12. HOME REMEDIES
From his parents in Vermont, and from an aged Indian who lived on our farm for a few years after the Civil War, Father learned about roots, barks, and herbs which were supposed to be specific remedies for various human ailments. For a spring tonic, when sulphur and molasses needed to be supplemented, he concocted a brew of wintergreen leaves, sarsaparilla roots, cherry bark, boneset, and various other ingredients. Some of these items, such as boneset and nervine roots, made potions bitter as gall, but when sufficiently sweetened with maple sugar the taste was very agreeable.
Once on a trip to a bear trap, I saw Father drop to his knees to dig up a mass of yellow, hairlike roots which he called nervine. A few weeks later a neighbor came to ask if we happened to have that particular medicine. He wanted some for his mother, who was having a nervous attack. I found afterwards that a cure had been effected. My people never made any charge for these nature remedies, but dispensed them freely.
For the common cold, roots of ginseng, senega, and the bulbs of wild turnips (our name for Jack-in-the-pulpit) were dried, ground to a powder, and mixed with honey. Unless plenty of honey was used, it was torture to take the wild turnip powder. A city man who was traveling through the woods with Father once insisted on tasting the wild turnip food, which bears eat with relish. The fiery smarting became so unbearable that the gentleman ran to the brook to rinse out his mouth. Unfortunately, water merely made the agony worse. When our city friend finally recovered, he was perfectly willing to leave all the Indian turnips to the bears. A lady who once took a tiny bite of this forest food said she felt as though her tongue had been split apart.
Alive to tell the story, I, as well as all the other members of the Roberts family, had to take this powerful medicine whenever I had a cold and sore throat. At one time, when diptheria was epidemic and we showed symptoms of catching it, we were given the ground wild turnip mixed with honey. In addition, we had to take skunk’s oil, which was also rubbed on our throats. Whatever our illness was, we survived both that and the remedies.
Our cellar was kept well-stocked with oils of raccoon, woodchuck, skunk, and bear. Aside from the potency of these animal oils for both internal and external use, there was no question about their value for softening the leather boots with which we were supplied every fall. When we walked through the snow, the leather became hard, making it necessary to use a bootjack to free our feet at night, and to have super-human strength to get the stiff boots on again in the morning. The oil helped to keep the leather pliable.
People from far and near frequently came to our house of obtain wild-animal oils. If they did not need the stuff for their personal use, they wanted it to rub on the joints of their lame horses, or as a sure cure for the heaves. A clergyman who was as bald as a plate once came after some bear’s oil which he intended to mix with alcohol to stimulate the growth of his hair. If his formula had produced the desired results, we might have become millionaires—and I might have more use for a comb than I do now.
There is a story of a country quack who had just finished his sales talk about a cure for rheumatism when a listener in the crowd spoke up and said that a bottle of the magic elixir which he had bought had not done him any good. The quick-witted quack replied, “I don’t wonder at all. The chemist who mixed up that batch of medicine forgot to put bear’s oil in it.” As far as I remember we never attempted to swallow any bear’s oil, but once when an older sister was so choked up with bronchitis that she could hardly breathe, she consented to take some skunk’s oil. This gagged her sufficiently to open her breathing passages, after which she willingly admitted her debt to the lowly skunk.
A word should also be spoken for coon’s oil, for on one occasion when we boys were to provide the popcorn for a neighborhood party, it was discovered at the last minute that we were short of butter. Undaunted, my older brother Ruel, who had recently caught two fat raccoon, mixed a quantity of their oil with the popcorn, salted it, and carried two pails of it to the party. Everyone praised the popcorn as the best they had ever eaten.
In addition to herbs, roots, barks, and oils, Father made a salve which won a high reputation. The main ingredients in this, though I do not remember the proportions, were spruce gum, resin, beeswax, and sheep tallow. These items were melted together on the stove, cooled, and made into convenient rolls for treating all our cuts and scratches. We also chewed the spruce gum, and found it a soothing relief for sore throat.
The wintergreen leaves, which we combined with various barks to make our spring tonic, were chewed too. We boys thought of them as a substitute for chewing tobacco. Much later, when I spoke to a retired teacher of medicine about this, he told me that aspirin is derived, in part at least, from wintergreen leaves. I have never checked this, but I know that the new wintergreen plants were a tasty delicacy to chew and eat in the spring.
However helpful our home remedies may have been for curative purposes, there were a few times when we felt the need of outside aid. When sister Antha was a young girl she had a stomach disorder which defied all of our therapeutic efforts. Bitter boneset tea and the syrup of roots and barks were administered in vain. The child lost her appetite, and could not retain food of the simplest kind. Day after day she grew steadily worse, until finally a doctor was called. Our parents hoped that he could be able to find the cause of the illness, and also a cure for it; but his prescriptions were no more effective than those Mother had been using. Baffled by the failure of his efforts, the physician asked permission to consult with a noted city doctor who was spending his vacation at Brant Lake. Hope revived as the two men stood over little Antha, trying to agree on the treatment of the disorder. A change of medicine was made, and a bottle of dark-colored liquid was left, with direction that a teaspoonful be administered every three hours.
By this time Mother had become very tired. She had been caring for Antha night and day for several weeks and two younger daughters, Cordie and Clara, also required attention. The older daughters, Alice and Anna, helped all they could during the day, and Father, who was busy with the crops and the haying, took his turn as nurse at night. The new medicine was given on schedule, and a diet of warm milk and toast was prepared as directed. However, the sick child could not bear the sight of food. Poor Antha, who never seemed to be robust like her older sisters, was now reduced to skin and bones, and it was pitiful to see her gradually growing weaker and weaker.
Mother was a quiet and firm believer, but the trial of her faith had been long; and, in spite of prayers, she saw her daughter grow steadily worse. One afternoon, when she saw Antha’s frail fingers listlessly picking at the bed covering—a sign which she had always understood meant death was near—she sent Alice into the field to call Father, while she rushed to the pantry for the medicine. She seized the bottle of dark-colored liquid, poured out a partial teaspoonful, and lifting Antha’s head up a trifle with one hand, emptied the contents of the spoon into her mouth. Instantly, a convulsive cough and cry of agony called attention to the mistake that had been made. Instead of the prescribed medicine, Mother had administered iodine.
She could not think of any antidote for iodine poisoning, but in an effort to counteract the burning in her child’s mouth and throat, caught up a piece of apple pie from the table and, with a combination of persuasion and force, succeeded in getting it chewed and swallowed.
When Father rushed into the house and learned what had happened, it seemed to him that everything was conspiring against their efforts to save Antha’s life. The iodine itself might be enough to cause death to someone so weak, and apple pie in the stomach which could not digest the simplest foods would surely be disastrous. Meantime, exhausted by the extra exertion or fainting because of the pain, little Antha closed her eyes and lay very still. Father and Mother watched at her bedside for a very long time, and gradually it seemed to them that instead of growing weaker, her breathing was becoming stronger and more normal. And when the sleep was finished it was evident that Antha was much improved. Indeed, from that hour, her recovery was remarkable. It was a though the healing words had been spoken as they once had to Jairus’ daughter: “Little girl, I say unto thee, arise.”
My parents did not forget to give thanks to Him who had said, “Fear not, only believe,” but neither did they write down the combination of iodine and apple pie as a home remedy.
13. OUR NEW DOG GYP
A few months after our dog Lion had finished his good life, Father brought home another dog. This one was a black Spanish setter, and was said to be a thoroughbred of high value. I must admit that the little aristocrat looked rather woebegone when he came to live with us. He had been brought from New York as a pet for two boys who, during the summer, spent their vacation on an island of Brant Lake. We found out that he had fared poorly at their hands. The boys had tied his food on a float and made him swim after it. For amusement they fastened tin cans to his tail, and laughed at his efforts to free himself.
However, the misused dog had discovered a way of getting even. When the family slept late in the morning, he nosed over the milk can on the veranda and lapped up the milk as it leaked out from under the tin cover. For thus helping himself to an early breakfast, while depriving the late risers of milk for their cereal and coffee, the dog had been named Gyp. Father made friends with Gyp and one day, when he was delivering brook trout, arranged to trade the fish for the dog.
I still remember seeing Gyp tied to a bed to keep him from running away before he was accustomed to his new home. The bright way he had to showing his appreciation for the welcome we gave him in our home impressed us all. When Mother swept the floor, Gyp never had to be told to move from the place where he happened to be lying. In order not to be in the way, he always moved to a section which had already been swept.
In the winter when the cattle were likely to block the path on their return trip from the spring, Gyp showed both intelligence and leadership. A cow or ox who happened to be leading the way would often endeavor to show importance—or merely play a bovine prank on its followers—by suddenly stopping and holding up the entire line. About four o’clock every afternoon, therefore, one of us boys went to the barn to see if the cows were in their stalls for the evening milking. If they were not there, we had to go after them. Gyp observed the way this chore was done, and voluntarily took over the job without any training from us. At just the right time in the afternoon he would inspect the stables; if they were empty, he would trot up the road break up the traffic jam, and follow the herd back to the barn.
The most brilliant act that Gyp performed occurred when Father was returning a male sheep which he had borrowed from a man who lived many miles to the north. While the ram was being led through a pasture where there were other sheep, he made a sudden dash to join his kind, and jerked the lead rope from Father’s grasp. All efforts to retrieve the dragging rope merely frightened the flock away. Without being commanded to, Gyp joined in the chase. In a moment he was among the sheep, scattering them in every direction. As they fled, the ram remained behind. Gyp did not touch the runaway, but kept dodging in front of him to impede him, so that Father could catch up and take the rope.
Gyp became an excellent hunting dog, and was especially good as a coon dog. However, unless the game appeared to be getting away, his work was mainly to tree the coons and it was in connection with this work that poor Gyp met misfortune. One night when Father was on a coon hunt and after several raccoons had been bagged, he observed what appeared to be a large coon escaping through the bushes. He directed the dog to go after it, and Gyp immediately obeyed. It was then discovered that the retreating creature in the underbrush was not a raccoon, but an extra large hedgehog. In some way, our faithful dog got so close to the hedgehog’s tail that he was struck,near his heart, with sharp, penetrating spines. Father and my brother Ruel, who was with him that night, strove to save Gyp’s life. Using the light of a torch, they managed to find and extract many of the piercing quills, but some of them had broken off, or had been imbedded too deeply. These quills, barbed like a fish hook, had a tendency to work toward the vital organs.
Taking turns, Father and Ruel carried Gyp in their arms, hoping that they could get him home alive; but it soon became evident that he was growing weaker and weaker. When they were within a mile of our house there was a final whine of pain, and then the soft, limp body lay again Ruel’s breast.
As the hunters returned, the first question Mother asked was, “Where is Gyp?” Ruel was too overcome with emotion to give an answer, so Father had to relate what had happened. “But,” sobbed Mother,” just a few minutes ago I heard him scratch on the door. When I went to let him in he wasn’t there.” I like to think that the One who careth for all His creatures, and notes the fall of a single sparrow, permitted us this sign that the life of a noble dog is not lost forever.
14. MY FIRST TESTIMONIAL
It has been said that the heroes of fiction are usually the third son of their father, and that we do not have more heroes because we do not have more third sons! I was the third son of my father, and was given the middle name David for the shepherd boy who slew the giant Goliath, but I never felt very heroic. Whenever I went into the bear country with Father, I kept close o him; and while he was hoping that we might run across some large animals, I was hoping that we wouldn’t. It also gave me no pleasure to walk in solitude on dark, country roads at night. I think that my brothers had built up a fear in me by scaring me in various ways when I was too young to follow them on their longer fishing trips.
In the fall, when it was time to turn pigs into pork, I preferred to keep out of sight and hearing until all the butchering had been completed. I was seventeen before I axed my first chicken for dinner. On this occasion my sister Clara would have had to do the disagreeable job, if I had proved too chicken-hearted, so I became heroic for the moment, but not boastfully so. I did not have the same sentiment about fish, but I did make a practice of cracking their heads with a stick to end their flopping and gasping for breath.
As a child I was not very robust, and did not eat the kind of food to make one strong. For a long time corn bread and pork nauseated me. Sweetened water seemed more appetizing than milk. To make matters worse, I fell through the boards over the cow stable and hurt my head to such an extent that I became afflicted with seizures. I did not have convulsions, but I would run wildly through the fields in great agony. One night I was found standing over the pork barrel, with the butcher knife raised as if to stab anything that might come at me. Awakening my father on one occasion, I told him that a man out in the road had brought something for us from the store; and as he started to look out the window I caught him by his whiskers and gave them a yank. I suppose he attributed my strange behavior to some kind of nightmare.
After a few years the seizures left me, but I still suffered from frequent, severe headaches. Whenever I went to the store, or rode any distance on the jolting cart, I would return home with a headache and upset stomach. Mother would put cold cloths on my forehead and do all in her power to relieve me, but it usually took two or three days for me to recover. Deliverance from this affliction came to me in an unexpected manner.
Father had to go to Chestertown, twelve miles to the west. Since this was a two-day trip for the oxen, I was invited to go for the long ride, and also to visit with an aunt and uncle and two cousins who lived in this village. Toward night a dull pain on one side of my forehead foretold a night of great distress. Hearing of my symptom, my aunt suggested that I try her remedy, which was pheno-caffein pills. The prescribed dose was two to three pills every hour until relief came, but because of my youth she gave me half a pill. I am pleased to report that that tiny bit of medicine effected a complete cure. The next day I bought a twenty-five cent box of the magic pellets at the drug store; and from that time I never had to fear, or endure, another headache. Whenever I felt an attack of the old torment coming on, I took a nibble of my pills. And the best of it was that instead of becoming an addict, the old malady gradually left me entirely.
It has been said that when patients recover, the Lord is praised; but when they die, the doctor is blamed. I took pains to write a letter of gratitude to the makers of pheno-caffein, and received in reply a free box of the pills. In the box I found some printed testimonials, with mine among them. That was the first time I had a bit of my writing accepted.
From his parents in Vermont, and from an aged Indian who lived on our farm for a few years after the Civil War, Father learned about roots, barks, and herbs which were supposed to be specific remedies for various human ailments. For a spring tonic, when sulphur and molasses needed to be supplemented, he concocted a brew of wintergreen leaves, sarsaparilla roots, cherry bark, boneset, and various other ingredients. Some of these items, such as boneset and nervine roots, made potions bitter as gall, but when sufficiently sweetened with maple sugar the taste was very agreeable.
Once on a trip to a bear trap, I saw Father drop to his knees to dig up a mass of yellow, hairlike roots which he called nervine. A few weeks later a neighbor came to ask if we happened to have that particular medicine. He wanted some for his mother, who was having a nervous attack. I found afterwards that a cure had been effected. My people never made any charge for these nature remedies, but dispensed them freely.
For the common cold, roots of ginseng, senega, and the bulbs of wild turnips (our name for Jack-in-the-pulpit) were dried, ground to a powder, and mixed with honey. Unless plenty of honey was used, it was torture to take the wild turnip powder. A city man who was traveling through the woods with Father once insisted on tasting the wild turnip food, which bears eat with relish. The fiery smarting became so unbearable that the gentleman ran to the brook to rinse out his mouth. Unfortunately, water merely made the agony worse. When our city friend finally recovered, he was perfectly willing to leave all the Indian turnips to the bears. A lady who once took a tiny bite of this forest food said she felt as though her tongue had been split apart.
Alive to tell the story, I, as well as all the other members of the Roberts family, had to take this powerful medicine whenever I had a cold and sore throat. At one time, when diptheria was epidemic and we showed symptoms of catching it, we were given the ground wild turnip mixed with honey. In addition, we had to take skunk’s oil, which was also rubbed on our throats. Whatever our illness was, we survived both that and the remedies.
Our cellar was kept well-stocked with oils of raccoon, woodchuck, skunk, and bear. Aside from the potency of these animal oils for both internal and external use, there was no question about their value for softening the leather boots with which we were supplied every fall. When we walked through the snow, the leather became hard, making it necessary to use a bootjack to free our feet at night, and to have super-human strength to get the stiff boots on again in the morning. The oil helped to keep the leather pliable.
People from far and near frequently came to our house of obtain wild-animal oils. If they did not need the stuff for their personal use, they wanted it to rub on the joints of their lame horses, or as a sure cure for the heaves. A clergyman who was as bald as a plate once came after some bear’s oil which he intended to mix with alcohol to stimulate the growth of his hair. If his formula had produced the desired results, we might have become millionaires—and I might have more use for a comb than I do now.
There is a story of a country quack who had just finished his sales talk about a cure for rheumatism when a listener in the crowd spoke up and said that a bottle of the magic elixir which he had bought had not done him any good. The quick-witted quack replied, “I don’t wonder at all. The chemist who mixed up that batch of medicine forgot to put bear’s oil in it.” As far as I remember we never attempted to swallow any bear’s oil, but once when an older sister was so choked up with bronchitis that she could hardly breathe, she consented to take some skunk’s oil. This gagged her sufficiently to open her breathing passages, after which she willingly admitted her debt to the lowly skunk.
A word should also be spoken for coon’s oil, for on one occasion when we boys were to provide the popcorn for a neighborhood party, it was discovered at the last minute that we were short of butter. Undaunted, my older brother Ruel, who had recently caught two fat raccoon, mixed a quantity of their oil with the popcorn, salted it, and carried two pails of it to the party. Everyone praised the popcorn as the best they had ever eaten.
In addition to herbs, roots, barks, and oils, Father made a salve which won a high reputation. The main ingredients in this, though I do not remember the proportions, were spruce gum, resin, beeswax, and sheep tallow. These items were melted together on the stove, cooled, and made into convenient rolls for treating all our cuts and scratches. We also chewed the spruce gum, and found it a soothing relief for sore throat.
The wintergreen leaves, which we combined with various barks to make our spring tonic, were chewed too. We boys thought of them as a substitute for chewing tobacco. Much later, when I spoke to a retired teacher of medicine about this, he told me that aspirin is derived, in part at least, from wintergreen leaves. I have never checked this, but I know that the new wintergreen plants were a tasty delicacy to chew and eat in the spring.
However helpful our home remedies may have been for curative purposes, there were a few times when we felt the need of outside aid. When sister Antha was a young girl she had a stomach disorder which defied all of our therapeutic efforts. Bitter boneset tea and the syrup of roots and barks were administered in vain. The child lost her appetite, and could not retain food of the simplest kind. Day after day she grew steadily worse, until finally a doctor was called. Our parents hoped that he could be able to find the cause of the illness, and also a cure for it; but his prescriptions were no more effective than those Mother had been using. Baffled by the failure of his efforts, the physician asked permission to consult with a noted city doctor who was spending his vacation at Brant Lake. Hope revived as the two men stood over little Antha, trying to agree on the treatment of the disorder. A change of medicine was made, and a bottle of dark-colored liquid was left, with direction that a teaspoonful be administered every three hours.
By this time Mother had become very tired. She had been caring for Antha night and day for several weeks and two younger daughters, Cordie and Clara, also required attention. The older daughters, Alice and Anna, helped all they could during the day, and Father, who was busy with the crops and the haying, took his turn as nurse at night. The new medicine was given on schedule, and a diet of warm milk and toast was prepared as directed. However, the sick child could not bear the sight of food. Poor Antha, who never seemed to be robust like her older sisters, was now reduced to skin and bones, and it was pitiful to see her gradually growing weaker and weaker.
Mother was a quiet and firm believer, but the trial of her faith had been long; and, in spite of prayers, she saw her daughter grow steadily worse. One afternoon, when she saw Antha’s frail fingers listlessly picking at the bed covering—a sign which she had always understood meant death was near—she sent Alice into the field to call Father, while she rushed to the pantry for the medicine. She seized the bottle of dark-colored liquid, poured out a partial teaspoonful, and lifting Antha’s head up a trifle with one hand, emptied the contents of the spoon into her mouth. Instantly, a convulsive cough and cry of agony called attention to the mistake that had been made. Instead of the prescribed medicine, Mother had administered iodine.
She could not think of any antidote for iodine poisoning, but in an effort to counteract the burning in her child’s mouth and throat, caught up a piece of apple pie from the table and, with a combination of persuasion and force, succeeded in getting it chewed and swallowed.
When Father rushed into the house and learned what had happened, it seemed to him that everything was conspiring against their efforts to save Antha’s life. The iodine itself might be enough to cause death to someone so weak, and apple pie in the stomach which could not digest the simplest foods would surely be disastrous. Meantime, exhausted by the extra exertion or fainting because of the pain, little Antha closed her eyes and lay very still. Father and Mother watched at her bedside for a very long time, and gradually it seemed to them that instead of growing weaker, her breathing was becoming stronger and more normal. And when the sleep was finished it was evident that Antha was much improved. Indeed, from that hour, her recovery was remarkable. It was a though the healing words had been spoken as they once had to Jairus’ daughter: “Little girl, I say unto thee, arise.”
My parents did not forget to give thanks to Him who had said, “Fear not, only believe,” but neither did they write down the combination of iodine and apple pie as a home remedy.
13. OUR NEW DOG GYP
A few months after our dog Lion had finished his good life, Father brought home another dog. This one was a black Spanish setter, and was said to be a thoroughbred of high value. I must admit that the little aristocrat looked rather woebegone when he came to live with us. He had been brought from New York as a pet for two boys who, during the summer, spent their vacation on an island of Brant Lake. We found out that he had fared poorly at their hands. The boys had tied his food on a float and made him swim after it. For amusement they fastened tin cans to his tail, and laughed at his efforts to free himself.
However, the misused dog had discovered a way of getting even. When the family slept late in the morning, he nosed over the milk can on the veranda and lapped up the milk as it leaked out from under the tin cover. For thus helping himself to an early breakfast, while depriving the late risers of milk for their cereal and coffee, the dog had been named Gyp. Father made friends with Gyp and one day, when he was delivering brook trout, arranged to trade the fish for the dog.
I still remember seeing Gyp tied to a bed to keep him from running away before he was accustomed to his new home. The bright way he had to showing his appreciation for the welcome we gave him in our home impressed us all. When Mother swept the floor, Gyp never had to be told to move from the place where he happened to be lying. In order not to be in the way, he always moved to a section which had already been swept.
In the winter when the cattle were likely to block the path on their return trip from the spring, Gyp showed both intelligence and leadership. A cow or ox who happened to be leading the way would often endeavor to show importance—or merely play a bovine prank on its followers—by suddenly stopping and holding up the entire line. About four o’clock every afternoon, therefore, one of us boys went to the barn to see if the cows were in their stalls for the evening milking. If they were not there, we had to go after them. Gyp observed the way this chore was done, and voluntarily took over the job without any training from us. At just the right time in the afternoon he would inspect the stables; if they were empty, he would trot up the road break up the traffic jam, and follow the herd back to the barn.
The most brilliant act that Gyp performed occurred when Father was returning a male sheep which he had borrowed from a man who lived many miles to the north. While the ram was being led through a pasture where there were other sheep, he made a sudden dash to join his kind, and jerked the lead rope from Father’s grasp. All efforts to retrieve the dragging rope merely frightened the flock away. Without being commanded to, Gyp joined in the chase. In a moment he was among the sheep, scattering them in every direction. As they fled, the ram remained behind. Gyp did not touch the runaway, but kept dodging in front of him to impede him, so that Father could catch up and take the rope.
Gyp became an excellent hunting dog, and was especially good as a coon dog. However, unless the game appeared to be getting away, his work was mainly to tree the coons and it was in connection with this work that poor Gyp met misfortune. One night when Father was on a coon hunt and after several raccoons had been bagged, he observed what appeared to be a large coon escaping through the bushes. He directed the dog to go after it, and Gyp immediately obeyed. It was then discovered that the retreating creature in the underbrush was not a raccoon, but an extra large hedgehog. In some way, our faithful dog got so close to the hedgehog’s tail that he was struck,near his heart, with sharp, penetrating spines. Father and my brother Ruel, who was with him that night, strove to save Gyp’s life. Using the light of a torch, they managed to find and extract many of the piercing quills, but some of them had broken off, or had been imbedded too deeply. These quills, barbed like a fish hook, had a tendency to work toward the vital organs.
Taking turns, Father and Ruel carried Gyp in their arms, hoping that they could get him home alive; but it soon became evident that he was growing weaker and weaker. When they were within a mile of our house there was a final whine of pain, and then the soft, limp body lay again Ruel’s breast.
As the hunters returned, the first question Mother asked was, “Where is Gyp?” Ruel was too overcome with emotion to give an answer, so Father had to relate what had happened. “But,” sobbed Mother,” just a few minutes ago I heard him scratch on the door. When I went to let him in he wasn’t there.” I like to think that the One who careth for all His creatures, and notes the fall of a single sparrow, permitted us this sign that the life of a noble dog is not lost forever.
14. MY FIRST TESTIMONIAL
It has been said that the heroes of fiction are usually the third son of their father, and that we do not have more heroes because we do not have more third sons! I was the third son of my father, and was given the middle name David for the shepherd boy who slew the giant Goliath, but I never felt very heroic. Whenever I went into the bear country with Father, I kept close o him; and while he was hoping that we might run across some large animals, I was hoping that we wouldn’t. It also gave me no pleasure to walk in solitude on dark, country roads at night. I think that my brothers had built up a fear in me by scaring me in various ways when I was too young to follow them on their longer fishing trips.
In the fall, when it was time to turn pigs into pork, I preferred to keep out of sight and hearing until all the butchering had been completed. I was seventeen before I axed my first chicken for dinner. On this occasion my sister Clara would have had to do the disagreeable job, if I had proved too chicken-hearted, so I became heroic for the moment, but not boastfully so. I did not have the same sentiment about fish, but I did make a practice of cracking their heads with a stick to end their flopping and gasping for breath.
As a child I was not very robust, and did not eat the kind of food to make one strong. For a long time corn bread and pork nauseated me. Sweetened water seemed more appetizing than milk. To make matters worse, I fell through the boards over the cow stable and hurt my head to such an extent that I became afflicted with seizures. I did not have convulsions, but I would run wildly through the fields in great agony. One night I was found standing over the pork barrel, with the butcher knife raised as if to stab anything that might come at me. Awakening my father on one occasion, I told him that a man out in the road had brought something for us from the store; and as he started to look out the window I caught him by his whiskers and gave them a yank. I suppose he attributed my strange behavior to some kind of nightmare.
After a few years the seizures left me, but I still suffered from frequent, severe headaches. Whenever I went to the store, or rode any distance on the jolting cart, I would return home with a headache and upset stomach. Mother would put cold cloths on my forehead and do all in her power to relieve me, but it usually took two or three days for me to recover. Deliverance from this affliction came to me in an unexpected manner.
Father had to go to Chestertown, twelve miles to the west. Since this was a two-day trip for the oxen, I was invited to go for the long ride, and also to visit with an aunt and uncle and two cousins who lived in this village. Toward night a dull pain on one side of my forehead foretold a night of great distress. Hearing of my symptom, my aunt suggested that I try her remedy, which was pheno-caffein pills. The prescribed dose was two to three pills every hour until relief came, but because of my youth she gave me half a pill. I am pleased to report that that tiny bit of medicine effected a complete cure. The next day I bought a twenty-five cent box of the magic pellets at the drug store; and from that time I never had to fear, or endure, another headache. Whenever I felt an attack of the old torment coming on, I took a nibble of my pills. And the best of it was that instead of becoming an addict, the old malady gradually left me entirely.
It has been said that when patients recover, the Lord is praised; but when they die, the doctor is blamed. I took pains to write a letter of gratitude to the makers of pheno-caffein, and received in reply a free box of the pills. In the box I found some printed testimonials, with mine among them. That was the first time I had a bit of my writing accepted.