Twenty nuts are sufficient for five quarts of water.  They must be first peeled, which can be done by children, then rasped or dried, and ground in a malt-mill, or any other common steel mill.  The water must be soft, either rain or river water, for hard well water will by no means do.  When the nuts are rasped or ground, they must be steeped in the water quite cold, which soon becomes frothy, (as it does with soap,) and then turns white as milk.  It must be well stirred at first with a stick, and then, after standing some time to settle, must be strained, or poured off quite clear.  Linen washed in this liquor, and afterwards rinsed in clear running water, takes an agreeable light sky-blue colour.  It takes spots out of both linen and woollen, and never damages or injures the cloth.  Poultry will eat the meal of them, if it is steeped in hot water, and mixed with an equal quantity of pollard.  The nuts also are eat by some cows, and without hurting their milk; but they are excellent for horses whose wind is injured.

A.B.

* * * * *

A FETCH.

(For the Mirror.)

  “I do believe,” (as Byron cries,)
  “There is a haunted spot,
  And I can point out where it lies,
  But cannot—­where ’tis not.

  Turn gentle people, lend an ear,
  Unto my simple tale,
  It will not draw a single tear
  Nor make the heart bewail,

  ’Tis of a ghost!  O ladies fair! 
  Start not with sore affright,
  It will not harm a single hair,
  Nor ’make it stand upright.”

  Attend, it was but yesternight,
  I in my garret sat,
  I saw—­no, nothing yet I saw,
  But something went pit-pat.

  So did my heart responsively,
  Beat like a prison’d bird,
  That’s newly caught—­but no reply
  I made, to what I heard.

  It nearer came—­’Angels,’ I cried,
  ‘And Ministers of Grace defend.’ 
  Yet nothing I as yet descried,
  My hair stood all on end.

  My breath was short, I’m sure my eye
  Was dim, so was the light,
  I thought that I that hour should die,
  With sad and sore affright.

  And then came o’er me—­what came o’er? 
  Some spectre grim I’ll bet,
  O tell me!—­why at every pore—­
  A very heavy sweat.

  Poh, don’t delay the wond’rous tale,
  What follow’d? tell me that,
  (I feel my heart and limbs too fail)
  The same thing, pit-a-pat.

  And then there came before my eyes,
  I pray thee ‘list, O list,’
  You fill my heart with dread surprise
  What was it? why a mist.

  And then around my head there play’d
  A flame, so wond’rous bright,
  That made me more than all afraid—­
  My wig had caught the light.

  And there came wand’ring by at last,
  The same thing, pit-a-pat,
  I found as ’cross the room it past,
  The cat had got a rat.