A HOSPITAL BENEFACTOR.

King Country Chronicle, Volume XIX, Issue 2050, 2 December 1924, Page 6

A HOSPITAL BENEFACTOR.

UNKNOWN SAMARITAN. DOES GOOD BY STEALTH. Sydney, November 10. For about twelve years a mysterious mail, under cover of darkness, lias been leaving gifts in Sydney Hospital wards. He is unknown; lie lias never even been seen; he “does good, by stealth”; baffles nurses and patients alike. Who is he, this inscrutable giver ? “Lights out” is a nightly order, rigidly enforced at Sydney Hospital at 8.30 p.m. Only at the end of each ward glimmers the liglrt where the night nurse begins her vigil. The courtyard is a place of eerie shadows that reach out from the feet of heavy walls. In that hour the courtyard is mystic with the commingling of soft sound and the interplay of hushed breeez- and cool shadow. It is tlien that the mysterious stranger visits Sydney Hospital. He can be imagined moving acrofss that open space, walking porhaps from shadow to shadow, keeping close to the dark lesVfc one pair of the score of watching eyes should detect his movements on his errand of mercy. They have watched for him for twelve years, but no one has seen him yet. FLOWERS AND FRUIT.

Always the unknown has made the .a,mo secret journey in the early part tf the night; always he lias turned his [ silent footsteps towards either Ward 9 or Ward 10, which are in the women’s section; always lie has been successful in leaving his gifts, and, vanishing as mysteriously as he came. According to a nursing sister, the unknown’s visits are “bewildering.” “Week by week the gifts I'mve been left,” she said, “until about four years ago they took the form of huge bags of fruit—choice fruit (she emphasised this). Each bag must have cost about thirty shillings or two pounds. “How were they left? They come like spiritualistic a p ports. We just find them—on steps, ill doorways, on vacant beds in the wards, on top of cupboards, on verandahs. ‘On one occasion I myself had opened a cupboard to put some sheets away. I walked into another room, returning in a matter of a few seconds. And there in, front of the cupboard l had just left was the unknown’s gift. No one had seen him come or go. There was never a note with the gift, or a, name, or any indication of the giver’s identity. “But abo,ut four years ago,” continued the nrrsing sister, “the gifts stopped suddenly, and we all wondered why. Nurses and patients had grown to love this mysterious giver. We had watched nightly in the hope of seeing him, to clasp liis hand., and thank him for his thoughtfulness through all these long years. Somehow the thought came that he might be dead, and wo wero sad. MYSTERY LETTER. “Shortly afltenvards, however, a letter came to the hospital,” she went on. “It bore a country postmark, but was undated and unsigned. It contained a £lO note, and the writer stated that, although he was in the country, and unable to cotntinue his gifts, be hoped the money would be spent, in his absence. “Six months after the letter came the mysterious gifts commenced again. They now take the form of flowers, ami’ they are left jftst as stealthily. The identity of the giver is just as much a, mystery as it was twelve years ago. “They are large boxes of choice flowers,” the speaker continued, “worth about £2 a box, and they are used, of course, to beautify the wards.” “Last night lie left his gilt—a big box of roses, with a wonderful bunch of lilies of the valley. See, wo found them jjnst here—and she pointed to the cornier of a room. “How he came in here with that large box, and out again without being seen by a nurse or patient, or a doctor, or perhaps some attendant in the courtyard, beats me. “Though we cannot thank him personally, we are grateful,” and she turned to arrange a vase of flowers. They were roses—and lilies of the valley.