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THE NATIONAL TRIBUNE: WASHINGTON, D. C, FEBRUARY 4, 1882,
A little elbow leans upon your knee.
Your tired knee that has so much to bear;
A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly
From underneath a thatch of tangled hair.
Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch
Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight;
You do not prize this blessing over much,
You almost are too tired to pray to-night.
But it is blessedness ! A year ago
I did not see it as I do to-day
"We axe so dull and thankless, and too slow
To catch the sunshine till it slips away.
And now it seems surpassing strange to me.
That, while 1 bore the badge of motherhood,
I did not kiss more oft and tenderly
The little child that brought me only good.
And if, some night when you sit down to rest,
You miss tfie elbows from your tired knee,
jiiis restless, curling head from ofT your breast,
" This lisping tongue that chatters constantly ;
' If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped,
And ne'er would nestle in your palms again;
If the white feet into their grave had tripped,
I could not blame you for your heartache then !
1 wonder so that mothers ever fret
At little children clinging to their gown;
-. Or that their footprints, when the days are wet,
Are ever black enough to make them frown.
If I could find a little muddy boot,
Or cap or jacket on my chamber floor;
If I could kiss a rosy, restless fool,
And hear its patter in my home once more;
If I could mend a broken cart to-day,
To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky
There is no woman in God's world could say
.She was more blissfully content than I.
But, ah ! the dainty pillow next my own
Is never rumpled by a shining head;
My singing birdling from its nest is flown,
The little boy 1 used to kiss is dead.
Sam Sperry's Pension,,
From Harper's Magazine for February.
For more than two years it was the joke of
Bloomingtoii Centre that bright hope, that idle
dream, that fond delusive fancy, known as "Sam
The wits who had congregated in the har-room
and grocery of the Blooinington Centre post
office sometimes had only a sad consciousness of
futility in their best efforts; the column of
facetiaj in the local newspapers frequently palled
on the senses; but Sam Sperry's lank and stoop
ing figure as he descended faithfully, twice every
week, from his lone home on the distant moun
tain, to "learn the news from Washington," bore
with it an aroma of never-failing interest and
"Any 'ficial dokkerments arrived for me?"
Sam was accustomed to inquire, on entering the
post-office, with an air of ill-coneealed conse
quence ; and on being answered in the negative,
the look of sudden surprise and incredulity which
overspread his features was always as fresh and
real as it had been during the first six months
he had undergone the blow. His recovery was
as complete and instantaneous, when, seated on
the counter with the "boys," he derided the very
existence of his proud Nation's capital in terms
of the most reckless sarcasm, or, in a softer mood,
induced by certain grateful potations, palliated
the weakness of official judges with a forbearance
which .his listeners found even more irresistibly
"They think they're comin' it over me, down
thereto Washington," Sam observed on one oc
casion, rolling his eyes upon his near neighbor
on the counter with a look which was dark with
out menace, and at the same time forcibly intro
ducing the sharp point of his elbow to that gen
tleman's ribs "they think they're comin' it over
me, down there to Washington. And all the
time they're hangin' off about my pension, what's
accumulatin' down there? what's accumu
latin'?" Here Sam's companion was actually
obliged to move an inch or two away in order to
escape the too severe emphasis of that emaciated
elbow. "Back pay!' chuckled Sam; "that's
that's accumulatin' back pay ! Let 'em hold
off ten or a dozen years longer, and I'll be swim--min'
in back pay I'll be fairly wallerin' in it."
With which the deeply confidential aspect of
Sam's face changed to a triumphant simper, and,
turning to nudge another companion (as he sup
posed) on his right, he inadvertently thrust his
elbow through the wrappage of a large parcel of
sugar, the contents of which were scattered over
the grocery floor.
Sam's expression of dismay was pitiful.
"Have it charged to your back pay, Sam," cried
an uproarious though cheerful voice.
Sam took the cue, and ever after that his
descent from the West Mountain, which had
before been significant of a small invoice of
skunk's fur, blueberries, and the like, at the
Bloomington grocery, missed the hampering
weight of those hardly acquired products, and
Sam's business transactions at the counter the
understanding being good between the grocer
and those jolly Bloomington boys were rounded
by a regally careless, "Charge it to pension,
Ned reglar pension or back pay, I don't care
Barely, very rarely, Sam really did find a docu
ment waiting for him at the post-office, marked
with the mysterious seal of the Department of
the Interior, and opened it with fingers of
trembling expectation, only to find a printed
sheet of painfully worded statistics, to the effect
that ''"besides the two hundred and ninety thou
sand filed claims, others were constantly being
entered, but that in due time each would receive
careful consideration," etc. His first heat of
desperate indignation yielded later to tears of
unaffected sentiment, as he murmured, "Pen
sion ! " I guess so, boys ! the grass 11 be growing
over my grave before I see any pension," and
later still to smiles and hope again.
The gunshot wound in his right hand upon
which Sam had based his claim on the national
bounty was of small account compared with the
harm which he had suffered, both in body and
soul, from the soldiers' camp life, the Southern
marshes above all, the Southern prisons.
I don't know what Sam might 'a been, or
what he might not 'a been," said Judge Holcomb,
a prosperous citizen of Bloomington, who had
been incarcerated with Sam at Andersonville.
" 'Pon my honor, boys, he began uncommon
bright, though he wa'n't never what ye'd call
pertick'ler tough or long-winded. But I can tell
ye one thing, Sam Sperry wa'n't never the same
man after he came out o' that prison."
Even after this asseveration I do not know
that any of the frequenters of the Bloomington
bazaar remarked that the boyish head on Sam's
bent shoulders, with its rings of close-curling
light hair, was of a Byronic cast, or that his eyes,
when not filmy from the effects of ague or rum,
were of such a perfect and heavenly blue as is
seldom seen even in the undimmed orbs of
children. Sam was their Punch, their by-word,
their theatre comique; they would have .paid
twice the price of his lordly though prudent
negotiations at the counter rather than miss the
zest afforded by his semi-weekly appearance.
With a touch of real pity too, perhaps, for their
old comrade, they cajoled with him in his forlorn
hope, encouraged in him at all times the freest
expression of his sentiments, flattered him, and
regaled him. And often, alas! the feet which
had come shuffling down the mountain awk
wardly enough and loosely enough, retraced
their steps in a still more desultory and uncer
tain manner, and chance passers-by have told
how Sam, pausing at length by some wTay-side
fence, frequently nudged the post with his elbow,
as though having just committed to it some
gravely confidential or facetious remark.
There was one person whom Sam's weaknesses
and derelictions failed to inspire with appre
ciative mirth. In the neighborhood of Sam's
house on the mountain there were two other
homes. One was possessed by Isaac Travers
with his belligerent wife and numerous small
children; in the other Mary Ellsworth dwelt
alone with her mother.
Years ago. Sam and Mary had gone down hand
in hand to the school kept in the little hamlet
at the foot of the mountain. Mary still keeps
the green-covered "speller" in which she and
Sam studied their lessons together. And they
were at the head of the class always, the moun
tain boy and girl always at the head of the
class, and always first and most imperious in
play; Mary small, brown-eyed, sharp-witted, and
Sam handsome and tall, with his cherubic curls
and saucy red lips.
Then Sam's parents died, and he went over to
help John Ellsworth in his mill, and the work
prospered under his strong blithe hand. And as
the days passed by, Sam and Mary shrank coyly
away from the affectionate intimacy of their
childhood, and ended by falling as deeply in love
with each other as though they had now for the
first time exchanged glances across the rapturous
bounds of manhood and maidenhood. Their
love, having such tender root in the past, sent
out bright branches of hope for the future, and
was as strong as life with them both. Mary
would have borne anything for Sam; and Sam,
who was of a quick and impetuous nature, found
his equilibrium in the sweet firmness of Mary's
character, and adored her for the .loving sarcasm
with which she rebuked his pet faults such
bright and captivating faults as Sam's were then.
Sam and Mary were engaged when the war
broke out ; and the two men of John Ellsworth's
household went away, and the two women waited
in their solitary home on the mountain, cheered
by letters at first; afterward their only hope lay
in some chance returning figure along the road
that came winding up from the villages below.
John Ellsworth never came back along that dear
familiar road ; and when Sam returned one day,
weak, ague-shaken, demented, but still fondly,
foolishly faithful, Mary, called of God to endure
this greater sorrow tban any death could bring,
spent the solitude of one black night in terrible
rebellion, and when the morning dawned, laid
her broken heart at the foot of the cross, and
rose with a calm " I will for evermore."
Sam went back wonderingly to occupy the
long-deserted home of his childhood ; but it was
Mary's hand that brought him bread and meat,
that made his bed, and swept his floor, and fur
nished his poor home with every comfort.
Sam knew that it was all changed somehow.
The tongue once so winningly sarcastic was now
ever too thoughtfully kind, the once laughing
eyes too deeply compassionate. He sorrowed
over it with the vague sorrow of a child. But
he trusted Mary. She knew; she would set it
all right in time. The light, the hope, the
promise of his youth, so helplessly, so myste
riously lost they were all kept waiting for him
somewhere in Mary's great dark eyes.
But when Sam came tottering up the hill on
his return home, he had brought with him a
parcel the contents of which he had not re
vealed to any eye. It contained his wedding
clothes, new and sleek, of the finest black broad
cloth. In the pathetic loneliness of his home he
acquired a habit of fondling these, of gloating
over them, even of trying them on before the
glass; and then, as he stood in his best mood,
with his bonny hair carefully curled, one never
saw so sweet and weak a face. Sam longed yet
ever hesitated to appear before Mary in these
splendid habiliments. That strange trouble on
his mind deterred him. He was never so shy,
so simple, so conscious of his lest estate, as when
in "Miss Mary's" presence never withal so
strangely happy and content. One evening, as
he sat before her, the wedding garments he had
left at home filled all his thought.
"I I never cared for any girl but you, Mary,"
he exclaimed abruptly, with a spark of the old
fire in his eyes. "I I never could."
"No, Sam," Mary answered, gently,' "I don't
believe you ever could."
"You you promised to marry me once," said
Sam, that brief fire changing, for another instant,
to a look of solemn wonder and reproach.
A deathly palor crept over Mary's face. Then
she came close to Sam, and laid her hand on his,
and looked into his eyes with all the beautiful
tenderness and pity of her deeply tried, soul.
" I shall always be true to you, Sam," she said.
"There are some things we can't understand.
We must be patient. But that what we hoped
for once now in this world that, dear Sam,
must never be ! "
" Yes, Mary," Sam answered, sweetly obedient,
thrilled through and through by the touch of her
dear hand, " that must never be." And he re
peated the words simply all the way home, "That
must never be." It was all right, somehow.
"Mary knew." But he folded the wedding
clothes and put them away that night as one
who should never need to take them down again.
After this the ruined life clung still closer to
that strong and patient one, and the little services
which Sam was accustomed to perform for Mary,
when not suffering with the ague or following
after the fond hallucination of his "pension"
the fetching of wood and the drawing of water
these lost to his poor adoring mind every base
and menial quality, and were like the offering
of a devotee laid tremblingly at the feet of an
And the time passed all too swiftly for the
work of Mary's hands. Besides her ministra
tions to Sam and her mother, her generous
thought for the wretched Traverse family, the
name of Mary Ellsworth, for the gracious help
and sympathy which it implied, was known and
loved in all the villages below; and in times of
sickness or sorrow, or added care, the journey up
the mountain-side was cheap which could pro
cure a day of those coveted services.
It was the affliction of unexpected company
which had overtaken Judge Holcomb's wifeless
home and refractory servants. Mary, with rare
firmness, established there in a day her universal
rule of peace. Among the other guests was a
young actress from New York, the judge's niece,
blonde, handsome, magnificent. At evening, as
Mary stood, before her return home, waiting an
instant in the hall, so quiet and demure, with
her dark hair parted in an old, old fashion, and
her sad, lustrous eyes and face breathing that
ineffable refinement which the calm endurance
of some hidden and exalted sorrow alone can
give, the dashing young actress advanced upon
her suddenly, and folded her with an impetuous
gesture in her strong white arms. " I love you ! "
she whispered. "I love you! I love you des
perately ! "
The judge's own wooing was less impassioned,
when, some weeks afterward, he left his smart
horse and buggy at Mary's gate, and entered the
" I formed a very fav'rable opinion of you,
Mary." said this grandiose personage, "a good
many years ago, and I've never had any cause
to alter that opinion. In fact, I come in here to
say that I should like to have you come down to
my house in the capacity of a wife."
There was a grace, a perfect self-reliance, in
Mary's old-fashioned manner, which relieved it
from any imputation of stiffness, as she answered,
in much the same words that she had used in
addressing Sam some time before, but with such
a different tone in the ring of her clear voice :
"I thank you, but that can never be." And the
judge drove away, amazed and disappointed, but
most of all sorry for Mary.
Sam was the next caller. He had seen the
smart buggy at Mary's gate. He entered, timid
and hesitating, and sat for some time shifting
uneasily about in his chair. At length, " I I
never cared for any girl but you, Mary. I I
never could" he repeated, earnestly.
And Mary answered, as she had done before,
"No, Sam, I don't believe you ever could."
Sam drew his sleeve quickly across his eyes.
" You you ain't goin' to leave the mountain,
are you, Mary?" he gasped. "You ain't goin'
to leave the old mountain, Mary ? "
"Never!" Mary answered, and, as before, her
tone quieted and consoled him.
After what seemed a long time, though the
tears were still standing in Sam's blue eyes, "I
forgot, Mary," he said, meekly. " I came in to
say you're young yet, and handsome, Mary
and if you had a better chance I don't know
what I what we should do without yon but
if you had a better chance you you mustn't
you know Mary "
There he paused. Mary did not smile, but her
heart yearned over Sam as a mother's might over
a child who has tried in vain to be good and
brave and unselfish. And Sam went away com
forted. It was the third bleak winter since Sam's
return to the mountain, and he meanwhile grow-,
ing weaker and sillier with each successive season,
but ever faithful in his inquiries after his pen
sion at the Bloomington post-office. The Bloom
ington boys thought it a rare joke to impress
upon his mind that the only reason why Miss
Mary deferred giving him her hand in marriage
was his continued inability to obtain his pension.
"Jest wait till you get your pension, Sam,"
said Ned Hemingway, the storekeeper, delicately
hinting on this point, " and then see ! "
And Sam doubted utterly at first away down
in his heart doubted always ; but as he lent him
self more and more to the erratic fancy, it fired
and consumed his brain.
One night, from the alternate chills and fevers
which shook his frame, Sam fell asleep. Instead
of his lone dark room, the road winding from the
mountain to the village rose before his eyes.
That road, usually so tortuous and long, was
straight and bathed in light. He traversed it.
At the end a palace gate, and at the gate a white
winged angel stood, his pension in her shining
hand. Above those peaceful wings was Mary's
face. She smiled as she had smiled upon him
long ago. He- woke, and slept no more that
With the morning he put on his wedding
clothes. No doubt or hesitation possessed him
now. There was a terrible exultation in his eyes.
This time he did not stop, as was his wont, at
Miss Mary's house. The road down the mountain
side was tortuous and long. There was no palace
gate at the end ; no pension. Those who watched
Sam's face in this last instance of his ever-recurring
disappointment say that a look came over
it which had never been there before. He rested
on the counter, and drowsed, and almost fainted,
but he would not drink. This provoked un
bounded astonishment. Sam's dying flesh craved
the cup with an awful thirst, but Mary's eyes
were stronger, and Mary's eyes seemed to be upon
him, and he would not drink.
"It would choke me, boys," he tried to say,
turning away weakly.
He manifested -a desire to make his wilL It
was a rare occasion at the Bloomington grocery.
"It's all to go to Mary," he exclaimed, ex
citedly, "pension, back pay, and all." The last
flame of the fever was flickering and wasting
in his eyes. He rested and dozed again. At
noon he started for home; at four o'clock
he had traversed only half of the lonely winter
road ; at the foot of the mountain it was sun
set be staggered and fell down. We shrink
from the records of fates so sad. We need not
fear. One greater than we, and more compas
sionate by far, comforts the death of His lambs
when they fall in the desolate places. The pain
in Sam's body ceased. Across his mind flitted a
" I wish Mary could know," he said, "that I
wouldn't touch it for her sake." And later and
more solemnly : " I wish Mary could know that
I seem now to understand. I seem now to
An old story tells of the prodigal who wandered,
and who came back to his father's house; of the
purpose, running through all the weakness and
sin, of the wonder and suffering of our human
lives to make us hungry and to bring us home.
So over Sam's wasting face there crept first the
infinite unbearable hunger of the soul, and then
the quick look of one whom God leads home ;
and the blue eyes, piercing now beyond the light
of sun or moon, met unshrinkingly the shadows
of the deepening night, and unshrinkingly the
clear gaze of the solemn stars.
And Mary knew. When they brought Sam
home to her in his wedding garments, she looked
upon his face, and she knew that the bridegroom
had indeed come back, clothed and joyful, to the
bride ; the lost spirit to the strength and beauty
of its first estate. And she kissed the dead lips
in that last act of perfect love and consecration,
and knelt and thanked God.
A few days after Sam's death, Ned Heming
way, entering Mary's house, either from curiosity
or worthier motives, with a stammered apology,
and the words, " Of course it ain't o' no account,
but I thought ye might like to keep it,'' handed
Mary the will in which Sam had devised to her
his pension. As he did this, the mirthful grocer
cast down his eyes and blushed to the roots of
his hair. Mary took the little parchment, read it
quietly, and just the shadow of a smile played
about the beautiful-tenderness of her lips. Then
she turned to the grocer, and unconsciously
transfixed him with her clear, thoughtful, half
"I think Sam owed you something," she said.
"Oh, no, no," stammered the grocer. "That's
all right. The boys '11 see to that."
"I should prefer to have you give me the bill,"
Mary said ; and still transfixed by that courte
ously compelling gaze, the abashed and reluctant
Mary keeps the will in which Sam gave her
his pension, with a lock of hair that was always
golden and boyish, and the green-covered spelling-book.
Sometimes in the pauses of her toil
she can smile her tender smile over these; she
can weep blessed tears over them.
But if any one should say that hers had been
a famished heart famished for all the joyful
possibilities, the wifehood, the motherhood, that
might have been the thought would pale before
the tranquil glory of her eyes. There has come
to the life of this lone watcher on the mountain
a fullness such as few may know. The autumn
winds that speak with her their low wail of death
to the dwellers in the valley land below bring to
her clearer sense sweet; messages of home.
I am not quite sure of dates, but it was late in
the fall, I think, of 1777, that a foraging party
from the British camp in Philadelphia made a
descent upon the farm of Major Rudolph, south
of that city, at Darby. Having supplied them
selves well with provender, they were about to
begin their return march, when one of the sol
diers happened to espy a valuable cow, which at
that moment unfortunately made her appearance
in the lane leading to the barn-yard ; and poor
Sukey was immediately confiscated for the use
of the company.
Now, this unfortunate cow happened to be the
pride of the farm, and was daimed as the exclu
sive property of Miss Anne Rudolph the
daughter of the house aged twelve years. Of
course, no other animal on the estate was so im
portant as this particular cow, and her confisca
tion by the soldiers could not be tolerated for a
moment. So, Miss Anne made an impetuous
dash for her recovery, but finding the men deaf
to her entreaties and the sergeant proof against
the storms of her indignation, the high-spirited
child rushed over to the stables, saddled her
pony, and was soon galloping off toward the city,
determined to appeal to the commander-in-chief
of the British army, if nothing less would save
the life of her favorite.
Meanwhile, poor Sukey trudged along, her re
luctant steps quickened now and then by a gen
tle prick with the point of a bayonet in her
To reach the city before the foraging party, was
the one thought of the child, as her pony went
pounding along the old Chester road at a pace
that soon brought her within the British lines.
She was halted at the first outpost by the guard,
and the occasion of her hot haste was demanded.
The child replied :
"I must see the general immediately! "
" But the general cannot be disturbed for every
trifle. Tell me your business, and if important,
it will be reported to him."
"It is of great importance, and I cannot stop
to talk to you. Please let go my pony, and tell
me where to find the general ! "
"But, my little girl, I cannot let you pass until
you tell me whence you come, and what your
business is within these lines"
" I come from Darby, and my business is to
see the general immediately ! No one else can
tell him what I have to say ! "
The excitement of the child, together with her
persistence, had ,its influence upon the officer.
General Washington was in the neighborhood,
with his ragged regiments, patiently watching
his opportunity to strike another blow for the
liberty of the colonies. The officer well -knew
that valuable information of the movements of
the rebels frequently reached the British com
mander through families residing in the coun
try, and still, in secret, friendly to the Crown.
Here might be such a case, and this considera
tion determined the soldier to send the child
forward to headquarters. So, summoning an
orderly, he directed him to escort the girl to the
It was late in the afternoon by this time, and
Cornwallis was at dinner with a number of Brit
ish officers, when "A little girl from the country
with a message for the general," was announced.
"Let her come ia at once," said the General;
and a few moments later Kiss- Annie Rudolph
entered the great tent.
For a moment the girl hesitated, overcome, per
haps, by the uninspected brilliancy of tie scene.
Then the spirit of her "Bed wolf" ancestors as
serted itself, aad to her, Cornwallis in. full din
ner costume, 3nrrounded hj Jbis brilliant com
panions, represented only the power that couldi
save her favorite from the-butcher's krafe.
" Well, my little girl, I am General GornwaJs
li3," said that gentleman, kindly. "'What have
you to say tome?"
"I want my cow!"
Profounds silence reigned for a nooment, Sken
came a simultaneous burst of uproarious laughter
from all the gentlemen around the table. The
girl's face reddened, but she held hsr ground, and
her set features and flashing eyes convinced the
general that the child before him was on& of no
A few words of encouragement, pleasantly
spoken, quickly restored the equanimity of the
girl. Then, with ready tact, the general soon
drew from her a concise narration of her griev
ance. uWhy did not your father attend to this for
" My father is not at home,, now."
"And have you no brothers for such an errand,
instead of coming yourself into a British camp?"
"Both of my brothers are away. But, Gen
eral Cornwallis," cried she, impatiently, " while
you keep me here talking they will kill my
cow ! "
"So your brothers also are away from home.
Now, tell me, child, where can they be found?"
"My oldest brother, Captain John Rudolph, is
with General Gates."
"And your other toother, where is he?"
"Captain Michael Rudolph is with Harry Lee."
The girl's eyes fairly blazed as she spoke the
name of gallant "Light-horse Harry Lee." Then
she exclaimed: "But, General, my cow!"
"Ah, ha ! one brother with Gates and one with
Lee. Now," said the general, severely, "where is
your father ? "
" He was with General Washington," frankly
answered the little maiden ; " but he is a pris
"So, so. Father and brothers all in the Con
tinental army! I think, then, you must be a
"Yes, sir, if you please I am a little rebel.
But I want my cow ! "
"Well! you are a brave, straightforward little
girl, and you shall have your cow and something
more, too." Then, stooping forward, he detached
from his garters a pair of brilliant knee-buckles,
which he laid in the child's hands. " Take these."
he said, "and keep them as a souvenir "of this
interview, and believe that Lord Cornwallis can
appreciate courage and truth, even in a little
rebel." Then, calling an orderly, he instructed
him to go with the child through the camp in
search of the cow, and, when he should find the
animal, to detail a man to drive her home again.
So Miss Annie returned in triumph with her
cow ! And those sparkling knee-buckles are still
treasured by her descendents as a memento of
Cornwallis and the Revolution. St. Nicholas for
THINGS TO MAKE A NOTE OF,
Jelly ix Oranges. A very pretty dish for
desert can be made by halving oranges, removing
the pulp, and filling the rind with melted orange
jelly. When it is congealed, with a sharp knife
cut the halves once to form quarters, and arrange
them upon a glass dish so as to resemble oranges
Plum Pudding Glace. Slice two ounces of
fresh citron very thin, add two ounces of stoned
raisins and the same of currants, which have been
carefully washed and dried ; mix them with a
quarter of a pound of grated chocolate and cover
all with Madeira wine and stew fifteen minutes.
When quite cold stir this mixture into three
quarts of vanilla ice-cream and freeze it in a
Cold Slaw. Take two-thirds of a cup of vine
gar, one egg, two tablespoonfuls of sugar, one
tablespoonful of salt, half a teaspoonful of mixed
mustard, and butter the size of an egg; stir until
it boils. When cold, pour over the shaved cab
bage. PExV Soup. Take one pint of dried split peas
and add three pints of water and a small piece of
salt pork or a small ham-bone. Simmer three
hours, and season with cayenne pepper, but no
salt. When the soup is nearly done add some
ripe tomatoes or part of a small can of tomatoes.
Boil slowly, and thicken it with flour and water
beaten smooth. Toast some bread and cut it
into dice, and place them in the tureen. Strain
the soup through a colander over the bread, and
serve very hot. Care must be taken to avoid
having the soup too thick ; about the consistency
of rich cream will be right.
Breakfast Rolls. Sift one quart of flour
into a bowl; add a spoonful of salt and a table
spoonful of sugar. Make a hole in the middle of
the flour, and mix a sponge with one egg, a table
spoonful of butter, a small cupful of yeast, and a
coffee cupful of milk. Let this stand until light ;
then stir in the flour surrounding it and beat
very hard. Make it as stiff as it can be stirred
with a spoon, adding a little more milk or water
if necessary. Next morning flour the bread
board, turn out the dough, roll out, and cut into
round cakes. Place them on buttered tins to
rise again. When light bake ten or fifteen min
utes in a quick oven. The dough will be very
soft, but with care can be managed, and more
flour would detract from the lightness and del
icacy. Fish Chowdek. Pare and slice twelve pota
toes. Pry six large onions and four slices of pork
nntil they are brown. Cut into pieces from eight
to twelve pounds of sea-bass, blackfish, cod, or
haddock. Put in the bottom of a large kettle a
quarter of a pound of butter and part of the tried
onions, then add a layer of fish with the bones
removed. Season with salt, black pepper, mace,
and cloves. Then add a layer of sliced potatoes,
and repeat the process until they are all in the
kettle. Cover all with water and spread crackers
over the top. Cook slowly one hour, and then
add half a pint of milk and serve very hot.