Part 20 (1/2)

”That's Clayvers,” she said, picking up a Galium. ”Now fwhat wud ye think that wuz fur to cure?”

”I don't know. What is it?”

”Luk now, an' see how it's wrote in it plain as prent--yes, an' a sight plainer, fur I can read them an' I can't read a wurrud in a book. Now fwhat is that loike?” said she, holding up the double seed-pod.

”A brain and spinal column,” said Yan.

”Och, choild, I hev better eyes than ye. Shure them's two kidneys, an'

that's fwhat Clayver tay will cure better'n all the docthers in the wurruld, an' ye hev to know just how. Ye see, kidney thruble is a koind o' fayver; it's hatin', so ye make yer Clayver tay in _cold_ wather; if ye make it o' warrum wather it just makes ye wuss an' acts loike didly pizen. Thayer's Sweatplant, or Boneset”

[_Eupatorium perfoliatum_], ”that's the thing to sweat ye. Wanst Oi sane a feller jest dyin' o' dry hoide, wuz all hoidebound, an' the docthers throid an' throid an' couldn't help wan bit, till I guv his mother some Boneset leaves to make tay, an' he sweat buckets before he'd more'n smelt av it, an' the docthers thought they done it theirsilves!” and she cackled gleefully.

”Thayer's Goldthread fur cankermouth, an' Pipsissewa that cures fayver an' rheumatiz, too. It always grows where folks gits them disayses.

Luk at the flower just blotched red an' white loike fayver blotches--an' Spearmint, that saves ye if ya pizen yerself with Spaszum-root, an' shure it grows right next it in the woods!

”Thayer's Wormseed fur wurrums--see the 'ittle wurrum on the leaves”

_[Chenopodium]_ ”an' that thayer is Pleurisy root, an' thayer!

well, thayer's the foinest hairb that iver G.o.d made to grow--that's Cure all. Some things cures wan thing and some cures another, but when ye don't know just what to take, ye make tay o' that root an' ye can't go wrong. It was an Injun larned me that. The poor miserable baste of a haythen hed some larnin', an' the minit he showed me I knowed it was so, fur ivery lafe wuz three in wan an' wan in three, an' had the sign o' the blessed cra.s.s in the middle as plain as that biler settin' on the stove.”

Thus she chattered away, smoking her short pipe, expectorating on the top of the hot stove, but with true feminine delicacy she was careful each time to wipe her mouth on the back of her skinny arm.

”An' that's what's called Catnip; sure Oi moind well the day Oi furst larned about that. It warn't a Injun nor a docther nor a man at all, at all, that larned me that. It was that ould black Cat, an' may the saints stand bechuxt me an' his grane eyes! Bejabers, sometimes he scares me wid his knowin' ways, but I hev nothin' agin him except that he kills the wee burruds. He koind o' measled all wan winter an' lay around the stove. Whiniver the dooer was open he'd go an' luk out an'

then come back an' meow an' wheen an' lay down--an' so he kep' on, gittin' waker an' worser, till the snow wuz gone an' gra.s.s come up, an' still he'd go a-lukin' toward the ayst, especially nights. Then thayer come up a plant I had never sane, right thayer, an' he'd luk at it an' luk at it loike he wanted it but didn't dar to. Thar was some foine trays out thayer in thim days afore the ould baste cut thim down, an' wan av thim hed a big limb, so--an' another so--an' when the moon come up full at jest the right time the shaddy made the sign av the cra.s.s an' loighted on me dooer, an' after it was past it didn't make no cra.s.s. Well, bejabers, the full moon come up at last an' she made the sign of the shaddy cra.s.s, an' the ould Cat goes out an'

watches an' watches loike he wanted to an' didn't dar to, till that cra.s.s drapped fayer onto the hairbs, an' Tom he jumped then an' ate an' ate, an' from that day he was a well Cat; an' that's how Oi larned Catnip, an' it set me moind aisy, too, fur no Cat that's possesst 'll iver ate inunder the shaddy av the cra.s.s.”

Yan was scribbling away, but had given up any attempt to make sketches or even notes beyond the names of the plants.

”Shure, choild, put them papers wid the names on the hairbs an' save _them_; that wuz fwhat Docther Carmartin done whin Oi was larnin'

him. Thayer, now, that's it,” she added, as Yan took the hint and began slipping on each stalk a paper label with its name.

”That's a curious broom,” said Yan, as his eye fell on the symbol of order and cleanliness, making strange reflections on itself.

”Yes; sure, that's a Baitche broom. Larry makes 'em.”

”Larry?”

”Yes, me bhoy.” [Larry was nearly sixty.] ”He makes thim of Blue Baitche.”

”How?” asked Yan, picking it up and examining it with intense interest.

”Whoi, shure, by whittlin'. Larry's a howly terror to whittle, an'

he gets a Blue Baitche sapling 'bout three inches thick an' starts a-whittlin” long slivers, but laves them on the sthick at wan end till thayer all round loike that.”

”What, like a fire-lighter?”

”Yis, yis, that's it, only bigger, an Blue Baitche is terrible tough.

Then whin he has the sthick down to 'bout an inch thick, he ties all the slivers the wrong way wid a sthrand o' Litherwood, an' thrims down the han'el to suit, an' evens up the ind av the broom wid the axe an'

lets it dhry out, an' thayer yer is. Better broom was niver made, an'