[Illustration]
Heretofore the fireside amusements recorded by us have been rather
masculine in their character. In this chapter we shall have the pleasure
of describing an entertainment of more feminine qualities. It was a
small party, of the description which the Scotch call a cookeyshine, the
English a tea-fight, and we a sociable. A few young ladies in a country
village had conspired together to pass a pleasant evening, and the head
conspirator wrote us a note, which consisted of several rows of very
neat snake-rail fences (not "rail snake" fences, as the Irishman said),
running across a pink field. We got over the fences easily, and found
ourselves in a pretty parlor, with six pretty young ladies, one elderly
ditto, and a kind of father. The ladies, as we entered, were engaged in
making tasty little scent-bags. We had often seen the kind of thing
before, but never so completely carried out.
[Illustration]
The principal idea consisted in making miniature mice out of
apple-seeds, nibbling at a miniature sack of flour. But in this case
they had filled the sack with powdered orris-root, and the small bottles
with otto of roses, making altogether a very fragrant little ornament.
The subjoined sketch will convey the idea to any one wishing to try her
hand at this kind of art.
As to the process of manufacture, that is simple enough: you first make
neat little bags of white muslin, and with some blue paint (water color)
mark the name of the perfume, in imitation of the ordinary brands on
flour-bags; then fill the bag with sachet-powder and tie it up. You then
get some well-formed apple-seeds, and a needle filled with brown thread
or silk with a knot at the end; after which pass the needle through one
side of the small end of the seed, and out through the middle of the big
end; then cut off your thread, leaving about half an inch projecting
from the seed; this represents the tail of the mouse. After this you
make another knot in your thread, and pass it through the opposite side
of the small end of the seed, bringing it out, not where you did the
other thread, but in the middle of the lower part, that part, in fact,
which represents the stomach of the mouse. You can now sew your mouse on
the flour-sack. It should be borne in mind that the two knots of thread,
which represent the ears, must appear near the small end of the seed. We
once saw some mice made of apple-seeds where the ears were placed at the
big end, producing the most ridiculous effect. We annex enlarged
diagrams of each style.
It will be seen that one looks like a mouse, whilst the other resembles
a pollywog, or a newly-hatched dragon.
[Illustration]
You must now get a good-sized card, and if you wish to have it _very
nice_, paint it to resemble the boards of a floor. On this you sew your
sack, and one or two stray mice who are supposed to be running round
loose. Then having provided yourself with a couple of those delicate
little glass bottles of about an inch and a half in length, which are to
be found in most toy-stores, you fill them with otto of roses or any
other perfume; and with a little strong glue or gum, stick them to the
card in the position represented. If glass bottles are not to be
obtained, you may cut some out of wood, a small willow stick perhaps
being the best for the purpose; blacken them with ink, and varnish them
with weak gum-water, at the same time sticking on them little pieces of
paper to represent the labels, and, if you please, a little lead-paper
round the neck and mouth of the bottles, to give the flasks a champagney
flavor. The boxes and jars are likewise cut out of wood, and easily
painted to produce the desired appearance.
After a time, while the young ladies were still at work on the mice like
so many kittens at play, a practical young gentleman, in spectacles and
livid hands, came in, and asked _of what use were those articles_. Upon
which one of the young ladies very properly replied that they did not
waste their time in making anything _useful_. This seemed to afford an
opportunity to the young gentleman to say something agreeable in
connection with _beauty_; but he put his foot in it, and we heard him
late in the evening, as the party was breaking up, trying to explain his
compliment, which, though well intended, had unfortunately taken the
form of an insult, and had not been well received.
We had observed, on entering, that one of the young ladies present wore
in her hair a very beautiful white rose, and that another held in her
hand a small bunch of marigolds. As the season was mid-winter, this fact
attracted our attention, and we very gracefully complimented said damsel
on the beauty of her _coiffure_, at the same time expressing our ardent
admiration for flowers generally, roses particularly, and white roses
above all other roses. "We had made a study of them." We spoke
rapturously of them as the poetry of vegetation, as _vestals among
flowers, as the emblems of purity, the incarnation of innocence_. Then
the young lady asked us how we liked them _boiled_, and taking the one
from her head begged us to wear it next our heart for her sake. We
received it reverentially at her hand--it was heavy as lead. Her
somewhat ambiguous language immediately explained itself as she gaily
stripped off the leaves and revealed a good-sized turnip-stock on a
wooden skewer. We felt slightly embarrassed, but got over the difficulty
by saying that when we spoke so poetically we had no idea what would
turn-up.
"Ah!" sighed one of the young ladies, "it is the way of the world; the
flower worshipped from afar, possessed, will ever turn out a turnip!"
"Or," added we, "as in the case of Cinderella's humble vegetable turn
up, a turnout."
This inoffensive little joke, being rather far-fetched, perhaps, was
immediately set upon and almost belabored to death by those who
understood it; whilst for the enlightenment of those who did not, we had
to travel all the way to fairy-land, so that it was some time before we
got back to vegetable flowers--a subject on which we felt not a little
anxious to be enlightened, as we saw therein something that might
interest our friends who meet by the fireside and help us in our
occupation of unbending the bow. Marvellously simple were the means
employed in producing such beautiful results. A white turnip neatly
peeled, notched all round, stuck upon a skewer, and surrounded by a few
green leaves, and behold a most exquisite white rose, perfect enough to
deceive the eye in broad daylight at three feet distance. The above
sketch will explain the whole mystery at once.
[Illustration: ROSE IN PROCESS OF MAKING.]
[Illustration: ROSE COMPLETED.]
On the same principle a marigold may be cut out of a round of carrot
with a little button of beet-root for the centre; a daisy can be made
from a round of parsnip with a small button of carrot for the centre; a
dahlia from a beet; and several other flowers from pumpkins. It will be
easily seen that a beautiful bouquet can be compiled of these flowers
with the addition of a few sprigs of evergreen. Indeed, great taste and
ingenuity may be displayed in managing these simple materials. When the
process had been explained to us, as above described, we expressed our
delight, at the same time saying carelessly that there were doubtless
millions of ladies in the country who would find pleasure in learning so
graceful an accomplishment. The gentleman with the gold spectacles was
down upon us in a moment.
"Did we know what a million meant?"
To which we promptly replied that a million meant ten hundred thousand.
"Did we know what a billion meant?"
A billion, according to Webster, was a million million.
A light twinkled out of the gold spectacles, and a glow suffused the
expansive forehead, as, with a certain playful severity, he propounded
the following:
"How long would it take you to count a million million, supposing you
counted at the rate of two hundred per minute for twenty-four hours per
day?"
We replied, after a little reflection, that it would take a long time,
probably over six months.
With a triumphant air, the gold spectacles turned to our friend Nix.
Nix, who is a pretty good accountant, thought it would take nearer six
years than six months. One young lady, who was not good at figures, felt
sure _she_ could do it in a week. Gold Spectacles exhibited that intense
satisfaction which the mathematical mind experiences when it has
completely obfuscated the ordinary understanding.
"Why, sir," he said, turning to us, "had you been born on the same day
as Adam, and had you been counting ever since, night and day, without
stopping to eat, drink, or sleep, you would not have more than
accomplished half your task."
This statement was received with a murmur of incredulous derision,
whilst two or three financial gentlemen, immediately seizing pen and
paper, began figuring it out, with the following result:
200 Number counted per minute.
60 Minutes in an hour.
-----
12000 Number counted per hour.
24 Hours in a day.
------
48000
24000
------
288000 Number counted per day.
365 Days in the year.
--------
1440000
1728000
864000
---------
105120000 Number counted per year.
From this calculation we see that by counting steadily, night and day,
at the rate of two hundred per minute, we should count something over
one hundred and five millions in a year. Now let us proceed with the
calculation:
105,12(0,000)1,000,000,00(0,000(9,512 years.
94,608
-------
53,920
52,550
-------
13,600
10,512
-------
30,880
21,024
------
9,856
So that it would take nine thousand five hundred and twelve years, not
to mention several months, to count a billion. Gold Spectacles chuckled
visibly, and for the rest of the evening gave himself airs more worthy
of a conquered Southerner than a victorious mathematician. He afterwards
swooped down upon and completely doubled up a pompous gentleman bearing
the cheerful name of Peter Coffin, for making use of the very proper
phrase, "As clear as a mathematical demonstration."
"That may not be very clear, after all, Mr. Coffin," said Gold
Spectacles.
"How is that, Mr. Sprawl (Gold Specks' proper name being Sprawl); can
anything be clearer than a mathematical demonstration?"
"I think, sir," answered Mr. Sprawl, "I could _mathematically
demonstrate_ to you that one is equal to two. What would you think of
that, sir?"
"I think you couldn't do it, sir."
Thereupon Mr. Sprawl took a sheet of paper and wrote down the following
equation--the celebrated algebraic paradox:
_a_ = _x_
_a_ _x_ = _x_^{2}
_a_ _x_ - _a_^{2} = _x_^{2} - _a_^{2}
(_x_ - _a_) × _a_ = (_x_ - _a_) × (_x_ + _a_)
_a_ = _x_ + _a_
_a_ = 2 _a_
1 = 2
Mr. Coffin examined it carefully standing up, and examined it carefully
sitting down, and then handed it back, saying that Mr. Sprawl had
certainly proved one to be equal to two. The paper was passed round, and
those learned enough scrutinized it carefully. The _demonstration_ all
allowed to be positive, yet no one could be made to admit the _fact_.
Here a certain married lady avowed her great delight in knowing that
_one_ had at last been _proved_ equal to _two_. She had been for years,
she said, trying to convince her husband of this fact, but he always
obstinately refused to listen to the voice of reason. She now trusted he
would not have the effrontery to fly in the face of an _algebraic
paradox_.
Seeing the talk had taken an arithmetical turn, and was moreover getting
fearfully abstruse, our friend Nix thought he would gently lead the tide
of conversation into some shallower channel, wherein the young ladies
might dabble their pretty feet without danger of being swept away in the
scientific torrent. To this end he submitted the well known problem:
"What is the difference between six dozen dozen and half a dozen dozen?"
Strange to say, no one present had ever before heard of it, but the best
part of the joke consisted in Mr. Sprawl being completely taken by it.
"Why, they are both the same," he answered promptly.
All the rest seemed to think so too, and some could not get into their
heads, although poor Nix spent half an hour trying to convince them,
that half a dozen dozen was the same thing as six dozen, or 72; whilst
six dozen dozen must of course be seventy-two dozen, or 864.
While Nix still spoke, a handmaiden appeared, bearing tinkling cups and
vessels of aromatic tea (not the weak green kind, bear in mind), and
plates of sweet cookies and toast, and then bread and butter, and
steaming waffles, and divers and sundry other delicacies known to true
housewives and good Christian women, who love their fellow-creatures and
respect their organs of digestion.
As the tea is being served, we walk up to a young gentleman and ask him
if he knows why the blind man was restored to sight when he drank tea.
The young gentleman _gave it up_ precipitately.
"Because he took his cup and saucer (saw sir)."
The gentleman in gold spectacles says something about our being a
_sorcerer_, but we heed him not, fearing he may put us through another
algebraic paradox. Then comes a general demand for the answer to the
charade we published in our last chapter, which commenced:
"My whole is the name of a school-boy's dread."
"The answer to this, ladies, is Rattan; and you will find it," said we,
"a most excellent charade for children."
Now commenced a grand festival of puzzles and riddles. Specimens of all
kinds were trotted out for inspection, from the ponderous construction
of our ancestors, commencing in some such style as, "All round the
house, through the house, and never touching the house," etc., to the
neatly turned modern con.
Our friend Nix asked why Moses and the Jews were the best-bred people in
the world?
Another wished to know why meat should always be served rare?
Both these individuals, however, refused to give the solution until the
next meeting of the assembled company. Others were more obliging, but as
their riddles were mostly old friends, somebody knew the answers and
revealed them. It is a mistake to suppose that a good thing ought not to
be repeated more than once. There are certain funny things that we
remember for the last twenty years, and yet we never recall them without
enjoying a hearty laugh. We have read Holmes's _Autocrat of the
Breakfast-Table_ once every six months, ever since it was published, and
enjoy it better each time. We have been working away at the
_Sparrowgrass Papers_ for years, and yet we raise just as good a crop of
laughter from them as ever. These books resemble some of our rich
Western lands: they are inexhaustible. So when one of the company asked,
"When does a sculptor die of a fit?" we waited quietly for the answer,
"When he makes faces and busts," and laughed as heartily as though it
were quite new, although we had been intimate with the old con ever
since it was made, some fifteen years ago. We even enjoyed the
time-honored riddle: "What was Joan of Arc made of?" "Why, she was Maid
of Orleans, of course." But then this was put by a seraph with amber
eyes, and a very bewildering way of using them. The success attending
this effort seemed to stimulate the gentleman in gold spectacles, who
rushed into the arena with the inquiry: "What was Eve made for?" Most of
us knew the answer well enough, but we waited politely to let him
deliver it himself. Our surprise may be readily conceived when he
informed us, with evident glee, that "she was made for Harnden's Express
Company." Some looked blank, and others tittered, whilst Nix explained
to the ladies the true solution. It was for Adam's Express Company that
Eve was made. After this followed in quick succession a shower of
riddles, some of them so abominably bad, that an old gentleman, who did
not seem to take kindly to that sort of amusement, gave the
finishing-stroke to the entertainment by the annexed:
Question. "Why is an apple-tart like a slipper?"
Answer. "Because you can put your foot in it--if you like."
After that we all went home.