A _Post_ reporter met a young Houston physician the other afternoon,
with whom he is well acquainted, and suggested that they go into a
neighboring cafe and partake of a cooling lemonade. The physician
agreed, and they were soon seated at a little table in a quiet corner,
under an electric fan. After the physician had paid for the lemonade,
the reporter turned the conversation upon his practice, and asked if
he did not meet with some strange cases in his experience.
"Yes, indeed," said the doctor, "many that professional etiquette will
not allow me to mention, and others that involve no especial secrecy,
but are quite as curious in their way. I had one case only a few weeks
ago that I considered very unusual, and without giving names, I think
I can relate it to you."
"By all means do so," said the reporter, "and while you are telling
it, let us have another lemonade." The young physician looked serious
at this proposition, but after searching in his pocket and finding
another quarter he assented.
"About a week ago," he began, "I was sitting in my office, hoping for
a patient to come in, when I heard footsteps, and looking up, saw a
beautiful young lady enter the room. She advanced at the most curious
gait I ever beheld in one so charming. She staggered from side to side
and lurched one way and another, succeeding only by a supreme effort
in reaching the chair I placed for her. Her face was very lovely, but
showed signs of sadness and melancholy.
"'Doctor,' she said, in a very sweet, but sorrowful voice, 'I want to
consult you about my condition, and as it is a most unusual affection,
I will have to trouble you to listen to a no doubt tedious discourse
upon my family history.'
"'Madam,' said I, 'my time is yours. Anything you have to say that
will throw light upon your trouble will, of course, benefit me in my
diagnosis.'
"She thanked me with a smile that for a moment erased the sad lines
from her face.
"'My father,' she said, 'was one of the Adamses of Eastern Texas. You
have doubtless heard of the family.'
"'Perhaps so,' I replied, 'but there are so many families by the name
of Adams that--'
"'It is of no consequence,' she continued with a little wave of her
hand. 'Fifty years ago a violent feud broke out between my
grandfather's family and another family of old Texas settlers named
Redmond. The bloodshed and inhumanities exchanged between the people
of each side would fill volumes. The horrors of the old Kentucky and
West Virginia feuds were repeated by them. An Adams would shoot a
Redmond from behind a fence, at his table while eating, in a church,
or anywhere; and a Redmond would murder an Adams in like manner. The
most violent hatred imaginable existed between them. They poisoned
each other's wells, they killed each other's stock, and if an Adams
met a Redmond, only one would leave the spot. The children of each
family were taught to hate the others from the time they could speak,
and so the legacy of antipathy was handed down from father to son and
from mother to daughter. For thirty years this battle raged between
them, and one by one the death-dealing rifle and revolver thinned the
families until one day just twenty years ago there remained but a
single representative of each family, Lemuel Adams and Louisa Redmond.
They were both young and handsome, and at their first meeting forgot
the ancient feud of their families and loved each other. They married
at once, and thus ended the great Adams-Redmond feud. But, alas, sir,
the inherited discord and hatred of so many years' standing was
destined to rebound upon an innocent victim.'
"'I was the child of that marriage, and the Adams and Redmond blood
would not mingle. As a babe I was like any other, and was even
considered unusually prepossessing.'
"'I can well believe that, madam,' I interrupted.
"The lady colored slightly and went on: 'As I grew older a strange
warring and many adverse impulses began to sway me. Every thought or
movement I made was met by a contradictory one. It was the result of
hereditary antagonism. Half of me was Adams and the other half
Redmond. If I attempted to look at an object, one of my eyes would
gaze in another direction. If I tried to salt a potato while eating,
the other hand would involuntarily reach out and sprinkle it with
sugar.
"'Hundreds of times while playing the piano, while one hand would
strike the notes of a lovely Beethoven sonata, I could not keep the
other from pounding out "Over the Garden Wall," or "The Skidmore
Guards." The Adams and the Redmond blood would not flow in harmony. If
I went into an ice cream saloon, I would order a vanilla cream in
spite of myself, when my very soul was clamoring for lemon. Many a
time I would strive with every nerve to disrobe for the night, and the
opposing influence would be so strong that I have instead put on my
finest and most elaborate clothing and retired with my shoes on. Have
you ever met with a similar case, doctor?'
"'Never,' I said. 'It is indeed remarkable. And you have never
succeeded in overcoming the adverse tendency?'
"Oh, yes. By constant efforts and daily exercise I have succeeded so
far that it troubles me now in one respect only. With one exception I
am now entirely released from its influence. It is my locomotion that
is affected. My l-lower limbs refuse to coincide in their movements.
If I try to walk in a certain direction, one--one of them will take
the step I desire, and the other tries to go by an entirely different
route. It seems that one l--one of them is Adams, and the other
Redmond. Absolutely the only time when they agree is when I ride a
bicycle, and as one goes up when the other is going down, their
opposite movements of course facilitate my progress; but when
endeavoring to walk I find them utterly unmanageable. You observed my
entrance into this room. Is there anything you can do for me, doctor?'
"'Your case is indeed a strange one,' I said. 'I will consider the
situation, and if you will call tomorrow at 10 o'clock I will
prescribe for you.'
"She rose from her chair, and I assisted her down the stairs to her
carriage, which waited below. Such a sprawling, ungainly, mixed up
walk I never saw before.
"I meditated over her case for a long time that night and consulted
all the authorities on locomotor ataxia, and diseases of the muscles,
that I could find. I found nothing covering her case, and about
midnight I wandered out along the streets for a breath of cool air. I
passed a store kept by an old German whom I knew, and dropped in to
speak a word with him. I had noticed some time before two tame deer he
kept running about in a paddock in his yard. I asked him about them.
He told me that they had been fighting, and had not been able to
agree, so he had separated them, placing each one in a separate yard.
Of a sudden an idea came to me.
"The next day at ten the young lady came to my office. I had a
prescription ready for her. I gave it to her, she read it, flushed and
was inclined to be angry.
"'Try it, madam,' I said.
"She agreed to do so, and only yesterday I saw her on the street,
walking as gracefully and easily as any lady in the city."
"What was your prescription?" asked the reporter.
"It was simply to wear a pair of bloomers," said the young physician.
"You see by separating the opposing factions harmony was restored. The
Adams and the Redmond divisions no longer clashed, and the cure of the
patient was complete. Let me see," continued the physician, "it is
nearly half past seven, and I have an engagement to call upon her at
eight. In confidence, I may say that she has consented to change her
name to mine at an early date. I would not have you repeat what I have
told you, of course."
"To be sure, I will not," said the reporter. "But won't you take
another lemo--"
"No, no, thank you," said the doctor, rising hurriedly, "I must go.
Good evening. I will see you again in a few days."
(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, May 3, 1896.)