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Woodward at first mistook him for a mendicant, but
upon looking at him more closely, he perceived nothing of that watchful
and whining cant for alms which marks the character of the professional
beggar. The old skeleton walked on, apparently indifferent and
independent, and never once put himself into the usual posture
of entreaty. This, and the originality of his appearance, excited
Woodward's curiosity, and he resolved to speak to him.
"Well, my good old man, what may you be carrying in the bag?"
The man looked at him respectfully, and raising his hand and staff,
touched his barrad, and replied:
"A few yarribs, your honor."
"Yarribs? What the deuce is that?"
"Why, the yarribs that grow, sir--to cure the people when they are
sick."
"O, you mean herbs."
"I do, sir, and I gather them too for the potecars."
"O, then you are what they call a herbalist."
"I believe I am, sir, if you put that word against (to) a man that
gethers yarribs."
"Yes, that's what I mean. You sell them to the apothecaries, I suppose?"
"I do a little, sir, but I use the most of them myself.


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