A Farmer’s Life 
this doctor was making up pills with pestle and 
mortar, while his man—who couldn’t read but 
was to deliver the pills—waited and watched. 
At last they were put into their boxes and handed 
to the man, whereupon he began straightway to 
name the patients they were for. ‘‘ This box,” he 
said, “is for Lady Gray at the Grange; and this 
other for old Dame Russell at the workhouse.” 
The doétor stared. ‘‘ That’s all right,” he 
said, “‘ but how the devil did you know?” 
“Why,” the man explained, “‘ when you was 
making up Lady Gray’s I heard the pestle saying 
in the mortar, ‘Linger along, linger along.’ 
But presently it begun to say, ‘ Die and be damned, 
die and be damned,’ and then I knew ’twas for 
poor old Mother Russell.” 
Mr. Smith’s comment on a case of shingles 
reported to him was no jocular folk-tale like this 
last, but a sober expression of village belief, old 
as the hills and noteworthy for a queer twist-up 
of ideas in it. Is not “strength” in health, or 
in iron, or in the staff of life, or in intoxicants, 
always the same sort of thing? Identity of name 
proves it: English rustics had a¢ted on the belief 
for centuries. My uncle spoke as if he himself 
thought there was something in it. 
For, at the mention of shingles, “ nasty weaken- 
ing disease,” he said, “In the old times, if you 
had shingles you went to the blacksmith.” 
132 
