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Updated: May 1, 2025
'E didn't look no older'n you do now, an' you're a chicken compared to 'im. You've wore badly like, not knowin' the use o' yerbs." "That's it!" said Helmsley, now following his companion over the stile and into the dark dewy fields beyond "I need the advice of the Wise One! Has he any remedy for old age, I wonder?"
"Let the yerbs run through yer veins for two or three minits, an' ye'll step across yon fields as light as a bird 'oppin' to its nest," he declared.
Let ary thing go wrong in the fam'ly fever, or snake bite, or somethin' and we can't git a doctor up hyar less'n three days; and it costs scand'lous. The only medicines we-uns has is yerbs, which customarily ain't no good 'thout a leetle grain o' whiskey. Now, th'r ain't no saloons allowed in all these western counties. The nighest State dispensary, even, is sixty miles away.
Nor none o' them vile stuffs which brewers makes as arterwards goes to Parl'ment on the profits of 'avin' poisoned their constitooants. 'Tis nowt but just yerb wine." "Yerb wine? Wine made of herbs?" "That's it! 'Erbs or yerbs I aint pertikler which I sez both. This," and he shook the bottle he held vigorously "is genuine yerb wine an' made as I makes it, what do the Wise One say of it?
"Brought yer father along wi' ye, Matt?" suddenly asked a wizened little man of about sixty, with a questioning grin on his hard weather-beaten features. "I aint up to 'awkin' dead bodies out o' their graves yet, Bill Bush," answered Peke. "Unless my old dad's corpsy's turned to yerbs, which is more'n likely, I aint got 'im.
In my grandfather's day we didn't 'ear 'bout no monkey's tails, 'twas just a chill an' inflammation o' the in'ards, an' a few yerbs made into a tea an' drunk 'ot fastin', cured it in twenty-four hours. But they've so many new-fangled notions nowadays, they've forgot all the old 'uns.
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