University of Virginia Library

ON Osage Creek, in Arkansaw, amid
The wild-browed hills there stands a cabid hid;
The boards are shattered badly on the roof;
And when it rains it is not water-proof;
The wooden chimney totters to one side,
As though a posture straight it did deride;
The puncheon floor's uneven and so rough
A naked foot to stand it should be tough;
The door upon its hinge half hangs, and creaks
Most dolefully when shut!

Close by there breaks
From out a gently rising hill so pure
A stream, some madness of the brain 't would cure;
Below't through which this pure stream runs, a lot
There is, fenced round--a green and grassy spot,
Whose verdure 's all the nourishment that grows
For one old horse, who well that pasture knows.
Through many a long and slowly rolling year
That old gray horse has fed, a MUSARD here!
Bereft of sight, he seems reflecting sad
On all the joys his buoyant colt-hood had;
But, like some stoic, weather-beaten sage,
He seems resigned to all the griefs of age!
His owner dwells within that cabin rude,
A man of forty, fond of solitude.
From manhood's earliest years his searching mind
Has striven hard a secret truth to find;
The face of herbal nature he 's perused,
On all the properties of plants has mused;
No mountain's been too savage or too high
For him--he'd scale it, if it touched the sky!
No glen has been too dark--his prying look,
That's ever keen, will no denial brook,
When searching for that herb, whose root shall save
The well from pain, the dying from the grave!
A noble work on earth he dreams is his:
To find the source, the ROOT of happiness!
The lore of letters he has never known--
He claims the book of "natur" as his own!
He deems the knowledge which is learned in schools
But fitted for a polished pack of fools;
His mind ne'er soars above the ground; the earth
Contains beneath its surface all that's worth,
In his idea, the search of man, Poor fool!
He's wise because he never went to school!

In searching for the healing root desired,
He's found some other ones for health required,
And, having in slight mixing with his kind,
Revealed by chance the treasures of his mind,
His neighbors onewhile kept him much engaged--
For fevers dread on Osage frequent raged.
On's old gray horse, the country up and down,
Was seen each day the noted Doctor Brown;
A bunch of roots was to his saddle tied,
Another bundle hanging at his side;
He ministered, with tender hand and care,
To those who pale on life's last limits were;
He smoothed the pillow for the feverish head--
He bathed--he purged--he sweated--and he bled!
But Death forever triumphed o'er his art,
And left the good, kind doctor sick at heart.
So frequent did the deaths become where he
Was sent, himself became a Malady;
And when the good Root-finder came to save,
He seemed to patients, Herald of the Grave!
At last no one in Dr. Brown believed--
Much wronged by men's opinions he conceived
Himself and from that day, henceforth, retired
To find the long-sought root so much desired.

One faithful pupil has he, named Bill Skid,
Who tracks him everywhere and does as bid;
These two (and that old horse to bear the roots),
Not caring for the busy world and its pursuits,
Each day are traveling o'er the hills around,
With anxious gaze bent down upon the ground,
Intent to see some leaf of different size
Or hue, reveal itself unto their eves.
They stop at intervals, and dig amain--
Then breaks the Doctor into raptured strain,
Describing to Bill Skid's wondering soul
The mighty mystery of art:

"The whole
Secret of medicine is this-To SWEAT.
If in our sarching we kin get
A yarb that'll do this bizness, Bill,
No sickness know'd of then will kill!
The reason so many people dies,
Is caze the Doctors tells them lies--
If they'd tell 'em to always sweat
As much as they kin, and to eat
Nothing that'll hander it, folks would
Live as long agin! It's so good
To sweat, I'd advise you to let
No chance pass. To live long. JIST SWEAT."

One day in their accustomed rounds they came
Upon a plant with blossom red as flame--
They hailed it with delight-both held their hands
In silence for awhile--Bill waits commands--
The Doctor bade him dig. He dug. The root
Was large, and of a color brown as soot;
"Taste it, Bill," says Dr. Brown; "God! no," says Bill,
"I'm feered it mought have the defect to kill--
Lessen you had yer Low-Billy along?"
"I've got it." They both taste. The root was strong
And bitter as could be. Directly, pains
Began to seize them--rueful throes and strains!
The doctor searched his pockets for the vial
Of Lobelia which he kept for the trial
Of experiments with herbs--but 'twas gone!
At this discovery both were headlong thrown--
They fell upon the ground in agony;
Each crying lustily: "Oh God!" "Oh me!"
The med'cine worked them savagely. One hour
They rolled upon the hill-side--still with power
The root was operating, and no peace
To Dr. Brown and Skid! It would not cease,
But kept their stomachs in ferment extreme,
As though they were hot engines full of steam;
Until, exhausted with the torment, they
All motionless, outstretched, at full length lay!
When they uprose at last, they both were white
As is a sheeted ghost late in the night;
Their limbs were trembling ; downward rolled the sweat;
Says Bill, "Well, that's the toughest med'cine yet!"
"God I yes," replied the doctor, panting loud,
"The sweat rolls down like water from a cloud--
I b'lieve in this-this is the yarb at last!
A root that sweats a fellow so d--d fast
Must be the one I 'in sarching for! Hoo-ray!
The greatest yarb on airth I've found to-day!"

And now these students of the healing art
Are seen each morn at dawn of day to start,
With their old, gray horse, into the woods;
Take good care to have Lobelia stowed away
In deer-skin saddle-bags, lest once again
Some bold experiment may cause them pain;
They gather in particular the herb
Which did their inward organs so disturb,
Believing in the noblest gift of earth,
And more than all Time's lettered learning worth.
Two such industrious men are nowhere seen:
They're martyrs to the cause they're busied in;
For constant trial of some new plant doth
Exercise so much their systems both,
That they are pale and withered in the face,
And their forms have lost all natural grace!
They seem the skeletons of men entombed,
Who have by some convulsion been exhumed,
Allowed to journey 'midst the human race,
To show the terrors of a darker place!

So let them journey on-so let them weave
The mighty wonders dying they shall leave;
Yes, let them labor, like their old horse, blind,
And hope by digging roots to save mankind!