Mrs. B. Oh dear me, they gin’ her a powerful chance o’ truck. I reckon, first and last, she took at least a pint o’ lodimy.
Mrs. S. and Mrs. R. The law!
Mrs. S. Why that ought to have killed her, if nothing else. If they’d jist gin’ her a little cumfry and alecampane, stewed in honey, or sugar, or molasses, with a little lump o’ mutton suet or butter in it: it would have cured her in two days sound and well.
Mrs. B. I’ve always counted cumfry and alecampane the lead of all yerbs for colds.
Mrs. S. Horehound and sugar’s ’mazin’ good.
Mrs. B. Mighty good—mighty good.
Mrs. R. Powerful good. I take mightily to a sweat of sage tea, in desperate bad colds.
Mrs. S. And so do I, Miss Reid. Indeed I have a great leanin’ to sweats of yerbs, in all ailments sich as colds, and rheumaty pains, and pleurisies, and sich—they’re wonderful good. Old brother Smith came to my house from Bethany meeting, in a mighty bad way, with a cold, and cough, and his throat and nose all stopt up; seemed like it would ’most take his breath away, and it was dead o’ winter, and I had nothin’ but dried yerbs, sich as camomile, sage, pennyryal, catmint, horehound, and sich; so I put a hot rock to his feet, and made him a large bowl o’ catmint tea, and I reckon he drank ’most two quarts of it through the night, and it put him in a mighty fine sweat, and loosened all the phleem, and opened all his head; and the next morning, says he to me, says he: “Sister Shad” (you know he’s a mighty kind spoken man, and always was so ’fore he joined society; and the old man likes a joke yet right well, the old man does; but he’s a mighty good man, and I think he prays with greater libity, than ’most any one of his age I ’most ever seed)—Don’t you think he does, Miss Reed?
Mrs. R. Powerful.
Mrs. B. Who did he marry?