which happens very rarely. The prescription check used in the department was shown on page 125 of the BULLETIN for March of the present year.

A NOVELTY: FANCY GROCERIES.

We leave the prescription department, and one thing which causes us some surprise is a counter devoted to the sale of fancy groceries in the rear end of the salesroom. "Well, we had space for something of the kind when we moved in here," Mr. Stoddart explains, "and we have found that the experiment works very well. Of course we handle only package goods. We use them, besides, as drawing cards in our Friday bargain sales, and with a good deal of success."

The Friday bargain sale is peculiarly a Buffalo custom. The department stores inaugurated the scheme, and in order to hold their own with such competition the large drug and other retail stores had to fall in line. But more of this later.

Here in the back portion of the ground floor are the several offices. Mr. Thomas Stoddart is seen seated in his private room in our second illustration. Mr. Charles Stoddart has an office near by, while a large, light room is used by the bookkeepers, stenographers, telephone-exchange girl, and others. Back of all this is the packing and shipping room, and here we find two men regularly at work.

AN INTERESTING BASEMENT.

And now Mr. Stoddart leads us down into the basement-one of the most important features of this as of any large store. We run across many novel things. Here, for instance, is a room devoted to the manufacture of ice cream. Two men and two

gas engines coöperate in making cream constantly during the season, and facilities are available for packing 100 gallons of the substance. Then we discover a unique cigar room made entirely of glass and having glass shelves inside for the storage of stock: on each shelf are three fire-bricks, and these, moistened every other day, keep the cigars in just the proper condition. Next we see the electric light plant for lighting the building and for running such machinery as we are yet to find in the basement and on some of the upper floors.

PREPARING BARGAIN GOODS.

In two rooms, side by side, employees are seen getting ready for the Friday bargain sales that are to be conducted the next week. In one a couple of girls are putting up pound boxes of candy that are to sell

for ten cents! In the other two men are bottling liquors which are to be used for the same purpose: a quart bottle of whiskey, a quart of wine, and a halfpint of California brandy are wrapped up in a strong package together and sold on bargain days for a dollar. There isn't much money in these sales, but they are used by the large drug and department store as drawing cards on bargain Fridays. In another room are two women operating a bottlewashing machine and cleansing old Apollinaris and similar containers for putting up the liquors and other products. Altogether this great basement, with its many rooms and diverse activities, is a beehive of industry.

THE SECOND FLOOR.

But we have spent so much of the time at our disposal in the salesroom on the ground floor and in the basement that we shall have to hurry over the three remaining floors of the building. The second floor is comparatively uninteresting. It is used as a storeroom for "patents" and other goods, and a part of it for both the display and the storage of hospital furniture and appliances. Stoddart Bros. often fit up new hospitals, or replenish old ones, underbidding the jobbers and other dealers on many contracts.

THIRD FLOOR: MAKING DEFORMITY GOODS AND

PERFUMES.

On the third floor is a laboratory on one side, and a room for the manufacture of deformity goods on the other, with a partition between. The latter room is one of the most interesting features of the establishment. Three experts, two men and one woman, are busily employed in making all sorts of queer contrivances to meet the special orders of physiciansdevices for club-feet, broken knees, and deformities

of various kinds. There is a small room where the measurements are taken if the patient is able to come or be brought to the building.

The laboratory on the other side of the third floor is used chiefly for the preparation of the considerable line of specialties that are sold under the Stoddart label, and for the manufacture of perfumes and toilet waters. On bargain days a plain one-ounce bottle of triple extract is sold for 25 cents as a leader, and this could not be done if the goods were not made on the spot. Hundreds of bottles are sold every Friday.

FOURTH FLOOR: MAKING SPLINTS.

Finally we ascend to the fourth floor. On one side the perfumes and specialties made in the labo

ratory below are wrapped, labeled, and prepared for sale. On the other is a large room used entirely for the manufacture of a special type of splint in various sizes and of various kinds. These are patented and are sold all over the world. Advertisements appear in the medical journals, and many of the goods are handled by jobbers and physicians' supply houses. They are constructed of the same kind of paper that is sold for use under carpets, are treated medicinally, and are then given their peculiar shape and their stiffness by the pressure of strong machinery. Four men are regularly employed in this department.

THE TRIP FINISHED.

We have now finished our trip through the build

ing, and we wend our way back down stairs, thank Mr. Stoddart warmly for his courtesy, and walk out of the door and up Seneca Street towards Main, the chief business thoroughfare of Buffalo-for Stoddart Bros., singularly enough, are not in the great retail district, and doubtless, if they were, could not afford to pay rent or stand the interest on so large a building or investment.

As we reach Main Street and separate on our various missions, one of our number gives expression to a thought which has more or less consciously been with us all:

"Well, gentlemen, isn't it strange that some people are still telling us there are no longer any possibilities in the drug business!"

"Being Done Good" is one of the most amusing books that has been brought forth during the last few seasons.* It was reviewed in the April issue of the BULLETIN OF PHARMACY, but it may not be amiss this month to reproduce rather copious selections from it. As the hot days of June approach, light reading is more than ever welcome; and there are many things in "Being Done Good" which can best be appreciated at a time when one feels in the mood for entertainment.

The book was written by a chronic rheumatic. He had tried every remedy under the sun, and each had left him a little worse than he was before. He had finally reached the point where he could barely hobble about his house with a cane, and yet, singularly enough, he never lost his cheerfulness of attitude. He presented the remarkable spectacle of a man who could laugh gaily at the many and strange remedies which had been recommended by friends and physicians for the alleviation of his disease. The whole book is a gay satire at his own expense, and there are many bits of fresh and grotesque humor in it which would have done honor to Mark Twain. Years ago, when the author found rheumatism

*By Edward B. Lent. Published by the Brooklyn Eagle, Brooklyn, N. Y., 1904. Cloth; 345 pages; $1.25 net.

getting its iron grip upon him, he first consulted a "regular" physician. This modern disciple of Esculapius used one method after another, and all without avail. Finally cauterization was resorted to; and the author's description of the Paquelin cautery is rich:

The Paquelin cautery is an indispensable article in the surgical outfit of any up-to-date physician. Briefly described, it is a round piece of one-quarter-inch steel, eight inches long, with one end slightly flattened. It is hollow, so that a stream of ignited benzine may be forced through the flattened end, with a rubber tube and ball; in fact, it is almost the same thing as the burning tool supplied with a pyrography outfit. A red hot poker would answer every purpose, but Paquelin got this thing up to stay red hot all the time. A poker keeps red hot long enough to brand a steer, or burn the spavin on a horse. No such momentary tickling will answer, however, for the human animal. For him, let it be red hot, and plenty of it.

To be done, good, by the cautery, the victim bares his back and the doctor proceeds to swipe. The odor of burning flesh quickly fills the room. The most rheumatic victim becomes spry. He does the czardas, the hoochee-koochee, the can-can, and the Highland fling, and accompanies himself with song. The doctor is surprised, and says the young women come to him especially for this form of nerve tonic. In your mind's eye you see whole trainloads from young ladies' seminaries coming to town to sample Paquelin's popular pacifiers.

You soon learn that it costs five dollars per to be branded by a specialist, so you present a pyrography outfit to your

wife, and teach her how to put the red spots on. At first it surprises you to note how fond she is of the task. You feared she would shrink from the job, but not so. Women take to doctoring and decorating with equal facility. About the fourth lesson she is able to put burnt-wood designs on you that you long to show to the neighbors. Home pyrography practiced on papa's back makes it simple and easy to do the work on wood and pigskin afterward.

But this type of artistic medication fails to produce anything but esthetic results, and mustard plasters are next recommended to the author:

These inventions, you are informed, are the great pain extractors. Up to this time, the writer's only experience with mustard plasters had to do with one he made and placed on the exiguous stomach of a literary friend. That plaster saved his friend's vermiform appendix, and also his valuable young life. The great efficacy of this application was due to the fact that it was nearly all mustard, with only a little self-raising pan-cake flour added; and, what was more important, it was smeared good and thick all over the seat of misery. This, with copious doses of morphine, lulled the patient into forgetfulness and caused him to see fish at his bedside. Thus we left him fishing and happy. In two months he was about again.

One of the best chapters in the book is that devoted to "Turkish and Electric Baths:"

The first thing you do at a Turkish bath is to pay a dollar. Then you write your name and address in a large book. This proves valuable in case you are not able to remove the remains unaided. Your jewelry and valuables you leave in the safe, because some Turk not yet sobered up may go home in your clothes. One side of the establishment is for men and the other for women. Should Dr. Mary Walker enter, she would leave her duds on the men's side and escape to the women's room through a private door. The sight of her clothes on the women's side would create needless alarm, and might

ruin the business.

This is no society function, hence bathing suits are not needed. The clothing is removed in a four by eight room, furnished by a cot on which the effects of the treatment may be slept off. Assuming a towel, you stand girded as Adam in Eden and more ready to raise Cain than you will be Abel to later.

Emerging in your natural beauty, or pristine elegance, you approach the platform scale and are weighed in. Allow onequarter pound tare for the towel and your net weight may be easily computed. You then step from the scale to the hot room. This has accommodation for twenty cases. It is entered through a vestibule, temperature 90° F., and as you step in 150° strike you hard all over, but principally on the soles of your feet. The marble floor right at that moment makes it feel 230°. Therefore you step lively along the matting which you are quick to discover, and plant yourself in a reclining chair, heated to 231°, and curl your No. tens into a pail of water. Thus you sit, pigeon-toed and expectant.

A number of other Adams are in the hot room, some well done and some rare. The stout men show the best results. It

is not a case of grilled bones with them, as it proves to be with the rest of us. A two-hundred-pounder hardly bakes at all. He stews in his own gravy, while a lean man, shut in for the same term, must drink a gallon of water in order to raise even a dew.

The Turkish bath does not quite do the business, however, and so the electric bath is resorted to with considerable confidence in the results.

The electric bath is administered by a physician. The "rubbers" can kill a man by their tame methods, if they try, but when it comes to handling the electric fluid, a physician with a diploma must be engaged. This doubles the bill. A wooden bath tub is provided for this course. The tub is nearly filled with warm water. The victim, having been filled with hot air downstairs, gracefully floats on the surface. A carpet-covered brick, at times used to keep the door open, is placed on his chest, where it submerges his thoracic region and puts him on an even keel. From somewhere at the head of the tub, well out of sight, the electric current is obtained. This is transmitted to the water from the negative wire, and the positive handle, covered with a sponge, is grasped by the operator. Applied at the nape of the neck the current shoots along the spinal cord and sets up a tingling at the ends of the nerves. This gives a man to understand that he is equipped with a telegraph system of his own, and his only regret is that he can't capitalize it for some remunerative business. A few more amperes, with a little voltage, are then turned on. The current is a great pathfinder. Every sore spot is detected and the victim's fins raise waves in response.

In time the author's friends, as always happens to every type of invalid, begin to suggest cures quite as great in number and variety as they are surprising in character. Of a willing and tractable disposition, he applies many of the friendly suggestions he receives, and here is what he has to say on the subject after he has been through the mill :

Anything stated here regarding the cures recommended by friends must be understood as a testimonial for or against the remedy itself, and is in no way to be interpreted as a reflection on the friends' integrity of purpose. These good intentions of the author's friends he has piled carefully away, and when he passes over he expects to have enough fire-proof paving material on hand to insure a cool-footed journey into the center of diplomatic circles. When he arrives there, he will reciprocate by doing what he can for his acquaintances. For if a quick recovery is not obtained, it will not be their fault. They stand ready to care for him in this world just as the police and the coroner stand ready to do their part should any of these unofficially prescribed remedies do what they are capable of doing.

One of the author's friends finally suggests an electric battery. He says that the magnetic belt which the victim has been using does not produce electricity, but that the battery is sure to.

once.

Actual electricity would remove all the trouble. He felt sure the battery was evidently the thing, and it was bought at The accompanying book of directions devoted considerable space to rheumatism. This was read before beginning operations. The first thing was to fill a china basin with warm water. In this was dropped a metal plate attached to the negative pole. A moistened sponge was fastened to the positive pole. Thus, a dry battery was to be applied wet. The treatment is taken before retiring, everything then being ready for a direct transmission without fear of visitors. The right foot is rested on the metal plate in the basin, and the current then turned on. With the sponge in the left hand a staccato is lightly played upon the sensitive joints. In the great galleries we often see pictures entitled "The Bath," and considerable attention is always given to them by lovers of true art, but the picture of a man taking electrical treatment by this dry and wet process has not yet been placed before the world. "Ajack's Defying the Lightning" will be a proper title for the painting, and if Ajack's is too abbreviated for clearness, just fill in between the k and the s.

"The Liver Cure" is tried along with everything else in the author's varied experiences, and oldfashioned calomel, used in the old-fashioned way, is the chief agent employed:

Calomel is the great agent to stir the liver. A calomel tablet, if large enough, will give the liver its last stir, but a little one will kick with winged feet at the hepatic cells until the inhabitants thereof are hustled out to learn why they are wanted. Just at that point in the excitement, about 6.00 A.M., a Johnstown flood of citrate of magnesia sweeps all before it and leaves the liver to restore itself. This it will do in time, and when reconstructed it will be minus its slums. This is the old-timey, Southern way of removing torpidity. The noise and flood at first scare it into surprising activity. Later it takes as kindly to the treatment as an old horse to a slap with a rein. Then the calomel or chloride of mercury soaks in and puts the green spots on the bones which are referred to elsewhere in this treatise.

The chapter on "Osteopathy" will afford a great deal of pleasure to those sane individuals who enjoy nothing quite so much as a good laugh at this modern vagary in medicine. We regret that space prevents us from reproducing the entire chapter.

The signs of these healers show that it is customary for man and wife to set up in the business together. The reason for this is found in the nature of the treatment, which puts the subject through a wide variety of contortions. Mrs. Dr. O., therefore, twists the ladies, and Dr. O. shapes up the gentlemen. Thus, self-esteem is preserved without the use of chloroform by both classes of patients.

A highly developed sense of touch in any healer is desirable, but the osteopath beats them all, in that he touches you for the fee in advance. As an artist he is an impressionist. Some of his impressions make holes, and others lumps. These intaglio and cameo effects look well on rings or brooches,

displaying the family seal. It is better, however, that the coat of arms so executed on papa's back be displayed only when darkest nighthood is in flower.

Then, for some unknown reason, the rheumatic turns from cures for rheumatism to a stomach specialist. He is determined to leave no stone unturned in this hunt for health. The specialist makes an external examination of the stomach region, and then looks wise and says: "I tink I vill vash it owid."

The patient was examined one morning before breakfast. When it was resolved to wash the stomach out, the inner man was craving oatmeal. None of that was allowed, but instead, a simple meal consisting of one cracker and a glass of water was prescribed. The specialist did not give meals, so the patient had to go home for his cracker. One half hour after eating, it was agreed he should be washed out.

Washing out is a process which reminds the bystander of a chicken swallowing a string. Any one who has seen a hen with half a yard of twine safely roiled in her gizzard, still gulping to get the remaining two yards in, obtains a fair notion of the first step in this treatment.

There are many other chapters in the book, devoted to the almost innumerable remedies which the poor rheumatic has used at one time or another. Our space, however, will permit us to glance at but one more chapter in this amusing volume-that devoted to "Homœopathy." Some of the author's cleverest shafts of satire are aimed at this school of medicine:

Similia similibus curantur is the homeopathic doctrine in a dead language capsule. This means "like cures like." There is nothing else like it. If you have anything the matter with you and take more of it, you get better. Hahnemann, who discovered this law, has had more followers than Mrs. Eddy. Hahnemann's theory calls for the taking of very minute doses of any drug which will put you into the same fix you are trying to get out of. For example, if rheumatism is your specialty, you will take rhus tox., one drop of the drug "attenuated" ten billion times. The power of the drug is not destroyed by this dilution; it is more readily assimilated without danger of being thrown out by the eliminating organs.

Even moonshine may be served hot by a homeopath. This does not refer to that Kentucky and Tennessee moonshine which is so often exhibited in allopathic doses, but to the genuine lunar rays. The writer once had an interview with an old homeopathic physician in Brooklyn who made the moonshine pills by subjecting his sugar pellets to the rays of the moon. Of course such pellets could not be taken full strength, but after dilution to, say, one ten-billionth, severe lunacy could be cured by them. If the lunacy had been induced by Tennessee moonshine, it made no difference; these pills would restore the brain to its normal activity. Any one who thinks that this story is moonshine may easily be convinced to the contrary.