HERBS O' GRACE 



MY neighbor, a goodwife, believes that the foxes of 

 the field and the birds of the air know the herbs 

 of their salvation. In an old book we read that "the 

 swallow cureth her dim eyes with celandine, the weasel 

 knoweth well the virtue of herb grace, the dove the ver- 

 vain and the dogge useth a kind of grass." Such was the 

 confidence that guided the planting of our herb garden, 

 whose simples saved the doctor's bills. 



One of the daintiest of all the plantlets to push its head 

 above ground in the spring is the rue as Ophelia names 

 it, "herb o' grace o' Sundays" because its dried stems 

 made the brush to sprinkle holy water upon the faithful 

 at church doors. Bitter as it is, and pungent to the nos- 

 trils, it furnished four and eighty remedies, and was one 

 of those tonics to clear the head made heavy with wine. 

 Kings delighted in it as a charm against poisons, and it is 

 in itself so pretty an herb when the dew is upon it that no 

 one passes without pinching the leaves in recognition of 

 its wondrous merits. When in blossom it adorns the 

 spring with frail flowers so exquisite that they remind us 

 of frilled lace of ancient pattern. 

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