Produced by C. St. Charleskindt and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
THE INDUSTRIAL READERS
_Book III_
MAKERS OF MANY THINGS
BY
EVA MARCH TAPPAN, PH.D.
_Author of "England's Story," "American Hero Stories,"
"Old World Hero Stories," "Story of the Greek People,"
"Story of the Roman People," etc. Editor of
"The Children's Hour."_
[Illustration]
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY EVA MARCH TAPPAN
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
U . S . A
PREFACE
The four books of this series have been written not merely to provide
agreeable reading matter for children, but to give them information.
When a child can look at a steel pen not simply as an article
furnished by the city for his use, but rather as the result of many
interesting processes, he has made a distinct growth in intelligence.
When he has begun to apprehend the fruitfulness of the earth, both
above ground and below, and the best way in which its products may be
utilized and carried to the places where they are needed, he has not
only acquired a knowledge of many kinds of industrial life which may
help him to choose his life-work wisely from among them, but he has
learned the dependence of one person upon other persons, of one
part of the world upon other parts, and the necessity of peaceful
intercourse. Best of all, he has learned to see. Wordsworth's familiar
lines say of a man whose eyes had not been opened,--
"A primrose by a river's brim
A yellow primrose was to him,
And it was nothing more."
These books are planned to show the children that there is "something
more"; to broaden their horizon; to reveal to them what invention has
accomplished and what wide room for invention still remains; to teach
them that reward comes to the man who improves his output beyond the
task of the moment; and that success is waiting, not for him who works
because he must, but for him who works because he may.
Acknowledgment is due to the Diamond Match Company, Hood Rubber
Company, S. D. Warren Paper Company, The Riverside Press, E. Faber,
C. Howard Hunt Pen Company, Waltham Watch Company, Mark Cross Company,
I. Prouty & Company, Cheney Brothers, and others, whose advice and
criticism have been of most valuable aid in the preparation of this
volume.
EVA MARCH TAPPAN.
CONTENTS
I. THE LITTLE FRICTION MATCH 1
II. ABOUT INDIA RUBBER 6
III. "KID" GLOVES 16
IV. HOW RAGS AND TREES BECOME PAPER 25
V. HOW BOOKS ARE MADE 36
VI. FROM GOOSE QUILLS TO FOUNTAIN PENS AND LEAD PENCILS 46
VII. THE DISHES ON OUR TABLES 56
VIII. HOW THE WHEELS OF A WATCH GO AROUND 64
IX. THE MAKING OF SHOES 73
X. IN THE COTTON MILL 82
XI. SILKWORMS AND THEIR WORK 92
THE INDUSTRIAL READERS
BOOK III
MAKERS OF MANY THINGS
I
THE LITTLE FRICTION MATCH
I remember being once upon a time ten miles from a store and one mile
from a neighbor; the fire had gone out in the night, and the last
match failed to blaze. We had no flint and steel. We were neither
Indians nor Boy Scouts, and we did not know how to make a fire by
twirling a stick. There was nothing to do but to trudge off through
the snow to the neighbor a mile away and beg some matches. Then was
the time when we appreciated the little match and thought with
profound respect of the men who invented and perfected it.
It is a long way from the safe and reliable match of to-day back to
the splinters that were soaked in chemicals and sold together with
little bottles of sulphuric acid. The splinter was expected to blaze
when dipped into the acid. Sometimes it did blaze, and sometimes it
did not; but it was reasonably certain how the acid would behave, for
it would always sputter and do its best to spoil some one's clothes.
Nevertheless, even such matches as these were regarded as a wonderful
convenience, and were sold at five dollars a hundred. With the next
kind of match that appeared, a piece of folded sandpaper was sold, and
the buyer was told to pinch it hard and draw the match through the
fold. These matches were amazingly cheap--eighty-four of them for only
twenty-five cents! There have been all sorts of odd matches. One kind
actually had a tiny glass ball at the end full of sulphuric acid. To
light this, you had to pinch the ball and the acid that was thus let
out acted upon the other chemicals on the match and kindled it--or was
expected to kindle it, which was not always the same thing.
Making matches is a big business, even if one hundred of them are
sold for a cent. It is estimated that on an average each person uses
seven matches every day. To provide so many would require some seven
hundred million matches a day in this country alone. It seems like
a very simple matter to cut a splinter of wood, dip it into some
chemicals, and pack it into a box for sale; and it would be simple
if it were all done by hand, but the matches would also be irregular
and extremely expensive. The way to make anything cheap and uniform
is to manufacture it by machinery.
[Illustration: THE ENDLESS MATCH MACHINE
The match splints are set in tiny holes like pins in a pincushion, and
the belt revolves, passing their heads through various chemicals.]
The first step in making matches is to select some white-pine plank of
good quality and cut it into blocks of the proper size. These are fed
into a machine which sends sharp dies through them and thus cuts the
match splints. Over the splint cutter a carrier chain is continuously
moving, and into holes in this chain the ends of the match splints
are forced at the rate of ten or twelve thousand a minute.
The splints remain in the chain for about an hour, and during this
hour all sorts of things happen to them. First, they are dipped into
hot paraffin wax, because this will light even more easily than wood.
As soon as the wax is dry, the industrious chain carries them over a
dipping-roll covered with a layer consisting partly of glue and rosin.
Currents of air now play upon the splint, and in about ten minutes the
glue and rosin on one end of it have hardened into a hard bulb. It is
not a match yet by any means, for scratching it would not make it
light. The phosphorus which is to make it into a match is on another
dipping-roll. This is sesqui-sulphide of phosphorus. The common yellow
phosphorus is poisonous, and workmen in match factories where it was
used were in danger of suffering from a terrible disease of the jaw
bone. At length it was discovered that sesqui-sulphide of phosphorus
would make just as good matches and was harmless. Our largest match
company held the patent giving them the exclusive right to certain
processes by which the sesqui-sulphide was made; and this patent they
generously gave up to the people of the United States.
After the splints have been dipped into the preparation of phosphorus,
they are carried about on the chain vertically, horizontally, on the
outside of some wheels and the inside of others, and through currents
of air. Then they are turned over to a chain divided into sections
which carries them to a packing-machine. This machine packs them into
boxes, a certain number in each box, and they are slid down to girls
who make the boxes into packages. These are put into wooden containers
and are ready for sale.
As in most manufactures, these processes must be carried on with
great care and exactness. The wood must be carefully selected and of
straight grain, the dipping-rolls must be kept covered with a fresh
supply of composition, and its depth must be always uniform. Even the
currents of air in which the splints are dried must be just warm
enough to dry them and just moist enough not to dry them too rapidly.
The old sulphur matches made in "card and block" can no longer be
bought in this country; the safety match has taken their place. One
kind of safety match has the phosphorus on the box and the other
igniting substances on the match, so that the match will not light
unless it is scratched on the box; but this kind has never been a
favorite in the United States. The second kind, the one generally
used, may be struck anywhere, but these matches are safe because
even stepping upon one will not light it; it must be scratched.
A match is a little thing, but nothing else can do its work.
II
ABOUT INDIA RUBBER
When you pick a dandelion or a milkweed, a white sticky "milk" oozes
out; and this looks just like the juice of the various sorts of trees,
shrubs, and vines from which India rubber is made. The "rubber plant"
which has been such a favorite in houses is one of these; in India it
becomes a large tree which has the peculiar habit of dropping down
from its branches "bush-ropes," as they are called. These take root
and become stout trunks. There is literally a "rubber belt" around the
world, for nearly all rubber comes from the countries lying between
the Tropic of Cancer and the Tropic of Capricorn. More than half of
all that is brought to market is produced in the valley of the Amazon
River; and some of this "Para rubber," as it is called, from the
seaport whence it is shipped, is the best in the world.
[Illustration: _Courtesy General Rubber Co._
TAPPING RUBBER TREES IN SUMATRA
The plantation on which this photograph was taken has 45,000 acres of
planted rubber trees, and employs 14,000 coolies.]
The juice or latex flows best about sunrise, and so the natives who
collect it have to be early risers. They make little cuts in the bark
of the tree, stick on with a bit of clay a tiny cup underneath each
cut, and move on through the forest to the next tree. Sometimes they
make narrow V-shaped cuts in the bark, one above another, but all
coming into a perpendicular channel leading to the foot of the tree.
Later in the day the collectors empty the cups into great jugs and
carry them to the camp.
When the rubber juice reaches the camp, it is poured into a great
bowl. The men build a fire of sticks, and always add a great many palm
nuts, which are oily and make a good deal of smoke. Over the fire they
place an earthen jar shaped like a cone, but without top or bottom.
Now work begins. It is fortunate that it can be done in the open air,
and that the man can sit on the windward side, for the smoke rises
through the smaller hole thick and black and suffocating. The man
takes a stick shaped like a paddle, dips it into the bowl, and holds
it in the smoke and heat, turning it rapidly over and over till the
water is nearly dried out of the rubber and it is no longer milky, but
dark-colored. Then he dips this paddle in again and again. It grows
heavier at each dipping, but he keeps on till he has five or six
pounds of rubber. With a wet knife he cuts this off, making what are
called "biscuits." After many years of this sort of work, some one
found that by resting one end of a pole in a crotched stick and
holding the other in his hand, a man could make a much larger biscuit.
For a long time people thought that rubber trees could not be
cultivated. One difficulty in taking them away from their original
home to plant is that the seeds are so rich in oil as to become rancid
unusually soon. At length, however, a consignment of them was packed
in openwork baskets between layers of dried wild banana leaves and
slung up on deck in openwork crates so as to have plenty of air. By
this means seven thousand healthy little plants were soon growing in
England, and from there were carried to Ceylon and the East.
On the rubber plantations collecting juice from trees standing near
together and in open ground is an altogether different matter from
cutting a narrow path and forcing one's way through a South American
or African jungle. The bark of the trees is cut in herringbone
fashion. The collector simply slices a thin piece off the bark and at
once milk begins to ooze out.
On the great plantations of the East the rubber is collected chiefly
by Chinese and Indians. They are carefully taught just how to tap the
trees. They begin four or five feet from the ground, and work down,
cutting the thinnest possible slice at each visit. When they have
almost reached the ground, they begin on the opposite side of the
trunk; and by the time they have reached the ground on that side the
bark on the first side has renewed itself. The latex is strained and
mixed with some acid, usually acetic, in order to coagulate or thicken
it. It is then run between rollers, hung in a drying house, and
generally in a smokehouse.
The rubber arrives at the factory in bales or cases. First of all
it must be thoroughly washed in order to get rid of sand or bits of
leaves and wood. A machine called a "washer" does this work. It forces
the rubber between grooved rolls which break it up; and as this is
done under a spray of water, the rubber is much cleaner when it comes
out. Another machine makes it still cleaner and forms it into long
sheets about two feet wide.
Having thoroughly wet the rubber, the next step is to dry it
thoroughly. The old way was to hang it up for several weeks. The new
way is to cut it into strips, lay it upon steel trays, and place it
in a vacuum dryer. This is kept hot, and whatever moisture is in the
rubber is either evaporated or sucked out by a vacuum pump. It now
passes through another machine much like the washer, and is formed
into sheets. The square threads from which elastic webbing is made may
be cut from these sheets, though sometimes the sheet is wound on an
iron drum, vulcanized by being put into hot water, lightly varnished
with shellac to stiffen it, then wound on a wooden cylinder, and cut
into square threads. Boiling these in caustic soda removes the
shellac. To make round threads, softened rubber is forced through a
die. Rubber bands are made by cementing a sheet of rubber into a tube
and then cutting them off at whatever width may be desired. Toy
balloons are made of such rubber. Two pieces are stamped out and
joined by a particularly noisy machine, and then the balloon is blown
out by compressed air.
Early in the nineteenth century it was known that rubber would keep
out water, but it was sticky and unmanageable. After a while a Scotch
chemist named McIntosh succeeded in dissolving rubber in naphtha and
spreading it between two thicknesses of cloth. That is why his name
is given to raincoats made in this way. Overshoes, too, were made of
pure rubber poured over clay lasts which were broken after the rubber
had dried. These overshoes were waterproof,--there was no denying
that; but they were heavy and clumsy and shapeless. When they were
taken off, they did not stand up, but promptly fell over. In hot
weather they became so sticky that they had to be kept in the cellar;
and in winter they became stiff and inelastic, but they never wore
out. How to get rid of the undesirable qualities and not lose the
desirable ones was the question. It was found out that if sulphur was
mixed with rubber, the disagreeable stickiness would vanish; but the
rubbers continued to melt and to freeze by turns until an American
named Charles Goodyear discovered that if rubber mixed with sulphur
was exposed to about 300° F. of heat for a number of hours, the rubber
would remain elastic, but would not be sticky and would no longer be
affected by heat or cold. This is why you often see the name Goodyear
on the bottom of rubbers.
Rubber overshoes were improved at once. As they now are made, the
rubber is mixed with sulphur, whiting, litharge, and several other
substances. An honest firm will add only those materials that will be
of service in making the rubber more easy to mould or will improve it
in some way. Unfortunately, substances are often added, not for this
purpose, but to increase the weight and apparent value of the
articles. That is why some rubber overshoes, for instance, wear out
so much faster than others.
To make an overshoe, the rubber is run through rollers and formed into
thick sheets for soles and thinner sheets for uppers. Another machine
coats with gum the cloth used for lining and stays. Rubber and
rubber-lined cloth go to the cutting-room, where all the different
parts of the shoes are cut out. They are then put together and
varnished. While still on the last, they are dipped into a tank of
varnish and vulcanized--a very simple matter now that Goodyear has
shown us how, for they are merely left in large, thoroughly heated
ovens for eight or ten hours. The rubber shoe or boot is now elastic,
strong, waterproof, ready for any temperature, and so firmly cemented
together with rubber cement that it is practically all in one piece.
During the last few years there have been frequent calls from various
charities for old rubber overshoes, pieces of rubber hose, etc. These
are of considerable value in rubber manufacturing. They are run
through a machine which tears them to shreds, then through a sort of
fanning-mill which blows away the bits of lining. Tiny pieces of iron
may be present from nails or rivets; but these are easily removed by
magnets. This "reclaimed" rubber is powdered and mixed with the new,
and for some purposes the mixture answers very well. Imitation rubber
has been made by heating oil of linseed, hemp, maize, etc., with
sulphur; but no substitute for rubber is a success for all uses.
[Illustration: _Courtesy U. S. Tire Co._
HOW RUBBER GOES THROUGH THE FACTORY
Splitting Para biscuits, mixing the rubber, rolling the rubber fabric
on cylinders, and building tires on the tire machines.]
There are many little conveniences made of rubber which we should
greatly miss, such as the little tips put into pencil ends for erasing
pencil marks. These are made by filling a mould with rubber. Rubber
corks are made in much the same manner. Tips for the legs of chairs
are made in a two-piece mould larger at the bottom than at the top,
and with a plunger that nearly fits the small end. Often on chair tips
and in the cup-shaped eraser that goes over the ends of some pencils
you can see the "fin," as the glassworkers call it, where the two
pieces of the mould did not exactly fit. Rubber cannot be melted and
cast in moulds like iron, but it can be gently heated and softened,
and then pressed into a mould. Rubber stamps are made in this way. The
making of rubber heels and soles is now a large industry; hose for
watering and for vacuum and Westinghouse brakes is made in increasing
quantities. The making of rubber tires for automobiles and carriages
is an important industry. The enormous and increasing use of
electricity requires much use of rubber as an insulator. Rubber gloves
will protect an electrical workman from shock and a surgeon from
infection. Rubber beds and cushions filled with air are a great
comfort in illness. Rubber has great and important uses; but we should
perhaps miss quite as much the little comforts and conveniences which
it has made possible.
Rubber and gutta-percha are not the same substance by any means.
Both of them are made of the milky juice of trees, but of entirely
different trees. The gutta-percha milk is collected in an absurdly
wasteful manner, namely, by cutting down the trees and scraping up
the juice. When this juice reaches the market, it is in large reddish
lumps which look like cork and smell like cheese. It has to be
cleaned, passed through a machine that tears it into bits, then
between rollers before it is ready to be manufactured. It is not
elastic like rubber; it may be stretched; but it will not snap back
again as rubber does. It is a remarkably good nonconductor of
electricity, and therefore it has been generally used to protect ocean
cables, though recently rubber has been taking its place. It makes
particularly excellent casts, for when it is warm it is not sticky,
but softens so perfectly that it will show the tiniest indentation of
a mould. It is the best kind of splint for a broken bone. If a boy
breaks his arm, a surgeon can put a piece of gutta-percha into hot
water, set the bone, bind on the softened gutta-percha for a splint,
and in a few minutes it will be moulded to the exact shape of the arm,
but so stiff as to keep the bone in place. Another good service which
gutta-percha renders to the physician results from its willingness
to dissolve in chloroform. If the skin is torn off, leaving a raw
surface, this dissolved gutta-percha can be poured over it, and soon
it is protected by an artificial skin which keeps the air from the raw
flesh and gives the real skin an opportunity to grow again.
III
"KID" GLOVES
There is an old proverb which says, "For a good glove, Spain must
dress the leather, France must cut it, and England must sew it." Many
pairs of most excellent gloves have never seen any one of these
countries, but the moral of the proverb remains, namely, that it takes
considerable work and care to make a really good glove.
The first gloves made in the United States were of thick buckskin, for
there was much heavy work to be done in the forest and on the land.
The skin was tanned in Indian fashion, by rubbing into the flesh side
the brains of the deer--though how the Indians ever thought of using
them is a mystery. Later, the white folk tried to tan with pigs'
brains; but however valuable the brains of a pig may be to himself,
they do not contain the properties of soda ash which made those of
the deer useful for this purpose.
[Illustration: CUTTING HIDES INTO GLOVES
The hides are kept in racks, and before cutting are stretched by hand.
Then the steel die cuts out the shape of the glove. Notice the
curiously shaped cut for the thumb.]
Years ago, when a man set out to manufacture gloves, usually only a
few dozen pairs, he cut out a pattern from a shingle or a piece of
pasteboard, laid it upon a skin, marked around it, and cut it out with
shears. Pencils were not common, but the glovemaker was fully equal
to making his own. He melted some lead, ran it into a crack in the
kitchen floor--and cracks were plentiful--and then used this
"plummet," as it was called, for a marker. After cutting the large
piece for the front and back of the glove, he cut out from the scraps
remaining the "fourchettes," or _forks_; that is, the narrow strips
that make the sides of the fingers. Smaller scraps were put in to welt
the seams; and all this went off in great bundles to farmhouses to
be sewed by the farmers' wives and daughters for the earning of
pin-money. If the gloves were to be the most genteel members of the
buckskin race, there was added to the bundle a skein of silk, with
which a slender vine was to be worked on the back of the hand. The
sewing was done with a needle three-sided at the point, and a stout
waxed thread was used. A needle of this sort went in more easily than
a round one, but even then it was rather wearisome to push it through
three thicknesses of stout buckskin. Moreover, if the sewer happened
to take hold of the needle too near the point, the sharp edges were
likely to make little cuts in her fingers.
After a while sewing machines were invented, and factories were built,
and now in a single county of the State of New York many thousand
people are at work making various kinds of leather coverings for their
own hands and those of other folk. Better methods of tanning have been
discovered, and many sorts of leather are now used, especially for
the heavier gloves. Deer are not so common as they used to be, and a
"buckskin" glove is quite likely to have been made of the hide of
a cow or a horse. "Kid" generally comes from the body of a sheep
instead of that of a young goat. Our best real kidskin comes from a
certain part of France, where the climate seems to be just suited to
the young kids, there is plenty of the food that they like, and, what
is fully as important, they receive the best of care. It is said that
to produce the very finest kidskin, the kids are fed on nothing but
milk, are treated with the utmost gentleness, and are kept in coops or
pens carefully made so that there shall be nothing to scratch their
tender skins.
Glovemakers are always on the lookout for new kinds of material, and
when, not many years ago, there came from Arabia with a shipment of
Mocha coffee two bales of an unknown sort of skin, they were eager to
try it. It tanned well and made a glove that has been a favorite from
the first. The skin was found to come from a sheep living in Arabia,
Abyssinia, and near the headwaters of the river Nile. It was named
Mocha from the coffee with which it came, and Mocha it has been ever
since. The Suède glove has a surface much like that of the Mocha. Its
name came from "Swede," because the Swedes were the first to use the
skin with the outside in.
Most of our thinner "kid" gloves are made of lambskin; but dressing
the skins is now done so skillfully in this country that "homemade"
gloves are in many respects fully as good as the imported; indeed,
some judges declare that in shape and stitching certain grades are
better. When sheepskins and lambskins come to market from a distance,
they are salted. They have to be soaked in water, all bits of flesh
scraped off, and the hair removed, generally by the use of lime. After
another washing, they are put into alum and salt for a few minutes;
and after washing this off, they are dried, stretched, and then are
ready for the softening. Nothing has been found that will soften the
skins so perfectly as a mixture of flour, salt, and the yolk of
eggs--"custard," as the workmen call it. The custard and the skins
are tumbled together into a great iron drum which revolves till the
custard has been absorbed and the skins are soft and yielding. Now
they are stretched one way and another, and wet so thoroughly that
they lose all the alum and salt that may be left and also much of
the custard.
Now comes dyeing. The skin is laid upon a table, smooth side up, and
brushed over several times with the coloring matter; very lightly,
however, for if the coloring goes through the leather, the hands of
the customers may be stained and they will buy no more gloves of that
make. The skins are now moistened and rolled and left for several
weeks to season. When they are unrolled, the whole skin is soft and
pliable. It is thick, however, and no one who is not an expert can
thin it properly. The process is called "mooning" because the knife
used is shaped like a crescent moon. It is flat, its center is cut
out, and the outer edge is sharpened. Over the inner curve is a
handle. The skin is hung on a pole, and the expert workman draws
the mooning knife down it until any bit of dried flesh remaining has
been removed, and the skin is of the same thickness, or, rather,
thinness throughout.
All this slow, careful work is needed to prepare the skin for cutting
out the glove; and now it goes to the cutter. There is no longer any
cutting out of gloves with shears and pasteboard patterns, but there
is a quick way and a slow way nevertheless. The man who cuts in the
quick way, the "block-cutter," as he is called, spreads out the skin
on a big block made by bolting together planks of wood with the grain
running up and down. He places a die in the shape of the glove upon
the leather, gives one blow with a heavy maul, and the glove is cut
out. This answers very well for the cheaper and coarser gloves, but to
cut fine gloves is quite a different matter. This needs skill, and it
is said that no man can do good "table-cutting" who has not had at
least three years' experience; and even then he may not be able to do
really first-class work. He dampens the skin, stretches it first one
way and then the other, and examines it closely for flaws or scratches
or weak places. He must put on his die in such a way as to get two
pairs of ordinary gloves or one pair of "elbow gloves" out of the skin
if possible, and yet he must avoid the poor places if there are any.
No glove manufacturer can afford to employ an unskilled or careless
cutter, for he will waste much more than his wages amount to. There
used to be one die for the right hand and another for the left, and
it was some time before it occurred to any one that the same die would
cut both gloves if only the skin was turned over.
[Illustration: CLOSING THE GLOVE
When sewing time comes, the glove goes from hand to hand down the
workroom, each stitcher doing a certain seam or seams.]
[Illustration: WHERE THE GLOVE GETS ITS SHAPE
After inspection the glove goes to a row of men who fit it on a
steam-heated brass hand, giving it its final shape and finish.]
Now comes the sewing. Count the pieces in a glove, and this will give
some idea of the work needed to sew them together. Notice that the
fourchettes are sewed together on the wrong side, the other seams on
the right side, and that the tiny bits of facing and lining are hemmed
down by hand. Notice that two of the fingers have only one fourchette,
while the others have two fourchettes each. Notice how neatly the ends
of the fingers are finished, with never an end of thread left on the
right side. The embroidery must be in exactly the right place, and it
must be fastened firmly at both ends. This embroidery is not a
meaningless fashion, for the lines make the hand look much more
slender and of a better shape. Sewing in the thumbs needs special care
and skill. There must be no puckering, and the seam must not be so
tightly drawn as to leave a red line on the hand when the glove is
taken off. No one person does all the sewing on a glove; it must pass
through a number of hands, each doing a little. Even after all the
care that is given it, a glove is a shapeless thing when it comes from
the sewing machines. It is now carried to a room where stands a long
table with a rather startling row of brass hands of different sizes
stretching up from it. These are heated, the gloves are drawn upon
them, and in a moment they have shape and finish, and are ready to be
inspected and sold.
The glove is so closely associated with the hand and with the person
to whom the hand belongs that in olden times it was looked upon as
representing him. When, for instance, a fair could not be opened
without the presence of some noble, it was enough if he sent his
glove to represent him. To throw down one's glove before a man was to
challenge him to a combat. At the coronation of Queen Elizabeth, as of
many other sovereigns of England, the "Queen's champion," a knight in
full armor, rode into the great hall and threw down his glove, crying,
"If there be any manner of man that will say and maintain that our
sovereign Lady, Queen Elizabeth, is not the rightful and undoubted
inheritrix to the imperial crown of this realm of England, I say he
lieth like a false traitor, and therefore I cast him my gage."
IV
HOW RAGS AND TREES BECOME PAPER
It was a great day for the children on the farm when the tin peddler
came around. He had a high red wagon, fairly bristling with brooms,
mop-handles, washtubs, water-pails, and brushes. When he opened his
mysterious drawers and caverns, the sunshine flashed upon tin pans,
dippers, dustpans, and basins. Put away rather more choicely were
wooden-handled knives, two-tined forks, and dishes of glass and china;
and sometimes little tin cups painted red or blue and charmingly
gilded, or cooky-cutters in the shape of dogs and horses. All these
rare and delightful articles he was willing to exchange for rags. Is
it any wonder that the thrifty housewife saved her rags with the
utmost care, keeping one bag for white clippings and one for colored?
These peddlers were the great dependence of the paper mills, for the
finest paper is made from linen and cotton rags. When the rags reach
the factory, they are carefully sorted. All day long the sorters sit
before tables whose tops are covered with coarse wire screens, and
from masses of rags they pick out buttons, hooks and eyes, pins, bits
of rubber, and anything else that cannot possibly be made into paper.
At the same time they sort the rags carefully into different grades,
and with a knife shaped like a small sickle fastened upright to the
table they cut them into small pieces. Some of the dust falls through
the screen; but to remove the rest of it, the cut-up rags are tossed
about in a wire drum. Sometimes they are so dusty that when they come
out of the drum they weigh only nine tenths as much as when they go
in. The dust is out of them, but not the dirt. To remove that, they
are now put into great boilers full of steam; and here they cook and
turn over, and turn over and cook for hours. Lime and sometimes soda
are put with them to cleanse them and remove the coloring material;
but when they are poured out, they look anything but clean, for they
are of a particularly dirty brown; and the water that is drained away
from them looks even more uninteresting. Of course the next step is to
wash this dirty brown mass; and for at least four hours it is scrubbed
in a machine which beats it and rolls it and chops it and tumbles it
about until the wonder is that anything is left of it. All this while,
the water has been flowing through it, coming in clean and going out
dirty; and at length the mass becomes so light a gray that making
white paper of it does not seem quite hopeless. It is now bleached
with chloride of lime, and washed till it is of a creamy white color
and free from the lime, and then beaten again. If you fold a piece of
cheap paper and tear it at the fold, it will tear easily; but if you
do the same thing with paper made of linen and cotton, you will find
it decidedly tough. Moreover, if you look closely at the torn edge of
the latter, you will see the fibers clearly. It is because of the
beating that the fibers are so matted together and thus make the paper
tough. While the pulp is in the beater, the manufacturer puts in the
coloring matter, if he wishes it to be tinted blue or rose or lavender
or any other color. No one would guess that this white or creamy or
azure liquid had ever been the dirty rags that came into the mill and
were sorted on the wire tables. Besides the coloring, a "filler" is
usually added at this time, such as kaolin, the fine clay of which
china is made. This fills the pores and gives a smoother surface to
the finished paper--a good thing if too much is not put in. A little
sizing is also added, made of rosin. Save for this sizing, ink would
sink into even the finished paper as it does into blotting paper.
After this, more water is added to the pulp and it is run into tanks.
Now the preparation is completed, and the pulp is pumped to large and
complicated machines which undertake to make it into paper. It first
flows through screens which are shaken all the while as if they were
trembling. This shaking lets the liquid and the finer fibers through,
but holds back the little lumps, if any remain after all the beating
and straining and cutting that it has had. The pulp flows upon an
endless wire screen. Rubber straps at the sides keep it in, but the
extra water drops through the meshes. The pulp is flowing onward, and
so the tiny fibers would naturally straighten out and flow with it,
like sticks in a river; but the wire screen is kept shaking sideways,
and this helps the fibers to interlace, and the paper becomes nearly
as strong one way as the other.
If you hold a sheet of paper up to the light, it will show plainly
what is next done to it. Sometimes you can see that it is marked by
light parallel lines running across it close together, and crossed by
other and stouter lines an inch or two apart. Sometimes the name of
the paper or that of the manufacturer is marked in the same way by
letters lighter than the rest of the sheet. Sometimes the paper is
plain with no markings whatever. This difference is made by what is
called the "dandy," a cylinder covered with wire. For the first, or
"laid" paper, the small wires run the length of the cylinder and the
stouter ones around it. Wherever the wires are, the paper is a little
thinner. In some papers this thinness can be seen and felt. For the
second kind of paper the design, or "watermark," is formed by wires a
little thicker than the rest of the covering. For the third, or "wove"
paper, the dandy is covered with plain woven wire like that of the
wire cloth; so there are no markings at all. This work can be easily
done because at this point the paper is so moist.
The paper is now not in sheets, but in a long web like a web of cloth.
It passes between felt-covered rollers to press out all the water
possible, then over steam-heated cylinders to be dried, finally going
between cold iron rollers to be made smooth, and is wound on a reel,
trimmed and cut into sheets of whatever size is desired. The finest
note papers are not finished in this way, but are partly dried,
passed through a vat of thin glue, any excess being squeezed off by
rollers, then cut into sheets, and hung up to dry thoroughly at their
leisure.
Paper made of properly prepared linen and cotton is by far the best,
but there are so many new uses for paper that there are not rags
enough in the world to make nearly what is needed. There are scores of
newspapers and magazines where there used to be one; and as for paper
bags and cartons and boxes, there is no limit to their number and
variety. A single manufacturer of pens and pencils calls for four
thousand different sorts and sizes of boxes. School-children's use of
paper instead of slates, the fashion of wrapping Christmas gifts in
white tissue, and the invention of the low-priced cameras have
increased enormously the amount of paper called for. In the attempt to
supply the demand all sorts of materials have been used, such as hemp,
old rope, peat, the stems of flax, straw, the Spanish and African
esparto grass, and especially wood; but much more paper is made of
wood than of all the rest together. Poplar, gum, and chestnut trees,
and especially those trees which bear cones, such as the spruce, fir,
balsam, and pine are used. There are two methods of manufacturing wood
pulp; the mechanical, by grinding up the wood, and the chemical, by
treating it chemically. By the mechanical method the wood is pressed
against a large grindstone which revolves at a high speed. As fast as
the wood is ground off, it is washed away by a current of water, and
strained through a shaking sieve and a revolving screen which drives
out part of the water by centrifugal force. In a great vat of pulp a
drum covered with wire cloth revolves, and on it a thin sheet of pulp
settles. Felting, pressed against this sheet, carries it onward
through rolls. The sheets are pressed between coarse sacking. Such
paper is very poor stuff. In its manufacture the fiber of the wood is
so ground up that it has little strength. It is used for cardboard,
cartons, and packing-papers. Unfortunately, it is also used for
newspapers; and while it is a good thing for some of them to drop to
pieces, it is a great loss not to have the others permanent. When we
wish to know what people thought about any event fifty years ago, we
can look back to the papers of that time; but when people fifty years
from now wish to learn what we thought, many of the newspapers will
have fallen to pieces long before that time.
[Illustration: _Courtesy S. D. Warren Co._
WHERE RAGS BECOME PAPER
The vat where the rags cook and turn over, and the big room where the
web of finished paper is passed through rollers and cut into a neat
pile of trimmed sheets.]
There is, however, a method called the "sulphite process," used
principally in treating the coniferous woods, by which a much better
paper can be made. In all plants there is a substance called
"cellulose." This is what gives strength to their stems. The wood is
chipped and put into digesters large enough to hold twenty tons, and
is steam-cooked together with bisulphite of magnesium or calcium for
seven or eight hours. Another method used for cooking such woods as
poplar and gum, is to boil the wood in caustic soda, which destroys
everything except the cellulose. Wood paper of one kind or another is
used for all daily papers and for most books. Whether the best wood
paper will last as long as the best rag paper, time only can tell.
The Government of the United States tests paper in several ways
before buying it. First, a single sheet is weighed; then a ream is
put on the scales to see if it weighs four hundred and eighty times
as much. This shows whether the paper runs evenly in weight. Many
sheets are folded together and measured to see if the thickness is
regular. To test its strength, a sheet is clamped over a hole one
square inch in area, and liquid is pressed against it from below to
see how much it will stand before bursting. Strips of the paper are
pulled in a machine to test its breaking strength. A sheet is folded
over and over again to see whether holes will appear at the corners
of the folds. It is examined under the microscope to see of what
kind of fibers it is made and how much loading has been used in its
manufacture. To test blotting paper, strips are also put into water
to see how high the water will rise on them.
Besides writing and wrapping papers and the various kinds of board,
there are many sorts which are used for special purposes. India paper,
for instance, is light, smooth, and strong, so opaque that printing
will not show through it, and so lasting that if it is crumpled, it
can be ironed out and be as good as new. This is used for books that
are expected to have hard wear but must be of light weight. There are
tissue papers, crêpe papers for napkins, and tarred paper to make
roofs and even boats water-tight. If tar is brushed on, it may make
bubbles which will break afterwards and let water in; but if tar is
made a part of the paper itself, it lasts. Paper can easily be waxed
or paraffined, and will then keep out air and moisture for some time.
Better still, it can be treated with oil and will then make a raincoat
that will stand a year's wear, or even, if put on a bamboo frame, make
a very good house, as the Japanese found out long ago. Paper coated
with powdered gum and tin is used for packing tea and coffee. Transfer
or carbon papers so much used in making several copies of an article
on the typewriter are made by coating paper with starch, flour, gum,
and coloring matter. Paper can be used for shoes and hats, ties,
collars, and even for "rubbers." It has been successfully used for
sails for light vessels, and is excellent made into light garments
for hospital use because it is so cheap that it can be burned after
wearing. Wood pulp can be run through fine tubes into water and made
so pliable that it can be twisted into cord or spun and woven into
"silk." Not only water but also fire can be kept out by paper if it is
treated with the proper substances. An object can be covered with a
paste of wood pulp, silica, and hemp; and when this is dry, a coat of
water-glass will afford considerable protection. There has been some
degree of success in making transparent paper films for moving
pictures; and if these are coated with water-glass, they will not
burn. Paper can be so treated that it will either conduct electricity
or become a nonconductor, as may be desired. In Germany, a "sandwich
paper" has been made by pressing together four layers--felt, pulp,
cotton, pulp--which is cheap and strong and useful for many purposes.
When we come to papier maché, there is no end to the kinds of articles
that are made of it. The papier maché, or _paper pulped_, is made by
kneading old newspapers or wrapping papers with warm water into a
pulp. Clay and coloring are added and something of the nature of glue;
and it is then put into a mould. Sometimes to make it stronger for
large mouldings, bits of canvas or even wire are also used. The best
papier maché is made of pure wood cellulose. The beautiful boxes and
trays covered with lacquer which the Japanese and Chinese make are
formed of this; but it has many much humbler uses than these. Paper
screws are employed in ornamental wood work, and if a hole is begun
for such a screw, it will twist its way into soft wood as well as
steel would do. Barrels of paper reinforced with wire are common. Gear
wheels and belt pulleys are made of papier maché, and even the wheels
of railroad coaches; at least the body of the wheels is made of it,
although the tire, hub, and axle are of cast-steel. Circular saws of
pulp are in use which cut thin slices of veneer so smoothly that they
can be used without planing. Papier maché is used for water pipes,
the bodies of carriages, hencoops, and garages. Indeed, it is quite
possible to build a house, shingle it, decorate it with elaborate
mouldings and cornices, finish it with panels, wainscoting, imitation
tiling, and furnish it with light, comfortable furniture covered with
imitation leather, silk, or cloth, and spread on its floors soft,
thick carpets or rugs woven in beautiful designs--and all made of wood
pulp. Even the window panes could be made of pulp; and if they were
not perfectly transparent, they would at least let in a soft,
agreeable light, and they would not break. Pails, washtubs, bathtubs,
and even dishes of paper can be easily found. There are not only the
paper cups provided on railroad trains and the cheap picnic plates
and saucers, but some that are really pretty. Ice cream is sometimes
served in paper dishes and eaten with paper spoons. Milk bottles are
successfully made of paper, with a long strip of some transparent
material running up and down the side to show how much--or how
little--cream is within. Napkins and tablecloths made of paper thread
woven into "cloth" are cheaper than linen and can be washed as easily.
Paper towels and dishcloths are already common; but when paper shall
fully come to its own, it is quite possible that there will be little
washing of dishes. They can be as pretty as any one could wish, but so
cheap that after each meal they can be dropped into the fire. Indeed,
there are few things in a house, except a stove, that cannot be made
of some form of paper,--and perhaps that too will be some day.
V
HOW BOOKS ARE MADE
The first step in making ready to print a manuscript is to find out
how many words there are in it, what kind of type to use, how much
"leading" or space between the lines there shall be, and what shall
be the size of the page. In deciding these questions, considerable
thinking has to be done. If the manuscript is a short story by a
popular author, it may be printed with wide margins and wide leading
in order to make a book of fair size. If it is a lengthy manuscript
which will be likely to sell at a moderate but not a high price, it
is best to use only as much leading as is necessary to make the line
stand out clearly, and to print with a margin not so wide as to
increase the expense of the book. The printer prints a sample of the
page decided upon, any desired changes are made, and then the making
of the book begins.
[Illustration: _Courtesy The Riverside Press._
WHERE THIS BOOK WAS SET UP
The monotype girl wrote these words on her keyboard, where they made
tiny holes in a roll of paper. The roll went to the casting-room where
it guided a machine to make the type much as a perforated music-roll
guides a piano to play a tune.]
The type is kept in a case at which the compositor stands. This case
is divided into shallow compartments, each compartment containing a
great many e's or m's as the case may be. The "upper case" contains
capitals; the "lower case," small letters. Those letters which are
used most often are put where the compositor can reach them most
readily. He stands before his case with a "composing stick" in his
hand. This "stick" is a little iron frame with a slide at the side,
so that the line can be made of any length desired. The workman soon
learns where each letter is, and even an apprentice can set the type
in his stick reasonably rapidly. On one side of every piece of type
there is a groove, so that he can tell by touch whether it is right
side up or not. He must look out especially to make his right-hand
margins regular. You will notice in books that the lines are all of
the same length, although they do not contain the same number of
letters. The compositor brings this about by arranging his words and
spaces skillfully. The spaces must be as nearly as possible of the
same length, and yet the line must be properly filled. If a line is
too full, he can sometimes place the last syllable on the following
line; if it is not full enough, he can borrow a syllable, and he can
at least divide his space so evenly that the line will not look as if
it were broken in two.