Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme (Rita/Penny)
Sept 18, 2016 17:33:48 GMT -5
Post by Chevi on Sept 18, 2016 17:33:48 GMT -5
PENNY THISTLE
DISTRICT TWELVE
Are you going to Scarborough Fair?
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
Remember me to the one who lives there,
For once she was a true love of mine.
Penny sat with her legs tucked under her, skirts spread out on the ground, in a corner of the marketplace. She had a clean shawl spread out at her knees, and on it, arranged in neat little rows, were bundles of herbs, dried flowers, and tiny pots of fresh plants, picked by Grandmother and sorted by her. Gran had been teaching Penny how to recognize useful plants by touch and smell, in their dried form as well as in the wild. She knew she would not live forever, and she had no one else to pass her knowledge on to. In District Twelve, where hospitals were almost nonexistent and sick people were left to fend for themselves, people with knowledge like Gran, even if they were untrained in medicine, could be the one thing standing between life and death, or the people of the District and an epidemic.
Penny understood the importance of folk medicine, but she was much less interested in it than the stories and songs Gran knew. Knowing her granddaughter all too well, the old woman taught Penny through story and song. Now, as she ran her fingers along the bundles and inhaled their scent, they reminded her of old stories, of fairies and princesses and mysterious women and slain dragons. Stories carried the knowledge of the use of herbs as medicine, and all stories came with their own texture and scent. Penny smiled to herself, and kept singing. People at the marketplace knew her; it was only a matter of time before someone would stop by to buy some of her wares.
Until then, she sang.
Tell her to make me a cambric shirt,
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
Without any seam or needlework,
Then she shall be a true love of mine.
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
Remember me to the one who lives there,
For once she was a true love of mine.
Penny sat with her legs tucked under her, skirts spread out on the ground, in a corner of the marketplace. She had a clean shawl spread out at her knees, and on it, arranged in neat little rows, were bundles of herbs, dried flowers, and tiny pots of fresh plants, picked by Grandmother and sorted by her. Gran had been teaching Penny how to recognize useful plants by touch and smell, in their dried form as well as in the wild. She knew she would not live forever, and she had no one else to pass her knowledge on to. In District Twelve, where hospitals were almost nonexistent and sick people were left to fend for themselves, people with knowledge like Gran, even if they were untrained in medicine, could be the one thing standing between life and death, or the people of the District and an epidemic.
Penny understood the importance of folk medicine, but she was much less interested in it than the stories and songs Gran knew. Knowing her granddaughter all too well, the old woman taught Penny through story and song. Now, as she ran her fingers along the bundles and inhaled their scent, they reminded her of old stories, of fairies and princesses and mysterious women and slain dragons. Stories carried the knowledge of the use of herbs as medicine, and all stories came with their own texture and scent. Penny smiled to herself, and kept singing. People at the marketplace knew her; it was only a matter of time before someone would stop by to buy some of her wares.
Until then, she sang.
Tell her to make me a cambric shirt,
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
Without any seam or needlework,
Then she shall be a true love of mine.
