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The crate was sitting in one of the bedrooms—and Tribble found it. One of the resin balls
was cracked which Tribble thought looked good to eat. He stuck his fingers into the crack,

got a fistful of potash, and put it into his mouth. He swallowed some and started screaming.
I held my brother and Mabie quickly washed his hands. I didn’t know what to do
about his mouth, throat, and stomach, though. I remembered that the boys were sawing

wood about a half mile from our house.
I ran out to the front porch and shouted, “Help! Help! Help!”
Tribble was screaming at the top of his lungs, and Mabie was still washing him. The
boys came flying. Uncle Press lifted Tribble onto the water shelf, and bent him backwards.

He held his head sideways, took the dipper and poured water into his mouth, but kept telling
him to spit the water out.
Press continued this until he emptied the water bucket, then he asked if we had any

eggs. I brought him one which he broke in his hand—he was a big guy with big hands. He
threw away the yolk into the yard, took Tribble in his other hand, cupped his hand with the
egg white in it, and made Tribble swallow a little at a time.
Uncle Press said, “I don’t know if that will do him any good or not, but it sure can’t

do any harm.”
Tribble couldn’t eat and could hardly drink. His mouth was a solid sore. That was the
same stuff Ma used to make the lye soap.

Soon after that incident, as Ma and I were washing the dishes, I looked around and
saw Tribble sitting in the middle of the dining table with his hand in a quart jar. The jar had
been full of cucumber pickles—and he had eaten all of them. Ma thought he had gobbled

them down because he had eaten them so quickly.
It was Saturday and, of course, Pa was gone. A few hours later Tribble started whin­
ing. He was burning up with a fever. She took him to the bedroom and laid him down. Then

she yelled to me, and I knew from her distressful call that something was wrong. I ran to the
room and saw Tribble jerking, trembling, and quivering.
My mother shouted, “Go get Ma!”
Grandma Tyre was living where Rodney lives now. I ran just as fast as I could and

finally reached her back porch where she was sitting. I tried to tell1 'her something was wrong
with Tribbl'e, but I couldn’t get my breath. Grandma told her son Jess to grab one of the
horses and get to Pearl’s as fast as he could. She would come as soon as I could get my

breath. She got a rag and wet it in cold water and bathed my face, neck, hands, and arms. It
didn’t take medong to get back to normal.
Tribble was critical for weeks. He ran a high fever and sores broke out in his head.

The sores were so large and deep that a large marble could have been placed in the holes

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