He looked for approval to Mrs. Maynard, who said, "That's so. The air's
just splendid. It 's doing everything for me."

"It's these pine woods, back o' here. Every breath on 'em does ye good.
It's the balsam in it. D' you ever try," he asked, stretching his hand as
far up the piazza-post as he could, and swinging into a conversational
posture,--"d' you ever try whiskey--good odd Bourbon whiskey--with
white-pine chips in it?"

Mrs. Maynard looked up with interest, but, shaking her head, coughed for
no.

"Well, I should like to have you try that."

"What does it do?" she gasped, when she could get her breath.

"Well, it's soothin' t' the cough, and it builds ye up, every ways. Why,
my brother," continued the factotum, "he died of consumption when I was a
boy,--reg'lar old New England consumption. Don't hardly ever hear of it
any more, round here. Well, I don't suppose there's been a case of
reg'lar old New England consumption--well, not the old New England kind
--since these woods growed up. He used to take whiskey with white-pine
chips in it; and I can remember hearin 'em say that it done him more good
than all the doctor's stuff. He'd been out to Demarary, and everywheres,
and he come home in the last stages, and took up with this whiskey with
whitepine chips in it. Well, it's just like this, I presume it's the
balsam in the chips. It don't make any difference how you git the balsam
into your system, so 's 't you git it there. I should like to have you
try whiskey with white-pine chips in it."