Some time later, after the physician had failed to benefit me, a
traveling medicine man came to our community, set up his tent, and
stayed for a week. Of course, like all traveling medicine men, his
remedies were cure-alls. One night in making his talk before the
crowd, he mentioned the fact that his wonderful concoction, taken
with the pamphlet that he would furnish, both for the sum of one
dollar, would cure stammering. I didn't have the dollar, so I did
not buy. But the next day I went back, and I took the dollar
along. He got my dollar, and I still have the book. Of course, I
received no benefit whatever. I later came to the conclusion that
the medicine man had been in the neighborhood long enough to have
pointed out to him "BEN BOGUE'S BOY WHO STUTTERS" (as I was known)
and had decided that when I was in his audience a hint or two on
the virtues of his wonderful remedy in cases of stammering, would
be sufficient to extract a dollar from me for a tryout.

These experiences, however, were valuable to me, even though they
were costly, for they taught me a badly-needed lesson, to wit:
That drugs and medicines are not a cure for stammering.

Many of the people who came in contact with me, and those who
talked the matter over with my parents, said that I would outgrow
the trouble. "All that is necessary," remarked one man, "is for
him to forget that he stammers, and the trouble will be gone."

This was a rather foolish suggestion and simply proved how little
the man knew about the subject. In the first place, a stammerer
cannot forget his difficulty--who can say that he would be cured
if he did? You might as well say to a man holding a hot poker, "If
you will only forget that the poker is hot, it will be cool." It