RAINY-DAY DIVERSIONS.
The dull Sabbath morning mentioned in the last chapter, proved the
beginning of one of those long and dreary storms, not unusual in the
spring of the year. The sun did not show himself for half an hour during
the whole week, but snow, sleet, rain, drizzle, high winds, and leaden
skies, had everything their own way. The old people said it was the
“equinoctial,” or “line” storm; and their opinion was not in the least
disturbed, if Marcus suggested that many scientific men believed the
notion of such a storm to be a popular delusion. It certainly was not a
very auspicious time to express any doubts on this point—in the midst of
a seven days’ storm, happening in the very week of the equinox; so
Marcus, without seriously doubting that the men of science were right,
concluded it were wiser to postpone any argument on the subject until a
dryer season.
The younger members of Mrs. Page’s family found little chance for
out-door sports, during this tedious storm. Still, the time did not pass
heavily with them. All but Kate and Otis had their regular daily work to
perform; but as it was divided among several pairs of hands, it was not
very arduous, at this season of the year. Jessie’s work, however, was an
exception, for she insisted upon devoting most of her time, when
released from study, to household duties. On Wednesday and Saturday
afternoons, Marcus frequently invited Oscar and Ronald to help him about
some extra job or other; but all such jobs were now finished up, as far
as they could be until the season should open for out-door operations.
The farming tools had been put in complete order, the potatoes sorted
for planting, the cellar cleaned out, and when Wednesday afternoon came,
with a pouring rain, Marcus told the boys they must amuse themselves as
best they could, as he had nothing for them to do.
For awhile, the state of things was rather dull indoors as well as out.
Marcus and Oscar were reading. Kate sat down to practise a music lesson,
but the notes which her fingers called forth were so dull and
spiritless, that she soon abandoned the attempt. Otis sat looking
dreamily out of the window, towards the distant hills just visible
through the rain. Ronald, after trying in vain to get somebody to go out
to the barn and “have some fun,” went alone; but he evidently did not
find what he went after, for he soon returned, repeating, on the way, a
queer alliterative exercise in rapid pronunciation he had recently
learned for his own amusement. It was as follows, only each line was
repeated in four different ways, as indicated at the beginning:
“Andrew Airpump asked his aunt her ailment,
Did Andrew, etc.,
If Andrew, etc.,
Where is the, etc.
Billy Button bought a buttered biscuit,
Did, etc,
Captain Crackskull cracked a catchpole’s coxcomb.
Davy Doldrum dreamt he drove a dragon.
Enoch Elkrig eat an empty eggshell.
Francis Fripple flogged a Frenchman’s filly.
Gaffer Gilpin got a goose and gander.
Humphrey Hunchback had a hundred hedgehogs.
Inigo Impey itched for an Indian image.
Jumping Jackey jeered a jesting juggler
Kimbo Kemble kicked his kinsman’s kettle.
Lanky Lawrence lost his lass and lobster.
Matthew Mendlegs missed a mangled monkey.
Neddy Noodle nipped his neighbor’s nutmeg.
Oliver Oglethorpe ogled an owl and oyster.
Peter Piper picked a peck of peppers.
Quixote Quixite quizzed a queerish quidbox.
Rawdy Rumpus rode a rawboned racer.
Sammy Smellie smelt a smell of small coal.
Tiptoe Tommy turned a Turk for twopence.
Uncle Usher urged an ugly urchin.
Villiam Voedy viped his vig and vaistcoat.
Walter Waddle won a walking wager.
X Y Z have made my brains to crack O.
X smokes, Y snuffs, Z chews too strong tobacco.
Though oft by X Y Z much lore is taught,
Still Peter Piper beats them all to nought.”
Ronald kept on repeating these very sensible lines after he had entered
the house; but before he had finished “Captain Crackskull,” he was
interrupted by Marcus, who said:—
“Ronald, if you are going through with that long yarn, I think you had
better take it back to the barn with you, and reel it off to the cows.”
“I can say it right straight through, to X Y Z,” said Ronald.
“Well, we’ll take your word for it—we wont ask you to prove it,” replied
Marcus.
“What do you call it, when all the words in a line begin with the same
letter?” inquired Ronald.
“When two or more words, near together, commence with the same letter,
it is called _alliteration_,” replied Marcus. “It is what the poet calls
‘_a_pt _a_lliteration’s _a_rtful _a_id.’”
“I’ve got a curious specimen of alliteration, that I found in an old
newspaper,” said Kate; and from a small roll of paper clippings which
she had in her pocket she drew forth the curiosity. It contained five
little poems, or “univocalic verses,” as they were called, each of which
contained only one of the vowels. The following is a specimen. It is on
the fall of Eve, and contains no vowel but _e_, as will be observed;
“Eve, Eden’s Empress, needs defended be:
The Serpent greets her when she seeks the tree;
Serene, she sees the speckled tempter creep;
Gentle he seems—perversest schemer deep—
Yet endless pretexts, ever fresh prefers,
Perverts her senses, revels when she errs,
Sneers when she weeps, regrets, repents she fell;
When deep revenged, reseeks the nether hell!”
“That is not alliteration, exactly,” observed Marcus, “as the words do
not begin with the same letter. I should call it a sort of ‘task
poetry.’ By the way, Kate, did you ever see a little task poem that old
George Herbert wrote?” and taking down a volume from the book-case, he
turned to the following lines, in which it will be seen, the rhyming
words are obtained by dropping a letter from the last word of the
preceding line:
“Inclose me still, for fear I _start_,
Be to me rather sharp and _tart_,
Than let me want thy hand and _art_.
“Such sharpness shows the sweetest _friend_,
Such cuttings rather heal than _rend_,
And such beginnings touch their _end_.”
Marcus turned to a still more curious specimen of task poetry, in the
same book. It was a couplet, formed of three lines of the fragments of
words, so that those of the middle one read with either of the other
two. Here it is:
cur- f- w- d- dis- and p-
A -sed -iend -rought -eath -ease -ain.
bles- fr- b- br- and ag-
The couplet is to be read thus:
“A cursed fiend wrought death, disease and pain;
A blessed friend brought breath and ease again.”
“Come, all hands, I move that we have a game of ‘thread-paper poetry’—we
haven’t played it for a long time,” said Kate.
“What sort of a game is that?” inquired Jessie, who had but just come in
from the kitchen, and sat down to sew.
“Why, didn’t you ever play it?” inquired Kate, with surprise. “It’s a
real good game, if you have the right sort of players. The first player
takes a slip of paper, and writes a line of poetry upon it—original or
selected, just as he pleases. Then he folds the paper so as to hide the
line, but he tells the next player what the last word is, and he must
write a line to rhyme with it, and another line beside; and so they pass
it around, until they have got enough, and then it is read aloud. It
makes great sport, sometimes, I can assure you.”
The company generally assented to Kate’s proposal, and it was agreed, at
the outset, that each line should contain eight syllables, every other
one accented, commencing with the second. No other restriction was laid
upon any one. Jessie was selected to commence the play, and she wrote
the following line:
“How dark the day! how drear the scene!”
Doubling over the paper, she passed it to Oscar, and thus it went round
the circle twice, Marcus finally winding up the poem with an extra
rhyme, to give it a fitting conclusion. He then unfolded the paper, and
read the contents aloud. Here is a copy of it. The figures indicate
where it passed from one hand to another:
1. How dark the day! how drear the scene!
2. Now I do think you’re real mean
To get me into such a scrape!
3. I sing the glories of the grape,
Delicious fruit, so rich and nice.
4. Oh, I can do it in a trice—
My lines are written—here they are,
5. Shining like evening’s brightest star,
Or like the fire-bug’s milder ray!
6. This is a very rainy day,
The walking, it is dreadful bad.
7. To find a rhyme I’m always glad,
So this I write, and pass’t along.
8. I vow, it is a curious song,
All shreds, and patchwork, and so forth.
9. This horrid weather makes me cough—
I had hard work to find that rhyme;
10. But I wont give it up this time,
Although I own I’m not a poet.
11. If I am wrong, then please to show it,
This is the best that I can do.
12. And now, good friends, we’ve all got through,
And this queer song I give to you.
“Now let’s write some cento verses,” cried Kate, after this had been
read.
“What kind of verses are those?” inquired Otis.
“Don’t you know what cento verses are?” replied Kate. “Why, you take a
number of lines of poetry from different authors, and arrange them
together so that they will rhyme, and make some sort of sense—that’s the
way to make cento verses.”
“Pooh! I don’t think much of that,” said Ronald.
“A person needs to have a good deal of poetry at his tongue’s end, to
find amusement in writing cento verses,” observed Marcus. “Kate and
Jessie have a poetical turn, and might succeed at it, but I am afraid
the rest of us would find it rather hard work.”
“Well, I’m going to try,” said Kate; “and if there isn’t poetry enough
on my tongue’s end, there’s plenty up in the book-case.”
[Illustration: [Grand Mufti and Sleepy Brahmin]]
Kate took a piece of paper, and commenced jotting down some lines,
occasionally consulting Jessie, or turning to a volume of poetry. Ronald
and Otis found more congenial amusement, in a couple of toys of which
they had recently come in possession. They were “pith-tumblers,” made by
an ingenious boy in their class, who realized quite a little fortune of
pocket-money by manufacturing these comical figures for his mates. They
were made of the pith of elder trees, and the figures were neatly cut,
to represent Turks, Chinese Mandarins, Brahmins, clowns, and other
characters. Ronald’s tumbler was a Turk, and he named him the _Grand
Mufti_. He was seated on half a bullet, composedly smoking his long
pipe. Otis called his figure the _Sleepy Brahmin_. It had a lead cap,
and consequently was under the disagreeable necessity of standing on its
head. Both the Mufti and the Brahmin, when jarred, seemed ready to fall
over, but were sure to right themselves very quickly, owing to the
centre of gravity being in the leaden base. While the boys were playing
with these trifles, Marcus stepped out of the room, and soon returned
with a bottle and a couple of forks. Seeing the curiosity of the boys
was excited, Marcus asked them if they could make a quarter of a dollar
spin round on the point of a needle.
“Give me a quarter, and I’ll try,” said Ronald.
[Illustration: [The Balanced Coin]]
Marcus chose to make the trial himself, and in a few minutes he
accomplished the feat, to the no small astonishment of the boys. This
was the way he did it. In the cork of the bottle he fixed a needle. He
then took another cork, and cut a slit in it, large enough to receive
the edge of the coin. Then he stuck into the cork the two forks,
opposite each other, with the handles inclining downwards. The edge of
the coin was now placed on the needle, and the whole apparatus,—coin,
cork, and forks,—was made to spin round without falling off.
“Now, Ronald, can you explain the philosophy of that?” inquired Marcus.
“No, sir, I’m sure I can’t,” replied Ronald.
“Well, can you explain why your little pith-tumblers operate as they
do?” inquired Marcus.
“It’s because the centre of gravity is in one end of the figures, in the
lead,” replied Ronald.
“What do you mean by the centre of gravity?” inquired Marcus.
“Why, the point where the weight of the whole thing is evenly balanced,”
said Ronald; “for instance, if I balance this book on the end of my
finger, the point that rests on my finger will be the centre of
gravity.”
“Yes, you have the idea,” resumed Marcus; “and this little experiment is
explained on the same principle. The weight of the forks, projecting as
they do so much below the coin, brings the centre of gravity of the
arrangement below the point of the needle, which is the point of
suspension; and the coin is much less liable to fall off than it would
be if the centre of gravity were higher.”
“Now let me show you a little experiment,” said Ronald. “I’m going to
put two chairs back to back, take off my shoes, and jump over them. Do
you believe I can do it?”
“This isn’t a suitable place for such rough play—if you want to do any
jumping, you had better go out-doors,” said Mrs. Page.
“But I wont do the least harm in the world,” replied Ronald. “Let me
show you how I do it, wont you?”
Mrs. Page making no reply, Ronald inferred that she consented; and
placing the chairs as he had described, he took off his shoes, and
drawing back to the end of the room, ran and jumped over the—_shoes_, to
the great amusement of those who were watching the “experiment.”
Marcus and Oscar had resumed their reading, and Ronald and Otis now
began to amuse themselves with a puzzle which they called the Moslem
Oracle. It was a table, divided by lines into a hundred little squares,
in each of which was written a letter, as follows:
┌─┬─┬─┬─┬─┬─┬─┬─┬─┬─┐
│d│w│w│a│w│o│h│a│b│h│
├─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┤
│i│o│i│s│o│t│d│t│t│w│
├─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┤
│w│o│a│a│a│i│e│n│i│i│
├─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┤
│t│s│d│n│t│h│i│a│a│e│
├─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┤
│o│t│t│n│t│u│w│t│d│h│
├─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┤
│t│i│a│e│s│f│l│i│n│u│
├─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┤
│e│l│n│j│c│a│d│t│o│c│
├─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┤
│r│o│h│y│e│o│w│y│p│e│
├─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┤
│f│r│w│e│d│i│o│i│a│e│
├─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┼─┤
│l│n│s│c│t│l│g│h│e│h│
└─┴─┴─┴─┴─┴─┴─┴─┴─┴─┘
The boy from whom they obtained a copy of this Oracle, told them he had
read that it was sometimes actually used by the superstitious Moslems,
when they were in doubt about any thing they thought of doing. The rule
is to repeat certain verses of the Koran, and then to place the finger
upon the table, without looking at it. The Moslem then looks to see on
what letter his finger has rested, and writes it down, with every
_fifth_ following letter in the table, until he has got back to his
starting place. For example, we will suppose his finger fell on the
letter e in the sixth line. He writes down every fifth letter, and the
following appears:
_enjoypeaceabstainand_
In reading the sentence, he commences with the first of the letters
taken from the upper line; and so the utterance of his Oracle is:
“_Abstain, and enjoy peace._”
This Oracle is capable of giving five distinct answers, as any reader
can easily verify; and commence with what letter we will, we shall
obtain one of these answers. It is, of course, a superstition, which
gives any authority to these answers; but it is curious to observe that
the Oracle is so arranged as to be likely to do good rather than harm to
those who consult it. It contains but one affirmative and four negative
answers, and it is evident that its framer knew that when men hesitate
about doing an action, it is generally safer to abstain from it than to
perform it. Men are more disposed to consult oracles for leave to do
wrong, than for advice to do right.
Kate had now finished her cento poem, and read it aloud. It was as
follows:
When the immortals at their banquet lay [_Moore._
Butchered to make a Roman holiday, [_Byron._
By all their country’s wishes blest, [_Collins._
The fright was general; but the female band, [_Dryden._
Waked by the circling hours, with rosy hand, [_Milton._
’Scaped all the toils that life molest, [_Cowley._
And on a sudden sung the hundredth Psalm. [_Gay._
Of living lakes, in summer’s noontide calm. [_Akenside._
The wanton troopers, riding by, [_Marvell._
To sweep the cobwebs from the sky, [_Mother Goose._
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, [_Goldsmith._
Peered from the curtained gallery, [_Croly._
And strewed with sudden carcasses the land. [_Armstrong._
The piper loud and louder blew [_Burns._
A circle regularly true, [_Prior._
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills [_Byron._
Twelve bottles ranged upon the board, [_Gay._
And the world’s cold neglect, which surest kills, [_Hunt._
He watched, he served, he cheered his lord. [_Spencer._
O heaven! he cried, my bleeding country save, [_Campbell._
Poor human ruins, tottering o’er the grave! [_Young._
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high, [_Campbell._
When in the valley of Jehoshaphat, [_Dryden._
For whom contending kings are proud to die— [_Falconer._
Die, and endow a college or a cat! [_Pope._
“That’s pretty fair,” said Marcus; “but I suspect memory didn’t have a
great deal to do with it—only a few of the lines have a familiar sound
to my ear.”
“Well, to tell the truth,” replied Kate, “my memory is one of the kind
that never can think of anything when you happen to want it; so I helped
it along a little, with two or three books of poetry.”
The request was general that a copy of these lines, and also of the
“thread-paper poem,” should be furnished for publication in the “Home
Wreath.” The successive numbers of this little paper were carefully kept
on file, after all had read them, and it was a custom to insert in its
pages anything of suitable length that the family wished to preserve.
The next number of the “Wreath,” which appeared on Saturday afternoon,
contained one of these poems, together with an unusual variety of
original matter, which an editorial paragraph pleasantly attributed to
the protracted storm, remarking that “it was an ill wind that blew
nobody any good.” Among the contributions were several arithmetical
problems. One was as follows: “So arrange four nines as to make one
hundred.” Another was:—“If you take nine from six, ten from nine, and
fifty from forty, there will then six remain.” Jessie, in the course of
the evening, threw off the following rhyming answers to these questions,
designing to send them to the editor for insertion the next week:
“Two nines I place upon a line,
And that will make just ninety-nine; ... 99
In form of fraction then I write
Nine-ninths, and to the first unite, .... ⁹⁄₉
And that the number makes just right ... 100.”
“From S, I, X, I take I, X,
And that will leave an .... S,
Thus standing by itself alone,
And nothing more nor less.
Then from I, X, I take the X,
(So you can if you try,)
And that, you see, leaves only this
Poor slender letter .... I.
“From X, L, next, as Pat might say,
The L I _disannex_,
And then there’s left, as here you see,
This little saw horse, .... X.
These three remainders thus I fix,
And they read plainly S, I, X.”
Such were some of the ways in which the young folks in Mrs. Page’s
family amused themselves, when kept indoors by stress of weather.