NATURE—AND MAN

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 79, Issue 11, 14 January 1936, Page 9

NATURE—AND MAN

KNIGHT-ERRANT FOR BIRDS VENGEANCE ON A VANDAL. (Edited by Leo. Fanning). "When Dr. Alex Munthe was staying at Chateau Ramereaux, some, miles from Paris, he met a French Vicomte who boasted about his skill in shooting skylarks and swallows with a pistol. He was a robust person, found of food and drink, and yet nervous about his health. He constant fear of catching diseases, took medicine habitually as a precaution against infection. In his wonderful book, “The Story of San Michele,” Dr. Munthe tells how he avenged the pitiless slaughter of larks and swallows. Circumstances enabled him to give the visconite an impression that he was suffering from politic (inflamation of the mucus memfrane of an internal affair). Soon the Frenchman was in dread of death, and the village doctor was summoned. After a visit to the patient he had a consultation with Dr. Munthe (who was known to be a specialist in the fitment of such troubles as colitis). Here is a passage from the book: “To tell you the truth.” said the local doctor, “I took it at first for a simple stomach trouble, but he woke up with a violent headache and now a persistent hiccup has set in. He looks wreti ted, he himself is convince.! he has colitis. I confess I have never attended a case of coliiis, I wanted to give him a dose of castor-oil, he has a nasy tongue, but if colitis is anything like appendicitis, I suppose it is better to beware of the castor-oil. What do you think? Ho is feeling his pulst the whole time when he is not looking at hys tongue. Strange to say he feels very hungry, he was furious When I did not allow him his breakfast.” “You were quite right, vou had better be firm and keep on the safe side nothing but water for the next forty’ eight hours.” “ Quite so.” “It is not for me to trie -ou any ness. but I do not share your hesitation /// 1 "il- ll' I were von, 1 uould a Stiff dose, Jlo

wnnbi i 1•’ ru ’’ ee table spoon-fulls "o.ilil do him a ] O f of g oo ffn “Did yon really mean to sav three table spoon-tulls?” at Icas ß and above all no ioofl whatsoever, only water.” “Quito so.” Eventually (Dr. Munthe (for his own satisfaction, of course,) advised Ihe other practitioner to put a hot poultice on the stomach and an ice-bag on the Mint’s head. Then the story goes on “I mot my friend the village doctor returning in his dog-cart from his morning visit, to the Vieomts. The patient was feeling very low and was yelling for food, but the doctor had been firm in his refusal to take the responsibility of allowing anything but water The poultice on the stomach and the ice-bag on the head had been kept goincr the whole night greatly interfering Vi th the patient’s sleep. Had I anything to suggest? ho, I felt sure he was in excellent hands. Maybe, if the condition remained stationary h G might try for a change to put the icebag on the stomach and the poultice on the head. How long did I think, if no complications set in that the patient ought to be kept in bed ; “At least for another week, till the moon was gone. ’’ This imaginary illness prevented the viscomte taking part in a champion-1 ship bird-shooting match, and kept him] miserably in bed for more than a week. A Duel with the Vicomte. Dr. 'Munthe punched the Vicomte for kicking a dog—and the sequel was a duel—a very uneven affair, as the Frenchman was an expert marksman and the Swede had never handled a firearm. Yet, as blind luck would have it, the doctor was shot harmlessly through the hat, and his challenger had his right lung holed by a bullet. When the famous surgeon was told that his enemy was dangerously wounded, he did not mourn. His feeling is indicated in the following passage: “So much the worse for him,” said I miraculously regaining my power of speech, “he kicked my defenceless old dog to death, he spends his leisure hours killing swallows and skylarks, he deserves all he gets. Do you know that the Areopagus of Athens pronounced a death sentence on a boy for having stung out the eyes of a bird.” A Grateful Little Owl. Here is a story told by Dr. Munthe about the days when he was in practice in Rome: “The dining-room opened on a little courtyard under the Trinta dei Monti steps, transformed by me Into a sort of infirmary and convalescent home for my various animals. Among them was a darling little owl. a direct descendant from the owl of Minerva. I had found it in the Campagna with, a broken wing half dead of hunger.. Its wing healed, I had twice taken it back to where I had found it set it free, twice it had flown back to my .carriage to perch on my shoulder, it would not hear of our parting. Since then the little owl was sitting on her perch in the corner of the dining-room, looking lovingly at me with her golden eyes. She had even given up sleeping in the day in order not to lose sight of me. When I used to stroke her soft little arson she would half close her eyes with delight and nibble gently at my lips with her tiny sharp beak, as near to a kiss as an owl can get. Among the I patients admitted to the dining-room was a very excitable young Russian

guineas, lady who was giving me lots of trouble? Would you believe it, this lady got so jealous of the owl, she used to glare at ’the little bird so savagely, that I had to give strict orders to. Anna never to leave these two alone in the room. One day on coming in for luncheon Anna told me that the Russian lady had just called with a dead mouse wrapped in paper. She had caught it in her room, she felt sure the owl would

5 like it for breakfast. The owl know better, after having bitten off its head, ; owl fashion, she. refused to eat it. I took it to the English chemist, it con- ' tained enough arsenic to kill a ent.” The Forest Passes. > Trees grew in the valley—- * Old, gracious trees, and the slimly > youthful sapling; i Joyous with bird-song, murmurous with soft breezes, And flecked with the sun’s dappling. Man came to the valley, ’ With whine of saw, and the savage axeblade’s ringing. And ravening fire to add the bright steel’s slaughter— To still the birds’ sweet singing. Charred stumps in the valley Stand jaggedly, their fallen trunks still lying Like men unburied in the ghastly wake of battle — Their dirge—a lost wind crying. Anne Croft, in the New Zealand Railways Magazine.