XI
Lung Balm
One day as this girl went with him through a little grove on the edgeof the town, she stopped at a certain tree and said:
"If that ain't Black-cherry!"
"You mean Choke-cherry."
"No, Black-cherry. Choke-cherry ain't no good; but Black-cherry bark'sawful good for lung complaint. Grandma always keeps it. I've beenfeeling a bit queer meself" [she was really as strong as an ox]."Guess I'll git some." So she and Yan planned an expedition together.The boldness of it scared the boy. The girl helped herself to ahatchet in the tool box--the sacred tool box of his father.
Yan's mother saw her with it and demanded why she had it. With readyeffrontery she said it was to hammer in the hook that held theclothesline, and proceeded to carry out the lie with a smiling face.That gave Yan a new lesson and not a good one. The hatchet was at onceput back in the box, to be stolen more carefully later on.
Biddy announced that she was going to the grocery shop. She met Yanaround the corner and they made for the lot. Utterly regardless ofproperty rights, she showed Yan how to chip off the bark of theBlack-cherry. "Don't chip off all around; that's bad luck--take iton'y from the sunny side." She filled a basket with the pieces andthey returned home.
Here she filled a jar with bits of the inner layer, then, pouringwater over it, let it stand for a week. The water was then changed toa dark brown stuff with a bitter taste and a sweet, aromatic smell.
"It's terrible good," she said. "Granny always keeps it handy. Itcures lots of people. Now there was Bud Ellis--the doctors just guvhim up. They said he didn't have a single lung left, and he comearound to Granny. He used to make fun of Granny; but now he wuz plumbscairt. At first Granny chased him away; then when she seen that hewas awful sick, she got sorry and told him how to make Lung Balm. Hewas to make two gallons each time and bring it to her. Then she tookand fixed it so it was one-half as much and give it back to him. Well,in six months if he wasn't all right."
Biddy now complained nightly of "feelin's" in her chest. Thesefeelings could be controlled only by a glass or two of Lung Balm.Her condition must have been critical, for one night after severalnecessary doses of Balm her head seemed affected. She becameabusive to the lady of the house and at the end of the month a lessinteresting help was in her place.
There were many lessons good and bad that Yan might have drawn fromthis; but the only one that he took in was that the Black-cherry barkis a wonderful remedy. The family doctor said that it really was so,and Yan treasured up this as a new and precious fragment of woodcraft.
Having once identified the tree, he was surprised to see that it wasrather common, and was delighted to find it flourishing in his ownGlenyan.
This made him set down on paper all the trees he knew, and he wassurprised to find how few they were and how uncertain he was aboutthem.
Maple--hard and soft. Beach. Elm--swamp and slippery. Ironwood. Birch--white and black. Ash--white and black. Pine. Cedar. Balsam. Hemlock and Cherry.
He had heard that the Indians knew the name and properties of everytree and plant in the woods, and that was what he wished to be able tosay of himself.
One day by the bank of the river he noticed a pile of empty shells ofthe fresh-water Mussel, or Clam. The shells were common enough, butwhy all together and marked in the same way? Around the pile on themud were curious tracks and marks. There were so many that it was hardto find a perfect one, but when he did, remembering the Coon track,he drew a picture of it. It was too small to be the mark of his oldacquaintance. He did not find any one to tell him what it was, but oneday he saw a round, brown animal hunched up on the bank eating a clam.It dived into the water at his approach, but it reappeared swimmingfarther on. Then, when it dived again, Yan saw by its long thintail that it was a Muskrat, like the stuffed one he had seen in thetaxidermist's window.
He soon learned that the more he studied those tracks the moredifferent kinds he found. Many were rather mysterious, so he couldonly draw them and put them aside, hoping some day for light. Oneof the strangest and most puzzling turned out to be the trail of aSnapper, and another proved to be merely the track of a Common Crowthat came to the water's edge to drink.
The curios that he gathered and stored in his shanty increased innumber and in interest. The place became more and more part ofhimself. Its concealment bettered as the foliage grew around it again,and he gloried in its wild seclusion and mystery, and wandered throughthe woods with his bow and arrows, aiming harmless, deadly blows atsnickering Red-squirrels--though doubtless he would have been as sorryas they had he really hit one.
Yan soon found out that he was not the only resident of the shanty.One day as he sat inside wondering why he had not made a fireplace, sothat he could sit at an indoor fire, he saw a silent little creatureflit along between two logs in the back wall. He remained still. Abeautiful little Woodmouse, for such it was, soon came out in plainview and sat up to look at Yan and wash its face. Yan reached out forhis bow and arrow, but the Mouse was gone in a flash. He fitted ablunt arrow to the string, then waited, and when the Mouse returned heshot the arrow. It missed the Mouse, struck the log and bounded backinto Yan's face, giving him a stinging blow on the cheek. And as Yanrolled around grunting and rubbing his cheek, he thought, "This iswhat I tried to do to the Woodmouse." Thenceforth, Yan made no attemptto harm the Mouse; indeed, he was willing to share his meals with it.In time they became well acquainted, and Yan found that not one, but awhole family, were sharing with him his shanty in the woods.
Biddy's remark about the Indian tobacco bore fruit. Yan was not asmoker, but now he felt he must learn. He gathered a lot of thistobacco, put it to dry, and set about making a pipe--a real Indianpeace pipe. He had no red sandstone to make it of, but a soft redbrick did very well. He first roughed out the general shape with hisknife, and was trying to bore the bowl out with the same tool, whenhe remembered that in one of the school-readers was an account of theIndian method of drilling into stone with a bow-drill and wet sand.One of his schoolmates, the son of a woodworker, had seen his fatheruse a bow-drill. This knowledge gave him new importance in Yan's eyes.Under his guidance a bow-drill was made, and used much and on manythings till it was understood, and now it did real Indian service bydrilling the bowl and stem holes of the pipe.
He made a stem of an Elderberry shoot, punching out the pith at homewith a long knitting-needle. Some white pigeon wing feathers trimmedsmall, and each tipped with a bit of pitch, were strung on a stoutthread and fastened to the stem for a finishing touch; and he wouldsit by his camp fire solemnly smoking--a few draws only, for he didnot like it--then say, "Ugh, heap hungry," knock the ashes out, andproceed with whatever work he had on hand.
Thus he spent the bright Saturdays, hiding his accouterments eachday in his shanty, washing the paint from his face in the brook, andreplacing the hated paper collar that the pride and poverty of hisfamily made a daily necessity, before returning home. He was a littledreamer, but oh! what happy dreams. Whatever childish sorrow he foundat home he knew he could always come out here and forget and be happyas a king--be a real King in a Kingdom wholly after his heart, and allhis very own.