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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
4
At
one
side
of
this
herb
plot
were
other
growths
of
a
rustic
pharmacopoeia,
great
treasures
and
rarities
among
the
commoner
herbs.
There
were
some
strange
and
pungent
odors
that
roused
a
dim
sense
and
remembrance
of
something
in
the
forgotten
past.
Some
of
these
might
once
have
belonged
to
sacred
and
mystic
rites,
and
have
had
some
occult
knowledge
handed
with
them
down
the
centuries;
but
now
they
pertained
only
to
humble
compounds
brewed
at
intervals
with
molasses
or
vinegar
or
spirits
in
a
small
caldron
on
Mrs.
Todd's
kitchen
stove.
They
were
dispensed
to
suffering
neighbors,
who
usually
came
at
night
as
if
by
stealth,
bringing
their
own
ancient-looking
vials
to
be
filled.
One
nostrum
was
called
the
Indian
remedy,
and
its
price
was
but
fifteen
cents;
the
whispered
directions
could
be
heard
as
customers
passed
the
windows.
With
most
remedies
the
purchaser
was
allowed
to
depart
unadmonished
from
the
kitchen,
Mrs.
Todd
being
a
wise
saver
of
steps;
but
with
certain
vials
she
gave
cautions,
standing
in
the
doorway,
and
there
were
other
doses
which
had
to
be
accompanied
on
their
healing
way
as
far
as
the
gate,
while
she
muttered
long
chapters
of
directions,
and
kept
up
an
air
of
secrecy
and
importance
to
the
last.
It
may
not
have
been
only
the
common
aids
of
humanity
with
which
she
tried
to
cope;
it
seemed
sometimes
as
if
love
and
hate
and
jealousy
and
adverse
winds
at
sea
might
also
find
their
proper
remedies
among
the
curious
wild-looking
plants
in
Mrs.
Todd's
garden.
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