[TELEGRAM I.-COPY]

     ’Washington, May 25th, 1862.

     ’To—­GOVERNOR ANDREW:  Send all the troops forward that you can
     immediately.  Banks is completely routed.  The enemy are in large
     force advancing upon Harper’s Ferry.

     EDWIN M. STANTON, ‘Secretary of War.’

* * * * *

     [TELEGRAM II.—­COPY]

     ’Washington, May 25th, 1862.

’TO THE GOVERNOR OF MASSACHUSETTS:  Intelligence from various quarters leaves no doubt that the enemy in great force are advancing on Washington.  You will please organise and forward immediately all the volunteer and militia force in your State.

     ’EDWIN M. STANTON, ‘Secretary of War.’

How Governor Andrew could have been true to his duty and have acted otherwise than he did after receiving such commands, must be settled by those ‘gossips of the mob’ who, incapable of appreciating the nobility of a prompt fulfillment of duty, measure every thing military by the amount of melo-dramatic denouement to which it leads.  We trust that after this effectual ‘counter’ we may hear a little less carping at Governor Andrew, who has shown from the beginning an energy and perseverance, a promptness in emergency, and a patriotism which, when the history of this war comes to be written, will reflect the highest honor upon his name.

* * * * *

He who sends us the following, is worthy to bear a crow-sier as one of the Faithful: 

BOTH BARRELS INTO ’EM: 

If old Squire Price had any one bump of phrenology developed more than another, it was CORVICIDE, or, KILL-CROWATIVENESS.  From corn-planting to husking-time, from dewy morn until evening more than due, he might be seen dodging behind fences, crawling around barns, stalking along in the high grass, with a long single-barreled old gun, trying to get a shot at the black thieves of crows that were forever at work on his old, sandy farm.

‘What cause have you, my aged friend,’ Brother Hornblower once said to him, ’What cause have you to molest these birds, as ’toil not, neither do they spin’?’

‘I tell yer what,’ answered the Squire, shaking his head with savage jerks, ‘come down to my house ary moruin’ airly, you’ll hear caws!’

Brother Hornblower smiled grimly and walked gently away, after that, to get the evening paper at the grocery-post-office.  He set his face against jokes—­unless they were serious ones.

Whether it was Brother Hornblower’s words, or more crows than usual, the neighbors around Squire Price’s farm were regaled for two days after the above talk, with such constant explosions of gunpowder that it was surmised the Squire must have bought ‘a hull kag o’ powder, and got some feller to help him shoot.’  The consequence of this energy was, that the persecuted devil’s-canaries flew