Under the general head of _string_, I might enumerate a long list of
this world's miseries. Shoe-strings alone comprehend an amount of
wretchedness, which is but feebly described in the tragical story of
Jemmy String. Bonnet-strings and apron-strings, dickey-strings and
watch-guards, curtain-cord, bed-cord, and cod-line, each and all have
furnished enough discomfort to make out a long grumbling article. But
I cannot linger to describe their treacherous desertions when their
services are most needed, their unexpected weakness, and their
obstinate entanglements when time presses. A certain pudding-bag
string is commemorated in one of the beautiful couplets of Mother
Goose's Melodies. I am sure you cannot have forgotten it, nor the
staring spotted cat that is there represented racing away with her
booty. That lamented pudding-bag string is but a type of strings in
general. They are fleeting possessions, always hiding, always
misplaced, never in order. You fit up a string-drawer, perhaps, with a
fine assortment, and pride yourself upon its nice arrangement. Go to
it a week after, and see if you can find one ball where you left it!
Can you lay your hand upon a single piece that you want? No, indeed!
Twine is considered common property. If any one has a use for it, he
takes it without leave or license, without even inquiring who is the
owner, and you may be sure he will never bring any of it back again. O
the misery endured for the want of an errant piece of twine, when you
are in a nervous hurry to do up a parcel, some one waiting at the door
meanwhile! After an immense deal of pains, you have it at last folded
to your liking, with every corner squared and even, every wrinkle
smoothed. Then, clasping tightly with one hand the stiff wrapper, you
search distractedly with the other for a ball of twine, which you
distinctly remember tossing into the paper-drawer only the day before.
In vain you surround yourself with newspaper and brown paper, and
useless rubbish, tumbling your whole drawer into confusion. In vain
you relinquish your nicely packed parcel, and see its contents
scattered in all directions. In vain you grumble and scold. The ball
is not forthcoming. Your little brother has seized it to fly his kite,
or your sister is even now tying up her trailing morning-glories, or
sweet peas, with the stolen booty. You plunge your hand exploringly
into the drawer, and bring up a long roll wound thickly with twine of
all kinds and colors. Your eyes sparkle at the prize; but, alas! the
first energetic pull leaves in your hand a piece about four inches
long, and a quantity of dangling ends and rough knots convince you
that you have nothing to hope in that quarter. A second plunge brings
up a handful of odds and ends, strong pieces clumsy and rough, coarse
red quill-cord, delicate two-colored bits far too short, cotton twine
breaking at a touch, fine long pieces hopelessly tangled together, so
that not even an end is visible. The more you twitch at the loops, the
more desperate is the snarl. Poor mortal! Your pride gives way before
the urgency of haste. You send off your nice packet miserably tied
together by two kinds of twine.
All the rest of the day you are tormented by a superfluity of the very
thing you needed so much. It was impossible to get it when you wanted
it; but now it is pertinaciously in your way when you do _not_ want
it. You almost break your neck tripping over a long, firm cord, which
proves to be a pair of reins left hanging on a chair by some careless
urchin. The carpet and furniture are strewed with long, straggling
pieces of packthread. You find a white end dangling conspicuously from
your waistcoat pocket. As you walk the streets you see twine flying
from fences, or lying useless on the sidewalk, black with dust and
age. To crown the whole, a friend comes with a piece of twine
extending across two rooms, and asks you to help him twist and double
it into a cord. It is a very entertaining process. You amuse yourself
with watching one little rough place that whirls swiftly round, stops
with a jerk, turns hesitatingly one side and the other, then, yielding
to a new impulse, flies round and round again till you are dizzy. You
look with great complacency at the tightening twist, now brought
_almost_ to perfection. You turn it carelessly in your fingers,
scarcely noticing its convulsive starts for freedom. Ah! your
imprudent friend, without any warning, gives it a final pull to
stretch it into shape. The twine slips from your grasp, springs away
across the room, curls itself into a succession of snarls and twisted
loops, and then lies motionless. Your friend looks thunderstruck. With
a hasty apology, you step forward and tightly clasp the recreant
end. You are in nervous expectation of dropping it again. Your fingers
are benumbed at the tips with their tight compression, and the
constant twitching. They give a sudden jerk. You make an involuntary
clutch for the cord, but in vain. It is rapidly untwisting at the very
feet of your companion, who looks at it in despair. Again you make an
attempt with no success at all, the refractory twine eluding your
utmost endeavors to hold it. Once more! Your fellow-twister walks off
at last, with a wretchedly rough affair, which he good humoredly says
"will do very well."