Coming up near the old woman, Carmelite greeted her with a pleasant smile, saying: “Aun’ Fisky, yo’ ducks sho look w’ite an’ healt’y today.” “Dey ain’ jew to look no yuther way, daughter,” the old woman answered. “Plut’rin in de water like dey is all day long from soon in de mawnin’.” “You sho lucky to live so close by de pool out hyuh whah de crawfish an’ bugs so plennyful,” Carmelite went on. “It keep you from buyin’ a whole lot o’ cawn an’ things for yo’ ducks. High as chicken feed is dese days.... Dey sho is a fine flock o’ ducks, for being nothin’ but plain puddle ducks. Ain’ dey?” “Yas, daughter. Dey is healt’y an’ nice,” Aunt Fisky answered. “But de ole ooman gittin’ too feeble to be worry wid raisin’ ducks much longer. You can’ keep ’um from stray’n off. An’ de crawfish so temptin’ to ’um; dey looks like dey fo’gits to come back home. So I has to go fetch ’um. An’ hyuh lately, I bin feelin’ so po’ly, it mos’ plays me out to walk even fur as dis pool hyuh, ’cross de green.” “You ain’ got de rheumatism, is you?” Carmelite asked, sympathetically. “I ain’ sho, daughter,” Aunt Fisky replied, dubiously. “But I bin rubbin’ my back an’ my two knees wid some ni’ntment Unc’ Bendigo gimme; try’n to see if it goin’ ease de miz’ry. But I ain’ notice no change yet, since day-befo’-yistiddy.” “Some kind o’ drug-sto’ n’intment?” Carmelite inquired. “No. ’Tain’ nothin’ bought,” Aunt Fisky advised her. “Somh’n Unc’ Bendigo bin makin’ to rub wid, way yonder since Reb-time. Somh’n he say ain’ miss cu’in nobody ever bin use it. An’ so simple, too,” she went on to explain. “’Tain nothin’ but plain inch-worms out de groun’, mixed wid chop pa’sley an’ a pinch o’ smokin’ tobacco, fried altogether in hog lard. An’ you gotta rub wid it in a downwuds direction, to’ads de feet; so de miz’ry pass out thoo de toes.” “Sho soun’ like it mus’ be some kin to hoo-doo,” Carmelite remarked, laughing. “No it ’tain’,” Aunt Fisky corrected her. “Unc’ Bendigo don’ play wid no hoo-doo. It des a natchal n’intment he say de ole folks learn ’im how to make.” “But w’at good it ’tis, if you say it ain’ help you none?” Carmelite inquired. “But how kin I say ’tain no good, if maybe I’m usin’ de thing for somh’n I ain’ got?” the old woman argued. “I ain’ sho dis no-count feelin’ I got come from de rheumatism.” “Maybe yo’ stummic is tight; an’ you needs purgin’,” Carmelite suggested. “Might be,” agreed Aunt Fisky; opening the gate, and driving the ducks into the yard. “Y’oughta eat you a few dese pumma-crissuls you got hyuh in yo’ yard,” said Carmelite, pointing to a castor oil bush in full fruit, growing along-side the fence. “Dey sho physic you nice. An’ dey eats good, too.” Aunt Fisky stood silent, watching the line of ducks marching on to the back yard. Seeing the newspaper package in Carmelite’s hand, and guessing the object of her visit, the old woman pushed the door open and told her to go in.