
 of them couldn't collect enough from patients to pay their 
 office rent. And business men on the board ? No, Mr. Staley, 
 Mr. Prentice — they had their own depression problems. 
 
 And strangely, Decatur had never been in better health. 
 Eating less and living more simply seemed to agree with 
 everybody; the need for hospitalization was almost nil 
 among people of means; people who didn't have means or 
 
 176 
 
who had lost their jobs were the undernourished and ill 
 people who came to the hospital — they were cared for, but 
 they couldn't pay. 
 
 A new wing had just been completed on the tuberculosis 
 sanatorium, but it was embarrassed by having more room 
 than it needed. 
 
 A deed for two and two-thirds acres of land lying north- 
 west of the hospital had been sold to the city for $4,500 as 
 a site for the city public hospital, to care for contagious 
 cases. It opened for service in 1931, but wasn't needed. 
 
 What happened next was one man's offer of a solution, 
 although it became a threat, instead. He was Dr. Silas E. 
 McClelland on the Millikin board of trustees. He was un- 
 happy about the hospital's plight, but he was far more 
 unhappy about donations which the Millikin estate had 
 made to the hospital. 
 
 In the first place, he felt the Millikin wing had cost more 
 than it should. (It exceeded the amount given by the estate 
 for this purpose.) In the second place, the money had been 
 given because he thought the Decatur and Macon County 
 Hospital was a public hospital. Now he discovered what he 
 believed to be a shocking fact — that the hospital was gov- 
 erned by private individuals, which definitely made it a 
 private hospital — although it was more or less regularly 
 receiving public funds from the county board of super- 
 visors. 
 
 Dr. McClelland's dedicated wish was to carry out the 
 terms of Mr. Millikin's will without wavering one iota from 
 what he believed were Mr. Millikin's intentions; now he felt 
 that instead of helping a public hospital Mr. Millikin's 
 
 177 
 
money had gone to help a private hospital. It bothered him 
 so much that he worried about it day and night and the 
 only way out of it, he decided, was to see that the hospital 
 was changed into a public hospital. One morning he arose 
 at 2 o'clock and wrote a long letter addressed to the board 
 of directors, expressing his views and offering his solution. 
 Later in the day he had copies typed, sending them simul- 
 taneously to the board and the newspaper. 
 
 The directors were stunned. This, in effect, threw them 
 from the frying pan into the fire. Hundreds of thousands 
 of dollars received in the past from the board of supervisors 
 were suddenly and publicly labeled as illegal contributions 
 of taxpayers' money, and all further funds were shut off 
 from this source. 
 
 When Shannon read what it said in the papers and heard 
 what doctors and directors said off-hand as they drifted past 
 her desk, she felt that doomsday had come, for sure. 
 
 Nevertheless, it was easy for her to see from the side- 
 lines how the whole matter had come about. She liked Dr. 
 Silas McClelland; he was no meany; he simply was rigid in 
 carrying out what he thought was right. And the directors, 
 she knew, were acting in good faith and completely without 
 self-interest; they thought that a hospital "not for profit" 
 was in safer hands privately than politically. Also she knew 
 why the supervisors had given all that money in the past 
 years. Dr. Barnes was accustomed to going to them in 
 emergencies he felt were in the public interest — namely the 
 maintenance of the new hospital for the benefit of the 
 public. And whenever the hospital needed several thousand 
 dollars for some particular purpose not forthcoming from 
 
 178 
 
private subscribers, he presented the matter to the super- 
 visors, explained the why and wherefore, asked for the 
 money, and usually got it. 
 
 Shannon thought and thought about it. . . 
 
 The crux of the problem was that somehow, somewhere 
 along the way, there had been a misunderstanding. She 
 wasn't sure now whether Dr. McClelland's "solution" 
 was offered as a lifeline for tax money in case the hospital 
 was made public, or whether it was flung out as a whip, to 
 set the directors straight. 
 
 The board had a meeting soon afterward in which a 
 motion was made, seconded, and carried to invite Dr. Silas 
 McClelland to attend an adjourned meeting about a month 
 later. This meeting, however, was not convened because Dr. 
 McClelland telephoned Superintendent Hodge that he did 
 not care to discuss with the board the matters contained in 
 his letter — that he had included his ideas in the letter and 
 in interviews given by him to the newspapers. 
 
 Shannon writhed. . . Things were going from bad to 
 worse. . . 
 
 Mr. Jacob Latham came by then, interrupting her 
 thoughts. She'd forgotten what a thin, short man he was; 
 his legs were short. He smiled at her and asked to be di- 
 rected to the superintendent's office. 
 
 She went along with him; they were just about the same 
 height, she noticed. She said, "I enjoyed reading your 
 partner's letters in the newspaper. You and he must have 
 had a wonderful trip. How does it feel to go around the 
 world and come back to the same place?" 
 
 He answered her shyly. "It feels good." 
 
 179 
 
"Here we are," she said. "Mr. Hodge must have stepped 
 out; just have a seat; he'll be back soon." 
 
 "Why don't you sit down, too?" he asked. He said it 
 shyly but it sounded flirtatious. He held a chair for her. 
 
 "Oh I couldn't! — My switchboard — " 
 
 "I want to tell you something," he began. "What Charlie 
 said about my trouble with the captain of the Laconia — that 
 wasn't true. It wasn't so — " 
 
 Shannon was puzzled. "I don't believe I remember — " 
 
 "He wrote all those letters for the newspapers, and he 
 was making fun of me . . . like killing the Turk and all." 
 
 She saw how earnest he was, and how distressed. — But 
 surely he knew his partner had been kidding? She said 
 something of the kind. 
 
 "You might see it that way," he answered, "but lots of 
 people don't understand." He peered at her through his 
 round steel-rimmed glasses and she knew that he was in 
 earnest. "I don't have any friends like he does," he admitted 
 frankly. "Only clients." 
 
 She didn't know what to say. He reached into his pocket, 
 fetching out a booklet. 
 
 "Would you like to read them again?" he offered, and 
 she saw that he was handing her a reprint of Mr. Walters' 
 series of letters. 
 
 "Thank you," she smiled. 
 
 "Maybe it's because I look like a clown — " he said. He 
 was half distressed, half proud, as he pointed to the picture 
 on the fly-leaf where he and Mr. Walters were photographed 
 standing together, Mr. Walters towering high above him. 
 
 "Why, you don't look like a clown at all!" she denied. 
 
 180 
 
"Just the same — I haven't any friends," he repeated. 
 " — Only clients." 
 
 "I'm your friend," Shannon said on impulse. But she 
 explained that she must hurry back to her switchboard. 
 
 She was astounded — and amused — and full of puzzle- 
 ment. — What sort of man was Mr. Latham, she wondered. 
 She opened the booklet and began re-reading the letters. 
 
 In one of them she found the reference he had made to 
 the captain of the ship: 
 
 "I am now sorry to record that Mr. Latham encountered 
 his first trouble (third day out) today. You know that he 
 is an expert examiner of titles. Not being very busy he 
 hunted up the captain and asked him to produce his abstract 
 of title to the ship. The captain is a very obliging gentle- 
 man, and through courtesy, handed him the abstract of the 
 title to the ship. It only took Latham a few minutes to run 
 through the abstract and point out a number of defects in 
 the captain's title. He demanded that the captain obtain 
 an affidavit of possession, also wished him to get a quit 
 claim deed from the entire crew and all passengers on board, 
 as he explained that any one of them might claim some 
 secret interest or right not of record. He also told the 
 captain that there were a number of bad acknowledgments, 
 lack of seals, bad descriptions, etc. Hot words followed 
 and finally Jakie got so mad he told the captain to stop the 
 ship for he was going to get off and walk. I knew if Jake 
 did get off he would get his patent leather tuxedo shoes 
 wet, so in order to save his shoes, I told the captain that Mr. 
 Latham had been in the habit for twenty-five years of exam- 
 
 181 
 
ining titles and was simply wanting to keep in practise . . . 
 after which the captain begged Mr. Latham to stay on the 
 ship and in turn Jakie conceded that the captain's title 
 could not be successfully assailed in court." 
 
 Shannon laughed. Oh, the poor man — ! 
 
 She read on. 
 
 "While we understand that intoxicants are dispensed on 
 the vessel, we have noticed no abuse of the practise. Neither 
 of us, Jake or myself, are interested in this part of the pro- 
 visions. On the other hand, quite a number of the younger 
 women indulge in the cigaret habit, something unusual for 
 us little country fellows to see." 
 
 Skipping through the rest of the pamphlet, Shannon 
 read Mr. Walters' impressions of cities from a dozen coun- 
 tries, while he ribbed Mr. Latham all the way. But on the 
 last page, he finally struck a serious note in describing one 
 city: "It is a gem — rich as the Nile valley, with wonderful 
 schools, factories, a fine lake, and one of the finest hospitals 
 in the world. I must not fail to tell you that these people 
 have the finest facilities for caring for their sick and dis- 
 abled. Through the never-tiring and faithful energy of a 
 group of the finest women that God ever fashioned, and 
 through the very substantial additional efforts and bulldog 
 tenacity of a surgeon of their city, who is a diamond in the 
 rough, and backed by a corps of faithful men, all of whose 
 services have been gratis and given for the cause of hu- 
 manity, there stands a magnificent hospital which is the last 
 word in modern equipment. We have seen temples, shrines, 
 
 182 
 
 
ghats, coliseums, hospitals, museums and palaces, but this 
 institution, built as it was, shares very deeply in our admira- 
 tion." 
 
 Shannon closed the pamphlet, realizing that the letters 
 had been written shortly before Dr. Barnes' death. . . She 
 wondered what Mr. Latham and Mr. Walters were now 
 thinking of their gem-city and magnificent hospital. 
 
 . . . Mr. Walters and Mr. Latham — what a strange part- 
 nership for a law firm! They knew how to spend money, 
 she thought idly. It must have been most expensive for 
 those two lawyers to travel around the world and do without 
 any income from clients while they were gone! 
 
 She shook her head at herself. — There I go again; I'm 
 getting money-mad, she thought. But there seemed no way 
 out. Money — or lack of it — was turning Macon County 
 wrong-side-out. 
 
 A few months before Dr. Barnes died, Mr. O. B. Gorin, 
 as trustee, had turned over $7,500 in cash to the Millikin 
 Trust Company to apply on a gift of $50,000 which had 
 been made for the construction of an x-ray and pathological 
 building, provided the hospital association would obtain 
 another $50,000 to be used in the same way. Concluding 
 paragraphs of a resolution passed by the board now, regard- 
 ing this, are summarized below: 
 
 "Whereas, the hospital association has not begun con- 
 struction of said building and has been unable to comply 
 with the condition of obtaining an additional $50,000 for 
 such purpose, and 
 
 "Whereas, the object for which the said $7,500 was paid 
 
 183 
 
to the Millikin Trust Company has failed, 
 
 "Be it resolved that the hospital association hereby re- 
 lease any and all right, title and claim to said $7,500. . ." 
 
 Some of the minutes she couldn't understand because 
 there were gaps in the story, but Shannon knew that things 
 were bad — very bad. 
 
 — If only she could be behind the door while board meet- 
 ings were going on — and hear the discussions! As it was, 
 she flung out her arms and said aloud to herself, "Oh, I 
 wish I were rich! I wish I were powerful!" 
 
 "Oh, you do, do you?" Shannon jumped in surprise. It 
 was Mrs. Mills laughing at her; Mrs. Mills was usually so 
 quiet, so utterly confined to the pages of her ledger. . . 
 Shannon was thoughtful, not amused. 
 
 "Mrs. Mills — why do they pay our salaries in cash instead 
 of checks?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "Don't you — really?" Shannon waited, but Mrs. Mills 
 made no reply. "Well I think / know why." 
 
 Mrs. Mills smiled again. "Then why ask me about it? 
 You already know, and some day you'll be rich and power- 
 ful." 
 
 "I do seem to be lacking in humility this morning," 
 shrugged Shannon. "It reminds me of that time when a 
 patient of Dr. Barnes' recovered unexpectedly from a critical 
 operation. The man's wife was overjoyed and cried, 'It was 
 Providence! Oh, praise God!' And Dr. Barnes looked at 
 her from under those bushy eyebrows and said, 'Hey! I'm 
 the guy that cut the kidney out!' " 
 
 They laughed, Mrs. Mills' hands resting idly on the ledger 
 
 184 
 
 
for the first time Shannon had seen her eyes off her work. 
 "I suppose," Shannon went on, "we'll be quoting things 
 that Dr. Barnes said, as long as we live — he was terribly 
 irreverent, but — " 
 
 "He had a God, though," said Mrs. Mills, "and God 
 guided him in surgery." 
 
 Shannon nodded and then reminded them both of what 
 Miss Cleland always said, . . . "we must act busy whether 
 we have anything to do or not — " 
 
 They both bent over their desks again. 
 
 A publicity committee was appointed soon after that, to 
 secure the proper newspaper publicity and to warn the 
 community that the hospital must be closed if conditions 
 continued as to collections, free service, and patronage. 
 
 Shannon shook her head. . . People simply don't care, 
 she thought. Yet something had to be done! 
 
 It was in the summer of 1932 that matters reached a 
 climax. During August, board meetings which many times 
 had been adjourned for lack of a quorum, were now held 
 every few days, and in between two of them, a special 
 evening conference was held at Mr. O. B. Gorin's house. 
 
 Mr. C. R. Dick, Mr. A. E. Staley, Jr., and Mr. Rolla Mc- 
 Millen arrived first. They climbed the steps to the porch 
 grimly, saying nothing to each other. Then in a few 
 minutes Mrs. William Barnes arrived with her neighbor, 
 Mr. H. I. Baldwin; they were talking earnestly in low tones. 
 
 These five were seated in the parlor with Mr. Gorin when 
 
 185 
 
Mrs. Barnes said to the group, "It's all a question of 
 money — " 
 
 "It always has been," said Mr. Gorin. 
 
 Mr. McMillen said, "Most of the patients are penniless; 
 every day they stay costs big money — " 
 
 "But we can't turn them away," someone reminded him. 
 
 "If the hospital shuts down, we'll have to turn them 
 away," he retorted. 
 
 "What's the answer then?" 
 
 Several spoke in quick succession: "If the plant shuts 
 down, it will throw a lot more people out of work — " 
 "Think of the investment made by the community during 
 all these years — " "How can we throw it all away?" "How 
 can we keep it?" " — That's the question. How?" " — We 
 must keep it!" " — How?" 
 
 A silence fell; what was the use of words? 
 
 The doctors arrived in a group: Dr. M. E. Pollock, Dr. 
 Clarence McClelland, and Dr. Rose. But their greetings 
 were nods, as at a funeral; they sat down tentatively, looking 
 uncomfortable. 
 
 It wasn't until Mrs. Starr arrived with Mr. R. I. Hunt 
 and Mr. T. J. Prentice that someone asked, "What's the 
 minimum we must have?" 
 
 "$40,000," said Mr. Gorin. His voice was definite but 
 the look on his face was diffused and unhappy. "Accounts 
 payable — bills — are more than that — " 
 
 By the time Mr. Hodge arrived alone, they sat straighter, 
 knowing their group was now complete and that momentous 
 decisions were before them. 
 
 An electric fan hummed and the lace curtains lifted now 
 
 186 
 
and then as a south breeze came into the room, but everyone 
 looked flushed and hot, tense with emotion. The financial 
 condition of the hospital droned on through the reading 
 of carefully compiled statistics — sounding falsely dull as 
 statistics usually do; not in this case, like the knell of a 
 death watch. 
 
 The silence that followed was smothering. Some of 
 those present fidgeted, others stared straight ahead at 
 nothing. 
 
 Dr. Pollock nervously tried to break the tension. "Will 
 Barnes would know how to get us out of this." He looked 
 off into space, pondering it. " — Remember how he used 
 to raise money? He'd give a big dinner — and when the 
 dishes had been cleared, he'd stand up and say, 'Now the 
 door's locked; the key's here in my hand — you're free to 
 make donations, gentlemen, and as soon as you do, you're 
 free to leave the room — ' " 
 
 The others tried to smile. Mr. Gorin said, "No locked 
 doors tonight." — What did he mean by that? 
 
 There was complete silence; they could hear street sounds 
 and the court house clock striking nine. 
 
 Clearing his throat, Mr. Gorin said in an ordinary 
 voice, "I'll donate $10,000 for the payment of current bills, 
 providing the association can raise another $10,000." 
 
 There was a quick murmur of appreciation all around. 
 
 Mr. Gorin waited. 
 
 Mrs. Starr said sweetly, with the twanging little hesitancy 
 she had, "That's wonderful. . . Surely. . ." 
 
 Mr. Baldwin crossed his knees. "I'll do the same under 
 the same conditions," he said. "$10,000." 
 
 187 
 
Mrs. Barnes, calm and regal, gave the impression of 
 letting out her breath slowly. Looking from Mr. Gorin to 
 Mr. Baldwin, she said, "This is progress — " Her eyes were 
 glad. 
 
 "$40,000 if the terms are met," summaried Mr. Prentice 
 in a congratulatory tone. 
 
 Then several spoke at once. 
 
 "It isn't enough. . . It will be gone overnight. . ." 
 
 "The directors really don't need to bleed themselves — " 
 
 "Who else?" 
 
 "No one else really cares — " 
 
 "Let's discuss it further — " 
 
 Mr. Gorin made a dry little joke. "Let's disgorge it 
 further — " 
 
 Mrs. Barnes said slowly, in her pleasant voice, "I will 
 seriously consider a donation of $10,000 from a trust fund I 
 have created . . . it's held by the Citizens Bank." 
 
 Mr. Hodge looked around the group in wonder. There 
 was a long pause. 
 
 Then Mr. Gorin pulled a bell-cord and after a moment 
 the maid came in, carrying glasses of lemonade, clinking 
 with ice. 
 
 Everyone seemed to relax a little; they smiled at each 
 other, sipped their drinks, and began conversing in groups 
 of two or three. 
 
 Dr. Rose drawled to Dr. McClelland, "There's hope 
 now — " 
 
 Mr. Gorin overheard and called across the room. "Not 
 enough — " Then, seeing the looks of alarm on other faces, 
 and hearing the sudden silence, he chuckled. "I'll consult 
 
 188 
 
with other Millikin estate trustees tomorrow," he said, "con- 
 cerning a gift of $10,000 from that source." 
 
 When Shannon heard about all this and counted up the 
 $10,000 times double and so on, her face brightened. But 
 then she paused. "That's only for bills payable," she re- 
 minded herself — "not for salaries payable ... or, was it?" 
 
 It was only a drop in the bucket, she was forced to admit, 
 but it served to keep the doors of the hospital open awhile 
 longer. What really cheered her most was knowing how 
 deeply the directors cared; now she knew she was not alone; 
 they cared and they had the money and the power to do 
 something. 
 
 . . . Maybe, after all, this was the miracle she had prayed 
 for? She hoped it was, but the hospital was almost empty 
 of patients; she couldn't be sure. She decided to keep on 
 praying. 
 
 When the miracle actually happened, she didn't recog- 
 nize it; no one did, at first. 
 
 189 
 
— and after life 
 
 iSjow there were two tax-supported hospitals on the De- 
 catur and Macon County Hospital campus, and one of them 
 had become a joke-about- town. The city public hospital had 
 cost $138,000 and opened with great fanfare, forty doctors 
 applying for staff positions. The annual maintenance assess- 
 ment in taxes for this contagion hospital was $40,000. At 
 the end of a year, statistics showed: patients in hospital — 
 none. 
 
 There were very few ill people in the county, and the 
 ones who developed contagious diseases were sent to the 
 accredited general hospitals as before — the reason being 
 that the medical society refused to recognize a hospital open 
 to limited-license practitioners. And so the controversy over 
 osteopaths had begun again. The board of city public was 
 deadlocked; the city refused to pay taxes indefinitely for 
 an empty hospital; and Corporation Counsel W. J. Carey 
 said the building could not be given away. 
 
 190 
 
Newspaper cartoons gave suggestions: 
 Board it up! 
 Give it to the needy! 
 Let the M.D.'s have it! 
 Dump it on the county! 
 Put everybody in it! 
 Sell it for a dollar! 
 
 Regarding the latter suggestion, Mr. Carey said in all 
 seriousness that although the hospital couldn't be given 
 away, if the ordinance for the tax were repealed, the city 
 might sell the building for $1. 
 
 And Mr. Hodge, superintendent of the Decatur and 
 Macon County Hospital said in all seriousness, "We don't 
 need any more buildings; our trouble now is that we have 
 more building than we have money to operate. We have 
 no need or use for the city public hospital." 
 
 Shannon said, "Oh dear! Oh dear!" 
 
 The attorney general said, "Osteopathic physicians have 
 no legal right to practise in the city public hospital because 
 it was built and is maintained exclusively for the treatment 
 of contagious diseases. Smallpox, diphtheria, measles, scar- 
 let fever, meningitis, and so on require the use of medicines 
 and drugs and operative surgery. Since the use of medicines 
 and drugs and operative surgery is expressly prohibited by 
 the medical practise act in the hands of limited-license phy- 
 sicians, they have no legal right to practise in the hospital 
 cited." 
 
 " — Well, I won't worry about that any more," Shannon 
 said, "there are things on this side of the campus that con- 
 cern me more." 
 
 191 
 
She'd no sooner said it than there was a fire in the power 
 plant, and repairs had to be made in the boiler room; Mr. 
 Hodge told her it would take six weeks or more to fix 
 things up. 
 
 " — Where will the hospital get its steam supply?" she 
 wanted to know. "Even in summer you need steam, don't 
 you?" 
 
 He said yes, of course, and reassured her. "We'll get it 
 from locomotive No. 866." 
 
 "You mean an engine?" 
 
 "Where else?" 
 
 And bless Pat, if there wasn't old 866 steaming away the 
 next morning, just a few feet from the boiler room windows ! 
 It throbbed and snorted without going backward or for- 
 ward; instead of pulling a train, it was washing hospital 
 dishes, laundering linens, and assisting in surgical opera- 
 tions. Shannon was fascinated. She asked Mrs. Mills to 
 watch the switchboard while she went down to watch the 
 engine. The steam was drawn off by a heavy pipe entering 
 the window of the boiler room — and freight cars of fuel 
 were switched to the tracks back of the locomotive, to feed it. 
 
 Herman Schultz sauntered up and said, "Howdy!" He 
 motioned her over toward the gardens. 
 
 She hesitated, but it was a lovely day. She decided that 
 Dr. Barnes wouldn't care if she played hookey a little 
 longer. . . 
 
 Herman led her over toward the farthest lake. "Want 
 you to see the water lilies," he said. 
 
 Along the way, she pointed to a flower she didn't know. 
 "I've never seen that before." 
 
 192 
 
"Witch hazel," he told her. "Found it down by Pana. 
 And that right by your foot is wild ginger; got that from 
 near Maroa." 
 
 "You remember every one of them, don't you?" she 
 marveled. Then, after a moment she said, "Oh, Herman — 
 do you miss him?" 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 She said, "He'd get quite a kick out of 866, wouldn't he?" 
 
 Herman nodded again. "Look — " 
 
 They had now reached the lake where a little waterfall 
 tumbled into it. At the edge of the water, tadpoles wiggled 
 up around the forget-me-nots, and out in the center were 
 large lily pads framing delicate pink blossoms. "They're 
 beautiful, Herman!" 
 
 He grinned. "Got those from the lake — down around 
 where Allen's Bend used to be." 
 
 "Don't you ever buy flowers — or seeds?" she asked curi- 
 ously. 
 
 "Now, what for?" He was surprised. "They're wild; 
 they're free." 
 
 Out in this peaceful woodland kingdom of Herman's, 
 the engine sounds came to them soft-puffy instead of 
 snorty. "Herman — do you know that the hospital's awfully 
 poor?" 
 
 He leaned down to pull at a hint of plantain. "Flowers 
 grow without money." He straightened up. "Like the birds 
 sing," he said simply. 
 
 "Yes, but — " How could she say he cost the hospital 
 something, and that she'd overheard criticisms of the gar- 
 dens? 
 
 193 
 
She said nothing, but he seemed to be reading her 
 thoughts. "I'd work without pay," he said, "as long as I 
 was able — rather than leave the flowers to bandits." 
 
 "Bandits?" 
 
 "Yes! People steal 'em for their own gardens when I 
 stop watching sharp. I know — I know — if one's missing; 
 I got 'em all in there by heart, where the doctor and me 
 found 'em, and raised 'em." 
 
 On March 6, 1933 all the banks were closed in a country- 
 wide moratorium ordered by President Roosevelt. 
 
 Shannon had so many worries that she was quite philo- 
 sophical about this; if money was locked up, they'd all 
 have to do without money, which they'd already been 
 doing anyhow. It actually made her more light-hearted 
 for awhile. 
 
 She didn't learn until years later what Mr. Oscar Dorr 
 did that day when the banks were closed. Taking a tomato- 
 can full of money to Mr. Frank Evans, he said, "Here — help 
 yourself; there's plenty more where it came from. / don't 
 use banks!" 
 
 Mr. Evans' answer was surprising. "Thanks, Oscar, but 
 the last thing we want is cash right now. No banks to put 
 it into — office safe stuffed with it — suitcases bulging with 
 it—" 
 
 Mr. Dorr gave his friend a blinkered look. "Well, I'll 
 be horse-whipped!" Carefully tucking the tomato-can under 
 his arm again, he added, "Crazy business!" 
 
 194 
 
At a board meeting on April 28, 1933, the following 
 resolution was adopted: 
 
 "WHEREAS: In September 1932 friends of the De- 
 catur and Macon County Hospital contributed approxi- 
 mately $44,000 for paying an accumulation of accounts 
 payable, with the desire that the hospital be operated in 
 the future without incurring past due accounts payable, 
 AND WHEREAS: since that time there has been a 
 further large accumulation of accounts payable aggre- 
 gating an amount to be hereafter ascertained upon the 
 closing of the books as of April 30, 1933, and recorded 
 for future reference, 
 
 AND WHEREAS: funds for paying such indebted- 
 ness are exhausted and it is not known where other 
 funds may be obtained, and since to continue accumulat- 
 ing accounts payable in such large amounts would 
 result in closing the hospital, with hardships to the em- 
 ployees and to the community, 
 
 BE IT THEREFORE RESOLVED, that the Decatur 
 and Macon County Hospital, each month and from 
 month to month shall be operated on a cash received 
 basis as to operating expense and the superintendent is 
 hereby charged with that responsibility according to 
 the following provisions. . ." 
 
 The ways and means that followed were not fully under- 
 stood by Shannon when she studied them; she only knew 
 that beginning with May 1, employees would be paid on a 
 percentage basis. She thought — that's a polite way of dock- 
 ing us ... ? 
 
 195 
 
Meanwhile Mr. Hodge would remain as superintendent 
 of the hospital on the basis of $150 per month, sharing in 
 the percentage plan along with other employees, but with 
 the understanding that he would devote no less than twelve 
 days each month to the hospital, and for the balance of the 
 month he would have the privilege of being absent from 
 the hospital and Decatur. 
 
 "It's awful to be poor ..." groaned Shannon. 
 
 There was not enough money to cover proper building 
 maintenance. The atmosphere of defeatism was felt by 
 patients, visitors, and employees because everything was 
 run down. Hot water pipes were leaking in several spots. 
 Linoleum in patients' rooms was badly worn. The sterilizing 
 equipment was rapidly wearing out. All beds and mattresses 
 needed replacement. Window screens throughout the hos- 
 pital had been patched beyond further repair, most of them 
 badly warped. And yet — 
 
 — Shannon's pride in the hospital never wavered, for she 
 knew that despite all evidences of poverty, the staff was 
 functioning bravely and well. Professional care was still 
 superior. Cleanliness was maintained by the usual amount 
 of soap, water, antiseptics, and elbow grease. She know, 
 too, that members of the board of directors were spending 
 more and more of their valuable time in the hospital itself, 
 going over the books, checking records, conferring with 
 maintenance men. Mr. Dick was there almost every day. 
 
 While the profit-and-loss percentage plan was in effect, 
 a new insurance idea came into being — benefits for hospital 
 services to groups of employees of industries. The Decatur 
 Medical Society frowned upon the idea as suggestive of 
 
 196 
 
state medicine, but on February 23, 1934, the hospital board 
 of directors passed favorably on it, and the superintendent 
 was authorized to enter into contracts for it. 
 
 Shannon had no way of knowing at the time that group 
 hospitalization would do two big things for her beloved 
 hospital — bring in more patients and pay more bills. What 
 excited her at the time was the birth of quintuplets some- 
 where in Canada. She said to Mrs. Mills, "I wish they'd 
 been born in D&MCH — it would raise the census and make 
 us famous — and that would bring in more money. 
 
 When Shannon read in the paper about the death of Mr. 
 Jacob Latham, she vividly remembered the short-stature 
 man with eyes that looked mischievous behind his steel- 
 rimmed spectacles. . . He was nice, but he didn't feel a 
 success, and that was too bad. . . He wanted more friends, 
 but didn't know how to seek them. Oh, thought Shannon, 
 I hope Mr. Walters — or somebody — cares. She read that 
 his wife had died in 1922 and that he had no heirs; now 
 it was 1935 — he'd been alone for over ten years. 
 
 A little later she read that he'd made bequests to St. 
 Mary's Hospital, the Boys' Opportunity Home, the Girls' 
 Welfare Home, the Y.W.C.A., the Shrine lodge hospital 
 for crippled children, and the Decatur Masonic Temple. 
 The residue was to be divided equally between Decatur and 
 Macon County Hospital and the Y.M.C.A. 
 
 "Residue" meant only a little, didn't it? ... And Shan- 
 non knew it took a long, long time to settle estates. She 
 
 197 
 
read on: "Everybody liked Jake. While he was a slave to 
 his work and lived very frugally, he had a few hobbies. He 
 liked baseball, and as a young man was a bicycling en- 
 thusiast." 
 
 Editorials speculated about why he was especially inter- 
 ested in the Y.M.C.A. and the hospital. Someone recalled 
 that during his study of law in the Mills offices, one day Mr. 
 Andrew Mills said, "Jake, take your law books and go over 
 to the Y.M.C.A. and study there. Stay a month. We have 
 no secretary for the Y and you can act as secretary while 
 you read law." 
 
 Someone else speculated that his interest in the hospital 
 may have been inspired by listening to a talk given by the 
 late Dr. Barnes at a luncheon for the Macon County bar 
 association. In his talk Dr. Barnes stressed the importance, 
 in making gifts in wills, to leave the residue of estates to 
 institutions that can use an unlimited amount of money. 
 After the lunch Mr. Latham remarked to one of the hospital 
 board members, "That idea about the residue of estates is 
 a mighty fine one." 
 
 Now, as she thought it over, Shannon reasoned that Dr. 
 Barnes would never have made such a remark if he had 
 considered "residue" a little amount, and she began to 
 wonder if he wasn't still raising money for the hospital, in 
 a way. . . Maybe the residue of Mr. Latham's estate would 
 amount to quite a lot? 
 
 — Still, she didn't recognize it as a miracle. 
 
 It wasn't until the memorial dinner was announced and 
 Governor Henry Horner was invited as speaker that the 
 newspapers stated the residue as half a million dollars and 
 
 198 
 
that distribution had already been made of more than 
 $200,000 each to the cash-hungry hospital and Y.M.C.A. 
 
 The Governor said of Mr. Latham: "He was a modest 
 and unostentatious citizen, abstaining from what we call 
 the luxuries of life. He carried his problems noiselessly 
 but he must have been thinking frequently of his fellow 
 men. 
 
 "A will often gives a peep at the soul of the man who 
 dictated it, and occasionally comes one which is a whole 
 biography. It mirrors unfailingly the true motives in life of 
 the testator. 
 
 "The beneficent attitude is found in the will of Jacob 
 Latham: 
 
 ' 'I have given the bulk of what I may possess at my 
 death to the charitable institutions herein named for the 
 reason that practically all that I have has come from the 
 people in and around the city of Decatur, and wishing that 
 the people of Decatur might be benefited in some measure 
 by what I may leave, and not having a child or descendant 
 of my own, I felt that through the institutions named such 
 result would be more nearly reached.' 
 
 "Jacob Latham knew the answer of life and death for 
 himself. What greater monument than in the noble work of 
 the institutions to which he made bequests? His will is a 
 voice from the dead proclaiming a rich life truly lived." 
 
 Oscar Dorr came into the Evans Elevator office the next 
 
 199 
 
morning carrying a copy of the same newspaper Shannon 
 had been reading. 
 
 He pointed to it and said to EB Evans, "Pretty good 
 article." 
 
 "Yes! It's wonderful!" 
 
 "You know — Jake didn't have any more friends than 
 I have." 
 
 "Oh?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 200 
 
growing big 
 
 Shannon was breathing easier now. More patients were 
 coming in, and Mr. C. H. Ruedi of the board's executive 
 committee reported ninety-six new life members for the 
 association. After the lessons taught by the depression, 
 people seemed to realize, as Johns Hopkins did, that "money 
 is only valuable when it works; and the highest interest it 
 can ever bring is in saving human life and dispensing 
 knowledge." Thus, in a decade when money was scarce, 
 several important new bequests were made to the hospital — 
 as if the donors could foresee how their dollars would go 
 on multiplying in the years to come, not only through in- 
 creasing the benefits of their endowment but through ex- 
 tending the power of their personal lives by putting modern 
 equipment into other hands, skilled in life-saving. 
 
 One morning Mr. Nellis Parkinson, chairman of the fiscal 
 committee, stopped at her desk and said, "How would you 
 like to be paid by check instead of in cash after this?" 
 
 Her eyes brightened and she smiled. "I'd feel important — 
 but only if I could turn the checks into cash — " 
 
 201 
 
He laughed. "One of these days we'll end that profit- 
 or-loss percentage business and you can start making a 
 budget — " 
 
 "Oh — good!" 
 
 Mr. Parkinson was working long and hard to put finances 
 on a more business-like basis. Auditors were including 
 proper items of depreciation on financial statements — some- 
 thing which had been ignored previously. In an effort to 
 aid collections a five-percent discount was offered for pay- 
 ment of patients' bills within three days, and a penalty was 
 assessed on bills remaining unpaid after sixty days. 
 
 Despite these hopeful signs, there were rumblings in the 
 ranks of the doctors and nurses which Shannon found dis- 
 turbing . . . disturbing, too, was the fact that in 1935 three 
 different superintendents had served briefly. Mr. Hodge's 
 resignation was accepted by the board in June; Mrs. Mar- 
 guerite Bethel, superintendent of nurses, became acting 
 head of the hospital until late in November; then Mr. 
 E. C. Pohlman was appointed, taking charge on November 
 25th. 
 
 Why can't this hospital keep on even-keel? Shannon asked 
 herself this as she turned onto the walk leading up to the 
 entrance portico on her way to work one morning. It was 
 during a January thaw in 1936, with ragged piles of dirty 
 snow bordering the sidewalk where Herman's flowers used 
 to grow. The sidewalk itself was soiled and damp, and the 
 sky looked leaden and sad. She gave an unaccustomed sigh. 
 Why did the hospital keep getting into hot water all the 
 time? Well, in a way, she acknowledged, life was like that; 
 she supposed it only made the hospital seem more human, 
 
 202 
 
more real, to have its ups and downs like people; and of 
 course the hospital was people — run by people for patient- 
 people, financed by people, supporting people (like herself) 
 with jobs, and all that. . . 
 
 If people everywhere were good, and if they cared enough 
 about doing the right thing, there would be greater security. 
 But some people cared about the wrong things. There was 
 that silly man with a blob of mustache under his nose, and 
 close-together mean-looking eyes: Adolph Hitler. He was 
 an ocean away, but he, too, could mess things up for the 
 hospital, if he didn't behave himself. 
 
 Hardly aware of the familiar pillars, she reached the 
 familiar portico and pulled open the familiar door. Then, 
 almost like magic, her mood changed. The lobby was warm 
 and bright and wide-awake; a doctor was in conference with 
 another doctor; a nurse stood at the counter, not quite 
 touching it, as she talked with someone in the office. All of 
 them looked around at Shannon, smiling and lifting a hand 
 in greeting or calling good-morning. Her smile, in return, 
 was wide and sincere, reflecting her pleasure in another 
 work-day. . . 
 
 It was almost noon when Dr. M. E. Rose and Dr. Clarence 
 McClelland stopped at her desk. Both of them were on 
 the board of directors, and she wondered if they were 
 going to talk with her or beside her. In any event, she'd 
 probably learn something. . . 
 
 "Mrs. Shannon," said Dr. Rose in a quiet voice, "are you 
 
 203 
 
aware of any dissatisfaction among the nurses?" 
 
 She looked up at him seriously, on her guard. "You mean 
 the students?" 
 
 "Well, yes." He hesitated and then added, "The grad- 
 uate nurses, too." 
 
 "They're all worried about their jobs, I guess," she said 
 warily. 
 
 Dr. Rose, speaking softly, nevertheless pinned her down. 
 "We know, of course, that there's an oversupply and that 
 the nursing field in Decatur is overcrowded. But do you 
 think registered nurses resent the school?" 
 
 Shannon felt uncomfortable. "They're alumnae, most of 
 them . . ." she hedged. 
 
 So far Dr. McClelland had been listening attentively but 
 saying nothing. Now he asked, "If we abolish the school, 
 do you think graduates would be glad or sorry?" 
 
 "Oh, Doctor, I don't know; honestly." But a chill of 
 foreboding traveled down her spine. "Do you have to?" 
 she blurted. 
 
 Now it was their turn to hedge. "The national committee 
 of graduate nurses recommends that all hospital-operated 
 schools be abolished in order to find steady employment for 
 registered nurses." 
 
 "Oh." Continuing to keep one eye on the switchboard, 
 Shannon did her job automatically, but half of her mind 
 was darting around in search of arguments. . . Arguing 
 with board members ? She smiled to herself. "I really don't 
 know many nurses," she disclaimed. "That is — they're 
 friends, but professionals naturally wouldn't talk to me 
 much about their problems — " 
 
 204 
 
"We are," came the surprising answer. "You see, we 
 really need your opinion; you're here at grass roots, so to 
 speak." Dr. Rose continued, "Let's look at it this way: the 
 student nurse has free tuition and maintenance — " 
 
 "Yes, Doctor, but she's a cheap slavey around a hos- 
 pital — " She caught herself. "Well, I mean — " 
 
 Dr. Rose nodded. "Yes, we know what you mean. Hos- 
 pitals want the students, and the students, even when they 
 are doing menial jobs, are learning their profession at less 
 expense than if they went to an institution like Yale's school 
 of nursing, for instance — " 
 
 In further explanation, Dr. McClelland added, "If hos- 
 pitals had no schools it would cut the national output of 
 new nurses to only a few." 
 
 Slowly a conclusion had been forming in Shannon's mind. 
 Now she said, "If you close our school, the graduate nurses 
 will open it again!" 
 
 They looked at her in astonishment. "Why do you say 
 that?" 
 
 "They're loyal to it!" 
 
 "But if we had no school," Dr. Rose argued, "the unem- 
 ployed graduate nurses could earn $50 a month for bedside 
 duties now performed by student nurses." 
 
 Shannon asked, "Who would scrub floors and bed-pans, 
 then?" 
 
 The doctors exchanged uneasy glances. "Servants. We 
 could engage regular servants for $40 a month. That cost 
 would be offset by what we'd save in closing down the 
 school." 
 
 Shannon shook her head, feeling she'd said enough. But 
 
 205 
 
when the doctors went on their way, she frowned. It would 
 be a sad day, she thought. . . 
 
 About a month later she was talking with Miss Leb- 
 kuecher in the recreation room at the nurses' home when 
 a student nurse walked past them, holding onto her elbows. 
 At first they paid no attention to the girl as she circled 
 around idly, finally stopping before a bowl of fruit on the 
 table, with her back toward them. 
 
 Miss Lebkuecher was saying in a low voice, "Shannon, is 
 there any trouble between the doctors and the board?" 
 
 Shannon was surprised. "Not that I know of — " 
 
 "Well, that's all right then. You'd know it if there 
 were." 
 
 "I don't know everything" contended Shannon, pricking 
 up her ears. "What have you heard?" 
 
 Miss Lebkuecher gave her a warning look as the student 
 nurse turned and started moving toward them. She had 
 picked up a small apple and was idly tossing it into the 
 air and catching it expertly. . . 
 
 Shannon smiled at her. "You look young and carefree." 
 
 "No — I'm a hag," she contradicted. The apple went up 
 once more; in making a slight turn to catch it, her rubber- 
 soled shoes gave a little squawk. "And I have the world 
 on my shoulders," she claimed. Then, with an abrupt change 
 of expression, she became respectful and subdued, sitting 
 on a chair and locking one ankle back of the other. "School's 
 almost out," she announced, watching their faces. 
 
 206 
 
The same chill that Shannon had felt earlier in the year 
 ran down her spine again. "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Well," said the young thing, tucking her thumbs into 
 her fists, "It's this way — " Her voice seemed to run out 
 for a moment, and Shannon sensed her bravado. Finally she 
 finished it, "Mr. Pohlman has been recommending to the 
 board that the training school be erased — closed up — gone 
 — words to that effect. And the board of directors has a 
 committee that's been studying it, and the committee says 
 now, O.K., Mr. Pohlman, shut." 
 
 Suddenly she burst into a torrent of tears. Shannon tried 
 to quiet her. Lebby tried to reason with her. But they all 
 felt the same way — bad. The only difference, thought Shan- 
 non, was that youth can cry harder and feel greater despair, 
 not even guessing that one crisis conditions you for another 
 crisis, on and on. . . 
 
 Lebby and Shannon talked it over later, wondering where 
 the girl got her information. "Leaks," concluded Shannon 
 sadly. "In a place like this, there are lots of extra ears and 
 eyes — " 
 
 "But can't anyone keep a secret?" demanded Lebby. 
 "How would it be if I told all / know?" 
 
 Shannon shuddered — for both of them. "Land! If I told 
 only half of one percent of what I know, there would be 
 nervous breakdowns around here!" 
 
 During 1937 leaking pipes were replaced with copper 
 pipe; worn linoleum was replaced with asphalt tile; thirteen 
 
 207 
 
rooms were entirely redecorated and refurnished, six of them 
 being gifts from people in the community; thirty new mat- 
 tresses were bought. 
 
 There was a shocking blot, however, on that year of 1937. 
 Shannon never knew just why — or what it was that built 
 resentment up to the explosion point — but she suspected it 
 was discontinuance of the nurses' training school. At any 
 rate the nurses staged a sit-down strike one morning by re- 
 fusing to leave the breakfast tables — and Miss Redmon, 
 superintendent of nurses at the time, had to call Mr. Pohl- 
 man at 6:30 from his home. There were several grievances 
 voiced but the chief one was salaries. 
 
 . . . They ought to be ashamed ! Shannon thought to her- 
 self; didn't they know this was a hospital? — A hospital was 
 different! And yet, when she heard later in the day what 
 Mr. Pohlman and Miss Redmon had agreed to, she felt a 
 twinge of envy; the nurses would receive a raise. 
 
 From this point on, time seemed to be running away; 
 things were happening faster and there were more of them. 
 It was three years later that World War II was declared, 
 and on the day she heard it, Shannon realized with grave 
 prescience that the hospital would never be the same again. 
 ... It wasn't so much that she expected it to change 
 character all of a sudden ; rather she felt a mysterious weight 
 about to clamp down on the friendly little group of doctors 
 and nurses and family of employees which had meant so 
 much to her for two decades. She sensed that now there 
 
 208 
 
would be less intimacy, more regulation and greater scope 
 for this hospital of hers. Perhaps she couldn't even think of 
 it as "hers" any longer; it belonged to a widening world. . . 
 
 The school of nursing, fortunately, was about to re-open. 
 Members of the alumnae association asked the board of 
 directors to please do it, and the board replied it would, 
 providing $4,012 could be raised to finance the first year. 
 Immediately a concentrated drive got under way, with Dr. 
 R. Zink Sanders assuming chairmanship of a group from 
 the alumnae association, assisted by Frank E. Walker, Mrs. 
 Lucile May, Mrs. Margaret Miller, Mrs. Rose Meely, Miss 
 Neva Bridgman and Miss Bertha Rickey. 
 
 Members of the board of directors cooperated fully, and 
 invitations were sent to five hundred people for a tea, to be 
 held in the ball room of the Decatur Club. Miss Neva 
 Bridgman was in charge of the affair, and people of Decatur, 
 including doctors and business men, responded generously. 
 The total amount of pledges received was $5,648. Shannon 
 couldn't attend, but she was rejoicing "back home" at her 
 switchboard, and later she told Neva Bridgman, "I knew 
 the alumnae would do it! It's wonderful! Now let's tell 
 those old Nazis where to get off!" She wasn't accustomed 
 to using expletives, but this was a war cry. 
 
 Almost immediately the war made a difference in the life 
 of the hospital. There was rationing, and shortage of 
 nurses, defense committees were formed, the skylight was 
 painted black in preparation for black-outs, and the federal 
 government wanted expansion of the hospital facilities in 
 Decatur because of two large defense plants there. The 
 Office of Civilian Defense organized a defense school of 
 
 209 
 
nursing, using the Red Cross and the faculty of the Decatur 
 and Macon County Hospital nursing school. 
 
 Now there was extra paper work; now there was need for 
 more auditing of hospital finances; the board was con- 
 fronted with new problems every day. Mr. R. C. McMillen, 
 chairman of the finance committee, reported meanwhile that 
 although there was an all-time record number of patients 
 (157) the percentage of collections was abnormally low and 
 the patient per day cost had increased sharply. 
 
 Mr. Frank Lindsay was chairman of a special committee 
 on hospital expansion. (Expand where? Shannon won- 
 dered. . . There was plenty of campus left, but where were 
 the materials? Who had priorities? These were war words.) 
 What Mr. Lindsay and his committee did first was to meet 
 with the mayor and city council regarding the possibility of 
 taking over the city public hospital; this matter was being 
 studied by a special group of doctors — and the city officials 
 said they would await a report from this medical committee 
 before considering it. 
 
 . . . Shannon predicted that the city hospital was out. (It 
 was.) 
 
 The next step was to confer with Mr. Henry Bolz about 
 possibilities of securing a grant of federal funds for building 
 a west wing onto the hospital. This struck sparks. 
 
 The red tape that ensued went 'round and 'round between 
 Decatur and Washington, enmeshing all committees of the 
 board, entailing reams of correspondence and form-filling, 
 securing architect's plans and estimates from contractors, 
 revising specifications, traveling almost constantly. 
 
 Part of the time Shannon felt that her own feet were en- 
 
 210 
 
tangled in the web of red tape, but Washington and federal 
 grants played second fiddle as far as she was concerned. 
 What worried her most was a new crisis blowing up between 
 the medical staff and the board. Goodness, she thought, I 
 wish they all loved each other — I love the staff and the 
 board ! I hate to have them think what I think they think. . . 
 
 The trouble concerned fee-splitting and medical records, 
 but especially medical records. 
 
 The board's stand was that the doctors must live up to 
 their part in earning accreditation for the hospital. Staff 
 members maintained that they were busy men — profes- 
 sionals in the business of saving lives, and it was no one 
 else's business how they achieved this. As for paper work, 
 how could they keep up-to-date on writing case histories 
 when they were behind in making calls? 
 
 Like all such arguments, the variants were in the minority 
 — the majority of staff members managed to follow the rules. 
 There were a few, however, that were resistant and un- 
 cooperative. Finally, on August 3, 1942, it was necessary 
 to send the following letter to all doctors on the medical 
 staff: 
 
 Gentlemen: 
 
 For a number of years the board of directors of the 
 Decatur and Macon County Hospital have been con- 
 cerned about the negligence of a few of our doctors in 
 completing their case records. We have personally and 
 through committees tried to correct this growing con- 
 dition through meetings with the offenders without suc- 
 cess. 
 
 211 
 
Now we have come to critical times: we are about to 
 graduate our first class of nurses in six years, we are 
 now requesting federal funds to build an addition to 
 our hospital, we are in a defense area with new prob- 
 lems and requirements. It has become necessary that 
 the board does everything in its power to keep our hos- 
 pital on the accredited list. The very success of our 
 hospital, ten years hence, may depend upon our ability 
 to keep this accredited rating. 
 
 . . . The medical staff, realizing that the last time we 
 lost our rating these records were of vital consideration 
 and also appreciating the seriousness of our present 
 position, have attempted to solve this situation, and 
 they too have failed. 
 
 Finally the hospital staff has adopted the following 
 addition to its by-laws: 
 
 "The hospital records committee shall be instructed 
 to look over the records before each staff meeting; 
 and the name of any staff member with records in- 
 complete more than 30 days after the discharge of 
 a patient shall be submitted to the staff; and the 
 staff shall recommend to the board that the hos- 
 pital's facilities be suspended to that staff member." 
 
 The board of directors unanimously approved the above 
 addition to the by-laws of the staff at its meeting, held 
 July 21, 1942. It is our sincere hope that any member 
 with incomplete records will take immediate steps to 
 
 212 
 
correct any violation of this by-law so that its enforce- 
 ment will be unnecessary. 
 
 Yours very truly, 
 
 Board of Directors 
 
 Decatur and Macon County Hospital 
 
 The above letter was signed by C. C. Nicholson, president, 
 and Carl W. Pritchett, secretary. 
 
 "That ought to fix everything up nicely," said Shannon 
 under her breath. "A hospital can't run without doctors — 
 that's sure." 
 
 It shocked her, therefore, to read in the minutes of a 
 meeting held the following month that five doctors were 
 recommended for suspension. 
 
 ... It was the end of the year before that crisis was suc- 
 cessfully past. 
 
 Meanwhile the idea of a new west wing had at least got 
 down to how-much. The hospital was asking for $235,600 
 from the government. The application was approved by 
 the Chicago office and forwarded to the Washington bureau 
 and within a short time Congressman Wheat wired Mr. 
 Nicholson announcing a grant to the hospital of $242,200. 
 A second telegram immediately afterward said that the grant 
 was for erecting a hospital to be owned by the federal gov- 
 ernment. 
 
 213 
 
"Why, that would be ridiculous! They can't own us!" 
 Shannon said it out loud to Mrs. Baird, the housekeeper. 
 
 "Would they fill the hospital with soldiers, do you mean?" 
 
 Shannon answered, "I have nothing against soldiers for 
 patients! What I mean is — who on earth would be boss 
 around here?" She shook her head. "Dr. Barnes wanted 
 that west wing to match the Millikin wing. Now I'll bet 
 the government will put up barracks and save all their 
 critical materials!" She was quite incensed about it. 
 
 Mr. E. B. Evans, then president of the board, came into 
 the hospital the next morning and said a cheerful good- 
 morning to her. "Mr. Evans," she said, "I know it's none 
 of my business, but Dr. Barnes wanted that west wing to 
 match Millikin." 
 
 He smiled and nodded. "Don't worry about it; the board's 
 working on it." 
 
 On her switchboard another white light flashed and at 
 the buzz of the switch, she slipped the matter of a hospital- 
 wing out of her mind and filed in its place the coming of a 
 new patient . . . name, address, doctor. . . Buzz — buzz — 
 click — click — Speaking in a low, distinct voice — with 
 nimble fingers, she went on doing her own job — forming a 
 connecting link between the hospital and an outside world. 
 Subconsciously, watching Mr. Evans go on, she knew he too, 
 was doing his job ; what was the use of worrying ? 
 
 Project Illinois 11-229 was now disturbing the sleep of 
 everyone concerned. As it finally turned out, the hospital 
 
 214 
 
association borrowed money to make a contribution of 
 $75,000 toward building the west wing, and the government 
 contributed the balance, with the understanding that the 
 hospital would build and own it. 
 
 The special building committee was made up of Mr. 
 McMillen, Mr. Foster, and Mr. Nicholson — and on Sep- 
 tember 7, 1943, the "building-proceed" order came through. 
 Mr. Nicholson told her, "The wing will be fireproof; you'll 
 like it." 
 
 Shannon had formed a mental image of Mr. Oscar Dorr, 
 but she had never actually seen him until he came into the 
 hospital one morning after foundations for the new wing 
 had been laid. When he spoke to her she was surprised to 
 see a gray-haired man of average height, neatly dressed, and 
 economical of every motion. His eyes were non-committal; 
 his hands were perfectly still; he did not shift his weight 
 when he asked for Mr. Evans. 
 
 "Mr. Evans is not in the hospital this morning, as far as 
 I know — " 
 
 "He's here," the man said laconically. And then they 
 both saw Mr. Evans coming through the entrance. 
 
 Mr. Evans explained, "I promised to meet Mr. Dorr in- 
 side; we've been over where the new wing is going up." 
 Glancing around the crowded lobby, he asked, "May we 
 sit back here for a minute?" 
 
 Shannon found two chairs for them near the switchboard, 
 secretly glad that she couldn't help overhearing their con- 
 
 215 
 
versation. 
 
 Mr. Evans asked, "Is there anything more you want to 
 know? I'll be glad to explain anything I can, but it's pretty 
 complicated." He looked at Mr. Dorr with a puzzled ex- 
 pression. "Oscar, why are you interested in the hospital all 
 of a sudden ? — Thinking of coming out here to live ? You 
 look real healthy to me." 
 
 Mr. Dorr ignored that. He asked, "Going to name it 
 after Jakey?" 
 
 " — You mean the new wing?" Mr. Evans asked. Mr. Dorr 
 nodded. "Ummm. . . I don't know. That hasn't been de- 
 cided." 
 
 Mr. Dorr coughed briefly. "No, suppose not. He didn't 
 leave enough money to build the whole thing. . ." 
 
 "No," agreed Mr. Evans, "but he gave more money than 
 anyone else has ever given. . ." 
 
 "More than Millikin gave?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You named a wing after Millikin." 
 
 "That's right — we did, didn't we?" Mr. Evans hesitated. 
 "As a matter of fact, Jakey's money isn't going into the new 
 wing at all. His money saved the hospital's life; it paid the 
 over-due bills; it paid the salaries; the hospital wouldn't be 
 functioning today if it hadn't been for him and some other 
 generous donors." 
 
 " — You on the board of directors, or something?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Hummm . . . well, good-bye." Oscar Dorr got up and 
 left. 
 
 Mr. Evans looked at Shannon, and Shannon looked at 
 
 216 
 
him. Neither of them said a word but Shannon saw a gleam 
 in Mr. Evans' eyes and she thought she knew what he was 
 thinking. 
 
 Mr. Frank Hoover was superintendent now; sometimes 
 Shannon had to blink and think real fast to remember. Since 
 Miss Cleland left, superintendents just seemed to weave in 
 and out of her life: Wipperman, Garrison, Castlelaw, 
 Hodge, Bethel, Pohlman, and now Hoover. 
 
 One day Mrs. Baird told Shannon about a sad sight she 
 had just witnessed in the corridor of second Main. She 
 reported there was a family of five standing together there 
 in a huddled group: a middle-aged man and his wife with 
 three children, probably in their late teens or early twenties. 
 Another child, a young man, had been in an accident, fatally 
 burned, and was now in emergency. All of these people were 
 distraught, shocked, trying not to show their grief. Mrs. 
 Baird said, "I feel so terribly sorry for them! They have 
 absolutely no place to go for privacy. I asked Mr. Hoover 
 if I could take them to some vacant room, temporarily, but 
 there are no vacant rooms!" 
 
 Shannon suggested bringing them into the lobby; perhaps 
 they could fetch a screen and give them privacy that way 
 in some corner. But she looked around and there was no 
 unoccupied space at all; the lobby was crowded. 
 
 Mrs. Baird said, "Well, I'm going to do something!" 
 
 Her idea was too late to help this particular family, but 
 in the years to come it blessed a great many other grieving 
 
 217 
 
relatives and friends. After a conference with Mrs. Johnson 
 and Mrs. Holt of the Sans Souci Club, a special room was set 
 aside in Main, as a "family room," and was beautifully 
 furnished by Sans Souci in 1944, as the result of Mrs. Baird's 
 really caring about hospital visitors. 
 
 In 1945 several things of importance happened. The 
 hospital appealed to the community in a general drive for 
 funds, seeking $236,500 urgently needed to meet war needs, 
 liquidate debts, build an addition to the nurses' home, ex- 
 pand the laundry, and revamp the operating suite for addi- 
 tional surgery. Mr. A. M. Metzler headed this campaign 
 with some wonderful workers under his direction, and it 
 was highly successful. 
 
 Then Mr. H. Robert Haupt succeeded Mr. Hoover as 
 superintendent. 
 
 "Lots of H's to keep track of," Shannon said to Mrs. 
 Baird, "Hodge . . . Hoover . . . Haupt." She sighed. "I 
 wish superintendents would stay around awhile longer. They 
 don't break down and tell me anything until they're about 
 ready to leave; we don't have a chance to get real well ac- 
 quainted." 
 
 Mrs. Baird smiled. "Mr. Haupt's a hustler." 
 
 "Gracious, yes! He runs wherever he goes ! And he helps 
 do everything around here — he helps the painters, the car- 
 penters, the bookkeeper, the menu-makers. I'll bet he knows 
 more about this hospital than any other superintendent ever 
 did. This morning he was down in the elevator shaft because 
 
 218 
 
something went wrong. . . And he doesn't even have a sec- 
 retary to help him." 
 
 It was in 1945, too, that the Latham wing was opened for 
 service, adding 102 beds. On the day of dedication, Shan- 
 non's most persistent thought was — "Dr. Barnes planned 
 this in the very beginning. I think he sees us and is glad." 
 
 It was in August that the year's importance came clear to 
 people all over the world, for the first atomic bomb was 
 dropped and World War II came to an end. 
 
 219 
 
growing bigger 
 
 Now the hospital was thirty years old, in point of service. 
 
 From a small seed, well-contained, Mrs. Hagaman's first 
 thought about it had been clear and uncomplicated — the 
 first growth of her idea easy to comprehend. Easy, too, was 
 getting acquainted with those in the early years who nur- 
 tured the hospital and sacrificed to save it. But by 1946 the 
 idea had become a great branching tree — seen only as a 
 painter sees a tree — in massive outline. No longer could 
 separate leaves be counted nor twigs on which they grew 
 registered historically. 
 
 Hundreds were tending the tree now, pruning and feeding 
 it — each in his or her way making a specialized contribution 
 to keep it alive and thriving. Individually they were re- 
 ceiving little glory, but an exciting fact was that the newest 
 growth — the topmost branches in 1946 — were someday to 
 become lower branches themselves, holding up new growth. 
 
 One afternoon while the new laundry was under con- 
 
 220 
 
struction, Miss Mildred Moore was giving a physical therapy 
 treatment to a little boy with cerebral palsy. It was late in 
 the day and this was probably her last patient. The child's 
 mother was standing beside them looking on. 
 
 After awhile she saw Miss Moore lift her head and sniff. 
 
 "I smell something, too," she told her. 
 
 "Just a minute," said Miss Moore. "I'll tell one of the 
 men to investigate." She opened the door to the corridor and 
 called to a maintenance man. "I smell smoke." 
 
 He said, "Maybe tar — the new laundry — " But he sniffed, 
 too. 
 
 "It smells like feathers — " she said, frowning. 
 
 "Tar and feathers — " He laughed. "Don't worry; it's 
 neither of us." 
 
 She returned to her patient but she wasn't satisfied. After 
 a moment she excused herself again and opened a door 
 leading to an enclosed treatment cubicle. Horrified, she saw 
 flames licking over the mattress and pillow, and in the draft 
 from the door, fire leaped to a curtain separating it from 
 another cubicle. 
 
 Running past her patient, she cried to his mother. "Call 
 the switchboard ! Tell them not to alarm anybody, but we 
 need help! Then you and the boy get out of here!" 
 
 In an instant she was back with a fire extinguisher, pulling 
 the trigger as she ran. The smoke was bad now; dropping 
 on her knees to the floor for fresher air, she trained the 
 nozzle on the flames, hoping — waiting — 
 
 . . . Why didn't somebody come? This contraption was 
 running dry — Just on the other side of double doors was 
 the elevator shaft and the open stairwell. And great stores 
 
 221 
 
of linen for the entire hospital were in the room just be- 
 yond — 
 
 . . . Why didn't somebody come? 
 
 She coughed, and all of a sudden the breath seemed to 
 drain out of her — she felt defeated — the tank in her arms 
 dead. At the same moment the fire leaped to a second cot. 
 
 "Use the fire extinguisher!" shouted a man. It was Mr. 
 Haupt running to her side. 
 
 "This is empty!" she cried. "You go get another!" 
 
 Dimly she saw that Shannon was there, her mouth open 
 in terror. 
 
 Then almost at once Mr. Haupt was rushing back. He 
 aimed another froth of chemical into the second cot, and 
 that saved the day, smothering the last of the flames. 
 
 Shaken and coughing, the three of them stared at each 
 other and at the charred mess. 
 
 Suddenly there was pandemonium outside, people calling, 
 "What's wrong? What's happened?" Miss Moore leaped 
 to the door, determined to prevent the spread of the news to 
 patients upstairs. "Nobody can come in!" she shouted 
 through the closed door, locking it. "We have a mess in 
 here, but everything's all right." She pulled the sleeve of 
 her uniform across her eyes, smudging her nose. "You 
 can't come in! You can't come in!" she kept saying. 
 
 Then someone outside shouted the word. "Is there a 
 fire?" 
 
 Miss Moore turned. "Mr. Haupt — come here! Keep them 
 out! They'll panic!" 
 
 He called through the door, "Everything's all right. There 
 is no fire." 
 
 222 
 
When things were quiet again, the door bolted, the 
 windows flung wide for fresh air, Mr. Haupt asked Miss 
 Moore, "Now what caused this? Were you smoking?" 
 
 Indignantly Shannon came to her defense. "Miss Moore 
 never smokes!" 
 
 "Who was in here last?" 
 
 "An orderly — ?" Miss Moore was still shaken. 
 
 Mr. Haupt said, "I hate to think what would have hap- 
 pened if you'd gone home half an hour ago. . . Here on the 
 first floor — with the stairwell for a chimney!" 
 
 "Miss Moore's a heroine," Shannon said. 
 
 "Phooey!" said Miss Moore. 
 
 "We've got to get to the bottom of this," Mr. Haupt de- 
 clared. He looked toward Shannon. "Who phoned the 
 switchboard?" 
 
 Miss Moore answered for her. "It was the mother of a 
 patient. She was the only one here with me." 
 
 "I couldn't understand what she said," Shannon explained 
 — "something about having to get out — I didn't even hear 
 there was a fire. Just trouble. — Trouble of some kind. So 
 I called you — " 
 
 He frowned. "Get that orderly in here," he commanded. 
 
 He had just said it when there was insistent pounding on 
 the door again. He opened it and saw the orderly himself 
 standing there. "I want my sweater — " he began. Then he 
 sniffed. 
 
 "Did you set this hospital on fire?" Mr. Haupt demanded 
 in an ominous voice. 
 
 "What, sir?" He was outraged. 
 
 Shannon intervened. "A cot burned in there — " She 
 
 223 
 
pointed. 
 
 The orderly stared and his face whitened. 
 
 Mr. Haupt asked, "How long since you were in that 
 room?" 
 
 "At least an hour ago." 
 
 "Were you smoking?" 
 
 "Probably— Yes—" 
 
 "Did you put your cigarette out?" 
 
 "Why I suppose — of course — " 
 
 "Are you certain? Do you remember — ?" 
 
 The young man stared, shaking his head. "All I remember 
 is that I left my sweater in there on the cot — I was just 
 coming back for it now." 
 
 "Well," Miss Moore told him, "your sweater's gone — 
 with the wind." 
 
 Shannon told him, "You ought to have heard Miss Moore 
 bossing the boss around! 'Go get a fire extinguisher!' . . . 
 'Come here!' 'Keep those people out!' " 
 
 "I'd have bossed the mayor/' Miss Moore said, "if he'd 
 been handy!" 
 
 . . . And so the unbearable tension began to dissolve. 
 
 "I got quite a charge," she added, "out of the way Mr. 
 Haupt stood straight up and shot — like a man ! I was grovel- 
 ing down on the floor." 
 
 Other emergencies came and went — part of the pattern 
 of things in a hospital. And then there were those hardly- 
 noticed developments that turned out to be significant . . . 
 
 224 
 
like the time Mr. Frank Walker met Mr. Oscar Dorr on a 
 street-corner downtown and planted notions in his head 
 about those sometime-times in life when lawyers and trust 
 companies are just as necessary as doctors and hospitals . . . 
 and like the time when the boy from Weldon broke his leg 
 . . . and like the time Herman Schultz was caught napping 
 under a tree in mid-day. . . 
 
 Herman, for instance, had had a hard morning's work on 
 a mid-summer day, but how was the new superintendent to 
 know he'd been there since dawn? He was at once fired 
 from the job that Dr. Barnes had created for him "for life", 
 and soon after that the board had discussions about dis- 
 posing of the vegetable garden, renting out ground back of 
 the hospital on a share basis for raising corn, and eliminating 
 flowers bordering the front walk because of excessive cost 
 in maintaining them. 
 
 And then there was the boy from Weldon; he was brought 
 to the hospital by his mother who was in a highly emo- 
 tional state. "To think — just to think that / ever had to 
 come to this place!" Later, while she waited in the lobby 
 to hear the outcome of her son's operation, she fiercely 
 resented a burst of laughter among office employees. Angrily 
 she advanced on them as they were enjoying some joke, 
 and said, "How dare you laugh in this house of sorrow and 
 tragedy?" 
 
 Shannon felt sorry for her, sat down and talked with her, 
 made inquiries for her about the boy's progress, and brought 
 back a report — but the mother did not thank her. 
 
 It was not until long afterward, when Shannon had almost 
 forgotten about it, that the mother came into the hospital 
 
 225 
 
one morning, asking for Mrs. Shannon. "You've been on 
 my conscience," she confessed. "Always before that day, 
 when I used to pass the hospital, I hated it and feared it. 
 And when my boy had to be brought here, I was in a stew. . . 
 Now I know how fine the hospital is; I think God sent that 
 trouble on purpose to show me." And she made a donation 
 to the campaign funds. 
 
 Also there was that morning when Mr. Evans found Mr. 
 Dorr waiting in the corridor of the Decatur Club building 
 when he arrived to open the office. "Come on in, Oscar — " 
 
 They sat down near his desk. "What's on your mind?" 
 
 Without any preliminary, Mr. Dorr handed him a legal 
 document that turned out to be his will. Mr. Evans glanced 
 at it tentatively. Mr. Dorr said, "Go on and read it." 
 
 The room was quiet, but pulsating with the excitement 
 of the two men. As Mr. Evans folded back each page with 
 a little crackle of sound, Mr. Dorr watched his face closely. 
 Mr. Evans gave no sign except the occasional locking of a 
 small muscle in his jaw. When the careful reading was 
 done, he looked over at Mr. Dorr and congratulated him 
 warmly. "That's a wonderful, wonderful thing, Oscar." 
 
 Oscar pretended indifference. He stood up, took the 
 document back and slipped it into his pocket. "Well, good- 
 bye." And he left. 
 
 The mutual trust and understanding between Mr. Evans 
 and Mr. Dorr continued, and when Oscar went to the De- 
 catur and Macon County Hospital as a patient, his friend EB 
 
 226 
 
was a regular visitor at his bedside, bringing eggnogs twice 
 a week, and chatting about things that interested them both. 
 Mr. Dorr meanwhile had consented to having a lock-box. 
 One day he said urgently, "EB, go down and get my money 
 out of there." 
 
 Mr. Evans hesitated a long time. "With someone," he 
 said finally. 
 
 "No — go alone." 
 
 "What'll I do with it if I get it?" 
 
 "Well, put it on the books at Radford, of course." 
 
 Mr. Evans shook his head. 
 
 "Then bring it to the hospital! Don't be bull-headed!" 
 
 It turned out that Mr. Dorr's box contained $47,000 in 
 cash. But by this time any feeling of sentiment he may have 
 felt for the hospital as his sole heir, was cracking under 
 the misery of illness. Suffering from cancer, he complained 
 constantly about the food, and one day his anger mounted 
 to explosive proportions. 
 
 Unknown to Mr. Evans or the hospital he succeeded in 
 packing his suitcase and getting out of there. When Mr. 
 Evans finally found him relocated at St. Mary's, he forebore 
 to scold. Solicitous and friendly as always, he heard him out 
 about the terrible food at Decatur and Macon County Hos- 
 pital, then asked mildly, "Food better over here?" 
 
 "No!" — Of course not, thought Mr. Evans with com- 
 passion ; seriously ill patients seldom like food of any quality, 
 anywhere. 
 
 227 
 
It was about three weeks later that Mr. Dorr died in St. 
 Mary's at the age of seventy-seven. 
 
 When it became known that he had willed his entire 
 fortune to the Decatur and Macon County Hospital, a prom- 
 inent attorney asked Mr. Evans, "Who in the world is Oscar 
 Dorr? Never heard of him." 
 
 "Well, you're going to hear about him for the rest of 
 your life — " 
 
 A banker asked, "Any idea about what his farms will 
 sell for?" 
 
 "Maybe $400,000—" The banker whistled. Mr. Evans 
 said, "Net." 
 
 A few days later he was calling on Mr. Walker, a neigh- 
 bor across the street, who was ill in his home. Mr. Walker 
 said, "The hospital can thank you for Dorr's bequest." 
 
 "Oh no!" disclaimed Mr. Evans. Then he added, "You 
 may have had something to do with it yourself, Frank. 
 You've done a lot for the hospital, and talked with him a 
 number of times about banks and lawyers — " 
 
 Frank chuckled, shaking his head. "You seem to forget 
 I was raising funds for Millikin University then. If I'd had 
 any say about it, Oscar's money might have gone to Mil- 
 likin — " 
 
 Thus, once again, there were intertwining influences, 
 subtle but strong. These thoughts ran through Mr. Evans' 
 mind when he went up to St. Luke's hospital in Chicago, 
 on business for the Decatur hospital board. Dr. Selim 
 
 228 
 
McArthur introduced him to Dr. Pollock, and after a 
 friendly chat, he called a guide to take Mr. Evans on a tour 
 of inspection through St. Luke's. Selim said to the guide, 
 "Show him everything except x-ray and physical therapy." 
 
 This intrigued Mr. Evans and he demanded to know why 
 the two exceptions. 
 
 Selim laughed and admitted a little sheepishly, "Dr. Pol- 
 lock and I have been very unpopular with the board here 
 because we're always talking about what Decatur has in 
 x-ray that we haven't." 
 
 Then Dr. Pollock added enviously, "And you have the 
 best student I ever had, too, — Mildred Moore in physical 
 therapy." 
 
 On the train, returning home, Mr. Evans jotted down 
 other statistics he had gathered about Decatur and Macon 
 County Hospital equipment ... it had obtained the seventh 
 deep-therapy machine in the United States ... the thirty- 
 first luminagraph . . . and many other top-modern pieces of 
 equipment before the Decatur hospital was really entitled 
 to them. 
 
 ... It was Dr. Barnes' handiwork mostly; Dr. Barnes 
 started bamboozling everybody into getting whatever was 
 "best for the hospital" — sometimes by paying cash in ad- 
 vance — sometimes by sheer force of personality. And 
 through the years since his death, most new equipment, as 
 soon as it became available, seemed to gravitate to Decatur. 
 
 Too, a member of the medical staff had recently told Mr. 
 
 229 
 
Evans about making a speech in New York. After mention- 
 ing one piece of equipment after another, and indicating 
 how each was needed in a modern hospital, some doctor 
 in the audience protested, "Yes, but what hospital would 
 have all that?" 
 
 "We have," was the quiet answer. 
 
 It made Mr. Evans proud: proud of living in the Decatur 
 community, proud of being on the board of directors of 
 D&MCH, but most of all — proud of Dr. William Barnes, 
 a lifelong friend of his family's — and of Dr. McArthur, his 
 personal friend. Still, Mr. Evans knew full well that pride 
 can be a dangerous thing. When he stopped at the informa- 
 tion desk the next morning, he told Shannon of his pride — 
 but also of his fears. "Without Dr. Barnes, we may not 
 always be able to keep up our standards — " he started to 
 say. 
 
 But she smiled, renewing his confidence. "His influence 
 is still alive; it always will be." 
 
 After Mr. Evans had left, though, her face sobered. The 
 hospital had had bumps before; there were signs on the 
 horizon right now that she didn't like. . . There was serious 
 unrest among the nurses again. Room rates had to be in- 
 creased and that would stir up a furor. But Shannon's 
 chief worry was the Latham wing. Almost new, the Latham 
 wing — built with war materials — was already showing 
 weaknesses; the roof had to be repaired and insulation added 
 at great expense. The new laundry costs were exceeding 
 estimates. Steam rates to the tuberculosis sanatorium and 
 the city hospital had to be increased. An offer to buy the 
 garden plot for $30,000 was refused. A new pediatric de- 
 
 230 
 
partment was opened on first Millikin. A fly ash problem 
 became acute when neighbors complained to the hospital. 
 Some of the best nurses began accepting offers to serve in 
 doctors' offices downtown, further aggravating the hospital's 
 nurse shortage. 
 
 "I'd hate to be superintendent of this place!" declared 
 Shannon to herself. Mr. Philip Hagan was employed to 
 help with details, and Mrs. Gola Mahon was employed to 
 be secretary, but Mr. Haupt was obliged to make so many 
 out-of-town trips that he had little time to orient Mr. Hagan 
 and Mrs. Mahon in their jobs. 
 
 As Shannon waited for the elevator one morning, Mr. 
 Haupt came rushing up to second Main, taking the stairs 
 two steps at a time, with Miss Moore close behind him. Her 
 first thought was — why is Mildred chasing him? But by 
 that time he had bounded on up the next flight of stairs 
 toward third, and Miss Moore stopped beside her, panting. 
 
 He called down, "What's the matter? Can't you take it?" 
 
 "Naw!" Then Miss Moore turned toward Shannon. 
 "Can't you do something to keep that man from racing his 
 motor?" 
 
 But she couldn't, of course. No one could; least of all, 
 the man himself. 
 
 When Shannon arrived the next morning, something 
 mysterious seemed to pervade the place. Mr. Hagan sum- 
 moned Mrs. Mahon to his office, and when she returned to 
 her desk, her mouth was tight and secret — an unusual look 
 for her to have. 
 
 231 
 
"Has anything happened?" Shannon asked her co-work- 
 ers. . . They didn't know of anything. "Where's Mr. 
 Haupt?" 
 
 "Haven't seen him this morning." 
 
 Shannon went on with her work, troubled and wondering, 
 but saying nothing more. When three members of the 
 board — Mr. Robert Murphey, Mr. Clark McMillen, and Mr. 
 Evans — came out about mid-morning, with the same grim, 
 secret look on their faces, she knew. . . 
 
 . . . Something had happened to Mr. Haupt! But she'd 
 simply have to wait — without asking questions — until some- 
 one told her. 
 
 The rest of the day was a blur. Shannon watched the 
 flashing lights on her switchboard, plugging calls in and 
 out, commanding her own backbone to stiffen. When she 
 learned that Mr. Haupt was a patient in the hospital — that 
 no one could talk with him — that no one knew what to do — 
 she realized that once again the ship had no rudder. Mrs. 
 Mahon, looking young and vulnerable, said, over and over 
 again — "I don't know — !" Mr. Hagan insisted, "I think he 
 took his files home with him — he worked like a fiend — " 
 
 And then after many days and nights Mr. Haupt was 
 reported somewhat better, but unable to talk. When Shan- 
 non finally realized this was not because of weakness nor 
 because he didn't desperately want to explain things, but 
 because, like Dr. Barnes' sister, God had taken the power 
 of speech from him, she knew the profound pity she felt for 
 
 232 
 
so many people going in and out of these hospital doors. . . 
 Yet in this case she could not be of any use, could not say 
 the word of comfort that usually helped a little. It was 
 symbolic of the emergency that others, as well as she, had 
 to reach into a deep source of self-reliance and find their 
 way out of the emergency. 
 
 When Mr. Haupt was finally able to return home, but 
 still unable to speak, it was proof of his popularity that 
 friends on the board and throughout the hospital continued 
 to do all they could toward softening the blow that had 
 struck him and making his years of readjustment as easy as 
 possible. 
 
 233 
 
stunning determination 
 
 Experts had announced in the thirties that the United 
 States was no longer growing, and directors of the Decatur 
 and Macon County Hospital were deploring the over- 
 abundance of hospital rooms. No one was prepared for the 
 explosion of population beginning in 1947; least of all, hos- 
 pitals. But by 1951, with population still mounting up and 
 up, Macon County had a crisis on its hands. 
 
 The hospital needed to get bigger — right away; the call 
 for its services was outgrowing its capacities. 
 
 Mr. Leon C. Pullen, Jr., the new administrator, had been 
 born the year the hospital opened; now it was fitting that he 
 should be the first to hold a master's degree in hospital ad- 
 ministration, taking the reins at a time of expansion. 
 
 Shannon limped home one gentle spring afternoon that 
 year, feeling weary and somehow disheartened; it might 
 be spring fever, she supposed with a shrug; but — well — no 
 — she wouldn't admit it. What she did admit was that the 
 hospital seemed to be towering over her instead of her 
 towering over it. Land! The doctors used to park their 
 children with her, and she thought nothing of holding 
 
 234 
 
kindergarten at the same time she was dealing with matters 
 of life and death at the switchboard. Even when she'd first 
 been given her new receptionist-job-with-a-title, she'd con- 
 tinued to feel the pulse-beat of the whole hospital for awhile 
 — the patients and their relatives and friends; she knew 
 who got the most mail, who failed to get any, and flowers 
 ditto. She noted them all; she sympathized with them all. 
 And the doctors and heads of departments and cooks and 
 bottle-washers and mopper-uppers ; she knew them by name 
 and she thought they were wonderful. And the arithme- 
 tickers, as she called them — those who toiled with figures in 
 credit, purchasing, billing, and the controller's office, solving 
 problems and punching machines beyond her understanding, 
 yet often stopping to tell her of their personal joys and 
 sorrows. And the nurses, bless their hearts (including her 
 niece), rustling with clean uniforms, crisp caps, their heads 
 full of knowing-what-to-do, and their hearts (she hoped) 
 in the right place. . . 
 
 Now it was almost as if these hundreds of friends were 
 melding into combinations too intricate to comprehend — a 
 mass of humanity occupying a mass of buildings with two 
 massive wings. Mr. Pullen, she admitted, seemed to know 
 what he was about. But how could he care? You can't care 
 about masses, can you ? She sighed. Walking slowly, paying 
 little heed to the pretty day or new green lacing the trees, 
 she felt the hospital was too big to be seen as a whole any 
 more; it stretched around corners and had beds in its cor- 
 ridors and threatened to split at its seams. 
 
 Someday, she thought with a shudder, the old boiler will 
 split its seams ; and that scared her, for fear of harm coming 
 
 235 
 
to Mr. Rhoades, the engineer; she and Mr. Rhoades were 
 top-senior members of the hospital family now; they'd been 
 here ever since 1920. 
 
 Turning toward the walk leading to her front door, she 
 glimpsed some lilies-of-the-valley growing alongside. As 
 she stooped to pick a few, the pale green stems gave gentle 
 squeaks in her hand, and the clean fragrance of the flowers 
 tugged at memories of other springs. Closing her eyes and 
 sniffing, she allowed tensions about the hospital to slip from 
 her. For after all, she thought, she still had friends; she 
 still had pay-checks; why didn't she just leave the worrying 
 to Mr. Pullen after this? The thing to remember was: the 
 hospital had turned a corner; the hospital had raised its 
 sights. 
 
 It was no novelty to Shannon to have to work overtime; 
 often she didn't go home until after dark. But one night in 
 June of 1952 she was asked to do something she'd never 
 done before; she was asked to be a policewoman! — or at 
 least a traffic officer. It seemed that a very-special, top-secret 
 meeting would be held at the hospital that night in the 
 dining room, which was the only available space. But there 
 would be lack of privacy there, with people passing back 
 and forth through to Latham. Shannon's job would be to 
 keep them moving — to make sure they didn't loiter nor 
 eavesdrop nor make a lot of noise. 
 
 She fulfilled this assignment conscientiously and tactfully, 
 but it never occurred to her to blush over eavesdropping, 
 
 236 
 
herself. Maybe the directors believed her old enough and 
 hard of hearing enough to pay them no heed, but she 
 listened as much as she could whenever she could, consistent 
 with her job of preventing others from doing it. 
 
 There were reports of all kinds of schemes to get more 
 room for hospital beds and surgery and x-ray and o.b. 
 They'd tried to persuade the city fathers to hand over the 
 near-empty city hospital, but it was no go. They'd planned 
 to put a new building to the north and experts told them it 
 couldn't be done. They'd planned to put a new building to 
 the east, with the same result. There was no other direction 
 to go except south, because the t.b. san was west — and of 
 course that would spoil the hospital's looks from out-front. 
 One after another the reports were given and analyzed. 
 
 Shannon listened and watched and kept the traffic moving, 
 but she couldn't hear everything, and she couldn't sit down 
 at all. The one thing she knew for sure was that each one 
 of those nice men and women around the table was caring 
 terribly about the future of the hospital. Mr. Pullen, appar- 
 ently calm, wanted a grand new building terribly; she could 
 tell by the way he hunched his tweed shoulders into folds 
 and made fists of his hands on the table top. Mr. Abbott 
 cared terribly, too. He was president of the board and if 
 the directors failed the community in this crisis he would feel 
 personally responsible. Mr. Wagner told them flatly what 
 was what, but it ended on a question mark. Mr. Staley 
 seemed only to be listening — listening intently. 
 
 Then she heard something that almost threw her into 
 shock; they said they needed half a million dollars! And 
 before she'd recovered from that, it seemed that half-a- 
 
 237 
 
million wasn't half enough and they were talking about a 
 million ! 
 
 Now she could see that the problem was so enormous, 
 the need so awfully real, and the obstacles so awfully great, 
 that a battle of wits was imminent. She wished that Dr. 
 Barnes could come back and give them leadership. And yet, 
 to be perfectly fair, she knew these men and women were 
 wise and strong and courageous; they were perfectly able 
 to carry the banner Dr. Barnes had given them. His grand- 
 son, William Barnes III was present, for one thing. And she 
 had great admiration and respect for Mr. Abbott and Mr. 
 Wagner and Mr. Staley — in fact, for every single individual 
 sitting at that table this night. 
 
 She didn't like it, though, when everyone fell silent at 
 once; that meant fear or indecision or a stalemate. She 
 couldn't hear all the words but she could tell by the tone 
 of voice, or rather by the tune of voices being played around 
 the table, what sort of words were spoken. One person 
 tossed out a note of warning and, according to the way it 
 was received, she knew that the next speaker was saying 
 some more of the same — or something contradictory. This 
 had been going on for quite awhile, sounding more and 
 more desultory, as if the discussion were going downhill; 
 then the tune came to a dead stop, and she knew it was bad. 
 
 Mr. Abbott finally said with firm decisiveness, "We've 
 consulted with the experts and architects, and we have the 
 estimates. The question before us is simply this: Are we 
 going to do the minimum — half-a-million dollars — or are 
 we going to do nothing at all?" 
 
 There was a sudden chorus: 
 
 238 
 
"We must have new surgeries! The old ones are not 
 explosion-proof, and the elevator is unreliable." 
 
 "X-ray is over-jammed. And so is pathology." 
 
 "We simply have to have more beds!" 
 
 "We'll be a second-rate hospital if we do nothing!" 
 
 When Mr. Abbott spoke next, he said it seemed that the 
 majority wanted to do something — rather than nothing. 
 Then he addressed each individual in turn, around the table, 
 asking for opinions. With the exception of three or four, 
 the consensus was that something was necessary, but that 
 half-a-million was too much. 
 
 "But half-a-million is minimum," Mr. Abbott reminded 
 them. He tapped the sheaf of figures before him; then he 
 repeated, "half-a-million or nothing." 
 
 Someone mentioned the Dorr money. Someone else 
 mentioned the Winslow-Hall family fund. Another said, 
 "Can we manage half-a-million without going to the com- 
 munity for funds? That amount would scare people to 
 death!" 
 
 "And remember — Millikin University is going to put on 
 a drive for a new science hall; that will be a third-of-a- 
 million." 
 
 "After all — folks around here are not rich!" 
 
 Mr. Abbott reminded them of another fact, saying, 
 "When the boiler plant exploded last month, the damage 
 was so great that our consulting engineers advise us now to 
 double the capacity of the old boiler. We're lucky that more 
 people were not injured, or that it didn't happen in winter- 
 time." 
 
 Mr. Wagner said, "It's the price of two boilers, really. 
 
 239 
 
Since it's impossible to obtain a new boiler before winter, 
 we have to buy a second-hand one for the interim. There's 
 the purchase price, the dismantling, the transportation, and 
 the re-assembly here — also an auxiliary steam line is neces- 
 sary because steam is leaking in the tunnels." He paused. 
 "It means overhauling everything, including hot water 
 tanks — It means using up our unrestricted capital." 
 
 It was growing later now, and traffic was quieter. Shannon 
 found a chair and sat down, trying to keep her eyes away 
 from the conference table, but cocking her ears, just the 
 same. 
 
 A discussion followed about compromises and economies 
 that would have to be made to shave the million-dollar 
 estimates down to the reality of half-a-million. Beds would 
 have to wait. Latham basement would have to be utilized 
 for x-ray and pathology. The obstetrical floor might be on 
 the second story of a new building, but the third floor would 
 have to wait for more funds. And there were other com- 
 promises. . . 
 
 Finally Mr. Staley spoke, and his voice had a quality of 
 leadership and confidence that was new to the discussion. 
 "The funds to do this job will have to come from the com- 
 munity rather than relying on our unrestricted capital funds. 
 Now let's see if we can make it a million and do it right!" 
 Everyone sat straighter; everyone was watching his face. 
 "Our company will help," he continued. "We'll consider it 
 a good investment in the community where we live and do 
 business." 
 
 Shannon could hardly believe her ears but from that 
 moment on, led by Mr. Wagner, the voices around the table 
 
 240 
 
started to climb uphill and the people stopped mopping 
 their brows. 
 
 "A million is the right figure, of course — " said someone. 
 
 "We wouldn't have to make compromises, if we went all 
 the way — " 
 
 "Nothing like it has ever been raised in Decatur before; 
 it would be a challenge — " 
 
 "Perhaps professional fund-raisers could put it over — " 
 
 It wasn't long before Shannon read an exciting newspaper 
 announcement — that Millikin University was launching a 
 drive for $300,000 at the same time that Decatur and Macon 
 County Hospital was launching a drive for $1,000,000. 
 
 This had an impact on the whole of Macon County toward 
 the end of 1952. Every private citizen began to wonder: 
 When will they come after me and my pocketbook ? To ask 
 for a hundred more hospital beds all of a sudden — and to 
 plan construction of a new science hall at Millikin — this 
 combination was a stunning announcement. It meant that 
 every public-spirited citizen must either freeze his assets or 
 generate new generosity. 
 
 William Barnes III, bouncing with youth and confidence, 
 was made general chairman of the hospital fund drive. An 
 army of women, under the direction of Mrs. Carlos Lyon, 
 now joined an army of men recruited under A. E. Staley, Jr., 
 vice chairman of the campaign, E. B. Evans, chairman of the 
 special gifts section, and Dr. F. G. Irwin, chairman of the 
 doctors' section. 
 
 241 
 
— How can they ever do it? Shannon asked herself that 
 as she watched and listened and cheered them on, for she 
 still couldn't believe there was that much money that near 
 home. 
 
 After awhile meetings were held every noon at the De- 
 catur Club — with Bill Barnes tossing aside doubts and 
 making incredulity unpopular, just as his grandfather had 
 done in knocking down arguments over the purchase of real 
 estate two miles north. No second-best would do for the 
 hospital; they were going all the way! 
 
 The Staley Company's pledge of $200,000 was quickly 
 followed by pledges from other industries, aggregating 
 double that, and more. The doctors' and dentists' drive 
 mushroomed to over $145,000. And by February 1953, 
 individuals and clubs throughout the area had guaran- 
 teed the biggest capital fund goal in the history of the 
 city. 
 
 Shannon was reading the papers eagerly and saying in her 
 heart good for you . . . good for you. . . 
 
 A victory dinner for campaign workers March 4, 1953, 
 celebrated over-subscription of the million-dollar drive by 
 almost $73,000 — and Mrs. D. M. Burner, who had started 
 working for the hospital as little Virginia Baldwin, selling 
 garden flowers and lemonade, now presented William 
 Barnes III with a giant medal of recognition, saying that if 
 everyone had worked as hard as he had, three million dollars 
 would have been subscribed. . . 
 
 There was merriment that night, and exultation. The 
 hospital was assured the extra room it needed — and the 
 expensive new equipment and modern safeguards to keep 
 
 242 
 
it up to date. It would seem now, that there was nothing 
 more to worry about. 
 
 Perhaps Mr. Pullen was not worried but he was present 
 when the idea of a new organization was proposed later in 
 the year to ease the strain of extra-curricular demands on 
 employees and furnish new touches of beauty and new 
 equipment not allowed by regular operating funds. The 
 women's service league had been active for a long time and 
 had accomplished immeasurable good, but now a group 
 was needed for a new function: to fill the gap between 
 work done by regular paid personnel and the time and money 
 needed from volunteers. 
 
 Three civic-minded women present that morning in Mr. 
 Pullen's office agreed that each of them would call ten others 
 and ask them in turn to call five more. This started a chain 
 reaction that resulted in an enthusiastic meeting in the 
 nurses' home early in 1954. In addition to the women, two 
 men were present to outline the needs for a women's aux- 
 iliary: Leon C. Pullen, Jr. and William Barnes III. 
 
 Mrs. Fraser Bassett was appointed temporary chairman 
 and as she stood before them with her no-nonsense charm, 
 the meeting began to go places. There were scattered notes 
 of caution here and there, and a few women raised objections 
 to the idea of more work and more money, but when Fanny 
 said, "By golly, we'll do it," they began to do it. She 
 appointed a nominating committee and a constitution com- 
 mittee, which soon resulted in the necessary framework for 
 
 243 
 
a women's auxiliary and the election of Mrs. Carl Dick, Sr. 
 as its first president. 
 
 Margaret Dick had leadership that was unique, and in 
 addition a determination to help the hospital to which her 
 late husband had been devoted. She cared so much about 
 the success of the new organization that she steam-rollered 
 over petty alibis, got her daughter Peggy to go along with 
 her, attended an AHA meeting in the fall, started new 
 draperies singing through sewing machines, and accused any 
 co-workers who lagged behind that their faces were red. 
 When her chin went up and her satiric wit got busy, no one 
 could resist the demands she made, and within the short 
 time between that first meeting and her death two years 
 later, the auxiliary had become an indispensable part of the 
 hospital and was hard at work on a dozen important projects. 
 
 244 
 
24 
 
 evolutions 
 
 As Shannon watched bulldozers plow trees up-under and 
 the new building take shape to the south, she wondered if 
 this wing would have a name. Attached to Latham, it 
 might lose its identity, but if separately christened Oscar 
 Dorr, as she hoped, it would remind future generations of 
 a man smart enough to amass a fortune and kind enough 
 to benefit stricken people by leaving his fortune to the hos- 
 pital. 
 
 And so it came to pass. With the Oscar Dorr wing built 
 and ready to serve, Shannon felt that the struggles and 
 hardships of early years had now come to an end, and that 
 the hospital would live happily ever after. She, who had had 
 so much sorrow in her own life, should have been fore- 
 warned that each triumph breeds new problems; but she 
 was essentially optimistic and her habit of wishful thinking 
 brought roseate dreams of every patient receiving TLC 
 (tender loving care) as well as the best diagnostic, surgical, 
 and medical skills. 
 
 Instead, the grand new space brought a nightmare. Sud- 
 
 245 
 
denly, in the summer of 1955, with the capacity of the hos- 
 pital greatly increased and mostly in use, a previous shortage 
 of nurses became acute and appalling. . . For what good 
 is a hospital without enough nurses to go around? 
 
 Shannon shook her head. . . 
 
 The few nurses on duty were scurrying all over the big 
 hospital now, doing their best to serve patients who were 
 critically ill, but obliged to neglect giving baths and refine- 
 ments of nursing care to convalescents. Lights were flashing 
 constantly. Patients who had generously subscribed to the 
 building fund now bitterly complained about the service 
 they were receiving. It was bad — very bad. Shannon had 
 to admit that here was a new challenge altogether, and a 
 terribly important one. Yet somehow she trusted Mr. Pullen 
 and Mrs. Oma Gardner, director of nursing service, to work 
 it out. 
 
 What they finally did was unexpected and unparalleled. 
 They took the precious few registered and highly trained 
 nurses off nursing duty and put them into executive posi- 
 tions — and they started programs for educating practical 
 nurses and qualifying them for licensed positions. This was 
 a bigger field from which to draw, and it left registered 
 nurses free to keep tabs on more patients. 
 
 In addition, they furnished messenger service to reduce 
 footwork — simplified paper work to reduce headwork — in- 
 stalled a modern call system to keep in conversational touch 
 with patients even when they were alone — arranged for the 
 
 246 
 
pharmacy to be floor-supplemented with clinical records — 
 improved the system of traffic from central supply — and 
 made check-outs easier. 
 
 The new women's auxiliary, recently organized, now had 
 its volunteer work supplemented by a junior auxiliary group 
 made up of teen-age girls who came to the hospital after 
 school to assist with food carts, wheel chairs, fetching and 
 carrying, amusing children in pediatrics. 
 
 Thus, finally and gradually, the nurse shortage was allevi- 
 ated and the ever-faithful gray ladies from Red Cross found 
 it possible to keep up with their work of assorting and de- 
 livering mail and flowers. 
 
 Later in the year, Mrs. Selim McArthur made a visit to 
 Decatur and related her experiences in originating a gift 
 shop at St. Luke's hospital in Chicago ... the first of its 
 kind in the midwest. Now she conferred with Mrs. I. Keith 
 Neece, currently in charge of the cap shop, sponsored by the 
 doctors' wives — and she gave interesting talks at luncheon 
 meetings of the doctors' wives and the women's auxiliary. 
 Mrs. Shannon, speaking to her briefly, found it hard to be- 
 lieve that this tall, smartly dressed, white-haired woman was 
 Dr. Barnes' daughter. The words they said to each other 
 were commonplace and casual, but Shannon was thinking, 
 he must be very proud of her today, coming back here to 
 share her hospital experiences with D&MCH. . . 
 
 It was in 1956 that Shannon reached a hard personal 
 decision. But once she reached it, she wasted little time. 
 Her only delay was to punch No. 4 elevator button and go 
 up to Mrs. Baird's office for a chat. Mrs. Baird, dainty and 
 
 247 
 
friendly, welcomed her in, indicated her usual chair, and 
 exhibited a report she had just toted up, showing how many 
 pieces of sewing her groups had completed that month. 
 
 Mrs. White, director of volunteers, and the director of 
 public relations came out of the office they shared next 
 door, and after they had gone on, Shannon came to the point 
 immediately. She smiled as she said it, "I see the hand- 
 writing on the wall — " 
 
 Mrs. Baird looked at her with alarm. "What do you 
 mean?" 
 
 "I'm resigning." Shannon said it light-heartedly, just as 
 if it had nothing to do with the end of thirty-six wonderful 
 years. . . 
 
 This wasn't the first time they had discussed the matter 
 but Mrs. Baird's face showed shock. "You're not old 
 enough!" she protested. "You can't do that!" 
 
 "We're both old enough," Shannon answered sturdily. 
 "We might as well face the facts of life." 
 
 A deep shadow clouded Mrs. Baird's eyes. "I can't quit! 
 I'm just as good as I ever was — " 
 
 Shannon let that go. "Well, the switchboard's outgrown 
 me — long ago," she admitted cheerfully. "Gracious! Have 
 you ever looked at the new switchboard? Seventeen trunk 
 lines! — And do you know how they keep track of doctors 
 nowadays?" 
 
 "Green lights?" asked Mrs. Baird uncertainly. 
 
 "Sure! — Neat little names for all the doctors, on that 
 stainless steel contraption by the front entrance. If a doctor's 
 in the hospital, he has a cute green light beside his name — 
 no one has to ask me is he here!" 
 
 248 
 
Mrs. Baird fingered her monthly report, saying nothing 
 for a minute. Then she motioned toward the door through 
 which the other two women had gone. "Mr. Pullen's start- 
 ing all kinds of new things around here . . . coffee breaks, 
 director of volunteers (goodness, / used to do that!), direc- 
 tor of public relations (what are public relations?). . . I 
 like both of them but why are they here?" 
 
 Shannon laughed, glancing at her watch. "I'm to see Mr. 
 Pullen in fifteen minutes; don't let me dingle-dangle here 
 too long." 
 
 "What are you going to see him about?" asked Mrs. 
 Baird fearfully. 
 
 "I told you — I'm going to resign myself," Shannon said; 
 it was a transitive verb the way she used it. Then she tried 
 to shy away from the word herself. "Land!" she sighed. 
 " — All the things we've seen going on out here!" 
 
 At that moment their neighbors returned. The director 
 of public relations had evidently heard the last remark. She 
 pulled up a chair and said she was doing research for a 
 hospital history. "Will you both help me?" They agreed 
 quickly. "Maybe you can advise me about the present, 
 too — " 
 
 Shannon said matter-of-factly, "The present isn't history, 
 is it?" 
 
 "Well, not exactly. But someday it will be. We want to 
 show all that's been happening since Mr. Pullen came; how, 
 by the way, would you describe Mr. Pullen?" 
 
 Shannon chortled. "Just say he wouldn't be caught dead, 
 running." 
 
 They all laughed. 
 
 249 
 
Presently Shannon stood up, patted her hair, straightened 
 her shoulders. "I've got to go!" 
 
 Mrs. Baird watched her leave and when the others, too, 
 had gone, she turned her chair around to gaze out at the 
 patch of sky atop the exit steps. Here under her was the 
 solid foundation of a steel and concrete building she had 
 tended for a long time. But beyond, the sky was gray and 
 lifeless. 
 
 250 
 
tl 
 
 JN ow older people were living longer and younger people 
 were marrying earlier. 
 
 To meet the upsurge of population in Macon County, 
 Decatur was establishing one-way streets, building city park- 
 ing facilities, acquiring outlying shopping centers, beginning 
 to touch the hems of its suburbs, and helping St. Mary's Hos- 
 pital build a new seven-and-a-half million dollar hospital 
 on the shore of Lake Decatur — nearly two miles south. 
 
 A few of Dr. Barnes' generation, still enjoying life in 
 1957, had achieved a salty wisdom and rich perspective that 
 enabled them to sift the grain from the chaff of the last fifty 
 years. Looking backward past the shadows of two world 
 wars and two financial panics, they knew that the decent 
 man's ideal at the turn of the century was to deliver goods 
 "all wool and a yard wide" — not counting hours or energy 
 requirements. But they also saw in that era blots of social 
 injustice, physical discomforts, and narrow viewpoints. 
 
 Miss Lillie Chadsey, ninety-five years old, was curled into 
 
 251 
 
a letter C in her hospital bed on third Main, trying through 
 sheer stillness to ward off the next coughing spell. A humidi- 
 fier nearby was wafting moist air over her to relieve con- 
 gestion in her lungs and dryness in her throat. 
 
 At her age such severe infection and high fever were 
 taken for granted as a critical condition. She thought of 
 it herself during the first few hours, but they had whisked 
 her out here without by-your-leave, and she was too weak 
 to argue. 
 
 Half a day later, though, she made a feeble sign to the 
 nurse whom she knew. "I've decided not to die yet, so you 
 wire Sallie in St. Louis not to waste her time coming up 
 here." The nurse told her to hush — not to talk; she knew 
 that Mrs. Jinkins was already on her way to Decatur. 
 
 "Jack stabbed me," was the patient's next remark. 
 
 The nurse smiled briefly. "Now, Miss Chad, Dr. Brown 
 was only giving you some penicillin." 
 
 "Eighty years of Doctor Browns . . . you'd think I'd try a 
 change by now. Dr. Josiah Brown . . . Dr. Everett Brown 
 . . . and now Dr. Jack Brown. I must be set in my ways — " 
 
 The next morning Mrs. Jinkins hovered over her with 
 the affection of an only niece for an only aunt. After awhile 
 the patient said, "I'm old enough to die, but they're ex- 
 pecting me to prepare my lesson for Study Class, so I guess 
 I'll stay for that." Her brown eyes twinkled; she was better. 
 
 "You're a charter member of Study Class," Mrs. Jinkins 
 agreed happily. "You'd better not let them down!" 
 
 For a quarter-hour after that, Miss Chadsey kept her eyes 
 closed and her mouth shut. Then she said musingly, "Caddie 
 Evans and Betty Holt and all those other young things with 
 
 252 
 
college educations make me ashamed in Study Class. They're 
 so smart; they just put up with Auntie Chad because she's 
 old and faithful." 
 
 "But," her niece reminded her, "you're the only one who 
 still recites her lessons without notes." 
 
 Something like a chuckle from the patient started another 
 hard cough, and it was some time before she could say, "The 
 reason I don't use notes is because I'm half blind." 
 
 " — And," said Mrs. Jinkins, "because your mind clicks 
 as well as the best of them!" 
 
 When her special nurses were no longer needed, Miss 
 Chadsey began counting hospital employees who came to 
 see her, memorizing their names. It was pleasant having 
 lots of company. . . 
 
 One day she asked Mrs. Jinkins if she remembered Mrs. 
 Hagaman who went around soliciting money before the 
 hospital was built. Mrs. Jinkins didn't believe she did. . . 
 "Soon after your father died," her aunt recalled, "she came 
 to see me and the other heirs with a little brown book and 
 showed us Mr. Scruggs' name, and the amount of a pledge 
 he had made to the hospital." After a moment she added, 
 "Those were the days when people trusted people; Mrs. 
 Hagaman got every cent of his subscription." 
 
 Nodding, her niece said, "Well, the hospital's turned out 
 to be a pretty good one — " She looked around the pleasant 
 room. 
 
 "Yes," agreed the patient. "This is the fifth time I've 
 been here and I always get out alive." Quickly she was 
 ashamed. "Many don't," she recalled sadly. "Many of my 
 dearest ones — " 
 
 253 
 
"Time for your medicine, Chad." Sallie was making 
 way for a student nurse who held out a paper cup containing 
 a small white pill. 
 
 Peering at it suspiciously Miss Chadsey said, "Medicine 
 disagrees with me." The pretty young nurse smiled at her, 
 gave her a glass of water and a command. "You're bossy," 
 complained the patient, but she smiled and obeyed. 
 
 "Gee," the nurse said to Mrs. Jinkins. "I wouldn't mind 
 growing old if I could be like her — " 
 
 Mrs. Jinkins nodded with understanding. "Just wait 
 until she's up and around. She's the bossiest boss there is — " 
 
 "You must be talking about me," Miss Chadsey guessed 
 behind their backs. "I should have my ear on. . ." 
 
 A week later the patient was well enough to return home. 
 Her hospital room was full of flowers and the bedside table 
 heaped with get-well cards and letters. Weakly she dressed 
 herself, put on her hat, slumped into a chair and waited for 
 Betty Holt Ruedi to come for her. "No wonder this place 
 has to charge so much," she mumbled. "They spoil a body, 
 and their meals are too big!" 
 
 "But Chad—" 
 
 Miss Chadsey smiled benignly. "Oh, it's a good place; I 
 haven't any complaint. Law — what would you have done 
 with me at home?" She gave orders to Mrs. Jinkins, to two 
 nurses standing by, to an orderly who dropped in, and to 
 Mrs. Ruedi coming through the door. 
 
 "Take care of my flowers — 
 
 "Look after those letters — 
 
 "Give me my dark glasses — 
 
 "Put my robe on a hanger — " 
 
 254 
 
Finally she said, "Wait 'til I put on my ear — " and she 
 adjusted her hearing aid. "Now I'm ready." 
 
 She touched the arm of the nurse helping her. "Thank 
 you, my dear, I've had a real nice time — " 
 
 Although Shannon had never returned to the hospital 
 since the day of her retirement, she continued to gather 
 hospital news wherever she could find it, fitting each bit 
 into the rich mosaic she had built through years of loyalties 
 and sympathies. Then, abruptly came the day when she 
 brought Kathryn Connolly, her niece, to the hospital for 
 surgery. All at once the beautiful pattern faded, became in- 
 visible. The hospital was only a place now, shrunk to the 
 compass of a single room, full of mystery and foreboding. 
 To Shannon, sitting at the bedside that first day, everything 
 was strange. Familiar faces and sounds became senseless 
 and unpredictable, like the jiggledy dance of coat-hangers 
 disturbed at the slightest touch. She jumped when anyone 
 came into the room; her eyes filled with tears when she heard 
 kind words; it was impossible for her to eat. 
 
 But gradually, as Kathryn improved, so did she. On the 
 third day an intern stopped by — someone she didn't know. 
 After looking closely at both of them, he said, "She seems 
 to be coming along all right; something worrying you?" 
 
 Shannon's answer was deep in her throat. "No." 
 
 The young man persisted, twitching his mouth sidewise. 
 "If you're not used to hospitals, it's rather frightening, I 
 imagine. Do you live in Decatur?" 
 
 255 
 
"Yes. You see, I know this hospital too well; I know the 
 price of this room has gone up." 
 
 "Oh. Well, she has insurance, hasn't she?" 
 
 "Yes, but—" 
 
 "Actually," the doctor went on kindly, "you get lots more 
 value for the price of a hospital room than you do for a 
 hotel room." 
 
 "I've heard that argument before," nodded Shannon. 
 "Only usually on the other side." 
 
 "Take the Palmer House," he continued. 
 
 "But we can't afford the Palmer House!" 
 
 "The Palmer House room rate," he explained, "doesn't 
 include meals. Nor nightshirts. Nor alcohol rubs. Nor 
 nurses looking in. . ." 
 
 Shannon looked toward Kathryn, but Kathryn hadn't said 
 a word. 
 
 "Tell you — !" he offered, brushing the palms of his hands 
 against each other with a little slap, "I'll ask Anderson to 
 come up and talk it over with you — you can't go on worry- 
 ing, you know — you're too thin — " 
 
 "Oh, I can go down to see Mr. Anderson myself. I know 
 Mr. Anderson." 
 
 "You do? Well, I'm sure he'll make it easy for you. 
 Meanwhile I prescribe a square meal for you," he told 
 Shannon. 
 
 "Thank you, doctor." 
 
 When Mr. Anderson explained the next day that Kath- 
 ryn's bill would come to about $3.44 after insurance deduc- 
 tions and so on — and when her convalescence was well 
 established, relief washed over Shannon in such a cleansing 
 
 256 
 
flood that she went scuttling all over the hospital in search 
 of old friends and new news. 
 
 But it was Kathryn who first heard the choicest piece of 
 news. "One of the nurses is going to marry one of the board 
 members," she told Shannon. 
 
 "Well for heavens' sakes!" Shannon dropped into a chair. 
 "Who?" 
 
 "The assistant to the director of nursing service — " began 
 Kathryn. 
 
 "Not Gherna!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, quick! —Who's the man?" 
 
 "Douglas Johnson." 
 
 Early in 1958, Miss Ethel Lebkuecher, chief anesthetist 
 in Decatur and Macon County Hospital for three decades, 
 was having an early dinner with Mrs. Shannon, at Ben's 
 Barn. The waitress had just set down their plates. This 
 was a rare occasion and a time for confidences, although they 
 weren't celebrating anything. Looking obliquely at Lebby, 
 Shannon thought how dresden-china she was, how appar- 
 ently fragile, and yet how much knowledge and skill she had 
 — how devoted and selfless she had always been in her 
 service to the hospital. 
 
 "Miss Lebkuecher — " 
 
 "Call me Lebby; everyone else does." 
 
 "But you're a professional!" Shannon protested. 
 
 "Lebby." 
 
 257 
 
"All right. — What's all this about private-practice anes- 
 thesiologists?" she asked finally, cutting into her steak. 
 
 "I don't know very much — " said Lebby slowly. 
 
 "Don't be discreet around me!" Shannon challenged her. 
 
 But still Lebby didn't say anything, nor start to eat. Shan- 
 non thought to herself, it might have been better to ease into 
 the subject. She said parenthetically, "Mr. Pullen has so 
 many up-and-coming ideas. And he's nice, too. He was so 
 nice to me when I retired — " 
 
 Lebby said then, "Do you mind — retirement?" She took 
 a sip of coffee. 
 
 "Well," Shannon shrugged and grinned. "It's hard to 
 say. It's a part of growing old — But," she added sturdily, 
 "You're not old enough to retire — You're still in the midst 
 of it." 
 
 Lebby said, "I'm half out." 
 
 Now Shannon laughed. "You sound like a chicken!" 
 
 Lebby laughed, too; she laughed as if she enjoyed it. 
 "What I meant," she explained, " — the boys are taking 
 over. . ." 
 
 Shannon pounced on it. "You mean the anesthesiolo- 
 gists?" She leaned forward. "I had to practice a long time 
 before I could pronounce that word. So for heavens' sakes 
 tell me what they are — " 
 
 "They're doctors," Lebby said slowly, still smiling a little. 
 "They're specialists — in anesthesiology." 
 
 "Well, so are you!" cried Shannon. 
 
 "I know how" Lebby said, "but they know more. I'm a 
 registered nurse. They are doctors with degrees." 
 
 "But you've had so much experience!" 
 
 258 
 
Lebby shrugged, toying with the salt shaker. "There's 
 only one of me; there are three of them; it's probably a good 
 idea." 
 
 Shannon reminded her, "That food is to eat, you know — " 
 She watched Lebby take a bite. "As Dr. Otis Stanley says," 
 she mused, " 'it isn't how hard you work, but how fast the 
 time passes. . .' " Leaning against the bench-back, she added, 
 "Isn't it wonderful when doctors have sons who are doctors? 
 Dr. Otis Stanley — Dr. Dean — and now Dr. Charles — " 
 
 Lebby nodded. "Doctors are wonderful people (most of 
 them) . Do you know the hospital has eight new interns this 
 year?" 
 
 Shannon knew it. Sitting forward again, she declared, 
 "Specialists are all right, but regular doctors are needed in 
 a hospital, too. Then they can be teams; they can depend 
 on each other — " She paused while the waitress filled their 
 coffee cups. 
 
 What she really cared about was Lebby's job. . . Lebby 
 who had spent all these many years in residence at the 
 nurses' home — on call day and night — usually coming to 
 the hospital before dawn and staying there until after sun- 
 set — seven days a week. She said earnestly, "You just let me 
 know if those anesthesiologists don't treat you right!" 
 
 Lebby smiled then. "They sent me a valentine last week." 
 She was not coy about it; she was delighted — and amused; 
 you could tell. "It's a huge azalea plant. The card on it 
 said, 'From the boys'." 
 
 "Well, good for them!" cried Shannon, pleased as punch. 
 
 For a moment neither of them spoke. Shannon was think- 
 ing — thinking back — to all the doctors she had known. 
 
 259 
 
"You know," she said finally, "the best doctors — the very 
 best — have a sense of humor; that helps. Were you at the 
 circus that time when Dr. Barnes showed off?" Lebby shook 
 her head. {Well, of course not! — When would Lebby have 
 had a chance to go to the circus in those days?) Hastily 
 Shannon explained, "He and Mr. LeForgee were going into 
 the tent just as a procession of clowns went by. One clown 
 was riding in a funny kind of rig drawn by a donkey, and 
 all of a sudden Dr. Barnes decided to jump into the rig 
 beside the clown; he rode clear around the arena with him. 
 Everybody recognized him and stood up and cheered." Then 
 she repeated, " 'It isn't how hard you work, but how fast the 
 time passes.' The hospital has so many people now — so 
 many supervisors and departments — such a lot going on! 
 Land! I wonder what Dr. Barnes and Miss Cleland would 
 think if they walked in the front door today!" Her eyes 
 widened with the idea. "They'd sure need that red line in 
 the floor to guide 'em in finding their way around." 
 
 Glancing at her watch, Lebby agreed prosaically. "There 
 have been a great many changes — even in ailments — " 
 
 Shannon nodded. "No more typhoid — no more mastoid 
 — no more scarlet fever — no more diphtheria — Same old 
 patient, though." Shrugging into her coat and signaling for 
 the check, she said earnestly, "I hope the hospital will never 
 get so new-fangled that patients won't have all the TLC they 
 need." 
 
 "Tender loving care?" 
 
 "Yes — " Her thoughts went back to the time long ago 
 when she lay imprisoned in a hospital bed on second Mil- 
 likin; now it didn't seem so bad, that recollection of pain; 
 
 260 
 
what she best remembered were the pretty dishes from third 
 Millikin, and the TLC given her by Miss Cleland and Dr. 
 Barnes. . . 
 
 Summer came and on a Tuesday morning early in June, 
 sixteen members of the women's auxiliary were making 
 puppets in Mrs. R. E. Greenfield's air-conditioned living 
 room. She had provided them with an ideal workshop for 
 their project, giving it a party atmosphere, serving a mid- 
 morning snack, and catering to every need. Mrs. J. R. Holt 
 was asking, "What's the final report on profits from the 
 fun fair this year?" No one knew exactly but they agreed it 
 was thousands in spite of the rain. "The fun fair couldn't 
 help succeeding," said Mrs. Holt. "When St. Mary's and 
 D&MCH cooperate, the whole town gets behind them." 
 
 With unassuming pride Mrs. Greenfield held up a finished 
 puppet, adjusting the ruff around its neck and smiling back 
 at its happy face. Then slipping her fingers inside the head 
 and cherry-colored sleeves, she made it perform its clown- 
 like tricks before stowing it in a box with its fellows. 
 
 "How many have we made since September?" 
 
 "Over fifteen hundred." 
 
 This seemed to spur everyone on to greater speed ; all four 
 sewing machines were humming in concert; needles on hand- 
 work were flashing in and out; bagfuls of cotton were being 
 stuffed into the doll-heads; conversation was keeping pace. 
 
 "I love these Tuesdays," said Mrs. Lee Moorehead. "But 
 I can't quite decide," she added honestly, "whether it's Mrs. 
 Greenfield's hospitality or the do-gooder in me." 
 
 261 
 
"It isn't work if you're interested," Mrs. Hall claimed. 
 
 " — Or if you care enough about the cause," said Fran. 
 
 "Before our women's auxiliary was organized, what did 
 the women do?" 
 
 Mrs. Holt said, "The women's service league bought some 
 valuable equipment for the hospital, and their chief aim was 
 to help crippled children; they also paid for hospitalization 
 and nursing care when needy patients couldn't afford it — 
 Hilpa Wood and Ruth McMillen and their friends were 
 very active in it at first; I don't remember who-all. . ." 
 
 "Oh, we're not the only ones. . . there are the sewing 
 groups working at the nurses' home — and the Gray Ladies 
 from Red Cross — " 
 
 "Don't forget the doctors' wives — " 
 
 "No — and there's Junior Welfare!" 
 
 "Rah-rah for the women!" 
 
 "You're a conceited bunch," chided Mrs. Greenfield. 
 Glancing at her watch, she said, "Let's have lunch!" 
 
 Thus, at twelve-thirty, they laid their work aside and took 
 seats at a long, festive-looking table in the dining room, 
 opening up the sandwiches they'd brought from home, and 
 helping themselves to delicious salads, drinks, and desserts 
 provided by Mrs. Greenfield. A full afternoon of work was 
 ahead of them, but they knew the time would fly. . . 
 
 Fran said slowly, "Another pet project of Margaret Dick's 
 was the Memorial Fund — " 
 
 "I don't understand that exactly; how does it work?" 
 
 "The family of a deceased person suggests that money be 
 given to the hospital memorial fund instead of buying 
 flowers." 
 
 262 
 
"Oh, but flowers are so comforting!" someone objected. 
 "Yes, but the work of the memorial fund will go on 
 forever. 
 
 It was early in the following week that Bets, not yet three 
 years old, was taken to the hospital by Linda, a teen-ager. 
 They had never seen each other before. The child's parents, 
 critically injured in an automobile accident in front of 
 Linda's house, were in another part of the hospital now with 
 Linda's parents. Bets had been in the car, too, but had only 
 a small cut over one eye. 
 
 Last year Linda had been a member of junior auxiliary 
 here, but that seemed ages ago; everything was strange 
 today at the emergency entrance; the hospital seemed an- 
 other place. She gave Bets over to it and waited. . . 
 
 Later, when they were together in a room in Peds, Mrs. 
 Kaltenbach, in uniform, came in. Bets was sound asleep. 
 Mrs. K. looked at her closely, feeling her pulse. Then she 
 fetched a cherry-red puppet, putting it in the bed beside 
 Bets, and smiling over at Linda. "She can take it home with 
 her," she whispered. 
 
 — But would Bets have a home? The thought crinkled 
 over Linda in a horrible way. 
 
 Bets went right on sleeping, sprawled half-way over 
 on her tummy, the sole of one foot upturned. Linda 
 would have liked to hold one foot or touch her fore- 
 head above the bandage, but she was afraid of waken- 
 ing her. Instead, she fingered the puppet idly, and thought 
 about life. . . 
 
 263 
 
What finally wakened Bets was a boy yelling whoopee 
 out in the corridor. All of a sudden she was sitting bolt 
 upright in bed, staring at the strange window, seeing that 
 this was not home. "Mommy!" she wailed. Her voice 
 choked on a hiccough of fright. In a vague gesture with 
 both hands she tousled her hair and came upon the bandage. 
 
 "No!" warned Linda. Then Bets looked her way, saw 
 that she wasn't Mommy. Her face got red and she screamed. 
 "Bets, Honey! Listen, Dolly!" Linda caught hold of the 
 rigid little body, holding her tight, loving her. But Bets 
 strained away, crying her head off. Linda wasn't Mommy. . . 
 
 . . . Where were all the nurses ? What should Linda do ? 
 She was tempted to run away from there; she wanted to 
 get out of the hospital — quick. But if you've ever been a 
 junior auxiliary, you don't do things like that — 
 
 Then she remembered the puppet and caught it up. "Here, 
 Honey — look!" Bets stopped crying except for a tired little 
 gasp, but she didn't smile nor reach for the doll. 
 
 "It's yours, honey," urged Linda. 
 
 For a moment Bets looked at it solemnly. 
 
 "Let's give it a name — shall we?" asked Linda. "I'll tell 
 you! We can name it Betsy — after you." 
 
 Bets thought that over, not answering. But after half-a- 
 minute, there was half-a-smile coming out. Then she reached 
 for Betsy with both hands. "Mine," she said, pulling it 
 close against her. 
 
 "Yes, honey, you can keep it!" 
 
 "Forever?" 
 
 "Yes, forever." 
 
 "How long is that ?" 
 
 264 
 
"As long as you live — " 
 
 This seemed satisfactory. Bets sneezed with dainty aban- 
 don. "Excuse me," she said. 
 
 "What dear?" 
 
 "I was 'pologizing to Betsy for sneezing — " 
 
 Linda laughed. "Here — let me show you how it 
 works," and she reached for the puppet. But Bets was 
 holding on fiercely; she wouldn't give it up. 
 
 After sunset, a hospital changes character subtly. Having 
 lost its mechanical accents and its visitors, it becomes gentler, 
 more percipient. In a strange mixture of light and shadow, 
 quiet rooms and sudden alerts, it seems to walk on tiptoe as 
 if aware that fewer doctors are at hand, fewer nurses on 
 duty, and that any crisis may be around any corner. 
 
 Miss Draegert was standing beside Mrs. Anderson, watch- 
 ing a stranger in the front lobby. He was an elderly man, 
 staring at the bas relief of Dr. Barnes which hung on the 
 north wall. After a moment he removed his bifocals and 
 held them up to the light, frowning. Then he said aloud, 
 "You don't seem to understand me, Boss. I finally found it. 
 In the Andes." Breathing on his glasses and absently polish- 
 ing them, he sighed. 
 
 Miss Draegert stepped nearer, asking, "Is there something 
 we can do for you?" 
 
 "No," he answered with a gesture of courtesy, replacing 
 his glasses and peering her way. "This is just between the 
 boss and me; we're entomologists." 
 
 265 
 
She hesitated. "Dr. Barnes is not here tonight." 
 The man smiled then, uncertainly. "Oh. It's his picture." 
 He moved toward her, holding out a tiny box. "Please give 
 him this when he returns," he said. "It's very rare." 
 
 A few days later, Dr. Barnes' daughter received the little 
 box by mail, with a note of explanation from Miss Draegert. 
 But at the moment she was busy preparing for a lawn party, 
 and glanced only briefly into the little box, where a very 
 small moth lay on a bit of cotton. 
 
 "Selim," she asked, absently turning it over to her hus- 
 band, "What do you think we should do with this. . . ?" 
 
 Forty-five years had passed since Dr. Selim McArthur met 
 Miss Gillette Barnes at the Decatur country club. Now they 
 were entertaining old friends at Cro'hurst, their home near 
 Elkhart. It was late in the afternoon of a green-and-blue 
 summer day, and as their guests approached the estate over 
 a winding road through well-groomed acres, time seemed 
 to telescope. 
 
 Mrs. McArthur, lithe and charming in a pink linen dress, 
 welcomed them with a wide smile, her white hair lifting in 
 eddies of breeze. Dr. McArthur, affable and looking the 
 part of a country squire, was urging everyone to see the 
 rose garden yonder — that it was all Gillette's doing, quite 
 remarkable. 
 
 And it was remarkable. Guests wandering over the lawn 
 
 266 
 
near the house turned toward the roses before seeking tables 
 under the trees. Eleanor Barnes McMillen and her daughter, 
 Mrs. Bartelsmeyer — and Mrs. William Barnes, Jr. and her 
 mother, Mrs. LeForgee, pointed out some of the most un- 
 usual roses, with vicarious pride. There were over ninety 
 varieties, the rarest specimens nestling comfortably among 
 the usual-Illinois varieties, each one gently mounded, well- 
 nurtured, and carefully identified with a metal marker 
 labeled in Gillette's own hand-writing. A giant tulip tree 
 full of golden blossoms stood authoritatively nearby as if 
 sentinel over the roses. 
 
 Gradually talk turned from roses to orchids, which had 
 been a hobby of Mr. Frank Evans in the last years of his life, 
 and EB Evans was explaining that there are tens of thou- 
 sands of orchids known, as well as lady slippers and other 
 related flowers, and what delight his father had found in 
 cultivating certain varieties and giving blossoms to his 
 friends. Then Honore Owen said a hobby of living flowers 
 seemed so much more worth while than a collection of in- 
 animate objects. 
 
 After awhile Gillette saw that sunset was near, and with 
 the practised eye of a good hostess she paused to survey the 
 party as a whole, hoping everyone was having a pleasant 
 time. Her contemporaries were being vivacious and charm- 
 ing, and older guests were enriching the scene with conti- 
 nuity. There had been no design in the guest list for this 
 afternoon, but she realized now that the hospital — seldom 
 in her thoughts — was still alive in the thoughts of many 
 here. Glancing over bouquets of guests as they grouped 
 themselves on the lawn, she saw that here were many who 
 
 267 
 
had served as members of the hospital board of directors: 
 Dr. Clarence McClelland, Mr. Frank Lindsay, Mr. and Mrs. 
 W. J. Grady, EB Evans, Honie Owen, June Johns. . . 
 
 And there were other intertwining relationships — Corwin 
 Johns' uncle had given the nurses' home its name. . . Jack 
 Powers' mother and Helen Powers' father, A. M. Kenney, 
 had once served as directors, as had Honore Owen's mother 
 and Virginia Owen's father, Robert I. Hunt — and Ann 
 Beall's father, Rolla McMillen — and Edwina Funk's father, 
 E. P. Irving. As it happened, Helen and Gin and Ann and 
 Edwina were now important members of the hospital's 
 women's auxiliary. 
 
 Thus, all about her, was evidence of responsibility being 
 perpetuated through relationships inspired by her father. . . 
 All these people — and Selim and she — and her roses — were 
 alive and significant this afternoon. As shadows on the 
 lawn lengthened, she thought, I'm so glad it didn't rain ! We 
 were afraid . . . afraid it might. 
 
 268 
 
epilogue 
 
 Sometimes it is impossible to say how things come to pass 
 — what emotional drive made Mrs. Hagaman want a hos- 
 pital, what intensity made Dr. Barnes give his life to it, why 
 Mr. Latham and Mr. Dorr willed fortunes to it, and what 
 forces, if any, were set in motion when Mrs. Shannon 
 imagined a return of early leaders to the 1958 scene. . . 
 
 It was midsummer when Mrs. Gola Mahon, attractive 
 and efficient secretary to Mr. Leon C. Pullen, Jr., invited 
 three callers to be seated in her air-conditioned office. She 
 knew a conference was scheduled within a few minutes and 
 that meanwhile Mr. Pullen was concentrating on some blue- 
 prints. . . This, however, couldn't wait. Standing taut 
 against the door from inside, she said, "There are three 
 people out there waiting to see you; they say they're Dr. 
 Barnes and Mrs. Hagaman and Miss Cleland." She spoke 
 quietly but her heart was thudding. And Mr. Pullen — never 
 caught off-balance — never before flicking even an eyelash 
 in surprise, stared at her. 
 
 269 
 
Color rose in his face. "They couldn't be." Neither of 
 them broke the training they had set themselves — to main- 
 tain poise, to take whatever came with composure, but they 
 seemed unable for the moment to stop staring at each other. 
 
 Finally Mr. Pullen rose from his chair, walked past her, 
 and opened the door. She sidled through just behind him 
 to make introductions. "This is our present administrator — 
 Mr. Pullen," she said. The visitors looked up expectantly. 
 Then she finished the introductions. 
 
 Mr. Pullen hunched one shoulder a little higher and 
 deferentially invited them into his office. Then he did a 
 strange thing; he asked Mrs. Mahon to accompany them. 
 There were not enough chairs. She remained standing in 
 the doorway, feeling awkward. 
 
 Like a duck to water, Dr. Barnes went to blueprints on 
 Mr. Pullen's desk, and dropped down into his chair. "New 
 kitchens, eh?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." It didn't sound like Mr. Pullen. "They're just 
 about ready for use." He pointed out special features and 
 alterations of old space. The women were looking out of 
 the window where workers climbed over a new roof. 
 
 Then the corridor door opened, framing Mr. Perry and 
 two other men. Everyone turned toward them; Mr. Perry 
 was looking at his watch. 
 
 "Later," said Mr. Pullen smoothly. "We'll have our con- 
 ference later. But come in for a minute," he invited. Turn- 
 ing toward the visitors he said, "I want you to meet my 
 assistants: Mr. Perry, and Mr. Erickson. — And Mr. Lan- 
 don," he added. Then, with a small gesture, he said to the 
 men in the doorway, "We have distinguished callers: Mrs. 
 
 270 
 
Hagaman, who thought of this hospital in the first place — 
 and Miss Cleland, its first superintendent — and Dr. Barnes, 
 who was president of the board for many years." 
 
 Dr. Barnes stared. "What the devil does this place need 
 with three assistants? — Has it grown that fast?" 
 
 Mr. Pullen nodded. And Miss Cleland tried to ease the 
 situation. "We thought it would be interesting to make a 
 tour of the new hospital wings if that can be arranged." 
 
 Smiling cordially, Mr. Perry said, "Yes, indeed; whenever 
 you like." Mr. Erickson looked as if he might burst out 
 laughing — as if this must be some queer joke. Mr. Landon 
 bowed, holding his tongue. Then all three of them backed 
 out of the door, closing it quietly. 
 
 Now Mr. Pullen took a chair on the other side of the 
 desk. Mrs. Mahon, watching the scene, thought — I imagine 
 Vll wake up soon; this is just a dream; Yve been digging 
 into all those files for stuff on the history; it's been on my 
 mind — 
 
 Dr. Barnes was jerking his thumb toward outdoors. 
 "Where are my flowers?" he demanded. " — Has everybody 
 on earth got an auto?" 
 
 "It's become necessary to provide parking space close to 
 the hospital for doctors and visitors," Mr. Pullen answered 
 easily. "You know we're two miles north of the center of 
 town, and there are no more street cars. We also recently 
 completed a new parking lot on the other side of Union 
 Street, for the use of our employees." 
 
 "Need that, too, eh?" Dr. Barnes seemed impressed. "I 
 told the board we shouldn't sell that tract! Good thing — " 
 
 Referring to the blueprints again someone asked how 
 
 271 
 
much it was all going to cost — those improvements. "About 
 $350,000," Mr. Pullen answered. 
 
 All three of them stared at him unbelievingly. "That's 
 robbery!" declared Mrs. Hagaman. 
 
 Miss Cleland shook her head. "Surely there can be econ- 
 omies effected somewhere?" 
 
 But all that Dr. Barnes said was, "Are you buying the 
 very best? — the latest?" Mr. Pullen nodded. "Then go 
 ahead — go ahead!" He waved like a motor cop. 
 
 "And it's all paid for," Mr. Pullen reassured them. "We 
 have the money now." 
 
 Relaxing, Mrs. Hagaman said, "That's fortunate. I was 
 wondering if it would take all of Dr. Barnes' butterfly 
 money." She turned toward him. "What became of your 
 butterflies?" 
 
 "Sold to the government for $50,000— the robbers!" He 
 shook his head. "Do you know I had over 600,000 specimens 
 — and each of 'em averaged me $1?" 
 
 "Excuse me," Miss Cleland said, rising to look at a picture 
 on the east wall of the office. She smiled fondly. "Our first 
 baby!" 
 
 "Yes," Mr. Pullen verified. "We have preserved all we 
 could from the early years. Perhaps you can help us fill in 
 the record — " 
 
 "The past is past," Mrs. Hagaman ventured mildly. 
 " — What are your plans for the future?" she asked. 
 
 He looked toward the window, smiling a little. "That, 
 of course, is for the board of directors to decide." 
 
 Returning to her chair, Miss Cleland reminded Dr. Barnes, 
 "Mr. Pullen is only the superintendent. How would you 
 
 272 
 
have liked it if I'd talked out of turn while you were presi- 
 dent of the board?" 
 
 "You were capable of it!" he shot back. Then his voice 
 came down a little. "Young man — Mr. Pullen — that your 
 name?" he asked, leaning across the desk. "Have you got 
 plenty of spunk?" 
 
 Mr. Pullen didn't move a muscle; Mrs. Mahon held her 
 breath. 
 
 "Have you?" Dr. Barnes insisted. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "O.K.!" He was rummaging under the blueprints now. 
 "Got any cigarettes around here?" 
 
 "No, sir. I've given up smoking," Mr. Pullen said. 
 
 "Have — eh?" He concentrated his gaze, his eyes admiring. 
 "Then you have got spunk!" 
 
 Mrs. Hagaman spoke at that point. "Miss Cleland and I 
 are afraid you men will talk so long we won't have a chance 
 to tour the hospital." She looked toward Miss Cleland for 
 corroboration. . . 
 
 "All right — " With an abrupt movement, Dr. Barnes was 
 on his feet, saying, "lead the way!" 
 
 When they'd gone, Mrs. Mahon slipped gratefully back 
 into her own office and began to answer call lights blinking 
 on the base of her telephone. . . 
 
 Soon Mrs. Gardner, director of nursing services, came in. 
 She asked, "Do you know who those visitors are down in 
 surgery?" Her face was gentle but her uniform crackled. 
 "We don't allow — " 
 
 "Weren't Mr. Pullen and Mr. Perry with them?" asked 
 Mrs. Mahon. 
 
 273 
 
"Yes — and they know better!" 
 
 "Well, I guess neither of us can do anything about it." 
 
 "The man said hell." A smile flicked over Mrs. Gardner's 
 face. 
 
 "What else?" 
 
 "He said, This is more like it!' And when he saw the 
 recovery room, he said, 'This is the way I dreamed it!' ' 
 
 Smiling to herself, Mrs. Mahon said, "Good! He dreamed 
 up the whole hospital, more or less." 
 
 "Who is he?" 
 
 "VIP." Mrs. Mahon shrugged; she didn't trust herself 
 to say more. 
 
 Not long after Mrs. Gardner left, Mr. Erickson appeared 
 in the doorway. "What's going on around here?" he asked, 
 lifting his ears. 
 
 She counter-attacked. "Where have you been?" 
 
 "Lost." 
 
 "AWOL, you mean." 
 
 "Has everybody around this place gone nuts?" he de- 
 manded. 
 
 "Yes." It was the easiest answer — it was the only one 
 she could think of. 
 
 "I don't get it," he insisted. 
 
 "Well, you're one of the triumvirate here; you ought to 
 be better informed!" 
 
 "I'm only the holy ghost," he grumbled. 
 
 "Shame on you, Roy." 
 
 He turned on his heel and was quickly gone. 
 
 Another light fluttered on the extension; it was Mrs. 
 Mickel asking, "Isn't it true that we average about twenty 
 
 274 
 
operations a day?" 
 
 "That's right," Mrs. Mahon confirmed. " — Someone 
 doubting someone?" 
 
 "Yes, three someones; doubting me." 
 
 "It will save counting beds if you tell them three-hundred- 
 thirty; and it will save counting employees if you tell them 
 six-hundred- forty-nine." She rattled off the familiar sta- 
 tistics, and when she'd hung up, she took a long breath. 
 
 A few minutes later Mrs. Nadine Turner, director of 
 nursing education, appeared in the doorway, her blue eyes 
 wide and puzzled. "Who is that woman you sent down to 
 my office?" 
 
 "I didn't send anyone — " 
 
 "Well, I supposed you did. I was nice to her and told her 
 my name, but she didn't tell me hers. She asked me if I 
 really cared about what we're teaching the nurses, or did we 
 just give them instruction." 
 
 "What did she look like?" 
 
 "Rather tall, determined; she startled me; but I liked 
 her." 
 
 "Was she alone?" 
 
 "Yes. Do you know her name?" 
 
 "Mrs. Hagaman." 
 
 Mrs. Turner tapped the eraser-end of her pencil on the 
 desk-top. "It's not a very common name — " she said slowly. 
 
 "No — and sometimes history is stranger than fiction. . ." 
 
 Up until now Mrs. Mahon had felt perplexity — even 
 
 275 
 
excitement — but when she was alone again, she knew she 
 was deeply worried. The hospital was on trial, and if the 
 visitors were branching out on their own, they could easily 
 gain wrong impressions. (Had all the beds been made by 
 now? Had housekeeping finished with the floors? Did 
 every station have a properly starched nurse on duty? No 
 gum chewing — no idle talk — everybody busy and efficient 
 and courteous? Were the patients receiving TLC? Were 
 the doctors showing proper respect?) 
 
 It was then that Mr. Henneman came in, peering over her 
 head toward Mr. Pullen's door. "Boss not here today?" he 
 asked. "You know — " he mentioned mildly, "I thought I 
 was engineer around here." 
 
 "What's on your mind?" She managed to smile. 
 
 "A man has just been down in the boiler room, asking for 
 Mr. Rhoades and telling me things I ought to know." 
 
 "What things? —Was he alone?" 
 
 "Yes. He wanted to know how those signal lights work 
 at the entrance and how we do the call system; that proved 
 he hasn't been around much; but then he began to tell me 
 how we could improve things — " 
 
 Mrs. Mahon nodded. "He's quite a guy; you'd better 
 listen to him." 
 
 She seldom felt as helpless as this. . . She wished for 
 Shannon; if Shannon were here, she could round them up, 
 act as guide. . . 
 
 . . . Coffee, she thought; I need coffee. 
 
 On her way to the snack bar she felt herself walking 
 jerkily, as if mechanized; her face was hot; her hands were 
 cold. Messenger service looked at her curiously. It was hard 
 
 276 
 
to believe this day and this place were the same as on her 
 arrival this morning. . . 
 
 Mrs. Cora Crouse, dietitian, was approaching, purpose 
 written all over her. "Your boss at home?" she asked, hold- 
 ing her head at a superior angle. Mrs. Mahon said no, and 
 Cora began to tell her: "I never in all my life — listen — we 
 made two hundred and eighty cups, fourteen gallons of 
 coffee for the break this morning. I was merely attending 
 to my own business, and believe me, I had plenty — when a 
 cute little button of a woman wanted to know why we were 
 wasting our time with coffee. It was absolutely the only time 
 I've heard anyone say it, see? I said to her, 'Shake!' Her 
 hand was so little, I liked to died! But boy, did she have a 
 spark in her eye!" 
 
 In the snack bar, Mr. Lucke was finishing a piece of pie. 
 Acknowledging her with his friendly, open-minded look, 
 he waved toward a neighboring stool, and said conversa- 
 tionally, "A tall, old-fashioned woman came into my office 
 awhile ago. She wanted to know exactly how much Latham 
 and Dorr cost. Whew ! I told her I was only the purchasing 
 agent — that she needed the controller — and I accompanied 
 her upstairs — " 
 
 Reaching forward, Mrs. Mahon plucked a paper napkin 
 from its cage, and ordered coffee. Her worries deepened. 
 Ym afraid those poor souls will get lost in the tunnel or the 
 clinic or the laundry or somewhere. . . Oh dear, I hope they 
 find everything all right. I hope they find their way back to 
 
 277 
 
our office. . . She tasted her coffee gratefully, then drank 
 half of it. 
 
 Now a woman sitting around the bend of the counter 
 engaged them in conversation. "My daughter loves it here. 
 OB patient. She's been in four different hospitals for the 
 other kids — Joe's always changing jobs to another town. 
 But this hospital, I'm telling you, is the first that's treated her 
 like a lady instead of a prisoner. Joe was allowed right with 
 her while she waited up in LR, and after delivery — while 
 they were rolling her out from the recovery room, they let 
 her hold the baby in her own arms! Was she tickled! I tell 
 you — this place has a heart!" 
 
 Whenever Mrs. Mahon heard the hospital praised, it was 
 better than receiving a compliment for herself — or at least, 
 just as good. Now a pleasant glow of pride replaced the 
 nervous worry of a moment ago. 
 
 Others were gradually leaving, and when Mr. Anderson, 
 the credit manager, came in, he started talking in a rush. 
 "I've just had a funny experience. I thought I had a real 
 griper on my hands a little while ago, but he told me he 
 didn't owe us a cent. Then he let fly a lot of questions that 
 are only my business, and said, 'Dammit, why does this place 
 need a credit manager?' And I told him it was the customary 
 thing and he said why and I said to make collections and he 
 said what on and I said bills and he said how much and I 
 said that varies and he said what are the room rates and I 
 told him and he began acting as if he were going to die on 
 my hands and I gave him the reasons why hospitals have to 
 charge like that and he said it was highway robbery, that 
 people couldn't afford to be sick, and I said oh yes they 
 
 278 
 
could — that some of 'em only had to pay a dollar per day 
 and he got excited, saying that was his idea, a dollar a day, 
 and it took me the good part of a quarter-hour to explain 
 how insurance worked into it. When he understood, we 
 became the best of friends." Mr. Anderson grinned sud- 
 denly. "What a guy!" 
 
 "Where did he go after leaving your office?" asked Mrs. 
 Mahon calmly. 
 
 "Pharmacy." 
 
 Now she laughed. "Can't you just hear Warren Mann 
 talking antibiotics to a doctor who stopped living in 1930?" 
 She was so intrigued with the idea that she failed to notice 
 how Mr. Anderson was staring at her. "I'll just bet," she 
 went on, "that before they get through with it, Warren will 
 say, 'Sir, the twenty-first amendment repealed the eight- 
 eenth.' " 
 
 "Where do you learn about amendments?" 
 
 "I work in a strategic position," bragged Mrs. Mahon, 
 stepping down from her stool and starting home. 
 
 By the time she re-entered her office, the little room was 
 full of six people; she looked around at them wonderingly — 
 the three visitors, safely returned, were seated; and the three 
 administrators, deferential, were standing against the filing 
 cabinets. It mattered not how they got there she thought 
 gratefully; it mattered only that they had arrived. 
 
 But there was complete silence; everyone seemed to have 
 been struck dumb. Unwilling to break the quiet with the 
 sound of her own voice, she said nothing — just slipped into 
 her desk chair, and waited for the spell to break. There 
 was only the unctuous sound of rubber-soles as someone 
 
 279 
 
walked past in the corridor. 
 
 . . . Why hadn't Mr. Pullen taken them into his office, she 
 wondered; why didn't someone say something? Intuitively 
 she knew the silence was charged with emotion. But, she 
 worried — what kind of emotion? Was it anger? shame? 
 approval? disappointment? — She couldn't tell. 
 
 Her own emotions were tender and anxious. She began 
 to see the visitors with great fondness; they were real; they 
 were here; it was they who had founded this wonderful 
 place where she worked. She felt she couldn't bear it if these 
 dear people had found any blemish on the hospital — or dis- 
 covered any discourteous person working in it — or failed to 
 note its modern wonders and appreciate its professional 
 skills. — Like a mother with her child, she could only hope 
 and pray that the hospital had behaved itself — had measured 
 up to all its potentials on this important day. 
 
 . . . Then abruptly, the soap-bubble with its iridescent 
 reflections appeared to quiver and break. . . The visitors 
 started talking all at once and to each other — 
 
 "It's beyond anything I dreamed — " 
 
 "Everything's so light! And airy! No odors at all!" 
 
 "I admit I came back with a critical attitude, but — " 
 
 "Hell, I knew this was coming, but I thought it would 
 take a hundred years!" 
 
 "Did you see how they use oxygen — a central system, 
 piped around — ?" 
 
 "They have classes everywhere — teaching nurse aides, 
 practical nurses, technicians, interns, even supervisors — " 
 
 "The patient can talk back and forth with the nurse out- 
 side—" 
 
 280 
 
"Three full-time doctors in x-ray; I asked those fellows 
 if they knew how to protect themselves from burns and 
 showed 'em my hand — but they said safeguards are 
 lOO^o. . ." 
 
 "Isn't Central Supply amazing!" 
 
 "I met Mrs. White who's in charge of all those pretty 
 things in cherry-colored smocks — " 
 
 "Nowadays they have blood banks — blood plasma — " 
 
 "And their own medical photographer — right on the 
 premises!" 
 
 "But — who pays for all the new equipment?" 
 
 "Healthy people, of course. . ." 
 
 Now Mrs. Hagaman's voice, softer than the others, com- 
 manded their attention because of its warmth. She was 
 speaking of classes held for expectant parents — and the 
 marvels of the obstetrical department. She counted, "five 
 labor rooms and three delivery rooms and a recovery room 
 and four air-conditioned nurseries!" They listened, indulg- 
 ing her, but you could tell they had other things they wanted 
 to say. . . 
 
 " — Dr. Slifer show you the isotope machine?" 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 Dr. Barnes didn't seem to hear. He was mumbling to 
 himself but the expression on his face was exalted. " — Think 
 of making basal metabolism tests that way — and diagnosing 
 pernicious anemia — " 
 
 "They're going to have a medical library soon!" 
 
 "Uh-huh. Four doctors and their wives have already 
 given big hunks of private dough for it — " 
 
 "The radiologist is one of them — Dr. Kinzer." 
 
 281 
 
"Kinzer!" recalled Dr. Barnes. " — There's a doctor! He's 
 a scientist and a rose grower!" 
 
 Miss Cleland was smiling to herself about something. 
 "Dr. Lee has a sense of humor," she began. . . 
 
 "Pathologists must." 
 
 "All doctors must." 
 
 "Yes—" She left it at that. 
 
 "You two were so busy in the laboratories that neither of 
 you saw what I saw — " Mrs. Hagaman continued. 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "Third Millikin." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Television." 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "Instead of tele-phone, tele-vision," she explained. "Pic- 
 tures out of the air, as it were! They move, too, and they 
 make sounds: people talking and guns going off and bells 
 ringing and feet shuffling — " 
 
 "Could be," acknowledged Dr. Barnes reluctantly. "But 
 what's that got to do with a hospital?" 
 
 "It entertains the patients," answered Mrs. Hagaman 
 happily. 
 
 Now, for the first time, Mr. Pullen cleared his throat and 
 spoke, inviting them into his office. "It will be quieter there," 
 he suggested. 
 
 "No, we have to go — " Both women spoke at once. 
 
 This startled Mrs. Mahon; she said quickly, "It's been 
 wonderful to have you here — " Then she added disarmingly, 
 "I hope you won't mind if I ask one question. — What was 
 it that made you want to come back today?" 
 
 282 
 
Mrs. Hagaman smiled, glancing toward the other two. 
 "We wanted to make sure this hospital is still in the hands 
 of people who care — who really care — " 
 
 "Not just a job," explained Miss Cleland. "But the kind 
 of consideration that puts the patients first." 
 
 Jerking his thumb toward the women, Dr. Barnes said to 
 Mr. Pullen, "They sound like preachers; what / came back 
 for was to see if you had enough guts to make this hospital 
 the best on earth — " 
 
 No one added anything to that, and Mrs. Mahon, know- 
 ing how much she cared about the hospital, felt her eyes mist 
 over; to hide them, she looked down. 
 
 ... It was only for a moment — only for a breath of time. 
 But when she looked up again, no one was in the room 
 except the three administrators she knew so well. 
 
 283 
 
TWO MILES 
 
 NORTH 
 
 By Adele Murphy 
 
 Once in awhile comes a book that must be 
 owned rather than borrowed. Here is a dur- 
 able story for anyone anywhere who enjoys 
 entertainment and truth; but for those who 
 live or ever have lived in Macon County, 
 Illinois, it offers a backdrop of local history 
 during fifty years of dramatic change. 
 
 If you count yourself a member of this 
 community, you are likely to meet in the pages 
 of the book relatives or friends or doctors or 
 nurses you have known — some of them reach- 
 ing the stature of heroes or heroines, but all 
 of them true to life as they revealed them- 
 selves in serving the community. 
 
 Hospital administrators, physicians, sur- 
 geons, technicians, and nurses — wherever they 
 live — will likewise find enjoyment and reader- 
 identification through watching the struggles 
 and drama of this midwest hospital. As a 
 historical novel the story goes deeper than 
 fact and gives perspective to the foibles And 
 graces of individuals who fashioned the 
 theme. 
 
COMMENTS FROM THOSE WHO 
 HAVE READ ADVANCE PROOFS 
 
 "It's a great story, well told. This absorbing 
 
 narrative is one that you will finish reading 
 
 soon, once you start." T TT _ 
 
 ; — J. H. Beaumont, 
 
 Public Relations Director of the 
 
 A. E. Staley Manufacturing Company 
 
 "If you're too young to remember trolley 
 rides, Riverside's swimming pool, corn carni- 
 vals, fire races, and such, here's your chance to 
 know Decatur at the turn of the century." 
 
 —Mrs. David Shellabarger 
 
 "Here is authentic history of the heroic strug- 
 gle to launch an important institution, excel- 
 lently and interestingly told, that should be in 
 
 every Decatur home." _ _ T ^ 
 
 1 — Otto R. Kyle, 
 
 author of "Abraham Lincoln in Decatur" 
 
 "Two Miles North" is inspirational! It will 
 entertain and thrill those who have given of 
 themselves to the community, and will sur- 
 prise newcomers not yet acquainted with local 
 history or privileges." 
 
 — Mrs. Fraser Bassett 
 
 "A fascinating history of a unique institution 
 . . . and of the people and times which pro- 
 duced and developed it." 
 
 —Dean F. Stanley, M.D. 
 
 "It holds you to the finish, and its essence 
 
 lingers on." ,, _ 
 
 —Mrs. Carlos E. Lyon 
 
 All income from sales of this book will bene- 
 fit projects assumed by volunteer workers as 
 members of the women's auxiliary of Decatur 
 and Macon County Hospital. 
 
 DECATUR AND MACON COUNTY HOSPITAL 
 
 2 300 North Edward St., Decatur. Illinois 
 
Herald and Review 
 
 Student nurses Sue Marker, left, and Sarah Gillogly read plaque inscription. 
 
 Plaque Honors 
 Adele Murphy 
 At Hospital 
 
 'Adele Murphy— author of 'Two| 
 
Dies 
 
 Miss Adele Murphy, 72, 
 yesterday in Decatur 
 Macon County Hospital. 
 
 died 
 and 
 
 Adele Murphy; 
 Dies at 71; 
 Noted Author 
 
 "If people care enough, they 
 will excel." 
 
 This was the theme which ran 
 throughout Adele Murphy's life 
 and brought her to write a book 
 on the founding of Decatur and 
 Macon County Hospital six years 
 ago. 
 
 A life long resident of Decatur, 
 Miss Murphy, of 665 W. Prairie 
 Ave., died in Decatur aid Macon 
 County Hospital at 8:35 p.m. yes- 
 terday at the age of 71. 
 
 Miss Murphy shaped her histor- 
 ic hospital novel, "Two Miles 
 North," out of her reading of hos- 
 pital board minutes, medical staff 
 society notes and interviews with 
 persons still living who were con- 
 cerned with the growth of the hos- 
 pital. The book was published in 
 1958. 
 
 In 1959 she received the first 
 honorary life membership in the 
 hospital auxiliary. 
 
 Headed Advertising Service 
 
 For many years Miss Murphy 
 was head of the Midland Adver- 
 tising Service in Decatur and in 
 1943 was appointed director of the 
 central office of Pi Beta Phi sor- 
 ority when it was moved here 
 from Marshall. The following year 
 she resigned the sorority position 
 to devote full time to the adver- 
 tising agency. 
 
 In the late 1940s, Miss Murphy 
 invented and received the patent 
 on a set of three shelves which 
 stacked inside each other for ease 
 of transport and use. 
 
 She was aDnointed a nari-timp