“Here are the bottles,” said Davie. His eyes peered at her under his soft light hair where the herbs had drifted down.
“Oh, yes, so they be,” said Grandma, taking them. “Well, ’tain’t th’ opedildoc—none of ’em ain’t. You wash your face, Davie, first, an’ then you can look again. There won’t be no cobwebs on the lower shelf.”
So Davie took the towel and ran out to the sink, and washed up. He shook his hair pretty well; but some of the little green things stayed in the soft waves. Then he took the bottles away from the bed where Grandma laid them, and brought away some more “jest bottles.”
But no opodeldoc appeared, and at last Grandma lay back on her pillows dreadfully disappointed.
“Can’t I look some other place?” begged Davie, climbing up on the bed to lay his mouth against her ear.
“No mortal man would know where to tell you,” moaned Grandma.
“O dear!” exclaimed Davie, laying his hot little cheek against her wrinkled one. “There’s a bottle on that little table.” He pointed over toward the big old bureau. “May I get it?”
“Yes, but it ain’t a mite o’ use,” said the old lady, hopelessly.
So Davie slid off from the bed once more, and went over to the small table by the side of the bureau and brought the bottle and put it in Grandma’s hand.
“Land o’ Goshen, now it’s come to me! How glad I am I remember. I took that down from th’ shelf th’ other day when I cut my finger peelin’ potatoes.”