The American Volunteer I’UBMSIIED ETEBY THURSDAY MORNING John B. Bratton. OFF ICR SO UTH 31/I RKRT SQ. UA RR. Terms.— Two dollars per year If paid strictly' In advance. T* f o Dollars and Fifty Gouts If paid within tl: months, after which Throe Dollars will hr -Ml. These terms will bo rigidly adhered * Instance. No sub scription dlscont* aU \rrearages are paid, unless at t* ..iou u. the Editor. IpMkal TO SEE OURSELVES AS OTHERS SEE US, BY FRANK CLIVE. UUI Baker owned a lighting dog, ' A brludle, coarae-halrcd brute, Whose chief delight was to engage In a canine dispute; An 111-conditioned, vicious, cross, Stub-tailed, bnre-Upped, crop-eared And rod-eyed canine nuisance, By tile neighboring canines feared. Bill's dog came down the street on a’ Diagonal dog-trot, A looking for somo other dog, For whom to make it hot; When, on a scrubby looking brute, Ills vision chanced to fall, Staring from out a looking glass That leaned against a wall. Bill’s dog surveyed that strange canine, With sinister regard. And doubted if Uo’il over seen A dog look quite so hard. The more he gazed, the less respect lie felt within him stir, For that demoralized, cross-grained And imug-dog looking cur That, stranger clog returned Bill’s dog’s Insulting stare, lu .klnd, WhlcU tended to still more disturb Bill’s canine’s piece of mind ; With every .bristling ha|r along Ills back, ho llercely frowned, And curled his tail until It raised His bind feet from the ground. Aud showed lila teeth and cocked.hls ears, And otherwise behaved Impertinently, as dogs do Whose Instincts are depraved ; Hut all his hostile signs were mot By signs as hostile, quite, And Bill’s dog felt hlrasell compelled To slink away, or light. lie Hew into that looklng.gloss With all his might and main— Filled'with chagrin and broken glassi Ho soon flew out again,, Kellootlou showed Bill's dog that,ho Had got Into a scrimmage, Through Indignation aftho sight Of his own odious Image. The knowledge of his aspect qnlle Destroyed his self-esteem; For the hldebns reality . his wildest dream. Life lost, at once, all charms lor him, So mournfully ho steered luto a neighboring sausage shop, And never re-appeared. The moral of this doggerel Js obvious, I trust; . (For there Is a moral lesson in • Bill Baker’s dog’s disgust;) If some men knew how they appear To others, they would hide Themselves within a sausage shop— That Is, they’d suicide; |p3telteeoiis. AFTER LONU YEARS, lIV ANNA SHIUIdJS. “It is tile most absurd thing in tbo world.’ .Mattie Caldwell spoke as if it was aa irritat-inff nn It. uhunrd, tuio «««/«« (0711)8 sbo was npootraphizUlET- : Ifc '•' raa uovel a ibiug to see Mattie in oven an imitation of a,lit of temper, that Charlie Caldwell, her equally even tempered hus band, put down hie newspaper to gaze at her in sheer amazement. ‘What is the matter ?’ 'Edith. She won’t go to Newport with us, and declares her intention of going down to the Hill .farm for the summer.’ ‘The Hill farm ! Why, I thought—’ 'Of course you did,’ broke in his im pulsive little wife ; ‘you thought she and I laid suffered sufficient tyranny and nn : kindness at the Hill farm to moke ua hate the very name, much less the sight of it. I'do,’ ‘And Edith wants to go back again ? ‘Not to stay; Charlie; only for a few weeks. Charlie’-and here Mattie drew over her pretty face a mask of solemn mystery in expression—T believe in my heart it is because Douglas la coming homo/ ‘Do you ? I never could understand why he went away so suddenly.’ 'So you think it was Edith-?’ - •I’ll tell you all I know about it, said Mattie, perching herself upon her hus band’s knee. ‘Before you came to Hill farm, Douglas had been at Seaton for a summer.’ ‘I know that. He sent me there.' ‘He mot Edith at some village gather ing, and certainly was pleased with her. You know it was not very easy to court anybody at Hill farm.’ ‘I should say not,’ said Charles, with a wry face. ‘Uncle James seemed to consider It his duty to Edith and mo, after poor mamma died, to keep us hard at work, and cer tainly to.allow no male visitors.’ ’How many times did he set the dogs on me?’ ‘I don’t know; but he treated Douglas after the same fashion. Still, Edith sometimes saw him, and certainly re ceived letters from him. One morning sho cameXo my room with the last hap py face X ever saw her wear, and asked me if I could enjoy the hard life alone a little while—only a little while, and then she would send for me to join her in her now home. She would say no more; but the next day, with a white set face she told me to forget her foolish words, and later I knew 'that Douglas Fisher had suddenly left Seaton.’ ■He came to me, Mattie, and told me of the farm and of Edith. Certainly he loved her, but I inferred from his half confidence that his affection was not re turned. He spokoof some sudden change in her, and the next news I heard be Was preparing to go to Europe. Ho had writ ten to me from Baaton, and the next summer X too visited the little village. I confess to you X wondered how Edith’s cold, impassive beauty could attract so sunny a nature as Douglas had, especial ly with her pretty saucy sister near it.’ ’But, Charlie, she was not cold and im passive then. There was not a brighter, livelier girl in Beaton than Edith, before Dougina Fisher left so unaccoutably.’ ’You think she loved him?’ ‘I am sure of It.’ ‘And I am sure he loved her. And now, after five years of separation, you think she is running away because my cousin Douglas is coming home?’ ‘I think so; and as she baa no home but this, since wo are married, of course she has no place to go excepting to Hill farm.’ ‘Mattie, try to llnd out her side of the story. lam sure there is some mystery about it, and wo may bo able to sot it right yet.’ BY JOHN B. BRATTON, 4 Oh, Charlie, I would give anything to have Edith married us happily us wo tire. Misery likes compauy/shoudd' <| mcneily. and ran oIT. .She waa not a very skillful diplomat*!., and finding Edith staring rather forlorn alone, plunged headlong inlohersuhjt*ol. ‘Edith, why are you running away from Douglas Fisher?* The pale, stately girl looked at her brightyoung sister a moment in haughty amazement, but reading truly the love* and pity in the fair face, answered: . 'I had rather not meet him, Mattie.’ ‘But, why?’ persisted her sister. ‘He is Charlie’s cousin, and 1 know they are like brothers, so you see he will be here constantly. Mattie, I could not meet him here day after day, and,know him to be so false as ho has been. Let me go, dear. I am a wamau now, and Uncle James cannot tread me down as he did when we were mere children.’ ‘But, Edith how has he been false?’ ‘You know, darling, how hard our life was ; how any change seemed like eun - shine; and you know how Douglas tried to win my love. I never went to the village that he did not meet me, and urge mo to marry him at once. I loved him, Mattie, but I did not give my heart un sought. One of Us, favorite pleas was the home we could make for you, little sister, nud I was. finally won to a con sent. Still, it remained to set a time, and form a plan for an elopement.’ ‘Why did you not do as Charlie and I did—just walk off to the minister and get married, and then let Uncle James rage as much as be pleased?’ ’I don’t know. We didn’t. You know the old gate post, Mattie, that had the loose top?’ ‘Yes;’ ‘Dougins and I used that for a post-of fice. We could slip the top back a little, and there was a space under it where let ters could lie secure from rain or wind, or, what was more importaht, prying eyes. Just at the time X had given my promise to bo his wife, Uncle James was informed of our meeting by some officious friend, and kept so strict a watch over me that it was impossible for me to go to the village at all; The old gate post became our only medium of communication, and Douglas urged me still more earnestly to leave the farm and be his wife. He wrote me one day. that he must soon leave Seaton, and begged me to write on a slip the time and place where I would meet him, and the train by which we should leave Seaton after I became his wife. ‘Darling,’ he wrote, ‘I am rich, and Mattie shall come to us as soon as you will. Tell me where to meet you, aod I will have a clergyman ready to make you my wife. Trust your life to me, Edith, and you shall never regret it.’ Mattie, I wrote him a letter, appointing a litnoaud place of meeting. I went there. He did not come. Three days I went,almost hourly to the gate post for some word of explanation. None came ; and when I next heard from Seaton, .Douglas Fisher had gone away.’ —Jhiffalo Courier, wrlllncr ... ■Without one word. He had written that the letter I told you of was his last appeal. ‘I have urged you so often,’ he wrote, ‘that if you do not reply favorably to Mis, I shall know lt Is coquetry, not love, that makes you smile upon me.’ ’ ‘Coquetry 1’ said Minnie, disdainfully. ‘A.s if you ever knew the meaning of the wind!’ ‘Probably he repented, Mattie, and thought a poor country girl would not grace his city home. But whatever . his motives, ho left me, and I confess X shrink from meeting him.’ Certainly you do. I will not urge you to stay now dear; but after we return from Newport, where I suppose Charlie will have Douglas for his guest, you will come home again?' •Wo will see, Mattie, Ret me go now.’ ‘I am afraid you will find Hill farm just as horrid as ever.-’ , Just as hqrrid as ever Edith concluded it was, after a week’s sojourn at the dis mal farm she had called home during her girl-hood- Her uncle did not domineer quite so much over the dignified, stately lady who came, after Qve years of city life, to replace the unformed girl whohad left him, but he was morose and ill-temp ered ns over, and the dreary house had no added charm.' Edith found there were servants to do the churning, baking and house-work she had shared with. Mattie, and rambled about, the place, wondering a little how many weeks of it would suf fice to fit her for a lunatic asylum. In one of these rambles, two weeks af ter her arrival, she came upon a group of men who were repairing the tumble down fence and rickety gates about the place. They were at work upon the old gate-post she had turned into a post-office, and she stood listlessly watching them as they loosened the earth around it, to lift the rptteu wood-work from its place. The loose top was done, an 4 there were wide cracks in the wooden slab under it, whore the love-letters of five years ago had iain waiting for eager hands and eyes. Edith felt her heart beating fast, her eyes filling with tears, ns blow after blow fell upon the hollow post, cracking, bending it, till it fell to the ground, just as the noon-day bell called the men to dinner. ■Whan the curious eyes that might have seen her were safely in doors, contem plating meat and vegetables, Edith went close to the old post, and looked Into the hole where it had stood for so many years. In the damp dark earth she saw a added paper, evidently shaken from the hollow post by the recent blows. A strange suffocating feeling held her fast for a moment, then stopped, reached over and secured the letter. It was not a dainty missive, such as she sent to Newport, for it was not easy for her to find scented paper and tinted envelopes at Hill farm. It was a sheet of coarse letter paper, folded, sealed, and stamped with a thimble top, directed in a round, girlish hand to Douglas Pishor; the let ter she had written to appoint time and pla-o for an elopement—the letter he had never seen, that in her hurry and agita tion she must have slipped through one of tlie wide cracks down into the hollow pOfct. .. SSUo opened U carefully, her heart pity log oven the simple girl who opened her whole lovliig soul to her lover. The very words were so different from those she would use now. No polished courte sy of address, no polite evasion of the tender questions, but a frank, girlish out pouring of her happy consent to leave td \ id H Hates ot AdyOf. lie : JmetwlE f \ ' 1 • ... 1 year. 1000 15 00 29 00185 00| 4Q 00 Vs *' ' -"to asqpar»» her hard, blitor life, and accept the sun ny future her lover promised her. Edith was cold, impassive and stately in the days when she shared her sister’s happy h mi It was a rare event to see her show femotlou in any way, and Charlie had wpnderod more than once at his cousin’s admiration of her statuesque beauty. But as she read now the secret of her lover’s apparent fickleness, the record of her own young heart, the tears fell fast upon the yellow, stained sheet, and sobs shook her whole form. There was no one to see her, no one to hear her, and she knelt down by the fallen gate post, and wept for her own lost youth and broken hopes. , She was still kneeling there, the open letter in hep hand, when she beard a foot-stop turn from the fond Into thenar row lane leading to the, farm house. In a moment it would be dt the gate. She sprang to her feet, and faced a tall, heav ily bearded man, who paused for a mo ment, looked searchlngly into her face— only for a moment—and then he opened his arms. . ‘Edith,’ he said, in deep, tender tones, *1 never saw your letter.’ She was resting against his breast as she put It now into his hand, and told him how she had found it. ‘Mattie told me all,’ he said, ‘and I came on at once. Oh, Edith, it seems too much happiness now to find you still single, still my own!’ Charlie and Mattie were fully prepared for the return of the truants to Newport, and the autumn collected a concourse of dear friends to witness a grand wedding, few suspecting the previous courtship of the handsome couple who were united after ipng years. THE MEN 'WHO SURROUNDED WASH INGTON, Mr. Partoh, in the January Atlantia, thus describes Washington and his first Cabinet: Age had not quenched the vivacity of either of the four Secretaries—Jeffer son, 47 ; JCnox, 40; Randolph, 87; Hamilton, 33. When in the world’s history, was so young a group charged with a task so new, so difficult, so mo mentous ? Such were the gentlemen who had gathered around the council table at the President’s house in New York, in 1780; at the head of the table General Washington, now fifty-eight, his frame as erect as ever, but his face showing the deep traces of the thousand anx ious hours he had passed. Not versed in the lore of schools, but gifted with a great sum of intellect, the eternal glo ry of this man is, that he used all the mind he had In patient endeavors to find out the right way; ever on tho watch to keep out of his decision everything like prejudice, never de- Si/ivtß ut"6iiimeiUith- °irhausted every Some questions he coiiid' uht a.. with his own mind, and he knew ho could not. In such cases, he bent all his powers to ascertaining how the subject appeared to minds fitted to grapple with it, and getting them to view it without prejudice. I am delighted to learn that Mr. Carlyle can seldom hear the name of Washington pronounced , without* breaking forth with an explosion of contempt, especially, it is said, if there is an American within hearing.— Washington is the exact opposite of a fell Carlylean hero. His glory is that he was not richly endowed, not suffi cient unto himself, not indifferent to human fights, opinions and prefer ences | but feeling deeply his need of help, sought it, where alone it was to be found, in minds fitted by nature and training to supply his lack. It is this* heartfelt desire to be right which shines so affectingly' from tho plain words of Washington, and gives him rank so far above the gorgeous bandits whom horo-worshipers adore. On the right of the President, in the place of honor, sat Jefferson, now for ty-seven, the senior of all his colleagues; older in public seiwice, too, than any of them; tail, erect, ruddy, noticeably quiet and unobtrusive of his address and demeanor; the least pugnacious of men. Not a fanatic, not an enthusiast, but au old-fashioned Whig, nurtured upon “old Coke,” enlightened by twenty-five years’ intense discussion— with pen, tongue, and sword—of Coke an principles. Fresh from the latest commentary upon Coke—the ruins of the Bastile—and wearing still his red Paris waistcoat and breeches, he was au object of particular interest to all men, and, doubtless, often relieved the severity of business by some thrilling relation out of his late foreign experi ence. Opposite him, on the President’s left, was the place of Hamilton, Secretary of the Treasury, in all the alertness and vigor of thirty-three. If time had ma tured his talents, it had not lessened his self-sufficiency; because, as yet, ail his short life had been a success, and he had associated chiefly with men who possessed nothing, either of his fluency or his arithmetic. A positive, vehe ment little gentleman, with as firm a faith in the apparatus of finance as General Knox had in great guns. He was now in the full tide of activity, lobbying measures through Congress, and organizing the Treasury Depart ment-the most conspicuous man in the administration, except the Presi dent—as usual, his unseen work was the best. In organizing a system of collecting, keeping, and disbursing the revenue, ho employed so much tact, forethought, and fertility, that his successors have each, in turn, admired and retained his most important de vices. He arranged the system so that the Secretary of the Treasury, at any moment, could survey the whole work ing of it; and he held at command all the resources of the United States, sub juct to lawful use, without being able to divert one dollar to a purpose not especially authorized. Ho could not draw his own pittance of salary with out the signatures of the four chief officers of the Department—Comptrol ler, Auditor, Treasurer and Register. CARLISLE, PA., X IHDRSDAY, JANUARY 9, 1873. A JIASmOUS EVENT, Mrs. Janet Mowbray aud her four sons lived iu 1828 at Harwick Hall, In tile county of Durham, England. Mrs. Mow bray was a tall, powerful woman of great energy and bravery, in her flfty lourth year. Her sons were aged re- spectively 34, 27, 24 and 21. Her hus band had been dead many years. Her two eldest sons were married, and their wives and families lived with her. The youngest, George, was wild and dissipa ted, and bad given his mother much trouble. He was deeply in debt, and bad been repeatedly threatened with ar rest. Mrs. Mowbray was wealthy, and kept iu her bedroom—besides a quantity of valuable plate—a large sum of money. On Christmas eve, Mrs. Mowbray’s eons and daugbters-!u-law paid a visit to the residence of a relative, Mr. Cba- ter, of Chatersburg. The domestics, re lieved from duty, wore in their own por tion of the dwelling, enjoying the festi vities of the season. The watchman, who was ordinarily on duty iu kitchen garden, took a hasty survey of his beat, and joined the revellers in tbe.k!toben. On Christmas night they were to have a small gathering of friends and. neigh, hors, and Mrs. Mowbray began to con sider the necessary arrangements, Bho would require old punch bowl, and the ladles and goblets which she kept in the closet, of her bedroom. She went ac cordingly and entered the closet took out the silver and laid it on th\ shelf, ready for removal the next morn\ ing. At the same time, she took out a large, old-fashioned carving-knife and fork of a quaint pattern, and deposited them on the shelf. She then returned to the parlor. After sitting and musing for some time, she took up the Bible, and fumbled for her spectacles. She could not find them, and at length remember ed that she had left them on the shelf in the closet. She at once returned for them. Enterlng her bedroom, sbe placed the candle on the dressing-table, and lighted a small lamp, with which she entered the closet. As she took the first step inside the closet, sfce heard the soupd of some one breathing heavily. She looked up and saw right before her the face of a man. She was a brave, resolute woman; Sbe advanced a step, and. observed that a man’s bead, arms and body were thro’ the small window at the end* as though In the act of wriggling himself through the opening. In the man's right hand was a pistol, and his left band bad bold 6f a shelf which ran along the side of the closet* The man . raised the pistol and fired. Mrs. Mowbray in an instant seized the huge carving-knife which lay on the shelf, and advanced toward the ruffian, ; He was struggling to withdraw himself from the window. His bands were on the sill, and his head somewhat raised, leaving his neck exposed. Being unable to work himself out of the aperture, be raised the pistol as tbo’ to hurl it at Mrs. Mowbray. The coura geous old lady made one step forward, ear! She then calmly retired, closed the closet door, blew out the lamp, and tatt ing up her candle returned to the parlor first having satisfied herself that not a drop of blood had stained her dress or hands. „ Half an hour after midnight lier chil dren returned home. They found their mother seated by the fire, serenely read ing the Bible. They greeted her affec tionately, and prepared to retire for the night. Mrs. Mowbray said, * Boys, re main behind a little. I wish to speak to you. You, my daughters, can-retire.' When she was alone with her chil dren, she said, with dignity ond calm ness, ‘My children, I have killed a man ? You will find his body fast in the small window of the closet of my bed room.’ Her sona stared at her in amazement. They at first Imagined that she must be laboring under some mental disorder; •but when she related to them, plainly and rationally, and in her own straight forward, terse fashion, the story as just told, they saw that she was telling them a simple fact. . ■Go,’.she said, ‘make what arrange ments you please; I will wait here, and you can tell what course is best to pursue in this matter.’ The sous took the light ond went to their mother’s room. They opened the door, and there, sure enough, was the body of a man hanging half through the window. The floor was a pool of blood. With difficulty the oldest sou got near enough to the body without stepping in to the gore to raise the head, whioh.yvas drooping on the chest. He grasped the hair ahd lifted the head so that the light might fall upon the face. As he did so, a cry of horror escaped them all. ‘Great God 1 It is our brother George.’ ‘What did you say ?' asked Mrs, Mow bray, in a voice horribly calm, from the, doorway, whither she had followed un perceived. ‘George I What do you mean ?' The oldest son dropped the head to prevent, if possible, his mother recogni zing it. and all of them endeavored to explain their exclamation, and get their mother away from the spot. It was In vain. ‘Boys,’ she said, in her old, well known tone of authority, ‘stand aside and lot me see the face of the villain I have slain. With that she put her sons aside as though they were mere lade, and walked through the slippery gore that lay upon the floor up to the body. Bhq took the candle from the unresisting grasp of her first-born, and, with a hand that trem bled not, lifted the head of the dead roan, so that the light shone full upon It. She gazed at it steadily for half a minute, then said, gently lowering It, until It rested upon the breast again, ‘lt’s my boy George.’ Mrs. Mowbray was the only ono in the household who remained calm and .motionless. The family was in the wil dest state of sorrow. The three brothers with difficulty extracted the body from the window. The authorities were no tified, and everything was kept as quiet as possible. The Inquest was duly held. Mrs. Mowbray was fully exonerated, and the body was prepared for burial.— The real story was known to few out side the fatplly and authorities- It was believed by them that George, Instead of going to Devonshire, had remained lurk ng In the neighborhood, and had plan d the robbery, and If need.be the mur de' of his mother. He knew that she wm\d be alone that night, and that she bad \ large sum of money and valuable Jewelmn her room. The old nurae who bad mid George In her arma when he first a|w the light, took care of the body and prepared It for tbe.tomb. She dwelt tenderly on the familiar marts upon the limba of.tbe face which she Itaew so well, each of which bad a [of youthful daring or folly cou d with It. In due time the funeral place. The corpse was laid In the 7 vault. Only the family and one 70 relatives attended, Mra. Mow spent the beat part of each day by ide f t ' inD —■,*- If you prefer to have tho cabbage more in shape, it can only be hVlved and the hard stalk cut out; then tie it up in a piece of course muslin, and boil for one hour, always putting it into boiling water at first. Corned beef can be pressed into a mould by boiling down a small quan tity of the liquor in which it is cooked, and seasoning it highly with spices and herbs. Then dut the meat Into small strips, lay them, into a blancrmange mould, hed turn the liquor over them. A grated lemon with the juice will add a pleasant navor to the jelly. When turned out of tho mould, garnish it with sprigs of parsley or celery and slices of hard boiled eggs. Starvation of Bees in Winter. The close of the honey-season of 1871, loft me in possession of twenty-nine colonies ot bees, and quite a handsome store of surplus honey in boxes. As little buckwheat is raised in the neigh borhood, no box honey was secured after the white slovor honey harvest. Instead of adding to the surplus ’after white clover failed, a portion of the honey stored in the boxes was removed from the hive. My son had some half dozen hives in. the. yard with mine, or with a part of mine. I placed soveit of mine in a yard a mile southwest from the home apiary, arid eight'about tho same distance to the northwest, thus enlarging the honey Held.' I concluded to winter- them- without the trouble of moving them i and feel ing pretty safe about them, left them without particular care anti! midwin ter. On examining" twelve that I thought well secured for:winter, Ifdund but one alive. Several of the others were also dead, but I finally succeeded in saving five of the twenty-nine. Now I have no disease, no foul brood, no dysentery, po moths to: charge.the failure to. It was simply starving to death. There were too many bees in the field. But two colonies’ at‘ the most, and I think but one, had honey enough to carry them through the wiur ter. The combs were, so perfectly cleared of honey as to leave no possible room for doubt. . . ■ _ With five of the twenty-nine left, I commenced tho spring of 1872, Two of the five were reduced so low as to, give no new swarms, and but, little surplus honey, three gave four swarifls'. .and some surplus honey. I have no doubt had I placed them in the cellar, with a little care and feeding they might, ml have been safely carried through the winter. My beat colony, the best I had ever seen is promising well. I pur chased it in 1887, and have in the six seasons had as much as 600 lbs. of sur plus from it. One year it gave 200 another, 148 lbs. The past-season its product was two new colonies and some 60 lbs. of surplus. I left the hive exposed to the sun, rather desirous to increase my, depreciated stock front one that had succeeded so well. \ ■ In a field furnishing honey during the whole warm season, a larger amount may be collected by each colony than ; where the production of honey ceases > with the white clover. lu such fields hives should be,- con structed with more room in the breed ' ing and wintering apartment of tbe hive. ~ ‘ ■' ‘ ‘ I think no one could have seen so many hives so utterly starved, before midwinter, and think there is no dan ger of over stocking. Through' this section of the country probably more than three-fourths of the: bees died during the winter.;*— Cor, Country Gentleman ; i«ar II Obi, SO 0? soo“ m! 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