Rev. Frank Nelson of Cincinnati

from Frank H Nelson of Cincinnati by Warren C. Herrick

Among the many tributes paid at the time of Mr. Nelson's death, was one given by the Reverend Jesse Halsey, the beloved former minister of the Seventh Presbyterian Church, who culled the phrase "An Unmitered Bishop," a title which is signally descriptive of the man by reason of the many civic causes to which he was spiritual advisor, and thus a father-in-God to diverse groups scattered over the seven hills and in the "bottoms." He actively furthered many humanitarian causes: the Juvenile Protective Association, the Anti-Tuberculosis League, the Branch Hospital, the Community Chest, the Council of Social Agencies, the Helen S. Trounstine Foundation, the Hospital Social Service, St. Michael's Convalescent Home, and many others. Now that he is gone, the long list of social enterprises ceases to be a mere string of activities and becomes a roll of drums.[11] His whole life seems to exemplify the words of the philosopher Bacon: "The nobler a soul is, the more objects of compassion it hath." His spirit breathed out upon men, and in his lifetime the city felt its beauty and greatness, drawing from his constancy the courage to endure. He protested impatiently against the nonsense often bandied about concerning the alleged immorality of city folk compared with country folk, and cited confuting evidence out of his pastoral experience to prove his conviction saying, "Heroes of these days are the poor people who live in our big cities."

. . .

Mr. Nelson was one of the three founders of the Council of Protestant Churches. No small detail was above him, and with Jesse Halsey he rummaged through second-hand stores for furniture for the first office. With the ministers of other churches he worked in closest cooperation, and together they fought the Cox Gang, supported the Social Agencies, and many other activities to which the civic-minded and church-minded in Cincinnati gave unstintingly of their devotion.

. . .

"All the hold those people have on God is me. It is terrible. It bothers me. They love me but they don't come to church." Mr. Nelson confided in this vein one night to his intimate friend, Jesse Halsey, into whose study he had stopped on his way home from a call in a distant suburb. While it was inevitable that some people should use him as a crutch or should let him do their climbing for them, the truth of the matter is that he was a chosen channel for the communication of the Divine Spirit to earth-bound men. Because he was genuinely humble, he was troubled about those people who could approach God only through him. If they little sensed that what they loved in him was God, they nevertheless were compelled by their limitations to think of God in terms of Frank Nelson.

. . .

The admiration and affection which Mr. Nelson elicited was pointedly demonstrated at his funeral. Bishop Burton sat in the chancel alongside the Reverend Jesse Halsey, the Presbyterian minister. Dr. Halsey said: "Bishop Burton, perfect gentleman that he is, not once crossed himself in deference to Frank's (to him, atrocious) low church prejudices!" Frank Nelson was like that. Respect for him sometimes came grudgingly, but it came because there was no personal animosity in the man. He was honored because he was a moral and a spiritual force with which to be reckoned."

From "Frank H Nelson of CINCINNATI" by WARREN C. HERRICK, With A Foreword by Charles P. Taft, LOUISVILLE . THE CLOISTER PRESS . MCMXLV COPYRIGHT, 1945, By The Cloister Press.

[Ed note: Frank H. Nelson was Rector of Christ Church, Cincinnati, Ohio, from 1900 to 1939. He died on July 6, 1945.]

from A Profile of Christ Church Cathedral
When the Rev. Frank Nelson became the rector in 1900, the Parish House was the center of a neighborhood to which people came for help and recreation, and from which parishioners went forth to help their neighbors. Under the Rev. Mr. Nelson’s leadership (1900-1939), the parish continued to expand services to the community, but it also became a place of leadership in the improvement of the City of Cincinnati itself. The Rev. Mr. Nelson emphasized three aspects of Christ Church’s life: worship, social responsibility and financial stewardship.

from Wikipedia
Charles Phelps Taft II (September 20, 1897 - June 24, 1983) was a U.S. Republican Party politician and member of the Taft family. From 1955 to 1957, he served as Mayor of Cincinnati, Ohio. Like other members of his family, Taft was a Republican for the purposes of state-wide elections. However, when running for municipal office in Cincinnati, Taft was a member of the Charter Party. During his term as mayor, Fortune magazine ranked Cincinnati as the best managed big city in the United States. As mayor, he gained the nickname "Mr. Cincinnati".

Wrecking Master

by Jesse Halsey

Deep ruts in the grass mark the effort of heavy wagons in avoiding the muddy highway. Cap’n Harry had laid out fence rails in front of his place. He took great pride in the strip of grass between the sidewalk and the road. But, when the unpaved and almost ungraded highway became “sticky as a Mortar bed,” as he expressed it, why then he always relented and took up the rails. Then some adventurous farm boy would leave the muddy tracks and, while the old man fussed a good deal about it, he never did anything.

“Why don’t you keep your rails down one spring and keep folks off?” This was Squire Jim’s advice.

“How’d you feel if some fella’s horse got scratched and got lockjaw ‘cause he drove over my rails some dark night? I always manage to patch up the front and scratch in a little grass see and get things lookin’ ship-shape by Decoration Day. Someday we’l have a good road. There’s pebbles enough on Sebonac Beach to build a stone highway all the way from the railroad to the church! Then everybody would have a grass plot along front. Strange we can’t get that appropriation through the town meetin.’”

The half-formed leaves cast their sufficient shadow over the village street. Cap’n Harry, with wheelbarrow and rake and shovel, was filling in the ruts and scratching in the seed. The street had been plowed and crudely honed to an indefinite crown. Frost had been gone for two months but Cap’n Harry had been so busy with his spring planting that his “front” had been neglected. This was not unusual, however. He always calculated to have it repaired and seeded and the sidewalk neatly edgetd by Decoration Day.

“Mornin’, Cap’n,” called a boy from horseback as he bought his animal to a walk. “Looks like it was goin’ to rain.”

“Yes, reckon it will. Never seen it fail yet. Fine sunset Friday night, sure to rain before Monday mornin’! But the rain’ll do things good—getting’ a little dry. Rain’ll help the corn.”

As if to reinforce the old man’s statement of fact, a little trail of dust followed the heels of Jimmy’s horse down the street.

“Now, Sis, you run fetch that pail of red top settin’ inside the woodhouse door. I”ll show you how to sow grass seed.”

Little Eliza turned into the “gap,” sped across the deep yard and presently returned with a wooden bucket half filled with the feathery stuff. The Cap’n bent his rheumatic back, scattered the seed along the ruts and over the bare spots that interspersed the green that already covered the greater part of the ground.

“Let me try, Gramp!” And with that the child began to ladle out small handfuls of the seed.

“Not that way, Lizzie, spread it ‘round like this—this. Don’t take much if you put it in the right place.”

Quickly following the old man’s example, the child took over the sowing while the old gentleman, straightening his back with a half-suppressed grunt, began to rake in the seed after the child.

“Yes, it’s goin’ to rain. Rheumatism in my back tells me that.” And with that he glanced up toward the weather vane on his old barn. “Swingin’ into the east’ard,” he mumbled to himself.

The big weather vane, fashioned to simulate a sperm whale, hung lazily with its upturned tail toward the south. The angular square knob of a head and the open jaw with sawtooth edges pointed dead north.

“Won’t stay there long,” thought the old man. “Always goes to the east-ard when it comes ‘round backwards.”

Several neighbors came along the street, passed the time of day with Cap’n Harry, and went about their business.

Miss Deborah came out of the big house across the street, chatted for a moment and out from the folds of her apron, brought a couple of molasses cookies for little Liza.

“Didn’t hear you say, ‘Thank you, Lizzie.’ But then I don’t hear too good. I know you would.”

Like Dr. Johnson, his model, Cap’n Harry had found that most people responded to a hint better than a reprimand. Likely this had been the secret of his popularity and efficiency. Who can say?

The old man and the little girl dragged the heavy stone roller up and down over the new sown grass and the old lawn, exhausting most of their surplus energy.

Jimmy Bishop, coming back from his long errand, dismounted, took a turn of the bridle reins around the hitching post and, with a boy’s enthusiasm, ran the roller back and forth two or three times, finishing the area, then dragged it back to its place in the yard under the sour apple tree. Little ‘Liza seated herself in the wheelbarrow, holding the rake and shovel, and the Cap’n pushed the girl and the barrow into the yard and out by the woodpile.

Reaching the pump, both of them vigorously washed their hands and faces and came through the back door into the kitchen.

“Dinner is not quite ready, Father. Why don’t you go in and lie down.”

Crossing the dining room, the pair reached the Cap’n’s cubby hole. In later times it would be called a “den” or “study” but the agglomeration of all sorts and conditions of things made it a place wonderful to behold. In a prominent place on the wall just over the deal table, which served as a desk, but just visible above the piled disorder, hung a framed certificate signed by the Governor of the Commonwealth and granting Cap’n Harry the authority of “Wrecking Master” for ten miles of the Atlantic shore.

“Tell me a story, Gramp,” whispered the little girl as she climbed on the old man’s knee.

“Not now, child, I’m too tired, but this evening after supper . . .”

As grandfather fell off into a quiet snooze the little girl stated out of the back door, only to find that it was beginning to rain. “Gramp is right,” she thought, “he said it was going to rain. He’s always right.”

True to his promise, when the evening lamp was lighted and the supper things had been cleared away and little Eliza had helped to dry the dishes, grandfather began one of his tales of the sea.

“Twenty years ago, just before the war, there was a big ship came ashore off Flying Point in a snowstorm. Old Cap’s Bill White, who had been wrecking master for a good many years, got a crew together and managed to launch a whaling boat. For some reason or other he gave me the leading oar and, after a rough time of it, we managed to get out under the lea side of the ship and took off the passengers and the crew. Two or three days later, on a high tide, the vessel was floated and I went with Cap’n White and the crew that sailed ‘er into New London.

“The owners and the insurance company between them paid Cap’n Bill the two thousand dollars for his part in salvaging the ship. This he divided among the crew, and I got one hundred dollars, which was a good deal of money in those days but a good deal more before the war was over.

“Some years later when Cap’n White had retired, Governor Thompkins made me wrecking master. That’s my old certificate hanging over my desk.”

The storm was howling outside, and the rain could be heard in torrents on the low shingle roof, but a bright fire burned in the fireplace. The warm spring day had reverted to the wild March and an easterly storm swept the coast. The state of the elements seemed to be reflected in the old man’s mind and, while it was no uncommon thing for the family circle to hear the round of stories that the old man’s experience had accumulated with the years, that night he was “wound up,” according to neighbor Clark, who had dropped in for an hour.

The next morning little Eliza, venturing out before breakfast, discovered with dismay that the heavy rain had washed grass seed and ground alike down into the gutter and carried it away. The strip between the great trees and the road was washed clean and the old ruts had reappeared. But by afternoon, when the sun had come out and the mud had dried up, the energetic pair, Gramp and ‘Liza, were making the same repairs and scattering more seek. This time no neighboring boy came by to help with the roller and, though the afternoon sun was out bright and warm, the last few turns up and own thoroughly exhausted the old captain and his helper; and that evening there were no stories.

Years afterwards I asked my [sister], Eliza, now a middle-aged woman with children of her own, what most impressed her in her youth, and she answered, “My grandfather’s perseverance. He was wrecking master of the shore before the days of lifeguard and lighthouse. It was his business to organize the volunteer crews from the village to help a vessel in distress, and then to salvage the vessel, or its cargo if the vessel was hopelessly wrecked. This endangered life and limb, but no matter what the conditions of the weather my grandfather could always command the help for the villagers. Everyone fit to row and oar was a volunteer if he said the attempt should be made. Everyone knew that if it were humanly possible he would meet the situation—nothing would turn him back.”

I knew something about my [sister]’s life –ill health, financial reverse, disappointment; none of these had ever baffled her. I felt that the old man had had an apt pupil in his granddaughter.

Another decade passed and I visited the old village again. In front of Cap’n Harry’s place from the church to the beach stretched a smooth macadam road. Most of its way, beginning in the north end, it is shaded by great elm trees, but in front of Cap’n Harry’s place, where his descendents still live, there are two giant trees, called the “trees of heaven” by the Chinese. These were little saplings when Cap’n Harry planted them, now eighty years or more ago, saved from a French freighter whose crew he salvaged. His was not always an easy or popular job. When this boat, the Lavalley, had stranded to meet the necessity of casing a tide, he ordered his crew to board and cast offboard the cargo, or part of it. Now, the captain of a ship, it is well known, is supreme lord of his own vessel—when she is afloat. But this boat was aground and Cap’n Harry had authority to salvage as much as possible.

With his crew he went aboard and told the French captain, through a poor interpreter, that in order to meet the next tide and save the vessel the cargo must go overboard. The captain objected vociferously in his Gallic fashion, but Cap’n Harry’s blunt New England manner and word had its way and overboard went the cargo. Great bundles of fruit and shade trees were first jettisoned. These drifted up on shore and were being appropriated by the native population when Cap’n Harry, knowing it was his business to save as much as possible for the owners, went ashore and forbade his neighbors to take the trees away. He was a deputy sheriff and, knowing that he had authority back of his determination, most of the people desisted. But, with his ready ability to meet a situation, he sent for local squire, who was always the auctioneer, and on the beach the trees were sold. Many orchards in the section were planted or replenished from this stock.

On either side of his front gate, Cap’n Harry planted a couple of ailanthus trees, a novelty in those days. He said he was tired of nothing but elms. But he lived to regret his choice. In his later days his chief pride in the village street was the overarching of elms planted by an earlier generation than his. But today his great grandchildren go in and out between the old ailanthus sentinals.

He had been not only the master of his vessel and the master of his shore, but, I have gleaned from the reminiscences of his contemporaries that he was mater of most situations.

He was the oldest of a family of five. His father, the owner of the local water mill, died when he was nine. Energetically he set himself, under his mother’s direction, to help about the farm and assist his uncle at the mill. When they were old enough, his mother, to give them an education, moved to New York, kept a boarding house and put the children in school.

This was unusual. In that neighborhood most boys, as soon as they were able, went to sea and engaged in the whaling trade. Harry and his brother, after a couple of years’ schooling, began to learn a trade and became expert builders. Then, after a couple of voyages whaling, they settled down in New York and began building operations.

During the early 30s of the last [19th] century they amassed a considerable fortune, only to lose it through a crooked partner in a "depression" in 1840. Cap’n Jim, the younger brother, went back to the sea and made an enviable reputation and snug fortune from the whaling industry.

Cap’n Harry, however, with his young wife and child, went back to the old farm. The mill had been sold to pay for his sisters’ schooling. Rebuilding the old farmhouse and introducing some of the refinements that he had built into city developments, he settled down to work the farm and carry on his mason’s trade.

Dozens of fireplaces in that now-fashionable community burn to this day and no one that he fabricated was ever known to smoke. He was short and stocky, broad shouldered and rather portly, but quick on his feet, and his grandchildren remember how he could out-run them and, at eighty years of age, hold a broomstick in his hands and jump over it.

He saved the wreck of his New York fortune and rehabilitated it. When the Civil War broke out, though far from a young man, he volunteered his services, but was rejected. His heart was not sound, they said. Forthwith he organized a company, drilled it on the village green and sent it away to the war, feeling that he had done his bit, saving from the wreck of his own disappointment his patriotic usefulness.

When the railroad first came through that rural community it cut his farm in two. He negotiated a trade with a neighbor so that the two dismembered farms were made units, but both became triangular, as the railroad caught them on the bias. In the trade, Cap’n Harry acquired a big street frontage, but this was poor compensation for the rich upland as the hill ran out into a sand bank and five acres of useless land were his and five acres of the best upland went to the neighbor. But, always resourceful, the old wrecking master, at the protest of his son, but with the help of his rugged grandson, turned this sandy area into a productive asparagus bed, the first in the community. Even in his last days rheumatism did not prevent him from going into the woods for berries in the their season and, though he couldn’t bend his back, he would put a pail under the huckleberry bushes and knock the berries off with his cane and then take them home and pick them over.

He was fat enough to be good-natured, was a regular Yankee Jack-of-all-trades, and good at most. Very expert and painstaking was he in the construction of a building. Some of his houses still stand in Greenwich Village in the metropolis and many of his plastered walls have outlasted newer ones in the island village where he lived in his later years. One of his grandchildren still has the old framed certificate signed by the Governor: “To whom these presents may come be it known . . . Harry Halsey Wrecking Master.”

"He calls himself a social radical"

Col. Wm. Cooper Procter (Aug. 25, 1862 — May 2, 1934) by Jesse Halsey

He is a tall gentleman, this colonel, as a colonel should be. He calls himself a social radical—and is worth millions. He is a forceful executive, yet has helped numbers of his friends weather the Depression, who otherwise would have been swamped.

His business has, in spite of said Depression, had the biggest year in its history and made ten million dollars; not for him, however, but for its stockholders.

An appointment is not hard to make, if you have a real errand. His private office is substantially furnished but not elegantly. He sits behind a mahogany desk and the red wood reflects a little color into his gray angular face. When he moves back from the desk the gray suit he wears makes his face seem white and drawn. Yesterday he went to Florida, where he will turn brown, but without tan that face looks almost ashen. And no wonder. He has been a hospital patient half a dozen times these last years. His breath comes short, if he hurries; sounds like asthma.

He finds it hard to slow down; he has always been a driver—of himself, and others, too.

“I want a man to do a day’s work. There will always be some who won’t work; the unemployable. But every man who wants to work ought to have the chance.”

His own company, for some years now, has lived up to this, guaranteeing to its employees work for at least forty-eight weeks a year.

“When I left college and came home to the factory my father and his partners thought I was crazy when I suggested a half holiday on Saturday. That was my first radicalism and I have been at it ever since.” There is a twinkle in his blue eye as he says this, so that you forget the “cold” of the penetrating gaze and the angularity of the face—somehow it has lost its sharpness.

A business deal he carries through with precision tending to every detail himself. He is, one overhears, not an easy man to work with, yet he has several hundred men you have been with him a lifetime!

He loves wild flowers and the out of doors and has a large, but simple house on the high sand dunes overlooking the ocean and Gardner’s Bay on the east end of Long Island.

“When the collapse came in Germany, the only people who had anything in the end were the land owner’s,” he said to me one day and then told about his farm in central Ohio of four thousand acres.

“this day is this Scripture fulfilled in your ears”

Mr. Toastmaster, Mrs. Freiberg, Doctor Freiberg, Friends—

My speech is severely inhibited by my subject—to speak the truth about you, Dr. Freiberg, means that one must drop all superfluous adjectives and adverbs. The direct honesty of your person forbids their use. The integrity of your character demands, Sir, that one use strong verbs of action and substantives of quality.

We have heard about the professional qualifications of our friend, and his achievements, from his colleagues in medicine and surgery. The president of his university has told us of Dr. Freiberg’s administrative and teaching ability; an old friend has revealed with the cunning skill of wit some of the more intimate aspects of the symmetrical and versatile life of our guest of honor, and the Dean, formerly his pupil now his chief, has painted a lovely picture of his old professor as a teacher and as a friend.

A master of the intricate technical knowledge of his chosen profession, Dr. Freiberg has won and felt the esteem and admiration of his colleagues. Sometime his honest opinions have made enemies—so I have heard say—what an enemy is in that profession I naturally do not know. Warm human qualities have endeared him to his patients. His music is the measure of his cultural accomplishment and the vehicle of his upreaching and out-giving spirit. Teacher, administrator, doctor, friend, musician, surgeon—great words describing a great character!

I cannot qualify directly as a patient though I have had Doctor Joe athwart my spinal column, and lo! I stand upright! I come tonight with only one qualification—I am a friend of the Doctor’s, one of a great host of friends, and by your grace, Mr. Toastmaster, the one honored to speak as a friend to our friend, for his many friends.

The first time I met Dr. Freiberg was when a little girl with a club foot hobbled into our parish house for weekday religious school, twenty-five years ago, and I went to the great orthopedic surgeon for his help. While the doctor examined his little patient I waited in the outer office. At length the door opened and out came the shining-faced child—broomstick crutch banging the floor—“I am going to walk, I am going to walk!” . . .  And she did and does.

Again. Some twenty odd years ago my old chief, Sir Wilfred Grenfell, came to visit us. After some speaking engagements had been filled we asked him what, in our city, he would like to see. “The Rookwood . . . and three doctors—Freiberg, Friedlander, Fischer.” We went to see them—from that day to this they have been my friends as well as Sir Wilfred’s.

Dr. Grenfell heard Dr. Freiberg lecture and went with him to a clinic, as I remember. Afterward Dr. Grenfell said to me, “What were those lines of Whittier we used to read, something about Agassiz? . . . Freiberg makes me think of them.” When I got home I looked them up and believe that I can quote them now—

Said the Master to the youth:

“We have come in search of truth,

Trying with uncertain key

Door by door of mystery;

We are reaching, through His laws,

To the garment-hem of Cause,

Him, the endless, unbegun,

The Unnamable, the One

Light of all our light the Source,

Life of life, and Force of force.

As with fingers of the blind,

We are groping here to find

What the hieroglyphics mean

Of the Unseen in the seen,

What the Thought which underlies

Nature’s masking and disguise,

What it is that hides beneath

Blight and bloom and birth and death.

By past efforts unavailing,

Doubt and error, loss and failing,

Of our weakness made aware,

On the threshold of our task

Let us light and guidance ask,

Let us pause in silent prayer!

         —John Greenleaf Whittier, “The Prayer Of Agassiz”

“Freiberg makes me think of that,” said Grenfell.

In a generation that has had its violent “conflicts between religion and science,” this scientist has walked humbly with his God, loving mercy and doing justly.

A master in his own domain he has annexed other provinces; among them these: a world of music, a world of nature (botany), a world of books. As chairman of the library committee of the Hebrew Union College he has served for many years—the wisdom of ages he has garnered for others and gleaned for himself.

We have attended many functions similar to this one, but not one quite like it. This gathering has two characteristics—it is entirely spontaneous, no one is here under compulsion; and not one superfluous word has been uttered—just honest, well-merited appreciation of our friend and teacher, the skilled surgeon, Albert Freiberg.

It was said of the Messiah in ancient prophecy that he should make the lame to walk—“this day is this Scripture fulfilled in your ears.”

—Reverend Jesse Halsey, 1938

**American Jewish Archives
 

The FREIBERG FAMILY PAPERS (1900-2003) consist of the papers of Richard Freiberg (1932- ), his father, Joseph Freiberg (1898-1973), and his grandfather, Albert Freiberg (1868-1940). 

WARM SPRINGS/ROOSEVELT FILES, (1927-1939) contains correspondence between Franklin Roosevelt, Albert Freiberg and other doctors regarding the trial period of the Warm Springs Foundation and the establishment of a permanent foundation and sanitarium at Warm Springs, Georgia. Albert Freiberg served on the Executive Board of the foundation and advised Franklin Roosevelt on the establishment of this well known facility. The correspondence includes reports on patient conditions during the trial period (1927) and reports from Franklin Roosevelt concerning future plans and budgets for the foundation. This series also contains later correspondence between Eleanor Roosevelt, Albert Freiberg, and Judge Marx concerning an Ohio man needing medical attention.

Dr. Freiberg & Mr. Roosevelt

Rare Documents Reveal Long Correspondence Between FDR and Cincinnati Physician 
Letters, telegrams detail efforts to open Warm Springs

Telegram from FDR to Dr. Albert Freiberg from the collections of the American Jewish Archives in Cincinnati, Ohio

CINCINNATI, OH: The Jacob Rader Marcus Center of the American Jewish Archives (AJA) in Cincinnati, Ohio has received a correspondence series that took place over a period of years (1925-1939) between President Franklin Delano Roosevelt and Dr. Albert Freiberg, a Cincinnati orthopedic surgeon. Roosevelt elicited the help of Dr. Freiberg during his quest to establish Warm Springs, Georgia as a place of treatment for victims stricken with polio. The collection was given to the AJA by the family of Dr. Richard Freiberg, grandson of Dr. Albert Freiberg.

Dr. Albert Freiberg (1868-1940) obtained his M.D. in 1890 from the Medical College of Ohio, now the University of Cincinnati Medical School. He served as professor of orthopedic surgery at the University of Cincinnati from 1902-1939 and was an emeritus professor until his death.

His son, Dr. Joseph Freiberg, became an orthopedic surgeon, succeeding his father in directing the orthopedic services of the hospitals affiliated with the College of Medicine of Cincinnati. Albert Freiberg's grandson, Dr. Richard Freiberg, began a practice now known as the Freiberg Orthopaedic group. Now Richard Freiberg's son Andrew– Albert's great-grandson– is an orthopedic surgeon practicing in Massachusetts.

The series includes telegrams and letters that describe the efforts to open a sanctuary for those afflicted with the debilitating effects of poliomyelitis.

Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion

Dr. Albert H. Freiberg

The Journal of Bone and Joint Surgery
Vol. XXII No. 4, October 1940
ALBERT H. FREIBERG
1868-1940

Dr. Albert H. Freiberg died in Cincinnati, July 14, 1940, after an illness of two weeks. He was born in Cincinnati, August 17, 1868, the son of Joseph and Amahia Freiberg. He is survived by his wife, who was Jeannette Freiberg, and two sons, Joseph A., who was associated with him in his practice, and Albert M., who is an attorney.

He was a graduate of the University of Cincinnati and of the Medical College of Ohio, which later became the Medical College of the University. After his internship at the General Hospital he spent considerable time abroad, studying at the universities of Wurzburg, Strasbourg, Berlin, and Vienna. On his return to this country in 1893 he began practice in Cincinnati, and, as was the custom in those days, he began with general work, but his aim always led him toward specializing in orthopaedic surgery.

Dr. Freiberg always took an active part in the affairs of his profession and was a member of the American Medical Association, the American Orthopaedic Association, the Clinical Orthopaedic Society, and a Fellow of the American College of Surgeons and of the American Academy of Orthopaedic Surgeons. He was also active in local medical affairs. He was President of the Ohio Medical Society, 1929-1930; the Cincinnati Academy of Medicine, i923-1924; and Chairman of the Orthopaedic Section of the American Medical Association, 1917-1918.

Dr. Freiberg played an important part in the establishment of orthopaedic surgery in his city and state, and the present position of orthopaedic surgery in that community is largely due to his influence and the result of his work. He was Chief of the Orthopaedic Service at the Cincinnati General Hospital,
at the Children’s Hospital, and at the Jewish Hospital while in active practice, and continued to serve as consultant at these hospitals. At the time of his retirement from the Chair of Orthopaedic Surgery at the Medical College of the University two years ago, he was made Professor Emeritus. During the World War he served as Major in the Medical Corps, United States Army, and was Chief of the Department of Orthopaedic Surgery at Walter Reed Hospital at that time.

Dr. Freiberg always took a special interest in the affairs of the American Orthopaedic Association, particularly in its development, to the end that it might be an important and influential factor in establishing and maintaining a high and dignified standard. He was President of the Association for the year 1910-1911 and always took an active part in the scientific and administrative proceedings of all of its meetings, and served on many important committees. In the executive meetings Dr. Freiberg was frequently consulted on matters of parliamentary law. His mind was keen and analytical, his judgment fair and tinged with kindliness. He was a splendid speaker and his tongue had no barb. He was influential in debate and frequently turned the discussion toward a correct and wise decision. His honesty and good sense added weight to his opinions. He took a prominent part in its scientific sessions and the Association always looked forward to his communications as being of value for they indicated the result of his experience and excellent judgment. His position was always foremost in the advance line of progress.

He was an active contributor to medical literature. He showed a good deal of originality, and was always foremost in aiding advancements which came to orthopaedic surgery through the enlargement of the field of surgery resulting from the advent of antiseptic surgery. He kept in close touch with the departments of medicine other than that to which he devoted his life, and he did this on principle as part of his eager quest for knowledge, which was evident in his clear sense of values and breadth of grasp. His consideration of all sides of any problem gave weight and confidence to his decision.

He always gave much of his time and thought to the problem of rehabilitation of crippled children, and was one of the first members of the profession to advocate state aid for their care. He accomplished a great deal in interesting the community and also other states in the solution of this problem and in the establishment of legislation for state aid.

The Rhesus Monkey

By Jesse Halsey

A “Rhesus monkey,” the paper said. Did he know it? He must have had intelligence, that little fellow, for he ran away from the experimenting doctors, jumping from the fifth floor of the Children’s Hospital around which there are no big trees, only low shrubbery. That must take skill, even in a monkey.

Surely he sensed something. Did he hear them talking about sleeping sickness and sera serums and anti-toxins; about inoculations and incubation periods? Who knows? At any rate he ran away from it all. Four others stayed; he must have been brave to make the leap. Or is that a monkey’s way—just to jump? Why didn’t the others jump too?

And then when he got out people were afraid of him—those Americans. Afraid of what? Hundreds of his ancestors and contemporary cousins overseas play around the villages of India. The temple areas throng with them; a sort of reverence clings to them there, with their antique human-like faces. Just little brown monkeys, that is all; not Pithecus Rhesus!

Yes. He may have known. At least he had the sense to run away—with his big name inherited from a Thracian ally of the ancient Trojans, which he and his kind share with a Bithynian river-god, and two rivers of Asia Minor! With such a classic nomenclature back of him he must have known something. Maybe, however, he was only a classicist and had no scientific knowledge so that it was not fear of serums but just innate-monkey-jumping-instinct that sent him out from the warm laboratory to the chill of fall nights in Clifton treetops.

Of Indian ancestry, he liked the heights; his ancestors have climbed the Himalayas for centuries; nine thousand feet up you find them, this “Rhesus” kind. So to the heights of Clifton he went and into the highest trees.

But he liked warm places, too, so all last night, though spent on a housetop, he hugged the warm side of a chimney, where escaping heat units of a fall-furnace radiated warmth. In the attic of the Henkel home he found fruit and peanuts that Jimmy and his grandma had placed near the open window. The room was warm but native caution—and hospital experience—had made the little brown simian wary and with nightfall he climbed out along the ridge to seek the shelter and heat of the big chimney.

What did he dream about in this snug security? Did he plan new pranks for the school children next morning; or did the nameless terror of the toxins haunt his sleep? Who can guess?

Up with the sun, he found the attic window closed, so down into the garden, hunting insects and the remainders of frost-touched vegetables he went. Breakfast over, he put on his best monkey behavior for the youngsters trooping along the avenue. When the bell had finished ringing and all the children gone in doors, the school clock tolled nine. Then came the firing squad.

Rhesus grey matter and native cunning were of no avail; quick movement or high climbing of no help now. The sharp crack of a rifle and the little fellow, brown and pathetic, came hurtling down through the branches, his wanderings over, to rest on a soft bed of autumn leaves.

[Ed note: dated Nov 1, marked at the end with an "A" grade. I am unable to locate the news item from which this story is derived and note, too, the comment accompanying the grade: "This is a clever piece of work, skillfully imagined and reasoned out, and it uses classical lore gracefully. For the reader who missed the news item, however, you would have to supply more facts."]