"Wouldn't--turkeys--do--better?" groaned Sam, feebly. "I'm me mother's
pet, Granny, an' expense ain't any objek"--a snort that may have meant
mortal agony escaped him.

"Niver moind, now. Sure we won't talk of yer father an' mother;
they're punished pretty bad already. Hiven forbid they don't lose
the rest o' ye fur their sins. It ain't meself that 'ud bear ony
ill-will."

A long groan cut short what looked like a young sermon.

"What's the plant, Granny?" asked Yan, carefully avoiding Sam's gaze.

"Shure, an' it grows in the woods."

"Yes, but I want to know what it's like and what it's called."

"Shure, 'tain't like nothin' else. It's just like itself, an' it's
called Witch-hazel.

"'Witch-hazel blossoms in the faal,
To cure the chills and Fayvers aall,'

"as cracked Jimmy says."

"I'll show you some av it sometime," said Biddy.

"Can it be made into Lung-balm?" asked Yan, mischievously.

"I guess we'll have to go now," Sam feebly put in. "I'm feeling much