hall contributed some of the furnishing, such as bric-à-brac and
hangings, the sort that could be most safely conveyed from home, others
had been hired, and some of the less expensive articles, for
example--large paper parasols, balloons, cotton crêpe materials, and
fans--had been bought. The tone of the room was perfect, indicating the
thought with which the different articles had been selected and placed.
There was a raised platform, so that the tricks, which were the prime
feature of the entertainment, could be seen. This platform was
artistically decorated, and chairs, screens, tables, gauze hangings, and
all the accessories required by the exhibitors were conveniently near.
To the left of the platform there stood an upright piano, on which low
music was played throughout the performance.
[Illustration]
The hour stated for the matinée was three in the afternoon, and as most
of the guests were present, it opened promptly with a succession of
college songs furnished by a mandolin quartet, after which the following
tricks, were shown.
It will be noticed that many of these tricks are already familiar, and
very easily executed, when you know how. We will hope the accompanying
explanation will stimulate some readers to try
THE NUT TRICK.
The shell must be prepared before the performance. Remove the kernel by
boring a hole, or opening the nut at one end. Take out the contents by
the aid of a lady's hat-pin, and instead of the kernel, slip in a short
piece of scarlet-colored baby-width ribbon. Then putty or wax the
opening over, and color the putty or wax with a dye, crayon, or paint
the exact shade of the nut. The nut being thus prepared, you may now lay
it on the table before your friends, and present a bunch of many-colored
ribbons of the same width and length to them. Ask that some one select
any piece he choose; you must have a don't-care air, as though it didn't
make any difference to you which piece was chosen. While, on the
contrary, you care so much, that should a wrong selection be made you
must at once tell an interesting story, which will help your friends to
forget that the ribbon has already been selected, and you should make
use of this opportunity to offer the ribbons over again. This time the
selection will likely be correct. It would be wise to have the majority
of pieces of ribbon the color of the piece in the nut, as that color
would catch the eye first and stand a better chance of being taken.
The right ribbon now being chosen, make a great point of looking at it;
hold it up at arm's length, so that all the audience may see it. Then
ask the party who made the selection to put it back in the bunch with
the others and mix them all up to please himself. When he has finished,
face the bunch of ribbons, and loudly repeat, three times over, "Ribbon,
go into the nut." Then ask your friend to go forward and take the little
hammer which he will find on the table and crack the nut open. When the
nut is opened, sure enough inside is a scarlet ribbon.
BURN A LADY'S HANDKERCHIEF, BUT RETURN IT WHOLE AGAIN.
This requires a tin cylinder about eight inches in diameter and twelve
inches in height. Into this put a perfectly fitting tin vessel, which is
divided strictly in half. When this vessel is slid inside of the
cylinder the whole does not look unlike a canister with a cover at each
end. Having the handkerchief, hold it so that everybody sees it, and
talk fluently, keeping the body constantly in motion, indeed making so
many motions that no one has noticed that you have packed this
handkerchief in the upper division of the tin vessel, and that, as you
are walking towards the candle, you have turned the cylinder upside
down, and that also the handkerchief you are now holding is really not a
handkerchief at all, but a thin piece of muslin you have prepared to
simulate a handkerchief. Pour on it a few drops of alcohol, which will
help it to burn even more rapidly; tear it, if you think it more
effective. When the owner thinks that her handkerchief is forever
destroyed, cleverly manage to invert the cylinder, take out the
handkerchief, shake it well, holding it so that all the audience sees
that it is not even scorched, and then return it to the lady.
THE BOWL TRICK.
Fill a tiny tumbler with water and cover it with a bowl. Then state you
will drink the water in the tumbler underneath without moving the bowl.
Of course the company do not believe you, and you ask all to turn their
backs, or close their eyes, if they will promise not to look, until one
of the party counts ten. Immediately they have turned their backs, or
closed their eyes, you pick up another glass of water and hastily
swallow a few mouthfuls. They hear the sound, but no one can look until
ten is counted. By that time the glass from which you drank is hidden
again, and the company catch you wiping your moist lips. Undoubtedly one
of the number will be so suspicious that he will lift the bowl to see,
and then is your opportunity, for you at once pick up the glass and
drink, saying, as you put it down, "_I_ didn't touch the bowl."
AN IMPOSSIBLE JUMP.
Take a gentleman's hat, and, turning it around so that every one sees
it, ask your friends whether, if you put it on the floor, they could
jump over it. Of course they will answer "yes." Then stand it close to
the wall, and tell them not to all try at once, but take their turn to
jump.
TURN A GOBLET UPSIDE DOWN WITHOUT SPILLING THE WATER.
Fill a glass goblet so as not to allow any water to drop over the edge.
Cover the top with a piece of paper; on the paper put your hand, and
turn the goblet rapidly over; then remove the hand. The upward pressure
of the air will prevent the water from spilling.
THE HAT OMELET.
Everybody who enjoys tricks is no doubt familiar with this. It is very
easy to do.
First state that you are about to make an omelet. Then break three eggs
into the hat, and appear to add a little milk and flour, after which
shake all together and hold the hat over a lighted lamp, candle, or gas.
After a few moments lift out the hot flaky omelet and pass it to your
friends, otherwise they will think they have been deceived.
The secret is the omelet was cooked on the range, and was in the hat
when you commenced to exhibit the trick, the hat being held too high for
the audience to see inside. The eggs were not full, only the shells, the
contents having been previously drawn through a tiny aperture at one
end. Laugh and talk a great deal, and it will not be noticed that you do
not put in the corn-starch and milk; also let a real egg drop, as if by
accident, on a plate standing on the table before you, or let a
table-spoon or knife fall. This will attract all eyes and further
prevent discovery. As in other tricks, you should practice it before
showing it to your friends.
THE WONDERFUL CARAFE.
[Illustration]
An empty carafe is brought by your confederate. This you should rinse
and drain in the presence of your audience in order to satisfy them that
there is really no mistake, that the carafe is positively empty. After
it has well drained dry it, wiping it around with the greatest care. In
the towel which your confederate brought you he also brought a bladder,
in which was a weak preparation made up of spirits of wine, sugar, and
water. In this way the carafe is filled without the audience detecting.
The glasses are already in position, and in each one has been put a drop
or two of flavoring extract, such as pineapple, lemonade, orange,
peppermint. The magician then inquires if any one would like a glass of
lemonade, and being answered in the affirmative, he pours the same from
the carafe by filling the glass in which the drops of lemonade extract
have been placed. In like manner he will give a glass of orangeade, or
whatever drink corresponds to the extract in the glasses.
THE VANISHING TEN-CENT PIECE.
Put this coin in the palm of your hand and take pains to let everybody
see it. Then state that if any one of the audience will call out
"Vanish" it will disappear.
The reason why is because the nail of your middle finger is covered with
white wax, and closing the hand forcibly the coin instantly fastens
itself to it. You must then open the hand wide and show that the
ten-cent piece has really gone.
The tricks now being over, the audience rose to congratulate their young
entertainers and also to exchange a few words with one another, and in
so doing many of them did not discover that refreshments were about to
be served until they were asked to take seats at the small tables that
had most mysteriously appeared.
[Illustration]
The refreshments were very simple, being only vanilla and strawberry
rolled wafers, and delicious tea. The tea was, of course, poured into
the prettiest of Japanese cups, and carried on richly decorated trays on
which were laid divers colored Japanese napkins, while the graceful,
cordial, Japanese-robed young girls added an indescribable charm.
And thus closed this dainty, interesting entertainment amid the pleasant
chatter of the happily seated, congenial company.
THE NORMAL EYE.
BY JNO. GILMER SPEED.
If six persons casually thrown together look at the moon when it is high
in the heavens, and each be asked how large the moon seems to be, it is
more than likely that the questioner will receive six different answers.
This probably would not be the case if the moon were near the horizon
and just rising or just setting.
The differences in the answers to the first query will be due to the
perfect or imperfect action of the various eyes. The comparative
uniformity of the answers in the second instance would be due to the
nicer adjustment of the eyes by seeing at the same time with the moon
familiar objects on the earth, such as houses and trees, which would
afford a standard of measurement.
Many persons old and young have remarked what I have just noted. I have
often observed such differences of vision, but never gave any particular
thought to the matter until the beautiful gilded statue of Diana on top
of the lofty tower of the Madison Square Garden was erected as a
weather-vane. The arrow of the chaste huntress points in the direction
of the prevailing wind.
To me the statue, when it was first erected, seemed at least ten feet
tall. To another of my friends it seemed a trifle smaller, and so did
the appearance vary, until the sixth of my companions said that to him
the statue seemed no larger than a good-sized doll--that is, about two
feet in height.
Then we turned to the moon, and here again were six opinions. They
varied from between attributing to the moon the size of a barrel-head,
eighteen inches in diameter, and the size of a breakfast plate, about
seven and a half inches. I was puzzled and interested, and as I saw
larger than any of my friends, I was afraid that my eyes were in some
way out of focus.
Next day I went to an optician to ascertain whether or not I had normal
vision. I was put through the usual tests of reading, without the aid of
glasses, sentences in different-sized letters. Then the optician
declared that I saw with most unusual accuracy. I was puzzled at this,
for I regarded Mr. Augustus St. Gaudens, who had made the weather-vane
statue of Diana, as the most gifted sculptor in America, and Mr.
Stanford White, the designer of the tower upon which the statue stands,
as one of our most accomplished architects. These gentlemen could not
have made a mistake, I thought, for surely they did not mean that Diana
should have to one standing on the ground the appearance of a giantess.
It happened that the shop of the optician I consulted was in the
neighborhood of Madison Square. Looking from the windows, one could see
Diana changing her front as the spring winds shifted. Still she seemed
at least ten feet in height. I turned to the optician.
"Have you normal vision?" I asked.
"I am not so fortunate," he replied.
"Is there any one here whose vision has been frequently tested, and
about which there can be no doubt?"
A young man was sent for, and I was told that his eyesight was as
perfect as human eyesight ever gets to be. I took him to the window and
pointed out Diana, who now seemed in the act of shooting her arrow
directly over our heads, and was therefore facing us.
"How large does she look?" I asked.
"Oh, she is too large," he responded, with a laugh; "she seems fully ten
feet high to me." Here was confirmation of my own opinion.
I then went to Mr. St. Gaudens. He told me frankly that the statue was
too large, and that it was to be replaced by a smaller one--five feet
shorter, a diminished replica. With the modelling he was entirely
satisfied, as are all other competent art critics, I believe, but he was
convinced that the statue was too tall.
I asked him what the custom was in determining how much a figure that
was to be placed at an elevation should be exaggerated. He told me that
in modelling ordinary statues a platform could be made of the same size
as the base upon which the finished work was to rest, and that then the
sculptor's sense of proportion would guide him. In this case, however,
where a statue was to be placed at an elevation of 325 feet, such a test
was impracticable.
Hence the proportions had to be determined by a scale-drawing which
showed all the various parts of the building and tower in relation to
each other and to the whole. This drawing was modified until it
completely satisfied the sense of proportion of both architect and
sculptor. Such a method, however, appears not to have been exact enough
to have prevented two of our ablest men from falling into a costly error
of judgment.
By marking off a base-line for one side of a right-angled triangle, and
letting another side of the triangle be the height of the tower, the
length of the hypothenuse, or third side of the triangle, which would
also have been the line of vision, could have been easily calculated.
Then if another right-angled triangle be constructed, the hypothenuse of
which is just as long as the normal human vision can see without
diminishing an object of the size that it is desirable that the elevated
object should appear when fixed in place, then the height of this given
object would be to the hypothenuse of the second or subsidiary triangle
as the hypothenuse of the larger triangle is to the height of the
desired object. That is, if the normal vision will reach accurately 200
feet, that would be the hypothenuse of the second triangle. Suppose,
then, that the hypothenuse of the first triangle be 500 feet, and it was
desired that the elevated object should appear six feet high; then the
architect would have to make it fifteen feet high for the proper result
to be attained.
By applying such a plain mathematical rule as this the costly mistakes
made in New York might have been obviated, and by its aid it can be
determined at any time just how much an elevated object should be
exaggerated so that it will look of a natural size. Such a rule as this
can be applied by any school-boy who has mastered his trigonometry; but
there are few, if any, architects who resort to calculations to
determine a mere matter of size when it does not relate to the strength
of the structure. The strength of walls and floors is of course
calculated with mathematical nicety, but those matters of construction
and ornamentation which only affect the appearance of buildings are
determined by the taste and the sense of proportion of the designer.
And it may be that it is scarcely worth while for architects and
designers to take any greater pains than they do to arrive at
mathematical accuracy in those things which, after all, have only an
æsthetic value. The first Diana on the tower was too large; but if a
thousand had been randomly gathered in Madison Square Garden, and a
census of their opinions taken, it would probably have been found that
the vote stood something like this: 50 would have thought the statue 15
feet high; 100, 10 feet; 200, 8 feet; 200, 6 feet; 200, 5 feet; 100, 4
feet; 100, 3 feet; 50, 2 feet.
The statue, which was at an elevation of 325 feet from the ground, was
really 18 feet in height. The present statue, which has replaced the one
of which I have been speaking, is 13 feet high.
The percentage of persons having normal vision is very small, and those
who by the use of glasses or spectacles correct such defects are also
comparatively small, if we except those who realize the impairment of
their vision as they realize, after the meridian of life has been
passed, the impairment of other faculties. Children, as a rule, have
normal vision; but I am assured by numerous practical opticians that not
more than ten per cent. of the men and women who have passed their
twenty-first birthday still have normal vision; and when a person has
got beyond forty-five and can still see with the accuracy of youth, then
that person affords so exceptional a case as to be worthy to be placed
among the living curiosities. A small percentage of persons with
abnormal vision see large, but, as a rule, eyes that are not as they
should be see objects in a diminished form.
This being the case, an architect who has a normal vision, or corrects
his vision by the aid of properly adjusted spectacles, and whose sense
of proportion is also of a high order, will very likely continually be
designing things that only a small percentage of those who are to look
at them will be capable of appreciating. Out of a thousand grown persons
who see his accurately proportioned work, one hundred will see it with
normal eyes, and two hundred more, perhaps, will see it with eyes
corrected by spectacles. Three hundred will therefore view his work as
he does himself, and seven hundred, not knowing that their vision is
defective, will judge that his work has been badly done. Therefore,
build he ever so well, he is building only for a small minority. The
children, with eyes ordinarily in a normal condition, should be the best
friends an architect could cultivate, for they, in one sense, at least,
usually have the capacity to look upon his work and say whether it be
well done or not. But, unfortunately, about the time that young people
reach an age when they begin to think seriously about art and
architecture, the great majority of them also begin to lose that normal
sight, without which distant objects can no longer be seen in accurate
proportions. Or perhaps the architects might impress upon all those who
criticise their work that a consultation with an oculist and a call upon
a spectacle-maker would enable a critic to reform his adverse judgment.
Such a course would be a good thing both for the eye specialist and the
optician. But if an architect himself have defective vision, he can
either design his structure by mathematical rules, or do for himself
what has just been suggested for his critics. At any rate, the
statistics available, and these are to a large extent only approximated,
show that the eyesight of Americans is getting all the time more
defective, and lead to the conclusion that in the course of a few more
years the exceptional person will be the one who does not wear
eye-glasses or spectacles or squint impertinently through the "monocle,"
that distinguishing mark of English and Continental dandyism.
[Illustration: The Remarkable Adventures of Sandboys]
THE LAST BEAR OF THE SEASON.
[Illustration]
When the boys, after a long and tedious railway journey from the hot
city to the cool wooded mountain country, arrived at the much-beloved
hotel where they had spent several very happy summers, the first person
to greet them was Sandboys, the curly-headed hall-boy with the twinkling
eyes and rapid-running feet. Sandboys, as they entered the great,
comfortable hotel office, was in the act of carrying a half-dozen
pitchers of iced water up stairs to supply thirsty guests with the one
thing needful and best to quench that thirst, and in his excitement at
catching sight once again of his two little friends, managed to drop two
of them with a loud crash upon the office floor.
"It's Sandboys," said Jack, gleefully. "I was afraid we wouldn't see him
this year. He's been studying theelygy."
"He'll never be any kind of a preacher," returned Bob, with a laugh at
the idea. "He can't hardly open his mouth without tellin' a fish story
or a bear story, and I don't think his kind of stories would do for
sermons."
At any rate, whatever the cause might have been, there Sandboys was,
plying his old vocation, and apparently no further along in the study of
theology than he had been when, a year before, he had bade the boys
"good-by forever," with the statement that as he was going to be a
missionary, the chances were they'd never see him again.
"I don't see why the proprietor of this hotel keeps a careless hall-boy
like that," said a cross old lady, upon whose dress Sandboys had managed
to spill some of the water.
"Well, you will see in a few days," returned an old maid who was sitting
at her side, sharply. "Those two boys as has just come in is fearful
noisy and lively, and that Sandboys last summer was the only person
around here as could keep 'em quiet. When he wasn't around they was
a-climbin' all over the men and a-settin' in the laps of all the
ladies."
"They look movey an' noisy," said the cross old lady, eying Jack and Bob
narrowly. "Whose boys be they?"
"They're cousins--their fathers is brothers. Their last name's Drake,"
replied the old maid.
"Humph!" sneered the cross old lady. "Seems to me, if they behaves as
you say they do, they'd oughter been named Gander. Gander's a good name
for all boys, 'pears to me, anyhow, a-squawkin' an' a-sissin' around all
the time."
But Bob and Jack and Sandboys were blissfully unconscious of the
severity of the old lady's criticism, and had eyes for the moment for
none but each other.
"Hull-lo!" cried Sandboys, joyfully. "You back again?"
"Looks so, don't it?" said Jack.
"Didn't expect to see you, though, Sandboys," said Bob. "Thought you'd
be off preachin'. Given up theelygy?"
"Sorter," said Sandboys. "Didn't like the prospect o' bein' et by
Samoans and Feejees, so I thought I'd stick to bell-boyin' another
season, anyhow; but I'll see you later, boys. I've got to hurry along
with this ice-watter. It's overdue now, an' we've got the kickin'est lot
o' folks here this year you ever see. One man here the other night got
mad as hooky because it took forty minutes to soft bile an egg. Said two
minutes was all was necessary to bile an egg softer'n mush, not
understandin' anything about the science of eggs, where hens feeds on
pebbles."
"Pebbles?" cried Jack, astounded at the idea.
"Certainly. Pebbles," reiterated Sandboys. "Nothin' extryordinary about
that. Chickens has got to eat somethin', and up in these here States o'
New Hampshire an' Vermount there ain't much left for 'em after we human
bein's has been fed except pebbles, in which the soil is partickerlarly
fertile. Well, when a hen fed on pebbles comes to lay eggs, cobblestones
ain't in it with 'em for hardness, so's when you come to bile 'em it
takes most a week to git 'em soft--an' this feller kicked at forty
minutes. Most likely he's swearin' around upstairs now because o' the
delay in gettin' his ice-watter; and 'tain't more'n two hours since he
sent for it, neither."
With this, Sandboys, gathering up the remaining pitchers of water,
bounded up the first flight of stairs like an antelope and disappeared,
while Bob and Jack went with their parents in to supper, to which they
did full justice, for their luncheon on the train that day had been very
scrappy and meagre.
They did not see Sandboys again that night, for they were pretty well
tired out with their day's exertions, and most reluctantly obeyed their
parents' commands to tumble into bed at an early hour. But the next
morning they were down bright and early, and there in the office,
humming softly to himself, sat Sandboys, patiently awaiting such
summonses as might come to him from the awakening guests above.
"It's nice to see you again, boys," he said, as they greeted him.
"Somehow the hotel 'ain't seemed natural without you. It's been too
sorter peaceful an' quiet like; but now that you're back, I reckon the
band'll begin to play a few tunes. All been well?"
"First rate," said Jack. "How about you?"
"Pretty good," said Sandboys. "'Ain't had much to complain about. Had
the measles in December, and the mumps in February; an' along about the
middle o' May the whoopin'-cough got a holt of me; but as it saved my
life, I can't kick about that."