nder as a woman.

"Great heavens! you have got the yellow fever. You won't live an hour."

That was where Jim failed as a nurse. He made things out worse than they
were. He, poor old fellow, thought it was sympathy, and if I had let
him go on he would have had me dead before night. I told him I was all
right. All I had was a severe cold, on my lungs, and pneumonia, and
rheumatism, and chills and fever, and a few such things, but I would be
all right in a day or two. I wanted to encourage Jim to think I was not
very bad off, but he wouldn't have it. He insisted that I had typhoid
fever, and glanders, and cholera. He went right out of the tent and
called in the first man he met, who proved to be the horse doctor. The
horse doctor was a friend of mine, and a mighty good fellow, but I had
never meditated having him called in to doctor me. However, he felt
of my fore leg, looked at my eyes, rubbed the hair the wrong way on my
head, and told Jim to bleed me in the mouth, and blanket me, and give
me a bran mash, and rub some mustang liniment on my chest and back.
I didn't want to hurt the horse doctor's feelings by going back on his
directions, but I told him I only wanted to soak my feet in mustard
water, and take some ginger tea. He said all right, if I knew more
about it than he did, and that he said he would skirmish around for some
ginger, while Jim raised the mustard, and they both went out and left me
alone. It seemed an age before anybody come, and I thought of home all
the time, and of the folks who would know just what to do if I was
there. Pretty soon Jim came in with a camp kettle half full of hot
water, and a bottle of French mixed mustard which he had bought of the
sutler. I told him I wanted plain ground mustard, but he said there
wasn't any to be found, and French mustard was the best he could do. We
tried to dissolve it in the water, but it wouldn't work, and finally Jim
suggested that he take a mustard spoon and plaster the French mustard
all over my feet, and then put them to soak that way. He said that
prepared mustard was the finest kind for pigs feet and sausage, and he
didn't know why it was not all right to soak feet in. So he plastered
it on and I proceeded to soak my feet. I presume it was the most
unsuccessful case of soaking feet on record. The old camp kettle was
greasy, and when the hot water and French mustard began to get in their
work on the kettle, the odor was sickening, and I do not think I