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whatsoever constitutes a violation of copyrights. MAN VERSUS TOOTHACHE 
 
by DR. GEORGE W. HEARD 
 
 
 
 
Dr. George W. Heard 
  
 
Copyright 1952 — Dr. George W. Heard, Hereford, Texas 
Published by 
Lee Foundation for Nutritional Research Milwaukee, Wisconsin 
Printed in the USA  
 
 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 All worthwhile knowledge that is in the possession of civilized 
man started first on what is termed a hunch. Observation of a series of 
apparently coordinated phenomena has led men into wondering, 
surmising and searching for more material to support his already 
growing assumption. This book is an account of just such a procedure—which has led 
the author, Dr. Heard, to the point wh ere he feels that he can offer his 
readers suggestions which followed through would open the way to a 
more healthful enjoyment of living,  and relieve physical and mental 
suffering. Having lost his own health, the author, by will power 
alone— the fortitude to carry out painstakingly such self-imposed 
restrictions in diet and living habits as seemed to aid in the recovery of 
his health—gained not only health but a new vision of life. His ideas 
should be studied by all those wh o are suffering fr om ill-conceived 
and ill-advised habits—such as can be  corrected only by the individual 
practice of self-control, a control which cannot be imposed by another 
person from the outside. In short, it is the individual's own efforts at 
self-discipline which can bring about lasting good for himself. When I first read this work, I wa s inclined to advise that all 
personal references be deleted— that the book be confined to 
observations made and conclusions drawn therefrom. But, on a second 
perusal, I saw that it was those very personal references which added 
charm and interest: here is set down the life work of a man. The mere record of the author's lifelong observations and 
conclusions, printed in a book, would not be read so widely or prove 
so valuable to the many potential readers. I am personally grateful to the author for having set down so 
clearly and concisely the rules for living a happy and useful life. I trust 
that many readers will glean from this book helpful suggestions that 
will be of immense value to them in their own quest for a happy, 
useful life. C. A. Pierle. Canyon, Texas. September, 1951. DR. HEARD'S STORY 
 
THE TOWN WITHOUT A TOOTHACHE 
 
by Dr. George W. Heard 
  
FOREWORD 
 Since my discovery created a worldwide sensation when Dr. 
Edward Taylor of Austin announced it to the dental profession some 
10 years ago, uncounted millions of  words have been written and 
published concerning "The Town Without a Toothache." Except for occasional articles in professional journals and 
nutrition magazines, none of that vast volume of matter—some of it 
scientific but far more of purely speculative—has come from my pen. Yet, I began writing more than 20  years ago and some inner urge 
has kept me at it ever since. I have  kept a record of facts established 
by my systematic inquiry into the cause and prevention of tooth decay. Too, I have set down at length my  inferences and conclusions from 
those facts. But I have devoted more words to my ruminations—
thoughts that would come to me, of ten in the middle of the night, 
about the nature of things, the Creator's gifts to man, and the challenge 
every man faces to use those gifts wisely. Invariably, I felt a 
compulsion to put those thoughts on paper. Consequently, I have writte n and accumulated enough 
manuscript to fill several volumes. Still the thoughts keep coming to 
me and I keep writing them down. It is perhaps just as well that I have 
not felt an equivalent urge to publish my writings. However, since this furore began, I have recognized an obligation to my public—to tell 
them in my own words and from my point of view, what I have 
discovered about the prevention of tooth decay, and what my findings 
could mean to a generation which would accept and heed them. In 
these pages, I have tried to relate that story for the average reader. He 
is, I believe, interested in possessing sound tooth in a sound body—for himself, but particularly for his children. In this rather sketchy account of my life and professional career, 
and more sketchy analysis of my theories, I earnestly hope I have told 
the reader enough to arouse his curiosity—so that he will investigate 
further and discover for himself what miracles of body-building the 
right sort of diet, followed day by day, year in and year out, can work 
for himself and family. If this book will only start the reader on the 
high road to a sound body through proper diet and good health 
habits—and that naturally would spell sound teeth—my purpose in 
writing it will have been served. For the story as I have told it, I am greatly indebted to Dr. 
Edward Taylor, director of dental health for the Texas State Board of 
Health. Except for Dr. Taylor's kindl y interest in my discoveries and 
his two-year scientific study of Hereford school children to prove 
them, the world would not yet have heard about the "Town Without a 
Toothache." Likewise I owe a great deal to Dr. C. A. Pierle, research chemist 
at West Texas State College, Canyon , who set me on the right trail 
when he advised: "Watch your milk drinkers." During my long quest 
for the facts behind immunity to tooth decay, his wise counsel helped me over many a tough spot. Too, I have found a valuable guide  to the scientific truth which I 
was seeking in Dr. Weston A. Price's manual, "Nutrition and Physical 
Degeneration." For some years the author was my friend and 
counsellor. Besides, I have found support for my theories as to the 
importance of trace minerals for building healthy bodies and sound 
teeth in the published reports of Arnold P. Yerkes, farm research 
director for International Harveste r, Chicago; and Dr. Arthur J. 
Mitteldorf, physicist with Armour Research Foundation, Chicago—
whose conclusions I have cited. The complete spectograph analysis of Deaf Smith County wheat by Twining Laboratories, Fresno, California, also has lent my theories valuable support. My thanks are due the Hereford townspeople whose pictures 
appear in this volume. They consented to pose as living exhibits of 
"The Town Without a Toothache." My friend, Mr. Austin Tims, editorial writer for San Antonio 
Express, has gone through my volumnious writings; selected material 
that was suitable for this narrative, and translated my professional 
patter into plain talk for the general reader. All those friends and helpers have had a part in the making of 
this book; but its faults and shortcomings are my own. I have done my best, but I do not claim to be scientific; I have stated facts only as I see them. (Signed) Geo. W. Heard. September, 1951. Hereford, Texas. PART I. IN WHICH I GET MY BEARINGS 
  
 
 
CHAPTER 1. I GROW UP ON AN ALABAMA FARM 
 The world I was born in was still pioneer country. It had not 
changed much from Washington's and Jefferson's time. It was 
backwoods, two days' journey by oxteam over a winding red clay road to the nearest railroad town. When I came upon the scene my native state, Alabama, was still 
reeling under the blows of a devastating war, its cotton industry badly 
crippled, its business in confusion, while down at the State Capitol the 
carpet baggers were running things. Except for the talk it created among the menfolk when they got 
together at the meeting house or at a singing or dance, that troubled 
state of things did not concern Tallapoosa County folks. Life there 
went on as before. The friendly land—cultivated farm, pasture and 
woods—gave the people their bread and meat, their homespun clothes 
and their log-cabin homes, exactly as it had fed, clothed and sheltered their fathers and grandfathers before them. I was born there (October 21, 1867) the son of William F. and 
Zilla Heard. I came in the middle of seven boys and six girls. My 
father and mother were strong and healthy. Both lived more than 90-
years. In 1870 my father bought the 260 acre Clay County farm where I 
grew up. Until all 13 children had grown up and left home, there 
having been 3 deaths, that farm fe d and clothed the Heard family. My 
parents were of the Hardshell Baptist type. My father's word was his bond; but he never went into debt for anything. Whatever he needed, we made on the farm or did without except maybe an axe or hoe. The land fed us and we lived like a royal family. Through about 
nine months of the year, the big garden was yielding mustard greens, 
English peas, snap beans, turnips, cabbage and collards. The sweet 
potato patch always made a good crop to last all winter. Watermelon 
time lasted all summer. Fall was a golden season when sorghum, wild 
grapes, muscadines, persimmons, pawpaws and chestnuts were ripe. It 
took a lot to feed 13 hungry mouths, but I cannot remember a time 
when our kitchen table was not heaped up and running over with good 
things to eat. For our clothes, my mother and her house girl would card the 
wool sheared from our own sheep; spin the wool into yarn on our 
spinning wheel; then weave the yarn into homespun, jeans or linsey on 
our loom. The Heard farm always had plenty of horses, mules, milk cows, 
steers, sheep and hogs, flocks of chickens and geese. There were 
always plenty of young animals coming on and every year we had 
some to sell. When I was a boy I went barefoot practically the year around and 
liked it. But I never did like the idea of wearing a long shirt (like a girl's dress) with no pants. In those days you had to be a big boy before you could wear britches. Life would have been just about perfect for me when, at long 
last, I had grown into britches, except that my mother would let me 
wear the precious garment, so difficult to make, only an hour or two 
each day. One time I vividly remember when the time came to change 
back to my long shirt, I could nowhere be found. At last big Sis spied 
me, as far under the big house floor as I could crawl. Mother called 
brother Tom from the field to pull me out. When Tom had reached 
me, I asked: "What's the matter, Tom?" Is Ma going to make you pull 
off your britches, too?" Until he was in his 70's, my fa ther would sign his name by 
making his mark. Yet, he was an educated man, schooled in life's 
university. He had made for himself and taught us boys a motto like 
David Crockett's: "Always be sure you are right, then take your stand 
and, no matter what happens, stick to it." My father was not a churchgoer. In all my 20 years on the home 
farm, he went to Sunday School only once or twice. Every summer 
after the crops were laid by, the Heard house was thrown wide open 
for the three-day Baptist camp meeting. Then every tree in the big oak grove around the house had a 
horse or mule, a team or yoke of oxen hitched to it. The chorus of whinnies, neighing and braying mingled with the lowing of oxen. I vividly remember the Hardshell Baptist meetings—the preacher's 
exhorting; the people singing and shouting and on the footwashing 
day penitents swarming up to the mourner's bench. Too, I can recall 
Uncle Jake Gipson, in his one-horse wagon drawn by a steer, on his 
way to preach at some church. Though he had none of his own, my father wanted his children to 
get book-learning. Every summer till cotton picking time, or for about 
two months, he would send us to pay school. I vividly remember my 
first day in school. We had one text book, the Blue Back Speller. The 
teacher had us spell 'cat,' 'dog' and 'ran.' Every morning we children would set out about sun up to walk 
our three miles to the schoolhouse. It was a converted log cabin with a 
wide fireplace at one end and two small windows in each wall, with 
no sashes, to let in the daylight. Fo r benches, we had split pine logs 
with sturdy peg-legs. When the sun was getting low we would trudge 
home again. During the day the master would drill us in spelling, reading, 
writing and arithmetic. At noontime we had a long recess when we 
could play "stink-base", "anti-over" and "Miley-bright". The next summer we would have a different teacher who would 
give us the same lessons over again. I did manage somehow to get 
ahead in the speller as far as 'inc omprehensibility.' I mastered it so 
well I could spell down the school on Friday afternoons. I got ahead in 
reading, also, through McGuffey's 5th. The best teacher who ever came there was old Bill Jenkins. He 
was known as a shiftless fellow and an alcoholic; but when I was in 
the second reader, he taught us how to read out loud in a manner I 
never forgot—how long to pause for comma, semicolon and period, to 
give rising inflection for a question and how to scan poetry. I can 
recall going to winter school only two terms. I left school at 17 and 
did not go back until I was 23 years old. Just about the time I was 
ready to leave school somebody started a drive to raise money for a 
new school house. My father gave the largest donation, a tidy sum for 
those days, forty dollars. When I was a small boy, I developed a curiosity concerning the 
world, however it is put together and what makes it tick. Now in my 
84th year, I have that same curiosity. On the home farm, when my 
father had a particularly tedious job for his boys to do, he would 
always say to them: "Don't take George along. He will be asking so 
many questions that you never will get anything done." Until I had grown up, the home fa rm was about the only world I 
knew. Maybe once every fall I would go with my father when he took 
a wagon load of cotton to market at Talladega, 25 miles away. That 
was a 3 day journey, one day going by mule team, a day in town and a 
day driving home with the things we had bought. It was a memorable 
day at our house when we got our first brass lamp and mother got her first cook stove. When I visited Mo unt Vernon (Virginia) the home of 
Washington some years back, the k itchen fireplace reminded me of 
mother's cooking outfit when I was a boy. The chains on which the 
pots were strung to cook Farmer  Washington's dinner were still 
hanging there. The Heard farm was more level than the average for the Alabama 
uplands, but rocky and stumpy. We cultivated cotton mostly with the 
hoe and bulltongue plow. Crabgrass, weeds, briars and bushes grew 
fast. The soil was thin and poor. It to ok several acres to produce a bale 
of cotton. As a growing boy I dreamed a lot of the big world outside. I 
wanted to do great things, but I had only vague ideas as to what I'd 
make of myself. One day when my oldest brother and I were hoeing in 
a particularly rough spot, I suddenly said to him: "Fayette, I never, 
never would make my home in such a country as this." But, not 
knowing what else to do, I stayed on for 10 years after that. CHAPTER 2. I STRIKE OUT ON MY WAY 
 When I was 19, going on 20 years old, I suddenly decided to visit 
my brother Fayette, who lived at Baleyton, Cullman County, about 
100 miles north of the old home farm. For some years I had nursed the 
urge to better myse lf. Now I had got the idea into my head that my 
oldest brother, who had a family and a farm of his own could help me 
get a start. Anyhow, I could stay at his house until I had found myself 
a job. It was before daylight on January 2, 1887, that I left home to 
catch the train at Talladega. A younger brother hauled me to the 
railroad depot, 25-miles away, in a two-wheel cart. As I sat in the 
waiting room, I heard a telephone ring for the first time in my life. Fascinated, I watched the station agent talk into a box on the wall: 
"Number 10, going north, on time." For my first journey out into the world, I had only the fourteen 
dollars that my cotton patch had brought me. But when he came to tell 
me goodby, my father slipped a five -dollar bill into my hand. Then my 
mother came and said to me: "George, I want to hear from you, but I 
want always to hear good news." I have never to this day forgotten or lost sight of those words. As long as she lived I kept one purpose in 
mind: to make my life yield good news for my mother. So I left home in the winter dawn, wearing the tight-fitting coat 
and britches mother had made for me of homespun jeans. I wore 
heavy brogan shoes, their soles covered solid with big-headed tacks. I 
lugged a heavy cardboard satchel that held all my belongings. I had 
never in my life rode a train before. The cars seemed just to glide 
along as if I were riding on air. Al l that day I watched the country roll 
past the car window, brown fields, grazing cattle and farm cabins, but 
mostly pine woods. It was 2 o'clock in the morning when the train got 
to Cullman. I found a hotel room for twenty-five cents. The next morning about sun up a livery stableman came around. "Where do you want to go, sonny?" he asked me. "How much would you charge to 
take me to Fayette Heard's house eighteen miles from here on the road 
to Baleyton?" "That would cost you a dollar and a half." "I" believe I could walk the 18-miles in a day," I told him. "The 
dollar and a half would be good wages for me." So I had my breakfast and struck out on the big road to Baleyton, 
lugging my bag. After 60 odd years, that 18 mile walk on a January 
day seems about as hard a day's work as I have ever done. I followed 
the narrow winding white sandy and mostly level wagon road across 
hollows and mostly through wild country where scraggy blackjack and 
post oak with tall pines grew. All day long I met up with just one 
fellow traveler by the name of Andy  Cash. I sat down by the road to 
eat the cheese and crackers I had bought for lunch. I had never tasted 
cheese and crackers before. To a tired and hungry boy they were like 
food for a king. As I sat there a man rode up on a black mule, headed 
toward Cullman. "Where are you going, young feller?" he asked me. "I'm on my way to Fayette Heard's house," I told him. "He's my 
brother." "Why, I know Fayette Heard. He's my neighbor. You have a 
good long piece to walk yet, sonny." I trudged on with my satchel getting heavier all the time. It had 
been dark a long time before I re ached Brother Fayette's house. A few 
days later that same mule rider, came over and hired me for $10 a 
month and board. My new job was to help around the grist mill, cotton gin and saw mill. Between times I would do general farm work. My day began at 4 o'clock in the morning. I had to chop wood and draw 
water to keep the boiler going till dark. At 8 o'clock I would shut 
down the mill and trudge home to supper dead tired. But that tough 
schedule lasted only till the ginning was done. Mostly on the farm my 
work was lighter, but there were da ys all through the year when we 
would run the mill to saw lumber or grind corn. CHAPTER 3. IN WHICH I BREAK INTO SOCIETY 
 As I soon learned, friendly people lived in the neighborhood 
where I worked. Socially, they accepted the hired man as an equal. Where everybody worked with their hands, a man was judged for 
what he was, not by what he did for a living. There was a church close by and I got an invitation to Sunday School. Before I went, my 
employer took me to town and I bought my first full suit of store 
clothes. So I felt dressed up and important. At first, I was terribly 
bashful; but as I got acquainted with the young people I mustered 
enough courage to sing with them. In all my 20-years, I had never once gone with a girl. But at 
church a certain fine-looking miss, about 18-years old, with light 
brown hair and sparkling brown eyes, plump, ruddy complexioned and 
decked out in gingham, had caught my eye. I wondered why she 
always came to Sunday School so far behind her family. One Sunday 
afternoon, all dressed up in my new suit, I was idly carving the bark 
on a giant pine that stood by the big road. All of a sudden that same 
young miss, Ida Ogletree was her name, came along. I had not spoken 
a single word to her. She stopped and asked me what I was carving. "Oh, it's nothing," I answered diffidently. My new suit made me strangely bold. The first thing I knew I 
was asking Ida why she always came late to Sunday School. Then I 
discovered that Ida knew all about my interest in her. "On Sunday it is my turn to clean up, polish and straighten up 
everything about the place," she explained. "I thought maybe you 
would walk home with me sometime after Sunday School and I did 
not want you to find everything all messed up." Much to my surprise, I bantered: 
"Well, let's go right now and see what kind of a housekeeper you 
are." After that pleasant visit I went with Ida regularly to whatever 
young people's gatherings there were. I liked the community and was 
enjoying life as I never had before. When I revisited Alabama in May, 
1949, I learned from Dr. Ogletree, a fe llow dentist, that his sister, Ida, 
a great grandmother now, was living in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. My work on the farm was not too hard but before long my old 
discontent was urging me to move on to greener pastures. I had heard 
my mother and uncle talk a lot about Judge T. A. Street, who ran a 
large farm on the banks of the Tennessee River in Marshall county. Judge Street was mother's second co usin. Before the War between the 
States, he had owned slaves and run a large cotton plantation. So I 
made up my mind to visit Judge Street at Beard's Bluff. In August crops were laid by and farm work was light. One day I 
caught a ride with a neighbor who was driving his wagon to 
Guntersville. From there it was only three miles to Judge Street's 
house. It was past dinner time when I arrived, hot, tired and hungry, at 
the Street house on Beard's Bluff. The family had never heard of me 
but they knew my mother's brother, their kin. They received me kindly and scared up some lunch for me. I stayed all night and the next 
morning rode to town with Judge Street in his buckboard. During that 
ride he and I made a trade. I was to return at New Year's, January 1, 
1888, and run his farm. In Guntersv ille I caught a ride back to Andy 
Cash's house with another neighbor. So that night I was back on the 
old job, jubilant over the prospect of a new start in life for the year to come. CHAPTER 4. I ACQUIRE A HUNGER FOR 
KNOWLEDGE 
 
On the last day of December, 1887, I arrived at the Street home 
to begin my job with the new year. Since leaving Judge Street in August I had not once thought of writing to him. Until then I had received little schooling and no social training. But I found my job 
waiting for me. That was the first responsible position I had ever held. I was to 
take care of the livestock, keep fires going in the big house, cultivate a 
one acre garden and grow a corn crop on the bottom land along the 
river. In later years I was to realize that was the luckiest break of my 
life. The Streets were counted am ong Alabama's finest families and 
they took me in as one of them. The Street home stood on Bear d's Bluff overlooking Tennessee 
River. The farm, where before the war, slaves had cultivated cotton, lay spread out in the valley below. Strung along the bluff were numerous slave cabins. Some of Judge Street's former slaves lived 
there. Aunt Dinah, the cook, had been a slave in her young days. When I went there share croppers ha d taken over most of the cabins, 
but I lived with the family. My two year stay with the Streets was the 
best education I ever received. At the outset I became aware of my lack of booklearning. Everyone in the household was a booklover and 
read after supper. There was nothing for me to do till bedtime but read 
also. Kindly Judge Street helped me to get started. - . "How far did you go in school, George?" he asked me. "Through 
the blueback speller and McGuffey's 5th Reader." "Well, then, maybe 
you would like this book." Judge Street reached into the well-filled bookcase and pulled out 
"The Life of David Crockett." Soon I was lost in the book. Its pages 
recreated my own boyhood. You ng Crockett had a bringing-up 
strikingly like my own. Then I realized for the first time how much 
alive a book could be. After that, I devoured "Daniel Boon e," a history of the late war, 
lives of Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson, two or three of Amelia 
Barr's novels and ever so many more whose authors and titles have 
slipped my mind. At the outset my job consisted mainly of getting wood chopped 
to keep several big fireplaces supplied, and to see that the numerous 
horses, mules, work oxen, beef steers, yearlings, milk cows, sheep and 
hogs on the place were fed regularly. Like all the farm people in that 
country, the Streets ran their hogs in the Tennessee river hollows and 
swamp to fatten them on the mast, as the abundant crop of acorns, 
hickory nuts, beechnuts were called. Just to keep the hogs tame, I 
would ride into the woods once a week to feed them a sack of corn. At 
first I'd call "Co-pee, pig-ope," and that would bring all the hogs 
within hearing. To avoid having to feed the neighbors' swine, I used a 
trick which my father had taught me. He would yodle to his hounds to 
call them from a fox chase and put them on a hotter trail without 
calling the other hounds. As I dished out corn to the Street hogs, that I 
could tell by the crops in their ears, I made up a call of my own and yodeled it—a long, low chant that would rise to high C, then drop to a 
deep bass, with weird, wavering notes strung between. Pretty soon, 
when I'd go back to that spot and start my call, I'd hear a chorus of 
grunts and a roar over by the river and a bunch of hogs would come 
running. Over the hill to the right a big boar would let out a snort and bring in his troop. None but the Street hogs would answer my call—I had taught them the yodle when no other hogs were near. At corn-planting time in April and May, T. A. Street, Jr., 
(Atkins), then 16-years old, was home from school. Though five years 
younger than me, Atkins proved to be one of the best teachers I ever 
had. Until he was quite a big boy, Atkins himself had no teacher but his mother; but, in that day, Julia Ann Street, one of State's Pioneer College Women, was counted among Alabama's most efficient 
teachers. When one of her sons, E. C., the youngest now in Waco, 
applied for admission to the University of Alabama, the examiner had 
said to him: 
"I do not know anything about Scotsboro Academy where you 
attended, but anybody who has passed Julia Ann Street's tutoring can 
enter this university." Two older brothers had graduated at the 
Politecnic. Years later one of his old school mates told me about Atkins' first 
day at the boarding school in town. Atkins did not know how to act and was laughed at for his awkwardness until he walked up to the blackboard and demonstrated a theorem in geometry. This occasion 
was his first school. All his life he had been a great reader and he 
never forgot anything. Now young Atkins was to take me in hand and teach me, as his 
mother had taught him. That spring he and I took two big mules, he plowed one and I the other. We plowed long rows of bottom land for 
planting corn. As we walked side by side behind our plows, Atkins 
would tell me a story, like that of Joseph. I never had heard of Joseph . . . . . . "Israel loved Joseph more than all his children because he was 
the son of his old age, and he made him a coat of many colors" . . . . and so on till Joseph had interpreted Pharaoh's dream. "Now you tell me the story," Atkins would say to me. I'd begin with, "Israel loved Joseph . . ." and repeat the story of 
Joseph complete. Then Atkins, well pleased, would tell me: 
"You didn't skip a single point, George. You have a wonderful 
mind. All it needs is cultivating." After that from his well-stored memory, Atkins would pour out 
tales endlessly and have me repeat them. When I told my young tutor 
one day that I had never looked inside a grammar, he began drilling 
me in the naming and using parts of speech: "The red bird sings in the sweetgum tree." "Bird is a noun, sings a verb, the and and red are adjectives . . . now you tell me." In that manner, as we walked behind our plows day after day 
lessons would go on. My young teacher worked with me patiently, and 
with utmost tact, corrected my errors. He took keen delight in seeing 
me pick up grammar just from this 16-year old. Along in my second year with the Streets, after the crops had 
been laid by in August, I suddenly decided to visit home. I had been 
gone almost three years. During my  visit to an uncle I received an 
invitation to try my fortunes in Florida. My boyhood friend, Bill 
Sykes, had settled there. When I told Judge Street what I had in mind, 
he made me an attractive proposition: 
"George, I like the way you have taken hold of things here. That 
proves you will make a go of whatever you undertake. You stay on 
with us, and we'll convert that land three miles up the valley at 
Warrenton into a livestock farm. If you will marry and settle down, I'll 
build you a nice home and give you half the proceeds of the farm, 
consisting of about 800 acres." Judge Street knew that I had not become widely acquainted with 
the young people in that community so he mentioned a fine young girl 
whom we both knew. "Cousin Tom," I answered, that is the finest offer I ever had but I 
just cannot make up my mind to acce pt it." (A 'wee small voice' within 
me had told me to say "No" and, as it later seemed, for the best." So, when my second year was up, I bade the Street family good- 
by and pledged them I would never forget all the things that had been 
done for me. In September of that year Atkins entered the University. He and I exchanged letters for seve ral years. ,When the United States 
took over the Philippine Islands at the turn of the century, T. A. Street, 
Jr., of Alabama helped draft a code of laws for the new possession. He 
became Judge Advocate at Manila and held that post until shortly 
before World War II broke out. When I revisited Alabama in the spring of 1947, I called to see 
Atkins' sister, Mrs. Julia Snead, in Birmingham. She recalled how, 60-
years before, Atkins and I had written to each other, in French, 
whereas, only a few months before he had drilled me in nouns and 
verbs. CHAPTER 5 
 
IN WHICH I DECIDE TO STUDY 
DENTISTRY 
 
A revered teacher of mine in Alabama, Chess Alien, first put the 
idea of studying dentistry into my head. He told me that good dentists were scarce and badly needed. By ente ring that field, he told me, I 
could do a world of good and at the same time earn a competence for 
myself. For some years I kept turning that advice over in my mind. It 
was while teaching school in Falls County, Texas that I finally 
decided that was my calling. When I went to Dr. Norton in Mexia to 
get some teeth filled, I suddenly confided my ambition to him. "Do you think I could make a dentist, doctor?" I asked him, "You 
know I would not want to turn out a square peg in a round hole." "Young feller, what did you like to do best when you were a 
small boy?" "To make wagons out of pine bark and hickory saplings." "Well, then, you need not hunt any further for a trade. You have 
the knack it takes to be a dentist." Dr. Norton did not say to me, "Go and tell no one," but that was 
the course I followed. I kept my counsel but began saving dimes to 
pay for my education. During my last year on Tom Johnson's farm, I 
spent no money for anything. When my employer would toss his worn 
out shirt or pants into the rag box, I'd fish out the discarded garment, 
patch it up and wear it. All the while, I worked overtime making a good farm hand. At 
cotton picking time I'd be up before daylight to get the pickers into the 
field early. After supper I'd help to load a bale of cotton on the wagon to start for the gin early next morning. In the long run, that policy paid 
me handsomely. Whenever I wanted to go riding with Johnnie Belle, 
or to go any place, Tom would let me use his horse and buggy. Then 
when I became a struggling dental student, he was my friend in need. When the time came to reveal my secret, I suddenly said to my 
employer: 
"Tom, I'll be leaving you one of these days, I am figuring on 
entering Vanderbilt University's dental school at Nashville in 
September." Though he hated to lose a good farmhand, Tom Johnson 
took the news with good grace. "That will be the finest thing you ever did, George. You can 
count on me to help you out in any way I can." There was another person in my  life who likewise took the news 
in stride. My girl, Johnnie Belle Davidson. I had kept my secret from 
her too, until I had definitely made up my mind. So a delicate situation 
for the two of us had to be faced. I had barely enough money saved to 
get by for a year at school, and that only by making every penny 
count. Definitely, I could not support a. wife. Now Johnnie Belle was an active ranch girl who could help or do 
anything that came to hand. She was intelligent and broad-minded. She had written stories for newspapers in that part of Texas. Nowadays a resourceful young wife will find herself a job and help 
her husband stay in college, but in the 1890s that was not so well 
thought of. I knew instinctively that Johnnie Belle would have been 
game to do it, but I simply could not brook the thought. I was too independent minded for that. So Johnnie Belle and I talked things over in perfect frankness 
and agreed together—though it hurt us both more than we were 
willing to confess even to each other—that we must drop our 
romance. When the day came for me to tell her goodby, Johnnie Belle 
said to me: 
"I will always remember you for this George. In our relations 
with each other you have been a perfect gentleman." * * * 
 
My family in Alabama never knew how ragged I went while I 
was saving my money to go to dental college. One day my friend, 
Tom Johnson, spoke about my ragged clothes: 
"What would the people in the community where you taught say, 
and what would your girl, Johnnie Belle say if they knew how ragged 
you were going." A day or so later my old friend Will Harlan came over. He 
looked me over and asked: 
"Why don't you get yourself something fit to wear?" "Clothes cost money," I told him. "For what a new outfit would 
cost, I could buy a bunch of forceps to pull teeth with. You see, Will, 
I'm leaving here next week to en ter dental school at Nashville." "Well, you had better not get hungry and come to my house. A 
fellow as ragged as you are cannot eat at my table." Then I bantered him. "I'll bet you would like to have my picture 
in these togs. Join me and Tom in Marlin tomorrow and you can have 
one." "I'll be there sure." So, Tom, Will and I are in the picture. On a 
visit to Marlin 51 years later I met up with Will Harlan. He told me he 
still had that picture. Left to right—Dr. George W. Heard, Tom Johnson, Will Harlan  
 
 
 
CHAPTER 6. I GO TO DENTAL SCHOOL ON A 
SHOESTRING 
 
When I was ready to leave his place to catch the train for 
Nashville, Tom Johnson figured up how we stood. He owed me $300 in wages. "As you need this money," he told me, "I will send it to you." I 
had money in my pocket to buy my railroad ticket. That $300 was all I 
had to pay for dental education, three years' tuition, living expenses 
and dental tools. The thought that I might not make it never entered 
my head. Years later I was to read  in my Bible how Abraham entered 
Canaan and took possession of the land as far as he could see. Unawares I was imitating the old patriarch on that September 
morning in 1895, when I headed for Nashville nothing could stop me 
short of the goal I had set for myself, a dental education. Achieving it 
would call for pinching every penny and seizing every opportunity to earn another one. But, until that hour, my life had been one continuous drill in doing without things I wa nted. Saving came natural to me. On arriving in Nashville, I was lucky enough to find three fellow 
students in the same fix as myse lf. Bradshaw from Kentucky, Catlett 
from Mississippi and Howard from Texas. The four of us rented a 
room with two beds in it for $16 a month. We found a place to eat for 10 cents a meal. Eating twice a day, I cut my food bill to $6 a month. During my whole three years in Nashville I went to the theatre 
only twice. Each time a friend bought the tickets. When I wanted to go 
some place, I walked. On a few rare occasions, I rode the streetcar. Being broke in Nashville, a college  town was the common lot. A 
common saying at Peabody College was that no student having a half dollar in his pockets would think of spending it until the eagle on it 
was worn slick. So by living frugally I got through my first year in college 
without going into debt. By summer vacation time I had learned how 
to do some kinds of dental work and thought myself pretty good at it. On the sly, as I had no license to practice dentistry,  I found patients 
who were game to let me fix their teeth. By that means I earned and 
put away a little stake for my second year at Nashville. Too, after I 
had used up the $300 that Tom Johnson had for me, he would borrow 
some money, on his credit and mine, to help me over a tight spot. When you are struggling to get an education, you learn to value a friend who believes in you as strongly as Tom believed in me. One day I visited the Hermitage, that already in the 1890s was a 
public shrine. While there I picked up some souvenirs which I thought 
Tom, who admired old Andrew Jackson, would like. Along with the 
gift went a letter informing my old friend that I was broke again. When I revisited Marlin in 1946, I went to see the Widow Johnson, 
who lived there. She dug into he r cedar chest and brought out the 
trinkets from Andrew Jackson's farm  and the letter which she had kept 
for 50 years. During the middle of my last term at Vanderbilt, I suddenly 
decided that I could spend a month at home in Alabama cheaper than I 
could stay in Nashville. "Aren't you afraid you will get busted?" Catlett asked me. "When the faculty busts me," I told him, "the whole class will be 
busted with me." Again when most students were cramming for their final exams I 
kept pretty busy making plates and bridges for fellow students to turn 
in for required credits on their finals. Thereby, at the expense of a few 
moral qualms, I earned badly needed expense money. After the finals 
were all in, the dental school manager came to see me: 
"Heard, you are on the honor roll. You stand fifth in the class. But you can't graduate while you are in debt to the school for tuition." "What can I do that will ta ke the place of money?" "Give me a note endorsed by two financially responsible 
persons." My father and an old neighbor signed the note for me, and 
so I was allowed to graduate. But when I began to practice, I quickly 
discovered there was little money in circulation. One time Vanderbilt 
sent me a notice that my note was overdue. For the answer, I stated the 
generally known facts concerning the frozen money market, and 
added: "The note you hold against me is worth the money. When you 
can wait no longer, there is a way to collect it." After that, I received no more duns from the college. Not long after I entered dental school I earned the nickname, 
"What For." It stuck with me to gra duating day. I was never content to 
take the textbook answers to a problem on trust. On final examination 
Dr. Stubblefield, professor of metallu rgy, asked me to explain the play 
of colors when steel is being tempered. "The colors are given off by molecules as, driven by the heat, 
they rearrange themselves in a different pattern." On that answer, Dr. Stubblefield graded me 100 per cent. The 
other members of the board protested: "It is not the book answer." "It 
is more sensible than the book answer," Dr. Stubblefield retorted. He won his point. A zero on that one question would have knocked me 
off the honor roll. On the night I received my diploma, Dr. Stubblefield gave me a 
parting word which I never forgot: 
"I hope, Doctor, that the Lord will take as great a liking to you as 
I have." The professors "Doctore d" no student till he received his 
diploma. Among all those friends of my college days, I have nothing left 
today but the memory of them. So far as I can learn, I am the last one 
or two survivors of the Class of '98. Yet nearly all those students were 
younger than myself. After 50-odd years, I feel as young as I felt the 
day I walked out of Vanderbilt. CHAPTER 7. I TAKE UP THE PRACTICE OF 
DENTISTRY 
 
Soon after I got my diploma I took out Alabama license and 
opened up an office in Albertvi lle. The town was small and the 
country roundabout was newly settled, but for a dentist, the outlook was bright. In that country even baby teeth decayed rapidly. Before he 
was 20-years old many a youth had more fillings than natural teeth in 
his mouth. Nobody, even in the dental profession, knew then that 
anything could be done about it. For that matter, even today, 
profession and laity are mostly uninformed as to means of preventing tooth decay. On the other hand, in those parts, pyorrhea—a disease which 
attacks the gums and tooth sockets—was almost an unknown malady. It was dental decay that did the mischief. I knew a 16-year-old girl 
who, on that account, wore an upper plate. As my experience was limited, I did not then know that dental 
conditions were different in different regions. Indeed, the dental 
profession itself did not recognize that principle until about 40 years 
later. When some years earlier I suggested the idea to my fellow 
practitioners, they scoffed at it. It did not occur to me until after I began practice to link up the 
food that people ate, the milk and water they drank or the soil which 
produced their food with the prevailing bad teeth. In that Alabama hill country, the soil was thin and sandy. It was 
deficient in lime and phosphorus. Mostly the people drank water from 
shallow wells. Once I thought minerals in water was valuable but not so any more. The cattle feed also was deficient in lime. My observations have convinced me  that the minerals in drinking 
water do not nourish the living body. As those minerals being 
inorganic are not assimilated as food, they have nothing to do with 
making the food good or bad. That is my theory, but food requires 
water to make it assimilable, just as  a railway car must have a track to 
run on. Anyway, after several years prac tice in Albertville, the idea 
occurred to me that food might have something to do with building 
sound teeth along with sound bodies generally—but the idea was slow 
to register with me. As I recall, I got the idea first when a batch of hen's eggs at the place where I lived turned up with soft shells. In that country, the farmers would feed their hens with limestone grit or 
crushed oyster shell, to produce eggshells. If the lime in grit or oyster shells will produce eggshells, I 
reasoned, sufficient lime and other body-building elements in the 
children's food and milk will produce sound teeth. One day a patient of mine, Mr s. Brown, harassed over her 
children's bad teeth, talked a bit short to me: 
"Doctor, if you dentists knew your business, you could stop teeth 
from decaying so fast." With those soft eggshells in mind, I had an answer for her: 
"Mrs. Brown, if you fed your hens the same food that you feed 
your children, you would not have a hard-shelled egg on your farm." As long as I practiced dentistry, I kept telling my patients that to 
have sound teeth they must eat foods that contain tooth-building 
elements. I told them that milk contained calcium (lime) in the form 
easiest assimilated for building both bones and teeth. As calcium is 
prominent in teeth, we too easily  forget without other essential 
elements calcium is no good. It requires every mineral and vitamin to 
create strong teeth and bodies. Our popular foods do not have these. Often as not, my patient would resent that good advice: "I say, doctor, I'm paying you to fix my teeth, not to tell me what 
to eat." Just the same I kept on, day after day, trying to drill this truth 
into my patients' heads: "You are what you eat." Long before I ever heard of Professor Einstein, I had worked my 
own special law of relativity: 
All life is interdependent: There is a harmony running through all 
the forms of life, from amoeba to man. If that harmony is upset, trouble results. For its well-being and proper functioning, the human body must 
constantly replace all the elements of which it is made. The little 
noticed trace elements are as important as the others. They are the 
catalysts which set off the body's spark plugs. That's why it takes a 
balanced diet of food grown in co mpletely fertile soil to keep the 
bodily machine running smoothly. The way to keep healthy (I would tell my patients) is to live upon 
foodstuff out of soil which contains all the bodily elements in soluble 
form. But that food should be eaten as it comes from the earth. When 
the flour mill takes the hulls, bran and shorts out of wheat, to produce 
white flour, it has robbed the grain of essential vitamins and minerals. Naturally incurable diseases develop. Likewise, as • chemical analysis 
shows, three-fourth of the white po tato's mineral content is in the 
peeling. The way to get the potato's full food value is to bake it with 
the jacket on and eat it peeling and all. That identical principle holds with everything that grows in the 
garden. For example, the outer lettuce leaves that the housewife 
throws away when she makes salad are the richest in vitamins and 
minerals. Those elements are the catalysts which taken into the body help 
keep its processes going. When any of those elements run short, 
bodily functions are impaired and disease appears. For years and 
years, I kept telling my patients those things. The typical patient 
would listen with one ear, then go home and eat white bread, mashed 
potatoes and gravy and lettuce hearts for supper. CHAPTER 8. As long as I practiced dentistr y in Albertville, it never occurred 
to me that dental decay or crooked teeth or pyorrhea could be 
prevented. In that Alabama country everybody's teeth decayed. One of my 
patients in 1898 was 2 year old Willie McNaron. As she played in my 
offices in her father's hotel, Willie  had watched my patients. So she 
thought she had to spit a lot when sh e got into the dental chair. So I 
had to wait for her afternoon nap hour  and fill her teeth as she slept. For another small patient, Jimmie C., 16 years old, I put 15 
fillings in one day all in posterior teeth. Those two children had 
typical mouths for that country. Among Alabama folk, most decay 
occurs between the teeth; but among Hereford, Texas folk this is rare. As I later realized, those children had bad teeth because they had 
been fed too much white bread, cake, pies, polished rice, syrup and 
jelly. The worn out soil adds its part. They did not get enough raw 
whole milk to supply the calcium and vitamins; or enough raw leafy 
vegetables and fruit to supply the trace minerals (including fluorine) 
needed to build sound teeth. Now our instructors at Vanderbilt had taught us dental students 
to wait six months after pulling teeth for gum shrinkage before putting in a new set of teeth. But later I observed that when a patient had lost 
his teeth purely from decay—that is , when he had no pyorrhea, and 
that malady was rare in Alabama in those days—I could put in a plate 
immediately, with little or no shrinkage. So the plates rarely had to be 
refitted. I recall that soon after I opened my office in Albertville, young 
Tom Boyd came in to get his bad teeth pulled out and a new set put in. When the last tooth was out, my patient asked: 
"Doctor, when do I get my new teeth?" "Oh, in about six months," I told him. At that, young Boyd stretched himself about six inches taller and 
yelled at the top of his voice: 
"Good God, doctor, I'm going to be  married tomorrow. I've got to 
have my teeth for the wedding." It was not according to the book ; but, sympathizing, I discarded 
what Vanderbilt had taught me. "All right, young fellow," I answered. "Have a seat there and let's 
get busy." I worked all that day and late that night. Before the wedding 
hour, I had my patient's teeth ready for him. When I last saw Mr. 
Boyd, 10 years after that, he told me his plates had not given him a bit 
of trouble. They still fit perfectly. It was only a few days after that I pulled Miss Agnes Strickland's 
teeth that were too far gone for repa ir. I told her, as I told all my 
patients, what the book said: "Better wait six months for the gums to 
shrink and heal before we put in a new set of teeth." But after 10 days 
Miss Strickland was back. "I can't wait no six months, doctor," she challenged me. "I want 
my new teeth and no foolin'." So I made her a new set right off. Like Tom Boyd, Miss 
Strickland told me some years later that her plates had never given her 
the least trouble. The explanation: Both those patients had perfectly healthy 
mouths, no trace of pyorrhea and hence no bone shrinkage after the 
denture was placed. During the 17 years that I had my office in Albertville I cannot 
recall having a single patient coming back to have his dental plates refitted. By contrast, in the He reford, Texas country, numerous 
patients had to have their plates made over. Pyorrhea, rare in Alabama 
but prevalent on the Texas high plains had caused most of my 
Hereford patients to lose their teet h. Long after the teeth were out the 
underlying bone would keep shrinking even though wearing the new 
denture. After questioning many such patient s, year after year, I was led 
to connect pyorrhea with a heavy diet of meat and gravy. Too much 
meat and animal fat consumed for a long time apparently causes the 
bony structure to waste away. I simply observed the fact: I did not 
then, and do not now, undertake to explain it, other than it is due to food. When I revisited Birmingham in May, 1947, Walker Fowler 
showed me some gold fillings which I had put into his mouth 45 years 
before. Though well along in years,  Mr. Fowler still had firm healthy 
gums. All his life, he told me, he ate meat and drank milk sparingly. I 
noted his numerous fillings and told him—correctly, he said—that he 
habitually ate too heavily of white bread, potatoes, sugar and syrup. One day a stranger walked into my house at Hereford and 
challenged me: 
"Doctor, look at the gold fillings in my teeth. Do you know 
anything about those fillings?" I looked, shook my head and asked my visitor: "Can you tell me 
any reason why I should know?" Then he said: "You put those filling in 45 years ago. My name is 
Lee Barnes." Lee is a cousin of mine, but I didn't recognize him. Like Mr. 
Fowler of Birmingham, Mr. Barnes, a Government field man now, 
had eaten lightly of meat but too he avily of starchy foods and he had 
not consumed enough milk. That is, not enough from well fed cows. CHAPTER 9. I CONFIDE MY IDEAS TO FELLOW 
DENTISTS 
 
By 1910, as I recall, my persistent ideas concerning the effect of 
food and drink on the building of a sound body, and with it, a sound set of teeth, had begun to take definite shape. It was at the Alabama Dental Association convention in 
Birmingham that year at a luncheon  table with three fellow dentists, 
that I first ventured to unload those unorthodox ideas on the 
profession. I have about reached the conclusion, I told those dentists, 
that a patient's diet has more to do with the condition of his mouth—or 
for that matter, the condition of his body generally— than our medical 
or dental scientists have any idea of. "It is my conviction, gentlemen, 
that if a child, from its birth up, were fed a well-balanced diet, given 
plenty of calcium in milk to build bones and teeth; plenty of protein in 
meat or beans or whole wheat grains or similar foodstuff; given enough carbohydrates in bread, potatoes, sugar and white syrup to supply bodily energy, but none to lay up excess fat—that a child so 
fed would grow up with perfectly sound teeth. As you know, Doctors, 
our people on the farms feed their laying hens limestone grit and 
oyster shells to produce egg shells. Their poultry bulletins from 
Auburn tell them to do that. But it never occurs to those same people to see that children get lime enough to produce sound teeth." "Good cow's milk would supply that element, provided the cows 
grazed on grass or were fed on grain or fodder that grew on limestone 
soil. As we dentists know, and as our farm experts know, a lot of our 
Alabama sandy land is sadly defici ent in lime. We know also that 
cows and people habitually drink soft water from springs and shallow wells and consequently do not get enough lime in their diet. Give the 
children, and the grownups as well the minerals they need and you 
will have sound bones and sound teeth." I'm further persuaded, gentlemen, (I  went on to say) that wheat, if 
it were consumed whole instead of being refined into white flour, as 
our modern mills refine it, would be just about the perfect food. For 
wheat contains protein, starch, phosphorus, calcium, iron and other 
elements which it takes from the soil. In good soil wheat contains 
nearly a complete ration. Feed this whole grain wheat to growing children and give them 
all the milk they can drink, with a little meat and sweetening in their diet, not too much of either, and you will have healthy children. Now, there is some sense to refining wheat to make paste for 
hanging paper, but no sense at all that I can see to taking out of the 
wheat all those elements that nature put into it to feed people. It is 
impossible to be ailing wh en the food is correct. My fellow dentists heard me out with respectful attention. When 
I had finished my say, two sat silent and incredulous. But Dr. Young 
of Anniston remarked: "If all our patients adhered to Dr. Heard's 
ideas, we would be minus patients." CHAPTER 10. IN WHICH I WIN A HELPMATE 
 Not long after I opened my office in Albertville, I met an 
attractive school teacher, Mattie Go rdon Reed. Like myself, she was 
reared on a farm, a Sinclair County girl. Mattie had begun teaching at the age of 18 years. As I, too, had 
taught school, she and I found things in common. She lived in 
Albertville only during vacation time. For the rest of the year she was 
either teaching somewhere or going to school herself. For four years 
she taught in Roswell, New Mexico. During those absences, Mattie and I wrote to each other 
regularly. When she was in town, we were together on Sundays and 
sometimes during the week we would go buggy riding. Even though 
she was at home in Albertville only during the summer, Mattie was 
my only regular girl. She quit teaching about a year before we were 
married. Our courtship lasted for seven years. We were "just good 
friends," with never a thought of petting. I was still terribly bashful 
and could not yet drum up courage to ask Mattie to be my wife. (One time I consulted a psychologist who told me that seven was 
my lucky number.) There does appear to be some truth in what she 
told me. After having known each ot her for seven years, Mattie and I 
were married. Again the number one has been significant for me also. I was once married and have one son. Two numbers, one and seven, 
do run through my history. What does that mean, Oh, Nothing in 
particular. A notice of street addresses of many of my friends have 
seven or one, and sometimes both. As the months and years passed by and I had accumulated wealth 
sufficient for feeding another mouth, I began to notice that the evening 
hours at Mattie's house were getting shorter and that midnight came 
quicker than before. One night I remember having over-stayed my 
time. The clock's hand was moving along toward the small hours. Still 
I showed no disposition to say good-night. Suddenly Mattie showed 
me a little game she had made up he rself. She had me make a row of 
ciphers like this: "0000 000 00." Then she had me draw lines to the 
ciphers to make them read: "Good God Go." I took the hint. Again when I stayed too late—and my timidity still tied my 
tongue when the question that needed asking popped into my head—
Mattie suddenly said to me: 
"Do you know, Doctor, I sometimes think that you and I ought 
never to be separated. You won't go home." "You mean, Mattie, you think we ought to get married . . ." We had then gone together for six years and both were well 
along—so it was about time. So Mattie and I were married in 1906, when she was 34 and I 
was 39 years old. Soon afterward we built a nice home in Albertville 
where we expected to live out our lives. Five years later our only 
child, George G., was born. Through 41 years, Mattie was my faithful helpmate. For many of 
those years, I was constantly sick—s ometimes barely able to trudge to 
the office for my day's work. After we moved to Hereford, Mattie became my office assistant. She worked at it for 16 years. Her sister, Miss Lucy, kept house for us 
and became the mainstay of our household, as she it to this day. When I started experimenting boldly with fasting, then with fruit 
juices, raw foods and unrefined natu ral foods, seeking and at last 
finding the way back to health through diet—Mattie went along with 
me. Whenever my wife would try to get me to say how she should 
carry on our affairs when I was gone, I would always say: "No, 
Mattie, one of these days, I'll be a man again." Something inside me, 
told me to answer her like that. All along, day after day, Mattie wo uld prepare my food with care 
and skill; but one thing saw me through—her faith in me. Until she 
died in 1947, in her 75th year, I was heavily dependent upon her. During the entire 41 years of ou r married life—and the more than 
30 years in which her sister, Miss Lucy Reed, made her home with 
us—there was never one cross work spoken in my home that I knew. I could trust her to the limit. She had her spending money in one bank 
and I in the other. She usually banked the income from the office in 
my bank to my credit. Occasionally she would say, "Do you think it 
would be Okay to make this deposit in my bank ? Always my answer 
would be that it was a good idea. One day I said "I believe I'll buy 
Albert Carter's place for George." She agreed and asked for my 
consent to let her pay for it. I said Okay if you think you have that 
much from the deposits. She never checked on it, so she never 
received reports. The report showed plenty and some to spare. I have 
had business men and bankers tell me it is unwise for a man to allow 
his wife to check on the bank account. I could trust my wife anywhere. CHAPTER 11. HOW FAULTY DIET MADE ME SICK 
 About the time I got well broke into my routine at the dental 
office my health began to fail me. Almost continuously I had bad 
colds, tonsilitis, chills, fever and bilious attacks. When medicines of 
various kinds failed to help me, ex cept for a little temporary relief, I 
began to study foods and to experiment with eating for health. But it 
took me a long time to get on the right track. I had no informed 
nutritionist to advise me. After Mattie and I were married  and I had settled down to a 
sensible routine for eating, sleeping and working, I had thought I 
surely would get straightened out—but, instead, my health kept on 
giving me grief. I was pale, weak and almost constantly tired. About 
that time a young doctor, just out of medical school, told me I had 
auto-intoxication. But his medicines did me no good either. Before 
that it was known as bilious attacks. One day I met an old friend on th e street and he gave me some 
good advice: 
"George, you go up to Laceys Springs and stay a month or so— 
or all summer if you need to. You'll come home feeling like a new 
man." I went up there and found that the hotel, a three room shack, was 
two miles from the springs. The postoffice was two miles in the 
opposite direction and there was no public conveyance. So every day I 
would walk to the spring and to th e postoffice. The water, heavy with 
magnesium and other healthgiving mi nerals and rather warm, tasted 
terrible. I forced myself to dr ink two quarts a day. Soon I was 
enjoying the outdoor life so much that I began to climb over the 
mountain. There was a railroad on the other side and a switch where I 
could flag a train back to town. After I had kept up drinking that 
nasty-tasting water a few weeks, along with the daily walk and climb over the mountain, I began to feel better. I wasn't tired and fagged out 
any longer. I was getting back my natural pep and ruddy complexion. I had gained several pounds. My friend was right: I went home feeling 
young again and thought I was cured completely. Too soon, I had a backset. On the job again I slipped right into 
my old routine, ate anything and everything I wanted and took no 
outdoor exercise. After a few months of that, with patients keeping me 
at my dental chair 14 hours a day, I was right back in the old rut. I felt 
all tired out, could not sleep nights or  eat well. Then I went back to the 
springs. Since my last visit, the place had developed amazingly. There 
was a brand new hotel close by the spring and a little town of tourist 
cabins around it. A hack line ran to the postoffice. There were plenty 
of people to talk to or play games with. So I did not go tramping or 
mountain climbing. The water (which I thought had cured me before) 
did me no good at all that I could tell. I returned to my practice and managed to keep going, but felt 
better lying on my office couch than running the dentist drill. Some months later I stayed another spe ll at the springs, but with no better 
results. The one thing I learned af ter spending these summers at the 
spring was that the minerals in the water was inorganic and of no 
value as a food, but may be of value as an irritant. A small amount of 
epsom salt in hot water every morn ing will be worth hundreds of 
dollars spent at a health resort. Somebody was always recommending a wonderful new medicine 
to me. I would try out each one as it came along, but none gave me 
any lasting relief. Then our family doctor told me about a 
diagnostician who was working wonders in that part of the state. So I 
went to Dr. Brown at Gadsden. He told me I was anemic. He put me 
on iron and told me to eat plenty of lean meat, liver, eggs, bread and butter and like rich foods. The upshot was that my auto-intoxication grew worse. As I later learned, ov er-eating had caused my trouble in 
the first place. About that time Mrs. Heard was stricken with pleurisy and a 
persistent cough. So our family physician sent her to Dr. Brown. He prescribed a rest cure with plenty of milk, meat, butter and eggs. But the enriched diet did her no good either. When he saw how things 
were going, our family doctor recommended a change of climate for 
both of us. "Move out to the high and dry Texas plains country," he advised. Reluctantly, we sold the house which we had built for keeps and 
migrated to Texas. First, we took the train for San Antonio, then as 
now, that city was widely famed as a place where people would go 
with lung trouble and all sorts of ch ronic ailments and fight their way 
back to health. Before long I found a likely op ening for a dentist in nearby 
Jourdanton. We spent almost a year there and found it a good place to stop a cough but not much good for a dentist. Then, by mere chance I heard about a dentist in Hereford, The 
Deaf Smith County seat, who wanted to sell out. So I traded with Dr. 
G................. Before we got settled in our new home, Mattie and I had 
occasion to realize for the first time  how big a State Texas really was. But as things turned out that pr oved the best move of our lives. CHAPTER 12 
 
I GO LOOKING FOR HEALTH IN TEXAS 
 On January 1, 1916, I settled down with my little family in 
Texas. Both my wife and myself looked to the dry climate of the high 
plains to work its magic on us. We had not yet learned that what you 
eat, your living habits, the way you do things and, more important, your thinking, have more to do with your health than either medicine 
or climate. It was some years after we moved to Hereford that the truth 
dawned on me. The sick man makes his own bed and lies on it. The 
doctors call his ailment arthritis, anemia, tuberculosis or heart disease. Whatever his sickness may be, it is his baby. He has nursed it along, a 
viper in his bosom, and let it feed upon him. In January, 1916, I was still addicted to pills, oils, salts, iron 
tonic or some other concoction. I thought I had to take the stuff to 
keep alive. Off and on I was always ailing somewhere. I had a sore 
throat, a bad cold, a light fever, stomachache or rheumatism. After I 
moved to the high plains, my rheumatism seemed milder. The change 
of climate had done me good. Still, I had the anemia and with it 
frequent colds and catarrh.
Man_Vs_Toothache_by_George_Herd.txt
Summarize the following text section accurately and concisely. Maintain specific details and numerical information, and use anti-repetition mechanisms:

        Soil and Health Library
This document is a reproduction of the book or other copyrighted material you
requested. It was prepared on for the exclusive use of Oriana, whose email address is
orianaoriana@gmail. com. This reproduction was made by the Soil and Health Library only for the purpose of
research and study. Any further reproduction or distribution of this copy in any form
whatsoever constitutes a violation of copyrights. MAN VERSUS TOOTHACHE 
 
by DR. GEORGE W. HEARD 
 
 
 
 
Dr. George W. Heard 
  
 
Copyright 1952 — Dr.
Dr. George W. Heard
Who wrote the book "Man Versus Toothache"?
To share his discoveries and findings with the public, and to help people find a way to live a healthy and happy life.
What was Dr. George W. Heard's motivation for writing the book?
He became healthy and gained his energy back, but then relapsed when he went back to his old eating habits.
What was the outcome of Dr. Heard's diet and lifestyle changes?
Dr. Edward Taylor, Dr. C. A. Pierle, Dr. Weston A. Price, and Arnold P. Yerkes
Who helped Dr. Heard in his research on the prevention of tooth decay?
She had faith in him and believed in his ideas, and she worked with him to implement his health changes.
Why did Dr. Heard's wife, Mattie, support him in his self-imposed dietary restrictions?