brung along a Sterrick-root.  First, I sez, sez I, ‘Get me some b’ilin’ wather,’ an’ I made tay an’ give it to her b’ilin’ hot.  As share as Oi’m a livin’ corpse, the very first spoonful fetched her all right.  Oh, but it’s God’s own gift, an’ it’s be His blessin’ we know how to use it.  An’ it don’t do to just go an’ dig it when ye want it.  It has to be grubbed when the flower ain’t thayer.  Ye see, the strength ain’t in both places to oncet.  It’s ayther in the flower or in the root, so when the flower is thayer the root’s no more good than an ould straw.  Ye hes to Hunt fur it in spring or in fall, just when the divil himself wouldn’t know whayer to find it.

“An’ fwhat hev ye thayer?  Good land! if it ain’t Skunk’s Cabbage!  Ye sure come up by the Bend.  That’s the on’y place whayer that grows.”

“Yes,” replied Yan; “that’s just where I got it.  But hold on, Granny, I want to sketch all those and note down their names and what you say about them.”

“Shure, you’d hev a big book when I wuz through,” said the old woman with pride, as she lit her pipe, striking the match on what would have been the leg of her pants had she been a man.

“An’ shure ye don’t need to write down what they’re good fur, fur the good Lord done that Himself long ago.  Luk here, now.  That’s Cohosh, fur spazzums, an’ luks like it; that’s Moccasin, fur Highsterricks, an’ luks like it; wall, thar’s Skunk-root fur both, an’ don’t it luk like the two o’ thim thigither?”

Yan feebly agreed, but had much difficulty in seeing what the plant had in common with the others.

“An’ luk here!  Thayer ye got Lowbelier, that some calls Injun tobaccer.  Ye found this by the crick, an’ it’s a little airly—­ahead o’ toime.  That’s the shtuff to make ye throw up when ye want to.  Luk, ain’t that lafe the livin’ shape of a shtummick?

“Thayer’s the Highbelier; it’s a high hairb, an’ it’s moighty foine fur the bowels when ye drink the dry root.

“Spicewood” [Spicebush, Lindera benzoin], “or Fayverbush, them twigs is great fur tay—­that cures shakes and fayver.  Shure an’ it shakes ivery toime the wind blows.

“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,