marked coin into the centre of a large ball of Berlin wool or worsted,
the whole of which has to be unwound before the coin can be reached.
The _modus operandi_, though perplexing to the uninitiated, is absurdly
simple when the secret is revealed. The only apparatus necessary over
and above the wool (of which you must have enough for a good-sized
ball), is a flat tin tube, three to four inches in length, and just
large enough to allow a quarter or half-dollar (whichever you intend to
use for the trick) to slip through it easily. You prepare for the trick
by winding the wool on one end of the tube, in such manner that when
the whole is wound in a ball, an inch or so of the tube may project
from it. This you place in your pocket, or anywhere out of sight of
the audience. You commence the trick by requesting some one to mark a
coin, which you forthwith exchange by one or other of the means already
described, for a substitute of your own, and leave the latter in the
possession or in view of the spectators, while you retire to fetch your
ball of wool, or simply take it from your pocket. Before producing it,
you drop the genuine coin down the tube into the centre of the ball,
and withdraw the tube, giving the ball a squeeze to remove all trace
of an opening. You then bring it forward, and place it in a glass
goblet or tumbler, which you hand to a spectator to hold. Taking the
substitute coin, you announce that you will make it pass invisibly into
the very centre of the ball of wool, which you accordingly pretend to
do, getting rid of it by means of one or other of the “passes” already
described. You then request a second spectator to take the loose end
of the wool, and to unwind the ball, which, when he has done, the coin
falls out into the goblet.
The only drawback to the trick is the tediousness of unwinding. To
obviate this, some performers use a wheel made for the purpose, which
materially shortens the length of the operation.
MISCELLANEOUS TRICKS.
THE RAISIN TORTOISE.
This noble animal is constructed as follows:—A muscatel raisin
forms the body, and small portions of the stalk of the same fruit
the head and legs. With a little judgment in the selection of the
pieces of stalk and the mode in which they are thrust into the body,
it is surprising what a lifelike tortoise may be thus produced.
While the work of art in question is being handed round on a plate
for admiration, the artist may further distinguish himself, if the
wherewithal is obtainable, by constructing
THE LEMON PIG.
The body of the pig consists of a lemon. The shape of this fruit
renders it particularly well adapted for this purpose, the crease or
shoulder at the small end of the lemon being just the right shape to
form the head and neck of the pig. With three or four lemons to choose
from, you cannot fail to find at least one which will answer the
purpose exactly. The mouth and ears are made by cutting the rind with
a penknife, the legs of short ends of lucifer matches, and the eyes
either of black pins, thrust in up to the head, or of grape-stones.
THE SEASICK PASSENGER.
The requirements for this touching picture are an orange, a
pocket-handkerchief or soft table-napkin, and a narrow water goblet.
The orange is first prepared by cutting in the rind with a penknife
the best ears, nose, and mouth which the artist can compass, a couple
of raisin-pips supplying the place of eyes. A pocket-handkerchief is
stretched lightly over the glass, and the prepared orange laid thereon.
The pocket-handkerchief is then moved gently backward and forward
over the top of the glass, imparting to the orange a rolling motion,
and affording a laughable but striking caricature of the agonies of a
seasick passenger.
THE ENCHANTED RAISINS.
Take four raisins or bread-pills, and place them about a foot apart, so
as to form a square on the table. Next fold a couple of table-napkins,
each into a pad of five inches square. Take one of these in each hand,
the fingers undermost and the thumb uppermost. Then inform the company
that you are about to give them a lesson in the art of hanky-panky,
etc., and in the course of your remarks bring down the two napkins
carelessly over the two raisins farthest from you. Leave the right-hand
napkin on the table, but, in withdrawing the hand, bring away the
raisin between the second and third fingers, and at the same moment
remarking, “You must watch particularly how many raisins I place under
each napkin,” lift the left-hand napkin (as if merely to show that
there is one raisin only beneath it), and transfer it to the palm of
the outstretched right hand, behind which the raisin is now concealed.
Without any perceptible pause, but at the same time without any
appearance of haste, you replace the folded napkin on raisin No. 2,
and in so doing leave raisin No. 1 beside it. Now take up raisin No 3
(with the right hand). Put the hand under the table, and in doing so
get raisin No. 3 between the second and third fingers, as much _behind_
the hand as possible. Give a rap with the knuckles on the under-side
of the table, at the same time saying, “Pass!” and forthwith pick up
the left-hand napkin with the left hand, showing the raisins 1 and 2
beneath it. All eyes are drawn to the two raisins on the table, and as
the right hand comes into sight from beneath the table the left quietly
transfers the napkin to it, thereby effectually concealing the presence
of raisin No. 3. The napkin is again laid over raisins 1 and 2, and No.
3 is secretly deposited with them. No. 4 is then taken in the right
hand, and the process repeated, when _three_ raisins are naturally
discovered; the napkin being once more replaced, and No. 4 left with
the rest. There are now four raisins under the left-hand napkin, and
none under that on the right hand, though the spectators are persuaded
that there is _one_ under the latter, and only _three_ under the
former. The trick being now practically over, the performer may please
himself as to the form of the _dénouement_ and, having gone through any
appropriate form of incantation, commands the imaginary _one_ to go and
join the other three, which is found to have taken place accordingly.
THE DEMON LUMP OF SUGAR.
The performer commences by borrowing two hats, which he places, crown
upward, upon the table, drawing particular attention to the fact that
there is nothing whatever under either of them. He next demands the
loan of the family sugar basin, and requests some one to select from it
a lump of sugar (preferably one of an unusual and easily distinguished
shape), at the same time informing them that, by means of a secret
process, only known to himself, he will undertake to swallow such lump
of sugar before their eyes, and yet, after a few minutes’ interval,
bring it under either of the two hats they may choose. The company,
having been prepared by the last trick to expect some ingenious
piece of sleight-of-hand, are all on the _qui vive_ to prevent any
substitution of another lump of sugar, or any pretence of swallowing
without actually doing so. However, the performer does unmistakably
take the identical lump of sugar chosen and crush it to pieces with his
teeth. He then asks, with unabated confidence, under which of the two
hats he shall bring it, and, the choice having been made, places the
chosen hat on his own head, and in that way fulfills his undertaking.
THE MYSTERIOUS PRODUCTION.
This is another feat of the genus “sell,” and to produce due effect
should only be introduced after the performer has, by virtue of a
little genuine magic, prepared the company to expect from him something
a little out of the common. He begins by informing the spectators that
he is about to show them a great mystery, a production of nature on
which no human being has ever yet set eye, and which, when they have
once seen, no human being will ever set eyes on again. When the general
interest is sufficiently awakened, he takes a nut from the dish and,
having gravely cracked it, exhibits the kernel, and says, “Here is
an object which you will all admit no human being has ever seen, and
which” (here he puts it into his mouth and gravely swallows it) “I am
quite sure nobody will ever see again.”
THE FAMILY GIANT.
A very fair giant, for domestic purposes, may be produced by the simple
expedient of seating a young lad astride on the shoulders of one of
the older members of the company, and draping the combined figure with
a long cloak or Inverness cape. The “head” portion may, of course,
be “made up” as much as you please, the more complete the disguise
the more effective being the giant. A ferocious-looking moustache and
whiskers will greatly add to his appearance. If some ready-witted
and genial member of the party will undertake to act as showman, and
exhibit the giant, holding a lively conversation with him, and calling
attention to his gigantic idiosyncrasies, a great deal of fun may be
produced. The joke should not, however, be very long continued, as the
feelings of the “legs” have to be considered. If too long deprived of
air and light they are apt to wax rebellious, and either carry the
giant in directions he would fain avoid, or even occasionally to strike
altogether, and bring the giant’s days to a sudden and undignified
termination.
THE ANIMATED TELESCOPE.
This is a much more finished deception, and is not unfrequently seen
exhibited at theatres and circuses. The figure is constructed as
follows:—You procure a stout broomstick, four feet long, and on one end
thereof fasten firmly a grotesque pasteboard head, with appropriate
headdress. Next construct an extinguisher-shaped robe of some dark
material (a coarse black muslin or canvas is the best, as allowing a
reasonable amount of light and ventilation to the performer). It should
be gathered in with a frill round the neck of the figure, and should
be of such a length that when the performer stands beneath, with the
stick extended at full length above his neck, it shall all but reach
the ground. The robe should taper gradually outward, from a diameter
of about eight inches at the top to about two feet six at the bottom.
A cane hoop should be fastened horizontally within it at about the
height of the performer’s knees, and another at about the level of his
chin. These keep the garment distended, and give the operator much
greater freedom of movement than he would otherwise enjoy. The lower
hoop should be attached by four pieces of tape to a belt around the
performer’s waist, this arrangement keeping it at a uniform height from
the floor, and preventing the skirt getting under the performer’s feet
in walking.
With a little practice the figure thus composed may be made to go
through a variety of the most eccentric manœuvres. For instance, by
gradually lowering the stick, and at the same time contracting the body
into a crouching position, it may be made to sink to the dimensions of
a dwarf.
By bending the body, and at the same time lowering the stick into a
horizontal position, the figure will be made to salute. While in this
position the head may be made to describe a circle of three or four
feet in diameter, with inexpressibly comical effect. The stick may then
be sloped backward. By way of finale, the figure may be made to pass
its head between its legs, and in that position make its exit. Some
little practice is required to work the “Nondescript” effectively.
“THE WHAT-DO-YOU-THINK?”
Our next three or four sections will be devoted to the description of
the after-dinner menagerie. We will begin with the “What-do-you-Think?”
The exhibitor begins, in proper showman style, “Ladies and Gentlemen,
I have the pleasure of exhibiting to your notice the celebrated
‘What-do-you-Think?’ or Giant Uncle-Eater. You have all probably
heard of the Ant-Eater. This is, as you will readily perceive, a
member of the same family, but more so! He measures seven feet from
the tip of his snout to the end of his tail, eight feet back again,
five feet round the small of his waist, and has four feet of his own,
making twenty-four in all. In his natural state he lives chiefly on
blue-bottle flies and mixed pickles, but in captivity it is found
that so rich a diet has a tendency to make him stout, and he is now
fed exclusively on old champagne corks and back numbers of some daily
paper. His voice, which you may perhaps have an opportunity of hearing
(here the ‘What-do-you-Think?’ howls dismally), is in the key of B
flat, and is greatly admired. People come here before breakfast to hear
it, and when they have heard it, they assure us that they never heard
anything like it before. Some have even gone so far as to say that they
never wish to hear anything like it again.” Etc.
The “What-do-you-Think?” is manufactured as follows:—The performer, who
should have black kid gloves on, places on his head a conical paper
cap, worked up with the aid of the nursery paint-box into a rough
semblance of an animal’s head. This being securely fastened on, he
goes down on his hands and knees and a shaggy railway rug (of fur, if
procurable) is thrown over him, and secured round his neck, when the
animal is complete.
THE GIRAFFE.
A grotesque head, as nearly approaching the required shape as possible,
is securely fastened to the end of a long stick, which is held by the
foremost of the two performers who form the body beneath. To this head
is attached the cloth which is designed to form the body of the animal,
and which should be pinned round the bodies of the two performers. A
rope tail may be added.
A good deal of fun may be produced by the efforts of the animal to
scratch his head with his hind leg, etc.
THE DWARF.
The Dwarf can scarcely be said to belong to the menagerie, but may
appropriately follow in this place. He is constructed as follows:—A
table, with cover, is placed just in front of the drawn curtains of a
window. The performers, of whom there are two, place themselves behind
the table, the one in front of the other. The foremost either stands,
or kneels on a stool, as may be found most convenient, and rests his
hands, which are encased in a pair of boots, upon the table. These form
the feet of the Dwarf. The second performer stands behind the first,
concealed by the curtain, and passes his arms, which are the only part
of his person in view, over the shoulders of the first performer, to
form the arms of the dwarf. The above arrangements are, of course, made
before the company are admitted into the room. The dwarf then proceeds
to make a speech or sing a song, which the arms accompany with (as a
rule) singularly inappropriate gestures. Thus, at a very impressive
portion of (say) Hamlet’s soliloquy, the right hand will be seen to
tweak the nose violently, or even to “take a sight” at the assembled
company. The arms have even been known to stop the eloquence of the
mouth, by violently cramming a pocket-handkerchief into it. The legs
are equally eccentric in their behavior, the Dwarf not hesitating, on
an emergency, to scratch his nose with his foot, and so on.
The representation of the Dwarf demands a little practice, but, if
it is well worked, the effect produced will fully repay the trouble
expended in arranging it. A child’s pinafore will be found the most
appropriate garment.
THE TWO HATS.
This is a modern version of the old “Game of Contraries.” The leader
brings forward two hats; one he places on his own head, and hands the
other to one of the company, with whom he enters into conversation.
The person addressed must stand when the leader sits, and sit when he
stands, take off his hat when the leader puts on his, and _vice versa_.
A failure in any of these particulars is punishable by a forfeit. The
conversation may be somewhat as follows:
Leader (standing and wearing his own hat). Allow me to offer you a hat,
sir. (Sits down.)
Victim (standing up). I am much obliged to you, but I already have one.
Leader. Scarcely so becoming as this one, I think. But won’t you try
it on? (Stands up, and victim sits down.) Allow me to place it on your
head.
Victim. Not at present, thank you, though I quite admit it is a very
charming hat.
Leader (throwing himself into a chair, and fanning himself with his
hat). Dear me, how very hot the room is! Pray don’t rise on my account.
(Victim stands up, but omits to put on his hat, whereby he incurs a
forfeit, and the leader passes on to endeavor to entrap some other
player.)
THE KNIGHT OF THE WHISTLE.
This is a capital game for everybody but the victim, and produces much
fun. Some one who does not know the game is chosen to be Knight of
the Whistle, and is commanded to kneel down and receive the honor of
knighthood, which the leader (armed with a light cane, the drawing-room
poker, or other substitute for a sword) confers in due form.
While placing him in position, opportunity is taken to attach to his
back, by means of a bent pin or otherwise, a piece of string about a
foot in length, to which is attached a small light whistle. Having
been duly dubbed, in order to complete his dignity, he is informed
that he must now go in quest of the Whistle, which is in the hands
of one of the company, and will be sounded at intervals, in order to
guide him in his search. Meanwhile the other players gather in a circle
round him, making believe to pass an imaginary object from hand to
hand. The victim naturally believes that this imaginary object must be
the long-lost Whistle, and makes a dash for it accordingly, when the
player who happens to be behind his back blows the actual whistle, and
instantly drops it again. Round flies the unhappy Knight, and makes a
fresh dash to seize the Whistle, but in vain. No sooner has he turned
to a fresh quarter than the ubiquitous Whistle again sounds behind his
back.
If the game is played smartly, and care taken not to _pull_ upon the
cord, the Knight may often be kept revolving for a considerable period
before he discovers the secret.
Sometimes a lady is chosen to “dub” the intended Knight, and the
following piece of doggerel is repeated, the leader prompting:—
Lady. Why do you kneel thus low to implore?
Gentleman. That I may remain a mere gent no more.
Lady. How can I help your being a gent?
Gentleman. Dub me a Knight—you shall not repent.
Lady. If I should yield to your request,
What knightly duty will please you best?
Gentleman. To wait on ladies from morn till night,
And meet their foes in deadly fight.
Lady. Will you promise to heed all I may say,
And my will or whim henceforth to obey?
Gentleman. Yes, whatever you bid me do
Shall be my law—I belong to you.
Lady. Go, then, and be no longer blind,
And the troublesome Knight of the Whistle find.
The lady then strikes his shoulder with her fan or handkerchief, and
says, “Rise up, Sir——”
In this case the victim is not told, but is left to discover that he
himself is the Knight of the Whistle.
“HE CAN DO LITTLE.”
This is another “sell” of almost childish simplicity, but we have seen
people desperately puzzled over it, and even “give it up” in despair.
The leader takes a stick (or poker) in his left hand, thence transfers
it to his right, and thumps three times on the floor, saying, “He
can do little who can’t do this.” He then hands the stick to another
person, who, as he supposes, goes through exactly the same performance,
but if he does not know the game, is generally told, to his disgust,
that he has incurred a forfeit, his imitation not having been exact.
The secret lies in the fact that the stick, when passed on, is first
received in the left hand, and thence transferred to the right before
going through.
“THROWING LIGHT.”
Two of the company agree privately upon a word (which as before, should
be one susceptible of two or three meanings), and interchange remarks
tending to throw light upon it. The rest of the players do their best
to guess the word, but when either of them fancies he has succeeded,
he does not publicly announce his guess, but makes such a remark as to
indicate to the two initiated that he has discovered their secret. If
they have any doubt that he has really guessed the word, they challenge
him, i. e., require him to name it in a whisper. If his guess proves to
be right, he joins in the conversation, and assists in throwing light
on the subject; but if, on the other hand, he is wrong, he must submit
to have a handkerchief thrown over his head, and so remain, until by
some more fortunate observation he shall prove that he really possesses
the secret.
We will give an example. Mr. A. and Miss B. have agreed on “Bed” as the
word, and proceed to throw light upon it; alternating upon its various
meanings of a place of repose, a part of a garden, or the bed of a
river.
Miss B. I don’t know what your opinion may be, but I am never tired of
it.
Mr. A. Well, for my part, I am never in a hurry, either to get to it or
to leave it.
Miss B. How delightful it is after a long tiring day!
Mr. A. Yes. But it is a pleasure that soon palls. The most luxurious
person does not care for too much of it at a stretch.
Miss B. Oh! don’t you think so? In early spring for instance, with the
dew upon the flowers!
Mr. A. Ah! you take the romantic view. But how would you like it
beneath some rapid torrent, or some broad majestic river.
Miss C. (thinks she sees her way, and hazards a remark). Or in a
_souché_!
Mr. A. I beg your pardon. Please tell me, in a whisper, what you
suppose the word to be?
Miss C. (whispers). Fish! What! isn’t that right?
Mr. A. I am afraid you must submit to a temporary eclipse. (Throws her
handkerchief over her face.)
Mr. A. to Miss B. You mentioned spring, I think. For my own part, I
prefer feathers.
Mr. D. (rashly concludes, from the combination of “spring” and
“feathers,” that spring-chickens must be referred to). Surely you would
have them plucked?
Mr. A. (looks puzzled). I think not. May I ask you to name your guess?
Oh, no, quite out. I must trouble you for your pocket-handkerchief.
Miss B. It is curious, isn’t it, that they must be made afresh every
day?
Mr. A. So it is; though I confess it never struck me in that light
before. I don’t fancy, however, that old Brown the gardener makes his
quite so often.
Miss B. You may depend that he has it made for him, though.
Miss C. (from under the handkerchief). At any rate, according as he
makes it, his fate will be affected accordingly. You know the proverb?
Mr. A. (removing the handkerchief). You have fairly earned your
release. By the way, do you remember an old paradox upon this subject,
“What nobody cares to give away, yet nobody wishes to keep?”
Miss E. Ah! now you have let out the secret. I certainly don’t wish to
keep mine for long together, but I would willingly give it away if I
could get a better.
Miss B. Tell me your guess. (Miss E. whispers.) Yes, you have hit it.
I was afraid Mr. A.’s last “light” was rather too strong.
And so the game goes on, until every player is in the secret, or the
few who may be still in the dark “give it up” and plead for mercy.
This, however, is a rare occurrence, for, as the company in general
become acquainted with the secret, the “lights” are flashed about in a
rash and reckless manner, till the task of guessing becomes almost a
matter of course to an ordinarily acute person.
MULTIPLYING SHADOWS.
Before quitting the subject of fireside amusements, we may give a
passing mention to the subject of the curious optical illusion called
“The Multiplying Shadows,” sometimes also known, from one form in which
it is presented, as The Witches’ Dance. A dummy figure (suppose that of
a witch, riding on the conventional broomstick) is suspended by fine
threads or wires on the side of the screen remote from the spectators.
Behind this are ranged, one behind the other, and at right angles to
the screen, a row of lighted candles. Being all in the same line,
they throw one shadow only on the screen. The figure is now made to
oscillate slightly, so as to impart some little motion to the shadow.
One of the candles is now removed from its place in the row, and waved
gently about, now high, now low, the effect to the spectators being
that a second shadow springs out of the first, and dances about it on
the screen. A second and third candle is then removed, and waved up
and down, each candle as it leaves its place in the line producing a
separate shadow. It is well to have three or four assistants, each
taking a candle in each hand.
THE VANISHING KNOTS.
For this trick you must use a silk handkerchief. Twisting it
rope-fashion, and grasping it by the middle with both hands, you
request one of the spectators to tie the two ends together. He does
so, but you tell him he has not tied them half tight enough, and you
yourself pull them still tighter. A second and a third knot are made in
the same way, the handkerchief being drawn tighter by yourself after
each knot is made. Finally, taking the handkerchief, and covering the
knots with the loose part, you hand it to someone to hold. Breathing on
it, you request him to shake out the handkerchief, when all the knots
are found to have disappeared.