THE HERBS OF THE FIELD. 21 J 



faiths of our prehistoric ancestry we can not 

 snap asunder. As elastic bands, they may grow 

 finer and finer with the tension of the centuries, 

 but still, perhaps as but invisible threads, they 

 hold. 



However steadily herb-using may have been 

 going out of date in my early boyhood, herb- 

 gathering was not, and I may be mistaken when 

 I say that, except the pennyroyal in puddings, 

 sage in sausage, and a bit of thyme and parsley 

 in soup, the dozen others hung in old kitchens 

 were unused except as fly-roosts a fact that 

 scarcely added to their virtues. 



When I last lounged on the old settle and 

 counted the several kinds of herbs hanging over- 

 head, an aged negress assured me that every 

 " yarb " kept some disease at bay, and predicted 

 disaster as the new kitchens with their plastered 

 ceilings and modern stoves gave way to more 

 primitive architecture and methods. And I am 

 half inclined to believe that she was right. The 

 old folks had their aches and pains, but not so 

 much of that depressing languor that we call 

 malaria. Might not the ever-present odors of 

 sweet-smelling herbs have kept this at bay ? I 

 fancied I felt the better for the whiff of penny- 

 royal, and, gathering a handful of its leaves, 

 breathed the spiciness until my lungs were filled. 

 It is something to have an herb at hand that re- 



