Decatur Eagle, Volume 2, Number 23, Decatur, Adams County, 16 July 1858 — Page 1

Til E_ DEC ATI R EAGLJ

|VOL. 2,

THE EAG LE. PJBLISHED EVKRY FRIDAY MORNING, BY PHILLIPS & SPENCES, Office, on Main Slroet, in the old School House, on< Srnare hos J & P Crabs’ Sto.e. Fur or. < ■ na I ,$I 7*>. within the y • >.' i-; i..i< ■■•>:, £/’. I .1; ■ i.i'i-u tit.:li -.’.1 arrera 1, .:■—:: a; th of t Fubit • Terms of Advertising: On* ire, (ten lines; three insertions, $1 00 Esch subsequent insertion, 25 IT'N'i advertisement will be considered less than one square; over one square « ill be counted and charged as two; over two, as three, etc. JOB PRINTING: We are prepared to do all kinds of job-wobk, in a neat and Workmanlike manner, on the must reasonable terms. Our material lor the completion of Job-Work, being new and of the latest styles, and we feel confide, t that satisfaction can be given. A FALLEN TREE SAID TO ME. BY ALICE CARY. 'laThey set mo up, and bade me stand ft Beside a dark, dark sea, In the befogged, low lying land, ■ Os this mortality. SI slipped my roots round the stony soil * Like rings on the hand of a ride, And my boughs took hold ofthe summer’s And grew out green and wide. Crooked, and shaggy on all sides, MK I was homeliest of trees. ■F it. the cattle rubbed their speckled hides rsH A rr ainst mv knotty knees; tA • obs, in white rows on the grass jK Lay down within my shade. So I knew, all homely as I was, •g W Yur a S°°J use I was made. * And mv contentment served me well—s Mr heart grew strong and sweet. And my shaggy bark cracked off and fell | ln layers at my feet. I Mt when the darkest storm was rife I The day of its wrath was l.rief, ■ And that I drew from the center of life • The life of my smallest leaf. At last a woodman crime one day I With axe to a sharp edge ground. • . And hewed at my heart till I stood a sway, But 1 never felt the wound. Hjl knew immortal seed was sown I Within me at my birth, And I fell without a single groan, | 'With my green face to the earth. ■ A’, w all men pity me. and must, I Who see me lie so low, Fut the Power that changes me to dust I Is the same that made me grow. An auctioneer vexed with his audience said: 'I am a mean fellow—mean as dirt -and I frel perfectly at home in this company.’ 'Bnmestend < xemptionr!’ exclaimed Mrs. Partington, throwing down the papei ‘it’s com.' to a pre ty p;.*s, indeed thaCtr. -n re troing to exempt themselvs from 1 , . o • p: -ue, without anyh r.3i is c . : nigh’s A i who bad become tired of single bless dness wrote to her intended thus: Defc? Jim, cum right oft' if you are cum■'n a| ill. Ed Helmerman is insistin’ that 1 shall have him, and ho hugs me and kisses me so continually that I can’t hold outfcuch longei.’ A shoemaker, for the purpose of eclips- . ing tn opponent who lived opposite to him putjover his door the well known motto of ‘Jfens conscia recti,’ (a mind conscious ‘ ofr«ctitude.) His adversary, to outdo b’.tn, placed a bill in his window with these words: 'Aden's and women’s conscia >t recti" A bride of some months, finding herttlf alone one evening with her spouse. W M attacked by a severe fit of vawning. ■You are tired of being with me, I presame.’he said somewhat offended. ’Not '‘tali, my dear love,’ she replied; ’but you '-nd I are now but one; and, to say dieft u;h, I always get stupid when I am j. Bkot * ’ your Foot in it. —The term \ aS your loot in it,’ is of legitimate or ig ! -.wording to the ’Asiatic Kelt 8ea l ( a very curious mode of trying >' theli ■ t land is practiced in Hindoo3ten Two holes are dug in the disputed ’pot. in each of which the lawyers on eiier side put one of their legs, and re’nain there till one of them is tired, or be- ’ 8 e: ung by the insects, is compelled to .J e M in which case his client is defeated, this country it is too generally the 'bob’, and not the lawver, who ‘puts bis 'cot in it!’

THE FATED LOVERS. BY EMERSON BENNET. It was on a calm, clear night, the slightly waning moon riding high in the blue heavens, and bathing the quiet earth in a flood of silver light, that a young and b'-iiitifnl maiden, robed in spotless white, n l issue from a tine old country •nd glide quietly through the -art eliding shrubbery, ever and anon looking timidly buck as if half expecting to behold a pursuer on her steps. Quickly and steeltbily she glided on through the serpintine walks before her, till at length she reached a point some distance from the dwelling, where a tall, dark figure was pacing rapidly to and fro beneath the overarching foliage of the surrounding trees. As the maiden drew near, the figure suddenly sprang toward her, and disclosed the person of a comely young man, some two-arid-twenty years of age, who, in a low, guarded, and son- - what impetuous tone, exclaimed — ‘So, Mary, you have come at last! ‘Would to God, Edward, vou had not! she replied, in a voice which betrayed great excitement and alarm. ‘How! Maty, how!—this from you!’ said the young man, in a tone of reproach. ‘Nay, Edward, she replied, ‘do not speak in this manner to me! You know Ido not ray it of myself, but because of the danger that menaces you. Had I not loved you—oh! so wildly, so madly— I had not been here to-night to urge you to fly, nor you been here to be in peril, which increases every moment we remain. A'otfknow what my father has said, what he has threatened, what he has sworn--that if he finds you upon bis grounds again lit will take your life—and yet you will persist in venturing to your destruction. The note you sent me by the girl Sarah, making this appointment for to-night, reached me but an hour ago; and then, oh! you know not what strange, wild, horrible feelings came over me as 1 read it. 1 trembled, grew sick and faint, and only by a great effort prevented myself from falling to the ground. Edward, something tells me this is the last time we shall ever meet; and unless you go immediately, I fear it may be so. Oh» for God’s sake, fly ! fly! and do not linger a moment! 1 came to warn anil save you! We have not time for other things! My father has loaded his rifle, and too well I know for whom the ball is designed! Ab, should he by any accident discover you here, or even miss me from my chamber, and so suspect the truth, then God help us both! for to his anger you would surely fall a victim!’

i While she thus spoke rapidly, looking i fearfully round her, the young man stood ! with folded arms, compressed lips and (knitted brows, his dark eyes fixed sternly and searchingly upon her pale, lovelj’ face, as if he would look down through ■ bat into her very soul. ‘Alary,’ he said, ‘do yon fear your father as much as vou would have me believe? •I do, Edward—you know I do; why do you ask such a question? •Because I hardly thought it possible for vou to so fear your father!’ ‘But for you, Edward, not for mysclll’ she explained. •I understand—l comprehend!’ he coldly returned. ‘You fear him on my account, not that he will harm me, only that he does not approve of his rich and aristocratic daughter’s uniting her fate with that of a man who has not the merit of owning a single acre in return, and the daughter thinks her father wise. •You are cruel, Edward! returned the other, reproachiully ‘You think I have a base motive—that I am sordid, marcenary—that I look only to wealth; and yet, were all the Indies mine, and you a beggar, my choice would still be you! •Is this true, Mary?’ be said, in a tone implying doubt. •As holy writ, Edward! she solemnly replied. •Do you then doubt me in everything? —my every word, my every act, my every thought? ‘But are your actions in keeping with your words, Mary?’ Tn what manner?—what mean you? ‘That you say you love me, but will give me no proof of your affection, such as I give you. You say there is danger here—that my life is in peril! ‘Oh, yes, Edward, yes! she said in a. hushed tone, looking quickly and tremblingly around her. ‘And yet you see I brave it, he said, 'and would, ’ were it an hundred times more perilous than it is! And yet in re-; turn you will bear nothing for me—not even the frown of an unjust, tyrannical parent! ‘Oh, Edward, what, indeed, would you have me do?’ she exclaimed, in a tone of anguish. •You know well, Mary, what I would have you do! I tell you not for the first, nor the second—nor even the twentieth time- —that I would hate you fly with me

“Our Country's Good shall ever be our Aim —Willing to Praise and not afraid to Blame."

DECATUR, ADAM COUNTY, INDIANA, JULY 16, 1858.

beyond your father’s tyranny and perse- 1 cution. ‘But think of the consequences, Edward!'! ‘Aye, the old story —your father would ) be angry—he would disenherit you—he' would kill me! And yet I care neither for his anger nor Ins wealth, but only for ! you! With you, dearest Mary, he pur-) sued, tn a soften tone, twining an arm around her slender waist, ‘with you I could be contented in a hovel—without you I should be miserable in a palace; You are my world —my all—and when ' you, to gratify the vindictive passions of ; an unfeeling father, refuse to 11 v, with me and make me happy, 1 argue you cannot love as I love. 'Oh, no, Edward—no; itis not that!’ she rejoined, in a soft, caressing tone; •but it is that I love you more than myself —more than anytbingelse on earth—- ' and because I wish to spare you future 1 pain, that 1 will not consent to your rash (proposition. Time may bring a change I for us; and if you will but wait, Edward, I the happy day may dawn ere long. ‘Talk not to me of patience! he bitter- ’ ly rejoined; ‘for patience belongs to the I ) school of stoical philosophy, and has) ■ naught to do with warm and passionate love. It is a word for plodders, for misers, but not for lovers. ‘Hark!’exclaimed the other, trembling I violently, and looking around in fearful j apprehension. ‘Hark!’she repeated, in) (a hushed and warning tone. ‘I fancied j II heard a footstep! Oh, God! if it should : be my father!’ ‘You heard but the sighing of the j breeze among the trees, or a footstep in ; your own imagination,’ replied the lover. ; ‘And even if it were your father, I would ■ (not fly—not I! No! 1 would stand here) land face him, and tell him some plain ) truths to his very teeth! ‘But he would kill you, Edward! Oh,) my God! he would kill you! He has ) sworn to do it, and he is not one to break | his oath. Oh, fly! fly! before it is too (late! —for my sake, fly! ‘Come with me, then, Mary, and I will j I fly, fast and far—anywhere, everywhere, ) to the world’s end, if you say; but I can- ) not leave you behind to the machinations] of the wicked—perhaps to another! ! 'No, not to another! never! never! I j ) swear it, by all things holy! ‘Yet you might break your oath at vour father’s command, since hissway ! over vou seems to be so potent! •No! the grave shall hold me, ere I bei come the wile of any but you, dear Ld- ) ward, and so believe me, as I hope for Heaven! ‘Then the'grave will take you unwedded,’ he rejoined, ‘unless you come with me, for your father will never consent to our union. He is cold, vindictive, and has cause, perhaps, to hate my fam(ily, though not me, for an uncle of mine ) was his rival in his early love, and won the gitl of his choice. He is proud, mer- ) cenary, scheming and ambitious, and so he married your mother —not for love, ! but for wealth and position. He never ' loved her living—he loves not her memI ory dead, and he loves not the only child ; she left behind her. ‘Oh, vou wrong him there, Edward!’ said Mary. ‘He did love my mother as , ) much as was in his nature —which is not )so ardent as some —and lam sure he I loves me.’ ‘Aye, Mary, as the miser loves his gold, as the courtier loves his king —for i advantage, money, pi sition, power. — He will have you marry a man ol wealth and influence —marry bis own purpose, without regard to your feelings. It you I consent, well—he will smile upon you; refuse, and see the result. You already see it, in so far as you have already crossed his wishes in regard to myself. Did he love you as you say, Mary, why does ( he hate another for loving you? why does ( ! he hate the man you love? and hate him, | too, with that fiendish bitterness which is in the heart of the murderer! which may lead him to do a murder! I can I bring nothing to his pride, for I am but a poor student yet, though the day may j come when I shall rise to honorable dis--1 tinction. lean add nothing to his wealth, [fori have neither lands nor money,: ) though the day may come when my acres will outnumber his. But as it is, because I can satisfy neither his ambition, pride nor inclination, be would crush me, and you with nte, Mary, if necessary to ; his purpose. i ‘Then, since yon see all the consequences that will follow, dear Edward,’ re- ■ plied the maiden, ‘had you not better give way to lime? and trust to years and : Providence rather than rashness? ; ‘And lose you, Mary, for years?—live on in a faint hope that would be no hope? Oh, no—l cannot live so—l am miserable ( enough as it is. Without these stolen interviews, my life would be a torment: I, would rather be in my grave. Itis two years, now, since we first met at the house of our mutual friend; it is two ; i years, now, since 1 knew ’vb.at it was ton love, aud to hope I was beloved in return; j and during that time my varied and con- ]

'Aiding emotions have made me the most happy and the most miserable of mor- ! tals. But destroy the brightness, the glorions light which has shone upon me through your affection, and you leave me' ; only the darkness end the gloom—a darkness and a gloom that to my cantempla- ) lion is worse than death itself. Ob, you must be mine, Mary, or soon I shall be ) no more! AVith vou I will toil and struggle to tame, and wealth, and power; but »i'.houc you, having no incentive to act- ' ion, » sltull go miserable down to the dark [grave, unknown—unknown, and perhaps I unwept! ‘Oh, dear Edward,’ began Mary, in a i tremulous tone —but suddenly stopped and exclaimed—‘Hist! my Goo! there is a step! I hear a lootfall! And look, Edward—look! yonder comes my father!— ! Do you not see him? there—there—moving cautiously among the bushes! Oh, I fly! fly! lose not a moment! my heart tells me that something dreadful is about to) happen! j ‘For your sake, then, Mary, I will go,’| ■ replied the other; ‘but not without one )' ( embrace—one at least—perhaps the last.) ‘Quick, then, Edward,’ she rejoined, impulsively throwing her fair arms : around his neck; ‘and by this pledge know j that I love you! and, whatever may hap-' (pen, will love you only—will love vou ever!’ ) The young man strained the fair gill 1 passionately to his heart, imprinted a kiss upon her lips, and turned to depart. But (just tit that moment, that fatal moment, ' . there was a flash, a report, and the maid- i en sunk down with a groan, clasping her j breast, and exclaiming: ‘Oh, God! lam shot! the ball, aimed i for you, Edward, has done its work here; I The lover turned quickly and wildly, ) I and beheld her fair form at his very feet, i ! her hands pressed upon her bosom; and, ) iby the faint light of the moon, which ■ I struggled thrpugh the trees, he also be- ) (held, with an agony of horror that no pen) can describe—no imagination conceive—the warm, red current of life gushing through her fingers, and staining her before spotless garments. It was a iuv- | ment of unspeakable horror—a horror be- ' I vend the power of brain and nerve to sustain; and with a wild, loud, prolonged (shriek, he turned and fled!—fled from' (that ghastly sight —from the dying form ) of the being he loved!—but fled, alas! without reason—a hopeless maniac! As he disappeared among the surI rounding shrubbery, another—a tall,) idark figure, with a rifle in his hand—; came hurrying upon the scene where lay j the fair maiden who had fallen by his ' hand but not by his intent —for the ball, which had pierced her breast had been aimed at him she loved. The moment ihe comprehended what he had done, he ■ threw down, his rifle, and caught her up) in his arms, exclaiming in a voice of agony and harror combined: ‘Oh, my God! my God! what have I done! Oh, Alary—dearest Mary—my! . sweet daughter—my only child, my only ; hope, my ail, speak tome, speak! in God’s ■ holy name, speak! ere Igo mad! Have) 1 killed you? have I killed you whom 1 : (so tenderly loved? Oh, merciful Ileav-; en! what will become of me! The ball was aot aimed at you, sweet one, but at.! him who would have wronged you! As he said this, kneeling upon the) ground, clasping her in his arms, bet-life-blood streaming forth and staining] his own garments, as he said this, look-1 ) ing wildly in her face, by the pale light of the moon, pressing his lips passionate- . ly to her marble cheeks and brow, as if, ■ he would press back the life that was going from her, she opened her eyes, look- ] ed up in his face, and with a gasping respiration uttered faintly: ‘Father, you have killed me. I know you did not mean it, you meant the ball for my dear Edward. But it is better as it is; he was innocent of any wrong; I loved him, and feci it sweet to die for him. I forgive you, father, and you must pray God to forgive you as I do. I cannot live—l (eel lam dying, and so, farewell! She closed her eyes, and sunk back tn- i to a state of unconsciousness. Wildly and passionately that agonized father begged and plead that she would speak to him again, once, if only once. But she spoke no more; those were the last words; those soft orbs were closed, those sweet lips were sealed, closed anil sealed forev- ' er! She seemed to breathe a few min utes longer, painfully, gasping breathe, and then lay still in death, even in the arras of that agonized and wretched; father, she still in death—those arms that had poised the rifle which had sped the ball to take her young and blooming life and send her pure spirit to the Eternal , World. 11 ****** Years passsed on; and years brought ( the sequel, upon which we need not dwell. That father was tried for the murder of his child. But there was no) positive proof that he committed the deed

I and he escaped the highest penalty of bu- ( man laws—though not the retributive penalty ofthe laws of God. There were (but, two who could have been witnesses 1 against him: the one the lover—who,] Hrom the moment of the fatal act, lost the (reason which he never regained, and , died in a mad house: the oth< r a servant. ] who chanced to see the deed committed, ) ) but was bribed to leave the country, and ! 'suffer his own name to be tarnished with the nccusation of guilt. Through the ■long, tedious trial which followed, and] I the train of consequences, resßLlrig (redly from the awful act, that proud,) wealthy, scheming, ambitious, iron-heart- ! ed patent whs reduced to absolute pover- ) ty, and atlastdled miserably, and wretch- ■ led victim of remorse. A few years later, ! the beautiful grounds around bis fated ■ mansion became the cemetery of one of I the most populous and flourishing of mr Southern cities; and the scene, consecrated by death and misery, became the qui)el resting place of the dead from other i homes | In the spring of 1841, the writer of | this passed along the beautiful, shady, and winding walks of that lovely and qui- ■ et retreat, and paused beside a tall, pointed monument, which had upon it a single (inscription, the family-name of her who( j there fell by a father’s hand and now ( sleeps beneath. A friend who stood ] | there beside me, and knew the sad and I (tragic history of the spot, told me the , story in his own way, saperstitiouslv addling, that in lonely moonlight-nights, ( , the spirit of this fated maiden, robed in white, with her hands clasped upou her (bosom, might be seen to glide swiftly through the trees, and disappear with a , ) wail of woe! Independence Day. The eighty-third year of our Indepen-1 ; dence finds the Federal cluster of glorious | | States increased from thirteen to thirty-) • three, and our population grown from; three millions, to thirty millions. It also ’ finds the sails of our ships whitening ev- ( jery sea, and our name a power on earth. ; ; In the worlds history, as a natiqp, we are ■ scarcely a day old, and what a prodigious (baby! It leaves its feet in the Atlantic, ' and cools its brow in the Pacific; its right I hand rippling Lake Superior, and its left J the Gulf of Mexico. All nations seek ) our friendship and our alliance. The name ] of American cilitizen is a protection in ev-) jery land where civilization reigns, and i our flag is respected wherever it floats. ] | And not only in material greatness have ; we grown, but in refinement and in benevolence; as witness our churches, our misI sionary enterprises, our schools and colleges, out asylums and hospitals for ev- , , ery form of affliction and the bright names we have added to the worlds catalogue ■ ofthe beloved and the honored. Itis well to meditate on these things, and to ) ) remember, while we exult in our country* I I prosperity and renown, that the interests and honor, the growth and the glory of this remarkable land, are now in owr keeping, and that for the manner in which (we discharge the sacred trust, posterity 1 will hold us to a strict accoun t. Goon Old Times.—‘Uncle Dad Morton, ofVarmonnt, who tells the following sto-) i ry, should possess, in connection will, his \ invention, two or three of our hen-pur- ! suaders. His success would then be complete: ‘Them ancesters of our'n didn’t do) nothin’ half-ways. But, there’s an awful failin’ off since them times. AVhy, in my lime, when I was a boy, things went on more economical than now. We all worked. My work was to take care of the hens and chickens, (Dad is famous ) for his handling of the alphabet.) and I’ll tell yer how 1 raised ’em. You know I’se a very thinkin’ child, al’as a thinkin’ ’cept when I’se asleep. Well, it came to me one night to raise a big lot of chick- [ ings from one hen, and I‘ll tell ye how 1 did it. 1 took an old whiskey barrel and j filled it up with fresh eggs, and then put it on the south side of the barn, with some horse manure around it, and then set the . .old hen on the bung hold. The old crit- ' ter kept her sittiu’ and in three weeks I heerd a little ‘peep.’ Then I put my ear to the spigot, when the peepinggrowed like a swarm of bees. 1 didn’t say anything to the folks about the hatching,, lor the’d all the time told me I was a fool but the next mornin’ I knocked the bead out of the barrel, and covered the barn fluor, two feel deep, all over with little cltickings. Now, you may laugh as much as vou please but its true ’ The police of Paris have their hands: full. They have charge of the paving, lighting, sweeping and watering of one hundred and seventy-four streets, avenues quays and boulevards, besides doirg the ) duty of spies and detectives, Horace Walpole tells a good story of a Lord Mayor of London in his time, who, having heard that a friend had the smallpox twice, and died of i‘. inquired if he died the first or second time.

The difference iu Favor of Slavery. . i The charge that there is a difference made bi t wei u slavery and freedom in the ; English bill is all gammon. The question of rlavery is nut mentioned in that bill, except to declare that the state shall be admitted either with or without slavery, is her constitution may detnmir.e. ft is true, that she is admitted with ■ the Lecompton constitution, if her people desire it, which happens to be a slave j constitution. Butil she does not desire Ito come into the Union under that coei .-dilution, there ends the matter, so far as the question of Lecompton is concerned, ) without one word being said about slave- ) ry. Is there any conditions made in relai tion to slavery—that the territory must I have n greater population to he admitted as a free than a slave state? No; not a word of it. If the people do not choose to come in under Lecompton, which we have had sufficient evidence is the case, then it is i proposed to form an ‘enabling act.’ In I that enabling act it is not thought advis- : able to depart from the invariable practice ;of the government, since its foundation, ) and ‘enable’ a territory to form a constitution until she has the requisite population to entitle her to a representative in congress.—This has never been the case j and as a democrat, we are willing to ad- ) here to it now. ) It is true, states have, been admitted i perhaps, without that number ofinhabt--1 tants, but they made application without an enabling act. And it is proposed to admit Kansas in the same way, if she accepts the constitution which was framed without an enabling act, but if it becomes necessary to form an enabling act; then i the invariable rule is to be applied. Ami this i tile is to be applied whether she ■eventually forms a slave or free cotistitu- | tion. There is no distinction made, and • the assertion to the contrary is without ) facts.— Standard. Diabolical. ) In n small town, in the north western ; part of Ohio, a stranger rode up to the tavern, and having dismounted, ordered ■ a stall and some oats for his horse. A I crowd of laofers—that class of independent citizens who are never equal to a decent man except on elec'ion day—swarmed about the bar-room and steps, wailing ;to be ‘invited up to the counter.’ Among ; this crowd the stranger’s business was at I once the subject of impertinent speculation ' One fellow, more impudent than the rest made free to inquire of the traveller what occupation he followed; to which the lat- ! ter replied that his business was a secret at present, but that he would probably .make it known before leaving town. Having spent a day or two looking around, visiting the places where whiskey was sold, and making various inquiries (as to what amount retailed, the habitual ■drunkards in the place; the number of ) dogs kept by men whose children never went to school or had enough to eat—'after, in short, making a complete moral inventory of the town, he concluded to 1 leave, and having mounted his horse, was i about to be off, when his inquisitive friend urged on by his associate, stepped up and ) said: iSee here, Captain, you promised to ! tell us yovr business before you '.eft, and we’d like to her from you on that point. ‘Well,’ said the stranger, ‘I am an ) agent for the devil—l’m hunting a locai tion for h—ll, and am glad that I have found a place where it will not be neces- ) sary to remove the resident inhabitants.’ Decisive Integrity. The man who is so conscious of the rccj titude of his intentions as to be willing to open his bosom to the inspection of the ■ world, is in possession of one of the strongest pillars of a decided character. The ; course of such a man will be firm and ■ steady, because he has nothing to fear ! from the world, and is sure of the approbation and support of Heaven. While ;he who is conscious of a secret or dark I designs, which, if known, would blast j him, is perpetually shrinking and dodging from public observation, and is afraid lot' all around him, and much more, of all above him. The clear, unclouded brow the open countenance, the brilliant eye. which can look an honest man in the face the healthfully beating heart, and the firm, elastic step, belong to him whose bosom is free from guile, and who knows that all motives and purposes are pure and right. Why should such a man fal- ■ ter in his course? He may be slandered. Ihe may be deserted by the world, but he ( lias that within which will keep him erect and enable him to move onward on bis course, with his eyes fixed on Heaven, which he knows will not desert him. A Yankee and a Southerner were play- ■ ing poker on a steamboat. ‘1 haven’t seen an ace for some lime,’ remarked the southemei. Well, I guess you hain't said the Yankee, but 1 can tell you where they are. One of them is in your shirt-sleeve there, and the other three are in butts.'

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