〃Speaking　of　Operations〃
  by　Irvin　S。　Cobb
  Respectfully　dedicated　to　two　classes：
  Those　who　have　already　been　operated　on
  Those　who　have　not　yet　been　operated　on
  Now　that　the　last　belated　bill　for　services　professionally　rendered
  has　been　properly　paid　and　properly　receipted；　now　that　the　memory
  of　the　event；　like　the　mark　of　the　stitches；　has　faded　out　from　a
  vivid　red　to　a　becoming　pink　shade；　now　that　I　pass　a　display　of
  adhesive　tape　in　a　drug…store　window　without　flinchingI　sit　me
  down　to　write　a　little　piece　about　a　certain　mattera　small　thing；
  but　mine　ownto　wit；　That　Operation。
  For　years　I　have　noticed　that　persons　who　underwent　pruning　or
  remodeling　at　the　hands　of　a　duly　qualified　surgeon；　and　survived；
  like　to　talk　about　it　afterward。　　In　the　event　of　their　not　surviving
  I　have　no　doubt　they　still　liked　to　talk　about　it；　but　in　a　different
  locality。　　Of　all　the　readily　available　topics　for　use；　whether
  among　friends　or　among　strangers；　an　operation　seems　to　be　the
  handiest　and　most　dependable。　　It　beats　the　Tariff；　or　Roosevelt；
  or　Bryan；　or　when　this　war　is　going　to　end；　if　ever；　if　you　are　a
  man　talking　to　other　men；　and　it　is　more　exciting　even　than　the
  question　of　how　Mrs。　Vernon　Castle　will　wear　her　hair　this　season；
  if　you　are　a　woman　talking　to　other　women。
  For　mixed　companies　a　whale　is　one　of　the　best　and　the　easiest
  things　to　talk　about　that　I　know　of。　　In　regard　to　whales　and
  their　peculiarities　you　can　make　almost　any　assertion　without　fear
  of　successful　contradiction。　　Nobody　ever　knows　any　more　about
  them　than　you　do。　　You　are　not　hampered　by　facts。　　If　someone
  mentions　the　blubber　of　the　whale　and　you　chime　in　and　say　it　may
  be　noticed　for　miles　on　a　still　day　when　the　large　but　emotional
  creature　has　been　moved　to　tears　by　some　great　sorrow　coming　into
  its　life；　everybody　is　bound　to　accept　the　statement。　　For　after
  all　how　few　among　us　really　know　whether　a　distressed　whale　sobs
  aloud　or　does　so　under　its　breath？　Who；　with　any　certainty；　can
  tell　whether　a　mother　whale　hatches　her　own　egg　her　own　self　or
  leaves　it　on　the　sheltered　bosom　of　a　fjord　to　be　incubated　by
  the　gentle　warmth　of　the　midnight　sun？　The　possibilities　of　the
  proposition　for　purposes　of　informal　debate；　pro　and　con；　are
  apparent　at　a　glance。
  The　weather；　of　course；　helps　out　amazingly　when　you　are　meeting
  people　for　the　first　time；　because　there　is　nearly　always　more　or
  less　weather　going　on　somewhere　and　practically　everybody　has　ideas
  about　it。　　The　human　breakfast　is　also　a　wonderfully　good　topic
  to　start　up　during　one　of　those　lulls。　　Try　it　yourself　the　next
  time　the　conversation　seems　to　drag。　　Just　speak　up　in　an　offhand
  kind　of　way　and　say　that　you　never　care　much　about　breakfasta
  slice　of　toast　and　a　cup　of　weak　tea　start　you　off　properly　for
  doing　a　hard　day's　work。　　You　will　be　surprised　to　note　how　things
  liven　up　and　how　eagerly　all　present　join　in。　　The　lady　on　your
  left　feels　that　you　should　know　she　always　takes　two　lumps　of　sugar
  and　nearly　half　cream；　because　she　simply　cannot　abide　hot　milk；
  no　matter　what　the　doctors　say。　　The　gentleman　on　your　right　will
  be　moved　to　confess　he　likes　his　eggs　boiled　for　exactly　three
  minutes；　no　more　and　no　less。　　Buckwheat　cakes　and　sausage　find　a
  champion　and　oatmeal　rarely　lacks　a　warm　defender。
  But　after　all；　when　all　is　said　and　done；　the　king　of　all　topics
  is　operations。　　Sooner　or　later；　wherever　two　or　more　are　gathered
  together　it　is　reasonably　certain　that　somebody　will　bring　up　an
  operation。
  Until　I　passed　through　the　experience　of　being　operated　on　myself；
  I　never　really　realized　what　a　precious　conversational　boon　the
  subject　is；　and　how　great　a　part　it　plays　in　our　intercourse　with
  our　fellow　beings　on　this　planet。　　To　the　teller　it　is　enormously
  interesting；　for　he　is　not　only　the　hero　of　the　tale　but　the　rest
  of　the　cast　and　the　stage　setting　as　wellthe　whole　show；　as　they
  say；　and　if　the　listener　has　had　a　similar　experienceand　who　is
  there　among　us　in　these　days　that　has　not　taken　a　nap　'neath　the
  shade　of　the　old　ether　cone？it　acquires　a　doubled　value。
  〃Speaking　of　operations〃　you　say；　just　like　that；　even　though
  nobody　present　has　spoken　of　them；　and　then　you　are　off；　with　your
  new　acquaintance　sitting　on　the　edge　of　his　chair；　or　hers　as　the
  case　may　be　and　so　frequently　is；　with　hands　clutched　in　polite
  but　painful　restraint；　gills　working　up　and　down　with　impatience；
  eyes　brightened　with　desire；　tongue　hung　in　the　middle；　waiting　for
  you　to　pause　to　catch　your　breath；　so　that　he　or　she　may　break　in
  with　a　few　personal　recollections　along　the　same　line。　　From　a　mere
  conversation　it　resolves　itself　into　a　symptom　symposium；　and　a
  perfectly　splendid　time　is　had　by　all。
  If　an　operation　is　such　a　good　thing　to　talk　about；　why　isn't　it　a
  good　thing　to　write　about；　too？　　That　is　what　I　wish　to　know。
  Besides；　I　need　the　money。　　Verily；　one　always　needs　the　money
  when　one　has　but　recently　escaped　from　the　ministering　clutches
  of　the　modern　hospital。　　Therefore　I　write。
  It　all　dates　back　to　the　fair；　bright　morning　when　I　went　to　call
  on　a　prominent　practitioner　here　in　New　York；　whom　I　shall　denominate
  as　Doctor　X。　　I　had　a　pain。　　I　had　had　it　for　days。　　It　was　not　a
  dependable；　locatable　pain；　such　as　a　tummyache　or　a　toothache　is；
  which　you　can　put　your　hand　on；　but　an　indefinite；　unsettled；
  undecided　kind　of　pain；　which　went　wandering　about　from　place　to
  place　inside　of　me　like　a　strange　ghost　lost　in　Cudjo's　Cave。　　I
  never　knew　until　then　what　the　personal　sensations　of　a　haunted
  house　are。　　If　only　the　measly　thing　could　have　made　up　its　mind
  to　settle　down　somewhere　and　start　light　housekeeping　I　think
  should　have　been　better　satisfied。　　I　never　had　such　an　uneasy
  tenant。　　Alongside　of　it　a　woman　with　the　moving　fever　would　be
  comparatively　a　fixed　and　stationary　object。
  Having　always；　therefore；　enjoyed　perfectly　riotous　and　absolutely
  unbridled　health；　never　feeling　weak　and　distressed　unless　dinner
  happened　to　be　ten　or　fifteen　minutes　late；　I　was　green　regarding
  physicians　and　the　ways　of　physicians。　　But　I　knew　Doctor　X　slightly；
  having　met　him　last　summer　in　one　of　his　hours　of　ease　in　the　grand
  stand　at　a　ball　game；　when　he　was　expressing　a　desire　to　cut　the
  umpire's　throat　from　ear　to　ear；　free　of　charge；　and　I　remembered
  his　name；　and　remembered；　too；　that　he　had　impressed　me　at　the
  time　as　being　a　person　of　character　and　decision　and　scholarly
  attainments。
  He　wore　whiskers。　　Somehow　in　my　mind　whiskers　are　ever　associated
  with　medical　skill。　　I　presume　this　is　a　heritage　of　my　youth；
  though　I　believe　others　labor　under　the　same　impression。
  As　I　look　back　it　seems　to　me　that　in　childhood's　days　all　the
  doctors　in　our　town　wore　whiskers。
  I　recall　one　old　doctor　down　there　in　Kentucky　who　was　practically
  lurking　in　ambush　all　the　time。　　All　he　needed　was　a　few　decoys
  out　in　front　of　him　and　a　pump　gun　to　be　a　duck　blind。　　He　carried
  his　calomel　about　with　him　in　a　fruit　jar；　and　when　there　was
  cutting　job　he　stropped　his　scalpel　on　his　bootleg。
  You　see；　in　those　primitive　times　germs　had　not　been　invented　yet；
  and　so　he　did　not　have　to　take　any　steps　to　avoid　them。　　Now　we
  know　that　loose；　luxuriant　whiskers　are　unsanitary；　because　they
  make　such　fine　winter　quarters　for　germs；　so；　though　the　doctors
  still　wear　whiskers；　they　do　not　wear　them　wild　and　waving。　　In
  the　profession　bosky　whiskers　are　taboo；　they　must　be　landscaped。
  And　since　it　is　a　recognized　fact　that　germs　abhor　orderliness　and
  straight　lines　they　now　go　elsewhere　to　reside；　and　the　doctor　may
  still　retain　his　traditional　aspect　and　yet　be　practically　germproof。
  Doctor　X　was　trimmed　in　accordance　with　the　ethics　of　the　newer
  school。　　He　had　trellis　whiskers。　　So　I　went　to　see　him　at　his
  offices　in　a　fashionable　district；　on　an　expensive　side　street。
  Before　reaching　him　I　passed　through　the　hands　of　a　maid　and　a
  nurse；　each　of　whom　spoke　to　me　in　a　low；　sorrowful　tone　of　voice；
  which　seemed　to　indicate　that　there　was　very　little　hope。
  I　reached　an　inner　room　where　Doctor　X　was。　　He　looked　me　over；
  while　I　described　for　him　as　best　I　could　what　seemed　to　be　the
  matter　with　me；　and　asked　me　a　number　of　intimate　questions　touching
  on　the　lives；　works；　characters　and　peculiarities　of　my　ancestors；
  after　which　he　made　me　stand　up　in　front　of　him　and　take　my　coat
  off；　and　he　punched　me　hither　and　yon　with　his　forefinger。　　He
  also　knocked　repeatedly　on　my　breastbone　with　his　knuckles；　and
  each　time；　on　doing　this；　would　apply　his　ear　to　my　chest　and　listen
  intently　for　a　spell；　afterward　shaking　his　head　in　a　disappointed
  way。　　Apparently　there　was　nobody　at　home。　　For　quite　a　time　he
  kept　on　knocking；　but　without　getting　any　response。
  He　then　took　my　temperature　and　fifteen　dollars；　and　said　it　was
  an　interesting　casenot　unusual　exactly；　but　interestingand
  that　it　called　for　an　operation。
  From　the　way　my　heart　and　other　organs　jumped　inside　of　me　at
  that　statement　I　knew　at　once　that；　no　matter　what　he　may　have
  thought；　the　premises　were　not　unoccupied。　　Naturally　I　inquired
  how　soon　he　meant　to　oper