Mrs. Brown, the mother of my friend George, was a devout Christian. She believed in her Bible. Moreover, she was an excellent nurse, and next to her Bible, believed in thoroughwort. Thoroughwort tea, or thoroughwort syrup, was her panacea for all the ills, physical or moral, that ever was, or could be, detailed upon poor humanity.
“Before you start, boys—”
“Boys! Where are your men?” interrupted George.
“Hear me!” continued Mrs. Brown. “Before you start for Bangor to-morrow morning, do you take a good drink of that thoroughwort syrup in the large jar on the first shelf in the pantry. It’ll keep out the cold; for there’ll be frost to-night, I think, and at five o’clock in the morning the air will be sharp. O, there is nothing equal to thoroughwort for keeping out the cold.”
“Anything to eat in that pantry?” asked George, with a wink tipped to me. You see I was to sleep with him that night, preparatory to an early start for Bangor.
“Yes, some cold meat, bread, and a pie. But don’t forget to first take a dose of the thoroughwort syrup. Addison, you bear it in mind, for George is awful forgetful, especially about taking his thoroughwort.” And Mrs. Brown detained us fully fifteen minutes, as she rehearsed the remarkable qualities of her favorite remedy,—“particularly for keeping out cold.”
“Mother thinks that condemnable stuff is meat, drink, and clothing,” remarked George, as we sought the pantry at an early hour on the following morning, not for the thoroughwort, but for sandwiches, pies, and the like.
“Let me take a taste of the ‘stuff,’” I said, as I noticed the jar so conveniently at hand.
“O, no; not on an empty stomach. It will make you throw up Jonah if you do,” exclaimed George, with an expression of disgust distorting his features. “Eat something first, and then, if you want to taste the condemned ‘stuff,’ do so, and the Lord be with you,” he added, pitching into the eatables.
Having made away with the pie, and much of the sandwiches, we turned our attention for a moment to the thoroughwort syrup. I took a taste, and George spilled a quantity on the shelf, “that mother may know we have been to the jar,” he remarked, as we left the pantry.