"Gerald, dear," said my wife the other evening, "I wish you'd write
and order some more notepaper; we've hardly any left."
"All right, Margaret. What sort do you want? The last lot was
beastly--too thick to make into spills and not large enough for
drawing up the fire."
"Well, here's a list of the different kinds they have in stock at
Jones and Robinson's."
I took it from her and glanced through it. "What do you say to 'Cream
Laid,' Margaret? I like the sound of that. It will make me feel so
nice and cool in the hot weather to think of the rows of fresh-faced
country girls, in their spotless white overalls, pouring the cream
delicately over the paper. I wonder how they get it to stop exactly at
the edge?"
"It wants a very cool head and steady hand, I expect," said Margaret;
"they'd all be picked cream-layers, of course. But how would you like
'thick hand-made paper with deckle edges'? What are deckle edges, I
wonder; and how is paper hand-made?"
"Rather like treading grapes, I fancy, only that's done by foot. I
mean they smash up the pulp with a very heavy pestle in a huge----"
"Mortar!" cried Margaret triumphantly.
"Yes; but am I telling this story or are you? Well, and then they put
it through a mangle----"
"Wurzel," said Margaret.
"Wrong--just a mangle, and roll it out flat, after which they deckle
the edges."
"But how do they do that, Gerald?"
"Oh, they just call in the edge-deckler and say, 'See to 't that yon
edges be deckled ere set o' sun,' and he sees to 't. His is a most
important post, I believe."
Margaret came and sat on a tuffet by my chair.
"Sorry about wurzel," she said. "Now tell me all about machine-made
paper, there's a dear. It will be so nice to be able to explain all
this to Nat when he's older."
"Paper-making by machinery, my dear," I said graciously, "is a most
complicated process. I won't puzzle you with all the details, but
roughly the idea is to pulp up the--er--rags and so on in a huge
sort of--er--bowl, and then to roll it out thin in the rolling-out
machine."
Margaret thought this over. "It sounds just the same as the
hand-made," she said.
"Oh, _no_," I said quickly; "it's all done by _machinery_, you see.
Pistons and rollers and--er--mechanical edge-decklers and so on."
"And what does 'Linen Wove' mean?"
"They employ people to thread the paper with linen threads, my dear.
A very delicate performance; that's why Linen Wove is so expensive.
Azure Wove is, of course, done with blue flaxen threads. Silurian Bond
is made by a fellowship of geologists, and for Chelsea Bank they have
a factory on the bank of the Thames at Cheyne Walk. That's all I need
tell you, though I know a lot more."
"I never realised before how awfully interesting paper-making could
be," said Margaret gratefully. "Write and order me a good supply
of Chelsea Cream Wove, will you, dear? Oh, and some other kind for
yourself, to write your stories on. Don't forget."
"Very well; Chelsea Cream Wove for you. And what shall I have?"
Margaret's mouth twitched a little.
"Foolscap, I think, dear," she said.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Sandy (viewing doctor's bill)._ "BUT THE BILL IS NO
RICHT, SIR. YE'VE CHARGED ME FOR SEVEN DAYS INSTEAD O' SIX. DINNA YE
MIND I WAS DELEERIOUS ONE DAY AN' WAS NOT AWEER OF YOUR PRESENCE?"]
* * * * *