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"Why, the yarribs that grow, sir to cure the people when they are sick." "O, you mean herbs." "I do, sir, and I gather them too for the potecars." "O, then you are what they call a herbalist." "Yes, that's what I mean. You sell them to the apothecaries, I suppose?" "I do a little, sir, but I use the most of them myself.
Doesn't the wine come from the grapes that grow in forrin parts sich as we have in our hot-houses and doesn't the whiskey that you make your punch of grow from the honest barley in our own fields? So much for your knowledge of yarribs." "Why, there you are right, my old friend. I forgot that." "You forgot it? Tell the truth at once, and say you didn't know it.
But may be you did forget it, for troth he'd be a poor crature that didn't know whiskey was made from barley." He here turned his red satirical eye upon Woodward, with a glance that was strongly indicative of contempt for his general information. "Well," he proceeded, "the power of yarribs is wondherful, if it was known to many as it is to me."
This, and the originality of his appearance, excited Woodward's curiosity, and he resolved to speak to him. "Well, my good old man, what may you be carrying in the bag?" The man looked at him respectfully, and raising his hand and staff, touched his barrad, and replied: "A few yarribs, your honor." "Yarribs? What the deuce is that?"
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