The Things Mother Used To Make consist of old fashioned recipes, which have been for the most part handed down by word of mouth from one generation to another, extending over a period of nearly one hundred years. The author, a New England woman, has during her life tested out in her own kitchen the greater part of these recipes, which represent the best cookery of those times.

This material was originally published in Suburban Life, where it obtained such recognition as seemed to warrant its preservation in book form. The original material has accordingly been amplified, and it is here presented as one of the volumes in the series of Countryside Manuals.

FRANK A. ARNOLD

NEW YORK

September 15, 1913

the deadly foe at home and give protection to the helpless, let him blush with shame to call himself a man, let him never claim to be an American citizen, never claim protection of our Country's flag, let him close his ears to the sound of rejoicing for final and complete victory, let him only hold companionship with cowards and with culprits, and hide himself from the light of day who will turn a deaf ear to the soldiers' prayer. Copperheads who have withheld their sympathy and their efforts for our country in its days of darkness and of peril, should and will be known of men in all future time; their lives will be blighted, their names will be a reproach and a by-word, their children will blush for their parents, and the name of Benedict Arnold will no longer be the synonym of treason and betrayal—his name will be rescued from the infamy each passing year of the existence of our country has heaped upon it, and the Copperheads of the present day will receive the anathemas of all coming generations, till their very names shall be a curse too horrid for mortals to apply, and thenceforth be only echoed in the lowest depths of hell.

By Providential discovery of the existence of the Order of Sons of Liberty in Chicago, and the utmost vigilance, prudence, perseverance, patience, promptness and daring, the aims, designs and acts of this Order, of the American Knights and kindred organizations have been brought to light, its every evil purpose and plan laid before the Government, and the pet institution of Jeff. Davis has been turned inside out, so that "he who runs may read;" the curtain has been raised and the light of noonday has been let in, discovering to the public the horrid creation of traitors in our very midst—people who breathe the very air we do, who enjoy the same blessings and privileges, aye, and perhaps sit at the same tables. The friends and sympathizers of these traitors have sought to cast obloquy and distrust upon the statements of those who have successfully broken up the great conspiracy, and perjury has sought to blacken their reputations, but in vain. Truth will prevail.

The list of names of the members of the Sons of Liberty have been obtained and preserved, and will be valuable for reference hereafter.

As the reader passes down South Clark street, at the corner of Monroe, he will notice upon the right a large building of peculiar structure, and, now bearing the name "Invincible Club Hall." It was here the temples of the Sons of Liberty, or, as they were then called, the "American Knights," held their secret sessions, going stealthily up the stairs singly or in groups of two or three, to avoid observation, and when once inside the hall they were guarded by an outside sentinel, whose duty it was to apprise them of danger and to guard against its approach to the "temple"; but let not the fault-finding Sons blame their Tyler now for any neglect of duty; once under the ban of suspicion he has proved himself as staunch a rebel and traitor as Jeff. Davis himself, and is entitled to all the consideration of a "devilish good fellow." But within a year, more or less, the "temple" of the Illini, as it was called, removed from Clark street to the large building upon the corner of Randolph and Dearborn streets, known as "McCormick's Block." Every Thursday evening prior to the eighth of November 1864, the windows of the hall in the fifth story gave evidence that the hall was occupied, but further than this evidence was not for the observer, however curious he might be, unless, perchance, he was a member of "the Order." Clambering up the long nights of stairs that lead to the hall, on a Thursday evening, the party in quest of discovery would be not a little surprised at the class of men he would notice upon the march upward; he would involuntarily button up his pockets and keep as far distant from his fellow travelers as possible, for a more God-forsaken looking class of vagabonds never before entered a respectable building, and it is a matter of some doubt whether so many graceless scoundrels were ever before convened in one building in Chicago, not excepting the Armory when the police have been unusually active and vigilant. Occasionally a fine looking man would brush hastily by you, as if afraid to be discovered and recognised—not in the least conscience-stricken, perhaps, for his purposes and intentions. Should the gas-light show to you the comely features of the Grand Senior Obadiah Jackson, Jr. Esq., on his pilgrimage upward, you would scarcely be willing to believe that he was the presiding genius of the room in the upper regions, and bound to dispense light and wisdom to the motley crowd who would so soon be filling the hall with fumes of cheap tobacco and the poorest quality of whiskey, mingled with the fragrance of onions, borne by gentle zephyrs from yonder open vestibule. Yonder comes L.A. Doolittle, Esq., a lawyer of some distinction and a justice of the peace; he wears a look of wisdom, and you can read upon his face that he is certain that the "despot Lincoln," and "Lincoln's hirelings," and "Lincoln's bastiles" are all going under together beneath the wheels of the triumphal car drawn by the opposition party, with Vallandigham as the leader. But we will not try to find any great number of fine looking men in very close proximity to the hall. Arriving on the fifth floor, and proceeding to a door upon which you find the sign of the "American Protestant Association," your friends casting furtive glances around and behind them, disappear by the door and are lost to view; one by one, like stars upon the approach of dawn, our constellation vanishes. You open the door, but your curiosity is not repaid; the seedy friends who preceded you but an instant are lost to sight—presto! the room is as vacant as a last year's robin's nest, and observation detects a hole of six inches in diameter in a door in one side of the room; you try the door, but it is fast, and you may leave if you wish, but the idea of a Copperhead crawling through a hole six inches in diameter will haunt your dreams that night.

---