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HUNTINGDON, PA.
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VOL. XXI,
6labt.
=I
HUNTINGDON, PA.
By request,
(( There's a Beautiful Land on High,"
There's a beautiful land on high,
To its ghiries I fain would By,
When . by sorrows pressed down, I long for
nny'cro7n,
In that beautiful land on high.
Cuoncs—
In that beautiful land I'll be,
From earth and its cares set free;
My Jesus is there, he's gone to prepare
A place in that land fur me.
There's a beautiful land on high,
I shall enter it by and by;
There, with friends, hand in hand, I shall
walk on the strand,
In that beautiful land on high.—Cnoans.
There's a beautiful land on high, •
Then why should I fear to die,
When death is the way to the realms of day,
In that beautiful laud on high ?—Cuonus,
' There's a beautiful hinder' high,
And my kindred its bliss enjoy; [me,
Methinks I now see how they're waiting for
In that beautiful land on high.—Cuottus.
There's a beautiful land on high,
And though here I oft weep and sigh,
My Jesus bath said that no tears shall be shed
In that beautiful land on high,—Cfloaus.
There's a beautiful land on high,
Where we never shall say, 'good-bye I"
When over the river we're happy forever,
In that beautiful land on high,—Cnonoe
rillae. lic>..t 40111.1.1c1.
In the heat of the last French war,
some forty years ago, we were under
the necessity of removing to London.
We took our passage in one of the old
Scotch smacks from Leith, and wish.
ing to settle down immediately on our
arrival in the great metropolis, we
took our servants and our furniture
along with us. Contrary windsdo•
tained us long upon our passage. Al
though a mere child at the time, I
well.reme.nber ono eventful morning.
when,to our horror and alarm a-French
man of war was seen looming on the
distant horizon, and evidently bearing
down on us.
A calm had settled On the sea, and
we Made but little way, and at last we
saw boats loWered from the -French
men's deck, and speedily nearing us.
This occurred shortly after the famous
and heroic resistance made successfully
by the crew of ono of the vessels in the
same trade to a French privateer.
With this glorious antecedent before
our eves, both 'passengers and crew
were disposed to make no tame resis
tance. Our guns
, were loaded to the
muzzle, and every sailor was bared for
action. Old cutlasses and rusty guns
were handed round about, and piled
upon the deck. Truly, we were a mot
ley crew,more like a_Savage armament
of' lawless buccaneers than bloodless
denizens of peace. But happily these
warlike preparations were needless,for
a byeeze sprung up, and, though we
were pretty smartly chased, the favor
able gale soon bore us far from danger,
and eventually wafted us in safety to
our destined port. ..
My mother was somewhat- struck,
during the period of our short alarm,
by the fearless and heroic bearing of
our servant Jane. A deeper feeling
seemed to , pervade her mind than com
mon antipathy to a common foe, In
fact, various times during the previous
service, when, any events connected
with the French war formed, as they
ever did, the all engrossing subject of
discourse, Jane evinced an interest in
the theme, equalled only by the intense
hatred toward the nation which she
now displayed. On the present occa
sion
the appearance of the foe awaken
ed in her bosom a thousand slumber
ing but bitter recollections of a deep
domestic tragedy connected with her
self, and so tar from showing the nat
ural' timidity of her sex, she even en
deavored to assist in the arrangement
Of our murderous - preparations.
Even a shade of regret appeared
I upon her face as•wo bound over the
sparkling wares, when our tardy foe
, seemed as a speck upon the distant sea.
I ffuring the. remainder of our voyage
she shrank into a dreamy melancholy.
With her head almost, continually res •
ing on the bulwarks of the ship, she
gazed upon the clear blue depths be
-1 low ; and, had we watched her closely,
we might, perhaps, have seen some Of
the robed tour drops which gathered
on her eyelid, and fell silently, to min
gle with the waters. But we heeded
not. -
She was a singular girl, and seemed
evidently superior to her present sta
tion ; yet she toiled on with the drud
gery of the houae, listless and indiffer—
hut always usefully engaged. My
mother was not altogether satisfied
with her work, and still found a dial : -
pithy in blaming her. She seemed to
dream through ber whole duty, as if
li.
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HUNTINGDON, PA„ WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 3, 1866,
her mind was wrapt in some strange
fancies, while her hands mechanically
did her task. At last, after long solic
itation, she explained the mystery by
telling us her history.
We must throw our story back some
twenty years. per family at that time
occupied a respectable, if not a wealthy
position in our northern metropolis.
Her father waeonga,ged in a lucrative
business, had been married about six
years, and was flier of four children.
His youngest daughter had been born
about three months previous to this
period of our tale. She was a singu
larly lovely child. A sister of his wife's
who had made a wealthy marriage
with an officer in the French army,
was at this time on a short visit to the
land of her birth. Madame de Bour
blane was childless, and her heart was
yearningfor those blessings of maternal
love which Providence denied her.
She was unhappy; no wonder, for her
home in sunny France was desolate.
A little while soon passed away.
Mrs. Wilson and her sister were seat
ed at the parlor fire one cold Novem
ber night—the ono contemplating the
blessings she possessed, the other
brooding on her far differen,i lot. The
children prattled merrily beside them,
and waited only for their father's eve
ning kiss, before they wont to child
hood's innocent sleep. But their fath
er came not. 'His usual time had long
since passed, and his wife betrayed
some symptoms of uneasiness at the
unwonted delay. At last they heard
a hurried knock, and Mr. Wilson en
tered the apartment. There were tra
ces of anxiety and grief cponh is coun
tenance, but as be spoke- not of the
causes, his wife forbore inquiries in the
presence of her sister. But Mr. Wilson
was extremely unsocial, nay, even
harsh; and when his wife held out her
babe, and the unconscious infant seem
ed to put its little lips for its evening
kiss, he pushed the child aside, and
muttered something audibly about the
curses of a married life and the incon
venience and expense of bringing up a
large, increasing family.
The babe was sent te bed, and the
nyAher spoke not, though a bitter tear
might he seen rolling down her cheek.
She was deeply hurt, and justly so.
But Mr. Wilson had met with some
heavy losses during the course of. the
day. These had soured his heart and
embittered his words. Perhaps he
meant not what ho said; it might have
been but the passing bitterness of a
disappointed man. However the case
might be, the words he uttered re
mained in the bosom of his wife, rooted
and festering there; and many a bitter
pang had she in after life, and the des
olations and the sorrows which disper
sed her family, some to their graves,
others far asuudor—that all could be
ascribed to these few bitter words.
A week had sgarcely elapsed since
the occurrences of that unhappy even.
ing, when an event took place which
wrought a fearful revolution in that
happy family. Surely the "evil eye"
bad looked upon that house.
Wilson and her sister went to
make a call upon a friend. As they
expected to return almost immediate..
ly, they left the babe slumbering in its
cradle, and sent the servant on some
trifling errand. Circumstances retar
ded their return. The anxious moth
er hastened to the nursery to tend up
on her babe. She looked into the
room, but all was still. Surely the
child was slumbering. She must rouse
it from its peaceful dreams. But all
continued still.
• There was a death like silence in the
room. She could not even hear her
infanobreathe. She sat awhile by the
flickering light of the expiring fire, for
the shades of evening had gathered
over the darkening horizon. At length
she roso ; she went, to look upon her
child, she lifted up the coverlid. No
child was there. An indescribable
dread took possession of her soul ; she
rushed like a maniac from roan to room.
At last she heard a noise; she flew to
the spot. Yes, three of her children
were there, but the other, ,her babe,
her newest born, the flower of het:
heart, was gone.
"My child 1 my child V* she screamed,
and fell upon the floor. Her sister
heayd the fall and flow up stairs. She
knelt beside the stricken woman,
bathed her temples with cold water,
and, with a start, •Irs. Wilson awoke
from her swoon. -
"My child, my child r ell() sobbed
"Whitt of the child?" her sister cried
"Gone—lot—stolon from its moth
erl" screamed the wretched woman.
"oh, 'impossible calm ; the
child NVIII soon be found," said her els.
ter. "Some of the neighbors, perhaps
"Perhaps, perhaps !" hurriedly repli
ed the mother, and she rushed from
bootie to hoase. The people thOught
her mad. 'No obild 'was there. He:
-PERSEVERE.-
sister led her home. She followed her
calmly, unhesitatingly.
• Was her - spirit
broken ? She was placed npon a chair;
she sat as ono bereft of reason ; her face
was pale, and perspiration, the deep
dews of agony, gathered upon her
brow. Not even a feather would have
stirred before her breath. It looked
like death.
At last she started from her seat.
Her brow was knit, and her whole
face convulsed with the fearful Work
ings of her spill.
• "John ! John I" she cried, "where is
my husband? Send him to me."
And they went to seek him, but ho
was not to be found. They told her
so, and she was silent. There were
evidently some frightful thoughts la•
boring within her breast—some terri•
hie suspicions, which her spirit scarce
ly dared to entertain. For about an
hour she sat, but never opened her
lips. It was a fearful silence. At last
his knock was heard ; the stairs creak
ed beneath his well tnown tread ; lie
entered. The mother sprang upon her
feet.
"John !" sho.scroamed, "give me my
child! Where have you put her? Where
is my ehild ?"
The husband started. "Woman, are
you mad ?" he cried.
"Give me the child I"
•
"Wife, be calm."
"I will not be calm ! My child You
spoke coarsely to me the other night
for nothing, John. She was a burden
on you, was she? But why did you
take her from me ? I would have
worked for her—drudged—slaved to
win•her bread ! Oh, why did you kill
my child ?"
The man looked stupidly upon his
wife, and sank into a chair. The room
was filled with neighbors; they looked
at him, and then to ono another, and
w hispered.
"Give me my child !" the mother
screamed. He sat buried in thought,
.and ccvercd his face with his hands.
"Tako him away!" she cried, and the
people laid their hands upon him.
Ito started to his feet and dashed
the foremost to the ground. There
was a look upon the man that terrified,
and they quailed before him. He strode
before his wife.
"Woman," said he . , "your lips accuse
me. Bitterly, aye; bitterly, shall you
rue this night's work ! Come, neigh
bor's, 1 am ready." And they took him
to a magistrate.
"My child!" the wretched woman
shrieked, a‘;id swooned away. Before
it few hours had passed she was writh
ing in the agonies of a burning fever.
And where was her husband then ?
t 4 niking to and fro upon the cold flag
stone of a felon's. cell upon a charge of
murdering his child, his own child—
doomed thither by his own wife. A
close, investigation of every matter
connected with this mysterious affair
was set on foot. No proof of Mr. Wil
son's guilt could be obtained. Ile was
arraigned halbris his country's laws,
and, after patient trial, vas discharged,
as his Judge emphatically pronounced,
without stain upon his character. Dis
charged, forsooth ! To what ? To meet
the frowns and suspicions of a too
credulous world; to sec the people turn
and stare behind him as ho passed
along the streets; to see the chil—
dren shrink from him, at d flee as from
some monster; and to dwell in a deco
late home, his own offspring trembling
if he touched thorn, and his wife—that
wife who had accused bim—looking
with cold, suspicious, unhappy eye
upon the being she had sworn to love
and cherish with her life.
Such was his fate. Who had wrought
it? His wife recovered from her illness,
and her sister went her way Lek to
her home in France.
Seldom did the poor man over speak
—there was gloom about that desolate
house, His trade fell off and his cred
it decliiied---and why.? Because his
heart was broken. Day after day he
sat in his lone counting house; there
was no bustle there. His books were
covered with a thick coat of dust; and,
as one by one of hiscustomers stepped
off, so poverty stepped in, until at last
he found himself almost a beggar. He
stint his office doors—shut them for
for the last time, then wiped away n
tear, the first he had shed for many a
day. Ile went home, but not to the
home he use to have..
His furniture had been sold to sup
ply the common necessaries of life ;
and poor indeed was their now hum
ble abode. There was silence in that
little bouse,seareely a whisper. in the
secret fountains of his wil'e's heart,
there was still a depth of love for him;
but always when she would have
breathed it forth the strange, horrid
suspicion would flit across her brain—
her child was not. lie often looked
at her, it long, earnest gaze, but he
seldom spoke. g,
One evening, he was more than usu
ally sad. fie kissed his'iiildren fond
ly. lie took his wife's cold hand, and
pressed it in his own. "Jesio," said he,
'.Lie ye have sown, so shall ye reap ;
but f forgive yeu. God bless yon, wife!"
Re lay down upon his hard pallet, and
when they would have roused him in
the 111:iing, he was dead.
Time rolled on with rapid fiweep,
aloe I bringing death and its attendant
evils in hiS train. Two, of the widow's
children died; and J'ano . was now about
eighteen years Of age. Sorrow, iath.
er "than ago, had already blanched the
widow's hair. They were in groat po
verty ; clod out a scanty livelihood
with their needle. Indeed, their only
certain dependence' lay in the small
assistance which Madame do iionr
nine sent from Franco, Perhaps, had
that sistor known the straits of their
poer relatives, her paltry pittance
might have been increased. They
were perhaps too proud to make it
known ; as it was, she knew not, or
if e did, she heeded not.
this time a letter reached the
widow from her sister. Besides con•
taiuing the usual remittance, the let
ter was unusually long. She rogues.
ted Jane to read it to her while she
sat and sewed.
What ailed the girl, her mother
thought, as Jane gazed upon the page
with some indescribable emotions de ,
pitted on her face. "Mother," she
cried, "my sister lives! your child is
found! The widow tore the letter
from her daughter's hand, and read it
eagerly while her face grew paler
every moment. She gasped for utter
ance; and the mystery was solved at
last.
Yes, reader, at last was the mystery
unraveled, and the criminal.was'her
sister—she who had stood calmly by,
and seen the agony of the bereaved
mother—she who had beheld the in
jured father dragged as a felon to pris
on, when a word from her would have
cleared it all—she was that wretch.
Madame de Bona)lane was childless
and her heart yearned for someone
she could love. She saw the little
cherub of her sister, and she envied it.
Sho knew that if she had asked for
the child, the mother's heart would
have spurned the offer, so she laid her
plans to steal the intact. She employ
ed a woman from France, who as she
prowled about the house, had seized
the firvorable moment, and snatched
the infant from its cradle, and the
child was safely housed in France be
fore the tardy law began its investiga
tion. Madame de Bourblanc remain
ed beside her sister for a tiMe ; then
hurried off to France, to lavish all her
love upon the stolen child. It is true
she loved the child; but was it not a
selfish love to see the bereaved mother
mourn its loss, yet never soothe her
troubled heart ? and was it not a cruel
love, too; a household broken up, affe.e.
tioris desolated, and all to gratilly
selfish' whim of hers r It.was worse
than cruel—it was deeply criminal
She brought tip the infant as her
own ; she named it Amelia, and pretty
she was. Did a pang over strike into
the heart of that cruel woman, as the
child would lift its little eycc to hers,
and lisp, "my mother ?" She must have
thought of the true mother, broken
hearted in another land. 'Yes, a pang
did piece her heart; but alas !it came
too late; the misery was already
wrought. She wrote to her injured
sister, begging her forgiveness, and at
the same time offering a considerable
sum, if she would permit the child to
remain with her, still ignorant of her
parentage. But she was mistaken in
tier hope ;
for not only did the mother
indignantly demand the restoration
of her child, but she did more; she
published the sister's letter,and trium
phantly removed the stains that ling
ered on her dead husband's memory.
A few weeks after this, she went to
pay a visit to the green brave of her
broken hearted husband b ;
she knelt
upon the verdant 111(3and, and watered
it with her tears. All her unjust Flls
pieions crowded on her mind; con
science reproached her bitterly. She
knelt and supplicated her forgiveness,
seeming to commune with his spirit on
the spot where his poor frail body re
posed in its narrow bed. She felt a
gentle touch 'upon her shoulder; it was
her daughter 'Jane. One moment after,
and she was clasped in the embrace of
a stranger. Nature whispered to the
mother's heart her child was there, her
long lost child. Sho too had, come to
look upon that lowly grave—the grave
of her father.
After the first transports of meeting
*ere over, the widow found ldisure to
observe her child. But what a poor
young delicate flower was she, to bravo
the re blasts of.poverty. She was a
lovely girl; like a lily, fragile and pale,
the storms of life would wither her.
Her mother took her home, but the
contrast was too great from affluence
to poverty—Amelia wept. Poor Jane
strove to comfort her; but she might
only use the language of the eyes, far
her foreign sister scarcely undetstood
two words of English Amelia strug
gled hard to love her now mother, and
to reconcile her young heart to this
sudden. change) but the effort was too
great, and she gradually sank. Early
and into her mother and sister toiled
to obtain her some of those luxuries to
which she had been accustomed; but
their etforte wore vain—she ,was not
long for earth. The widow had indig
nantly refused all offers of assistance
from her cruel sister, though she felt
that unless' Providence should inter
pose, her strength must soon fail under
its additional exactions.
A letter arrived from France; it, was
sealed with black. They opened hast
ily and fearfully; and they bhd abuse.
Madame de Bourblanc was dead; she
was suddenly oat off to render an ac
count before her Creator. The shock
was too severe for poor ..tmclia, Pay
by day she lane ' mished, pining in 'her
heart for sunnyFranee. Three months
after she had reabhed England, Amelia
died. Her last words were, "My
mother !"
Soon after, her own,fflother followed
her. Oh, that the krili t ed spirits of
th6rn all may meet in Heaven. Jane
is the sole survivor of this domestic
tragOdy. Even she may have depa-t•
ed to the haven of eternal rest, for she
left my mother shortlY after wo were
settled in London. We bay& never
seen her since.
A NATIONAL cemetery is to be es
tablished, 10 the Shenandoah Valley,
so often passed over by our armies and
the field ofi so many battles. The
graves of Union soldiers are scattered
through from llarper's Perry to Staly_
ton, bat wherever found the bodies
will be exhumed and removed to a
commoh resting•plece, which is likely
to be, located In the vicinity of Win
chester.
TERMS, $2,00 a year in advance
Boring for oil is a great bore at best,
and under unfavorable circumstances
is barely endurable. Although every
body has heard about boring for oil,
yet but few have a correct idea of the
modes operandi. In order to give our
readers some idea of the trouble en.
countered in sinking for oil . we make
the following statement, which we clip
from an exchange:
Ist. Preparing. Land must be leas
ed or bought. Roads must be made
through forests. Bridges must be
built. A spot must be selected with
reference to room for tanks, engine, &c.
A sloping hillside where one tank can
be placed below another without the
trouble of excavation is best.
3d. The Derrick. A derrick must
.be cOnstruetod l This is a skeleton of
timbers from sixteen to twenty feet
wide at the base, and tapering upward
to a diaMeter of four feet square at the
top, about fifty feet high and four
square, well braced and supported.
3d. Engine and Rouse. • There must
be a stout shed built to protect the en
gine and bgilers from rain and snow,
In this shed are generally. planed
blacksmith's bellows, anvils and other
tools for sharpening the boring imple.
ments. This costs something, especi.
ally in a rough wooden country. But
the great trouble is in getting the hea
vy engine and boilers into plane:
4th. The Entering Pipe. Before bo
ring commences a strong iror, pipe sit
inches in diameter, is forced into the
earth, to the depth of from ten to sixty
feet, as the case may be. This is done
by a pile driver, operated by steam.—
The pipe is mist in joints and fitted
together. When this pipe is sunk, the
earth is bored out of it and it is then
pumped out clean. This pipe must be
sunk as plumb as a line, because if it
is not perpendicular the boring will
not succeed well.
sth. Boring. A hemp cable• is at
tacked to a chisel three feet long, with
an edge three and one half inches wide
and of considerable weight, Which can
be made heavier By attaching other
rods to it. The cable is carried up to
the top of the derrick over a roller, and
down again where it is temporarily
fastened to a revolving wheel called
the bull wheel, which is operated by
steam. This chisel is lifted up to a
certain height when it suddenly loos
ens and falls to the bottom of the hole.
As this is repeated the chisel is turned
so as to cut in every direction. After
sinking the hole a certain depth, say a
foot or two, the chisel is taken off the
rope and a reamer put on. The rea
mer is something large. than the cut
Ling drill, and, perfectly round, smooth,
ing and rounding the bolo, to a diam-
eter of foie• inches, less or more. The
reamer is then taken out and the sand
pump inserted.
oth. The Sand Pump, This pump is
a hollow tube, made of hollow joints
fitted together, with a valve at The
lower end. This is dropped and raised
by hand, sucking into the tube all the
debris or fine cuttings which are thus
taken out. Water can
,also be taken
out by the sand pump. The sand
pump, reamer,cbiscls, aic., are different
sizes in different wells,but usually four
inches in diameter.
7th. Looking for Oil. After continu
ing to bore in this way for a month or
two, till several chisels, reamers, cables
and pumps are worn out, the owners
begin to smell for oil. The bits ai•e
closely examined, and if no smell of oil
is discovered, the hearts of the owners
sink, like quicksilver in a thermometer
of a cold day.
Bth. Seeing tht. l Elephant. After a
while oil begins to appear. It may be
seen in . the pumpings, smelled on the
drills, and felt with the hands. Some.
times it comes up so strong as to send
,drills; derrick and driller to the other
side of Jordan.
9th. Preparing Tanks. Large square
bo:tces, made of plank, are hastily pre
pared with faucet leading from tank
to tank, whieli are placed eo that one
can be drained into another, and the
lowermost ono can bo drained into
barrels. Everything is now arranged
for it flow of oil. For if the well is
sunk tear another oil producing well,
and deep enough to go through the
lower sandstone, the probability .is
strong that oil can be pumped out in
large quantities.
10th. Pumping Oil. The pump is
nosy inserted end the engine started,
and the oil either does or does not
comp, either result in all iiicelihdod
causing a fit of oil on the brain, and a
botintiful application of oil cordial,
tanglefoot, and rya grease. Large
wont cure the oil fever. At least
something stTonger is usually called for
It oil comes up ; buying and Selling
constitutes the afici•piceo in this drama
of oil E'etOking.
NO. 27,
Boring for OiL
r- 21-11 - L10330E5 .
JOB PRINTING OFFICE.
T""GLOBE JOB OFFICE" is
the most complete of any in the count=y,and pox ,
sesses the most ample facilities for promptly executing In
the best style, esery variety of Epb ?riuting, epeh
HAND .BILLS,
• PROGRAMMES,
BLANKS,
BILL HEADS,
CARDS,
CIRCULARS,
BALL TICKETS,
LABELS, le.C, &C.,
CALL ANTI EXAMINESPIIMMB or woßt,
AT LBWIS' BOOK, STATIONERY k 51U519 .STOBJ/,
Regularity iii Feediag.
Every good farmer knows that.any
domAtic animal is a good clook---that
it klows, almost to a minute, when the'
regular feeding time has arrived, Hit.
- has been accustomed to be fed with
accuracy at the appointed period, it
will not fret till that period arrives)
after which it hecotites very restless.
and uneasy till its food comes. If it
has been fed regularly, it will begin. to
fret when the earliest period arrives..
Hence, this fretting may be entirely
avoided, by strict punctuality; but it
cannot be otherwise. The very mo
ment the animal begins to worry, that
moment it begins to lose flesh; but the
rate of this loss has never been aseer—
tained—it is certainly worthy an in
vestigation— and can be only deter7r.
mined by trying the twomedes, punc
tuality and irregularity side by side,uri
der similar. circufnstanees, :and with
the same amount of food, for some
weeks or months together.
There is one precaution to be obser
ved in connection with regular feeding,
where some judgment is needed.
Animals eat more in sharp Or frbsty,
than warm and damp weather.: Hence,
if the same amount by weightis:giveu
at every feeding, they will not have
enough when the weather is cold, and
will be surfeited when it is warin,anci
damp. Both of these eVils ..must be
avoided, .while a little attention and
observation, will enable the farmer2o
a do it.—Tueker's Rural Affairs
YOUNG STOCK.—Calves and 17111 1bs,
well treated, will make better •cOws
and sheep than if neglected and allow
ed to shift for themaelves. We knoW
that sheep iMprove a good deal both
in wool and mutton on good keePing.
The same is especially the case with
calves. What you want is not to flit
ten, but to keep up a strong healthy
growth. At this season, good tender
grass and a little milk, no Matter if it
is not all sweet, and a little oat Meal
mixed in, will pay foritself in the tlirif,
ty growth which it will induce. A lit.:
tle extra care at this period of grewth
is sure to be rewarded at a litterfige.
The treatment of calves whieh we
have often seen, such as turning them
out to grass before they , are old enough,
and requiring them to eat what they
know little about or die, is cruel and
wasteful in the extreme. They may live
through it, but nature will demand
her reckoning.
The same may be said of colt*
Sweet, pure pasture grass is the lsest,
but if this is short, a little oat meal is
excellent for them. Oats intike . mus—
cle rapidly; and this gives strength and
power and growth, and this is What
all youiig stock needs to thriVe . upon,
It is a. great. -mistake to keep any
stock short of feed, but especially
young growing stock.—Ploughman.
WINTER, SLIELTER. FOR SHOE:P.—Have
otw friends provided winter shelter for
their sheep ? Or are they—Many of
them—neglecting it as usual—and, as
usual, not having the best luck,with
their sheep. Depend upon it that cold,
in addition to wet, is hurtful. You will
see it more especially in the spring.
Shelter is feed saved ;. strength kept,
which would otherwise be last; and
wool improved by the good condition
of the sheep, to say nothing about one
of the most important points of all—
the lambs which are to follow. : A suf
fering sheep will produce a weak lamb,
Among weak lambS there is always
mortality ; and a stunt growth in the
future body of the sheep. A weak,
sickly lamb will not make a first-clisaa
sheep, even under good treatment.
good f, r eat g imit of sheep is profitable
all round and shelter is one of the
important points to be attended to.
Build it and invite the sheep in it;
feed them ,there; let their salt be
there, and the little titbits they need.
Now is a good time to see to this thing
—.-to prepare for it.
Enos ; says a farmer's wife, can bd,
kept for two year's; by dipping *them
a solution made of one Pound of quick
lime and ono pound- of salt to eno•gal•
lon of water:. Take an .old pail and
put in your limo and ivater, and tilen
stir until it is all disolved, then add
salt as above (keep it in the cellar);
.when cool enough, it is ready for use.
pip in the eggs, and see that they are
all covered with the solution, which
Must bo stirred from the bottom oc—
casionally. Pack them, small end
downward, in bran or salt,.er without
anything. When wanted for use. er
market, a little warm water will wash
them clean. Some dip eggs in boiling
water, some grease them• and .pack
them in bran.. I packed Eileen dozen
(as I could gather them) in August in
salt, and kept them spring just
us' good as fresh. They 'Tut all be.
kept in a. cool cellar a NO Rojet rad:,
et , than dry, ' .
U
POST .S,