A SICK MAN. 277 



shops, and gas fixens, and sich contrivances. There's 

 no crowded rooms off here in the woods, and the air 

 a man breathes at night, hain't been breathed already, 

 by his neighbor in the next bed. It's a big sleej in' 

 room, we've got out here. Its rafters rest on the 

 peaks of the mountains, the sky is its coverin', and 

 the curtains are all spangled over with stars. It's open 

 all round. The fresh breeze of the mornin', fans the 

 face of the sleeper, and he gets a taste of all the pure 

 air that's goin.' We ain't pisoned by the cookery, 

 and don't stuff ourselves beyond nater with rich food. 

 We eat when we're hungry, and what we eat we catch, 

 ourselves. We ain't troubled with dispepsy, and wild 

 game don't hurt us. Now, Squire, I've a notion that 

 a month spent among these lakes and streams is worth 

 more to an ailin' man, than a dozen of doctors, and a 

 bushel of pills. 



" I mind, once, five or six years ago, a man came 

 up from Philadelphy, and wanted, as he said, to get 

 into the woods, so as to be out of the way of the 

 doctors. He looked gaunt and lean enough, and his 

 bones stuck out, like an old buck's, at the end of a 

 hard winter. His food troubled him, and he didn't 

 relish it, either. His sleep troubled him, and he 



