BULLYWINGLE THE BELOVED;
A DRAMA IN ONE ACT.
Dramatis Personæ.
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Mr. Puttyblow, an artist. Mr. Bullywingle, a bachelor who is beloved by women, or thinks himself so. Miss MacSlasher. |
Scene.—An artist's studio.
Curtain rises, or is pulled down, and discovers Mr. Puttyblow seated at an easel opposite a picture which is so placed that the audience cannot see the face of it.
Mr. Puttyblow (yawning). Oh—on—on—awe—awe—oo—oo! Oh, thunder! Oh, pickled thunder, turnip-tops, trust, tick, and tomatoes! I wish to goodness, goose-pies, and the goddess of fame, some one would give me a commission to paint a picture—one thousand dollars—half cash in advance, and the balance on completion of the work—some grand heroic subject, which would send my name and fame resounding through the nations of the earth like the mighty avalanche of the Alps, till the human race with one voice should stand back and exclaim—"That's him!"
Now, I think I could paint a picture of Washington Crossing the Delaware in a style of art equally creditable to my feelings as an artist and an American citizen. I'd make Washington—yes—I would not make him as they generally do, in a great, big, comfortable boat, with a new suit of clothes, looking up to heaven, while a lot of other fellows are shoving the boat through lumps of ice with hooks and pikes, and things of that kind. No! I'd make him swimming across, with the stars and stripes between his teeth and a horse-pistol of the period behind each ear. That's what I should call something like a picture. But all this is vain; instead of painting big pictures, and building my palatial villa on the Hudson, I am stuck and starved in this miserable chamber—a poor artist with scarcely anything to feed upon but tobacco-smoke and my own ideas. Talking about feed reminds me that I have had no breakfast yet. Now breakfast is one of those ideas about which I have my own ideas—namely, to wit: that you can't continually do without it—that's to say, not as a steady thing. It grows monotonous after a time. That tea has been standing three-quarters of an hour, and ought to be now fit for human nourishment (pours out tea, which is quite colorless). Rather weak—I may even go so far as to say exceedingly weak. It is like Hancock's veterans, will stand any amount of fire for any length of time without changing color. But you are very weak, poor tea; like women, let us respect your weakness. The butter is strong enough to take care of you (smells butter). I wonder whether this butter is not manufactured near Forty-second street, N. Y. It strikes me I have smelt something very like it near the soap factory on the Hudson River Railroad. Where's the knife (takes knife and loaf)? Ah! here it is (tries to cut loaf, which resists all his efforts). This loaf is beginning to get slightly obstinate. Most extraordinary thing how hard a loaf becomes after you have kept it for a week or two. However, I ain't the kind of man to let any darned baker's bread—ever baked—get the best of me. No! (Takes up hatchet at one side, places bread on floor, and begins chopping it. Cuts off a piece which he butters, and lays upon a chair.) Now, Puttyblow, my boy; you shall have bread and chops for breakfast. C-h-e-o-p-s—chops! Chops with a large C. (A loud knocking is heard at the door.) Oh, thunder! there's some one at the door—it will never do to let them see these things around (piles up cups and saucers on tray and covers them with towels. He leaves the slice of bread and butter, however, on the chair). It doesn't look prosperous; and nobody ever thinks anything of any one who isn't prosperous. (Seats himself at easel, and pretends to be busy painting.) Come in!
Enter Mr. Bullywingle.
Mr. B. Ha! I've found a refuge at last, thank goodness! I'm all in a flutter—she nearly caught me. It was a dooced close shave. Here am I tormented to death by women who will insist upon marrying me. 'Pon my soul it is rather too bad that a man, because he is rather nice-looking and has a little money saved up, cannot leave his house without being pursued by all the women in creation wanting to marry him. I don't want to marry them. I don't see any particular fun in dividing all my property, my time, my comfort, my amusement, with another individual, besides giving that individual the life-long privilege of—the life-long right to dictate the temperature of the apartment in which I sit, the amount of light which shall illuminate my chamber; who shall be my associates; where I shall live; what I shall eat; what I shall drink—there's the rub! actually putting the power into the hands of a mortal like yourself to come between you and your social tod. Oh, it's horrible to think of! Marriage is a humbug. I wouldn't marry the Bearded Lady herself. But I wonder what kind of an office this is I've rushed into—not a lawyer's; no—doesn't smell of Russia leather. Not a Government office; no—don't smell any whiskey. Not p-e-t—yes, r-o—l-e-u-m; there's certainly a smell of oil around. Ah, oh—yes, I see; it's some kind of a paint shop. I must trump up some business with the proprietor as an excuse for coming in. Wonder, by the way, whether there's anybody about, after all? Ah! yes, to be sure; bless my soul, there he is. (Takes a step towards artist, and coughs. Artist pretends to be deeply engaged in his art, and does not hear him.) Ahem! ahem! wonder whether the poor creature is deef and dumb. Ahem! ah, excuse me, sir, but—ah, that is fine day—ahem! good-morning, sir.
Artist. Good-morning, sir.
Mr. B. You are a painter, are you not, sir?
Artist. That is my name—ah, that is to say, that is my profession.
Mr. B. I want you to paint me a sign for my store.
Artist. A what, sir?
Mr. B. A sign. Jothan H. Bullywingle, wholesale——
Artist. Wholesale fiddlestick!
Mr. B. Wholesale dealer in——
Artist. Sir, I would have you to understand that I don't paint signs, sir. I am an artist—historical and portrait delineator.
Mr. B. Oh, ah! yes, exactly; that's what I mean. I want you to paint my portrait—Jothan H. Bullywingle, wholesale—no, exactly as you were saying, my portrait. (Aside)—By Jove, I—I'm in for it.
Artist. Would you like a full face?
Mr. B. (thoughtfully). Why, pretty full.
Artist. Or a side face?
Mr. B. Oh, yes—a side face.
Artist. Or a three-quarter face?
Mr. B. Yes, a three-quarter face. Yes, she was a blue one, I think, this last one.
Artist (prepares seat). Will you take a seat, Mr. Bully—Bully——
Mr. B. Wingle.
Artist. Will you take a seat, Mr. Wingle?
Mr. B. Bully, sir.
Artist. Take a seat, Mr. Winglebully.
Mr. B. Yes, yes, certainly. (Aside—I'm regularly stuck for a portrait.) Certainly, sir; though you haven't got my name exactly right—not quite correct, my young friend. My name is Bullywingle. (Aside—The first one was purple and diamonds.)
[Mr. B. seats himself at opposite side of stage to artist, who sits down and prepares to paint.]
Artist. Will you smile, sir?
Mr. B. (aside.) Really, a very polite young man. Thank you, I don't mind if I do—the least drop in the world; Bourbon, or anything that's handy.
Artist. I mean, sir, will you be pleased to smile with your mouth?
Mr. B. (aside.) With my mouth? Of course, with my mouth. Does the young man fancy that I propose to drink through my nose, like an elephant? (Aloud.) Oh, yes, I'll smile with my mouth, of course.
Artist. I perceive you do not understand me, sir. I allude to the expression.
Mr. B. Oh! I'm perfectly familiar with the expression—perfectly familiar with the expression.
Artist. Mr. Winglebully, I wish you to assume an agreeable expression of countenance in order that I may transfer your beautiful features to my canvas in a manner satisfactory to yourself, myself, and mankind generally.
Mr. B. Oh, ah! yes, certainly—exactly—to be sure—bless my soul—yes. (Mr. B. grins in an exaggerated manner).
Artist. Ah—yes; that's it—that's it—just so. A little to the left. I'm afraid—keep your head up—I cannot give you a very long sitting to-day—I'm so crowded with sitters. (Mr. B. forgets that he is sitting for his portrait and begins to look very melancholy and miserable.) I am obliged to—smile, if you please. (Mr. B. starts and resumes his exaggerated grin.) I'm obliged to fix certain days and hours to receive my friends and patrons, otherwise they—will you smile, if you please?—otherwise they would not leave me a—will you smile, if you please, sir? Look at me and think of something pleasant. Think of a lady (Mr. B. looks miserable and frightened). (Aside—He doesn't look as if he were thinking of a lady, does he?) Think of something pleasant, now—something pleasing. Think of Hash (Mr. B. brightens up). Yes, hash. Keep on thinking of hash, hash, hash! Good gracious! will you smile, sir? Hash—hash—hash! Keep smiling—hash—that's it; hash! There, sir, will you be kind enough to look at that? You are a little rough and raw (Mr. B. starts), but, of course, I have only rubbed you in. You will come out better at the second painting.
Mr. B. (rising and advancing towards the picture). Oh, yes—yes, very good. The shirt-collar and the cravat are extremely like; but don't you think you might alter the rest?
Artist. Well—ah—umph! I don't know. I think I have hit your eye exactly. (Mr. B. starts slightly.) The hair is very fair, and I've got hold of your nose very satisfactorily. (Mr. B. rubs his nose.) The mouth might look all the better, perhaps, for a little madder, but——
Mr. B. Oh, dear, no, it's quite mad enough. I don't wish to have a severe expression of countenance.
Artist. I refer to the color—the pigment.
Mr. B. The color the pig meant. The pig—the pig. I meant what I said, sir; and if you think to call me a pig with impunity you are very much mistaken.
Artist. Oh, no—no—no, my dear sir; you mistake me. We artists use a beautiful pink color called madder, and I spoke of this as a pigment—no offence, not for the world. But allow me to place the picture in a better light; you can hardly judge of it in its present position. (Turns easel and picture round facing the audience.) (Aside.)—Now won't he be an unreasonable old polypus to object to that as a likeness? (Aloud.)—There, sir, now you can see it better. (They both sit down in chairs, the artist on his own palette and Mr. B. on the slice of bread and butter left by the artist.)
Artist. Now, sir, I think I have caught the expression of your eyes and spectacles; and as for the nose, it literally speaks, while the chin and mouth—
Mr. B. Yes—yes, but I don't think you have stuck quite closely enough to nature. There is nothing like sticking to a thing. (Rises and moves towards picture, showing slice of bread sticking to his coat-tails. Advances and examines picture critically.)
Artist. I declare, if the idiotic old grampus has not been sitting down on my bread and butter. It is most extraordinary that some people will never look where they sit down. (Rises to remove bread and butter, and shows palette sticking to his dressing-gown behind.) The carelessness of some people is marvellous—really astonishing.
Mr. B. The shirt-collar is certainly very like; but don't you think the complexion is a little high? because I am really rather pale, you know.
Artist (making futile endeavors to remove the bread and butter with one hand). Ah, yes, perhaps that might be toned down a little. (Aside.) I'll whitewash the old brute if he likes. (Aloud.) If you will be kind enough to take a seat for two minutes I will try to avail myself of your valuable suggestion (looks around for his palette). Now, where on earth can be my palette? (Looks suspiciously at old Mr. B.) He can't have been sitting down on that too—and yet I do believe he's stupid enough for anything. (Looks for palette again.) No. (At this moment Mr. B. sits down on the chair where Mr. P. has concealed his breakfast, and everything goes with a crash.)
Artist. There goes that old porpoise again! All my breakfast gone—my beautiful tea and my elegant bread and butter. (To Mr. B., who apologizes.) Ah, never mind, sir—no consequence; only a few paint saucers, that's all. No consequence; take a seat over here. (Seats old gent in the chair which Mr. B. first occupied, and which artist has since used.) But my palette—where can it have gone? Where's that d—d palette? Let me see; I think I laid it on that chair. Will you kindly rise for one moment, Mr. Winglebully? (Looks at Mr. B.'s back.) No! strange—let me see—oh! ah! yes—I—he sat over there. (A thought seems to have struck him. He begins to feel behind his own coat, where he finds the palette. Produces it—his own fingers covered with paint.) There it is—I knew I'd put it somewhere. (Here a knocking is heard at the door. Mr. B. jumps up and grasps the artist by the hand, getting his own covered with paint in the operation.)
Mr. B. Here she is! For heaven's sake, conceal me!
THE DRAMA OF "BULLYWINGLE."—See page [180].
Artist. Here is who?
Mr. B. The blue woman.
Artist. The blue woman?
Mr. B. Yes—they pursue me wherever I go. It's a blue woman now. Yesterday it was a red woman. Oh, all sorts of women—black women—green women—white women—for pity's sake, conceal me! They'd make a Mormon or polygamist of me. (Wipes his painted fingers over his face.) Oh, my dear sir, you would not have me commit trigamy—you would not—but hide me somewhere—hide me!
Artist. Here—here, behind the curtain.
Lady enters.
Lady. Is there a gentleman here?
Artist. Em—ah! gentleman? no—no; that is to say, not exactly.
Lady. This is an artist's studio, is it not?
Artist. Yes, madam; this is an artist's studio.
Lady. There is no other studio in this building?
Artist. This is the only studio in this building. Will you take a seat, madam?
Lady. I was to meet an elderly gentleman here—my father—who was going to have his portrait taken.
Mr. B. (aside.) Her father—that's a deep dodge. Pretends to be after her father, the artful thing.
Artist. Yes, madam.
Lady. He should have been here some time ago—that is to say, if I have come to the right place.
Artist. Ah, yes; this is the right place. (Aside.) Hooray! here's another job.
Mr. B. (aside.) Send her away! send her away! Ah, you villain, are you going to betray me?
Lady. You seem to have a great many pretty pictures here.
Artist. Ah—oh—well, a few little trifles. Are you fond of art?
Lady. Oh, yes—very.
Artist. I shall be happy to show you some of my sketches. If you will excuse me for a moment, I will bring them from the other room.
Lady. Certainly, It will give me great pleasure to look at anything in the shape of pictures. I once studied Poonah Painting and Potichomanie myself; and mamma's uncle, who was a great artist, and used to draw things with a red-hot poker, said he couldn't tell my pictures from life, almost—only I could never learn to do trees. Don't you find trees very difficult? Mamma's uncle used to say the only fault with my trees was that they looked like cabbages. I can paint cabbages very well; but then they don't look pretty in a picture, you know.
Artist. Indeed, I doubt not your delicate hand would lend a charm to any object it might portray. Nature is full of beauties, and there is a world of loveliness even in a cabbage.
Mr. B. (aside.) In a cabbage-head.
Artist. But I will bring you my portfolio—a few unworthy sketches which may serve to while away the moments till the arrival of your estimable father.
[Exit.
Mr. B. (aside.) Good heaven! He is going to keep me here all day while he makes a fool of himself to that young woman. This will never do! I must escape. I must throw myself on her mercy. She has an awful vicious expression of countenance, though. However, she must have the heart of a woman. Perhaps she has a brother; and how would she like to have him married against his will by fifteen women in blue? I will—yes, I will throw myself on her mercy. I will implore her to spare me. Poor thing! I shall be sorry to break her heart—but it must be done.——Courage, Bullywingle—courage! (Rushes out and throws himself at her feet.) My good young woman, spare me! Think of your own brother, and spare me!
[Lady screams and rushes off.
I cannot marry you all. If I did marry you I should make the red lady miserable for life, and the green lady would die of jealousy, and the yellow lady might commit suicide.
Enter Artist, with portfolio, which falls on the floor.
Artist. You venerable reptile, what are you about! What do you mean, sir? Get up, sir! I'll knock you down, sir! You've driven away one of my best customers. (They scuffle.)
Mr. B. But my dear sir—my good young friend, what was I to do? Hear me—listen—leave go—you'll tear my coat—let go, or she'll be back, and then I'm lost! Do you hear, you rascal! You'll tear my coat—there go my suspenders—there goes something else! I'll have you arrested for intent to do grievous bodily battery and commit violent matrimony—let go!
Artist. You old rascal—you old polypus—you old humbug—you are ruining me! (Rushes to one side and returns with club or stick. A fight ensues. Old gent strikes an attitude with umbrella.)
Mr. B. Come on, Mac what's your name! and damned be he who first cries hold—enough!
Artist (aside). I'll be hanged if the old buffer ain't swearing! (Aloud.) By all the powers I'll be revenged! As sure as my name is Puttyblow I will be re-ve-n-ged! (Is about to rush at old gent.)
Mr. B. Pause, rash man! Did you say Puttyblow?
Artist. I did.
Mr. B. Have you a strawberry mark on your left arm?
Artist. Nature has ornamented me in the manner you describe.
Mr. B. Are you short-sighted in your left eye?
Artist. Such is my affliction.
Mr. B. Do you snore at nights?
Artist. So I have been informed by the people over the way, who have sent over several times to expostulate with me in the most offensive terms possible.
Mr. B. And sleep late in the morning?
Artist. I do.
Mr. B. (rushing forward.) My long-lost son!
Artist. Excuse me for one moment. Have you a gooseberry bush on your left arm?
Mr. B. Gooseberry? No—no—not specially.
Artist. Do you wear corns or paper collars?
Mr. B. Well, I've had chilblains.
Artist. Are you subject to hydrophobia?
Mr. B. Well, not precisely; but I've been run over by a Broadway omnibus.
Artist. Are you in the habit of committing suicide?
Mr. B. Well—I—I—don't know—I travel on the Hudson River Railroad sometimes.
Artist. Come to my arms, my long-lost father!
[They embrace.
Mr. B. Bless you, my boy—bless you! bless you!
Enter Lady. Artist sees her, and struggles to escape from Mr. B.'s grasp.
Artist. Let go—let me go—drat it all, let go.
Mr. B. Bless you, my boy—bless you!
Lady. I have left my portemonnaie in your studio—will you be kind enough to let me have it?
Mr. B. Young woman, spare me!
Lady (to Artist). Pray protect me from this venerable ruffian.
Mr. B. (aside.) Venerable ruffian! Come, now, that is what the boys call rather rough. (Aloud.) Then you don't love me?
Lady. If you insult me further, I shall inform my father.
Mr. B. Then you have a father?—wonderful! Are you sure of it—no deception? What is his name? Where does he live? Tell me quick—quick—do not deceive me!
Lady. My father, sir, is General MacSlasher, who will not allow his daughter to be insulted with impunity.
Mr. B. MacSlasher! The brave MacSlasher, who married my half-cousin Columbia Ann, of Pickleville, Indiana?
Lady. Indeed, it is true.
Mr. B. Come to my arms, my long-lost niece! No, not niece; cousin—second cousin—oh, hang the relationship! Come to my arms, any way! But hold—you are the richest heiress in New York. I have the deeds in my pocket to prove it. By the will of your late grandfather Grampus you are the sole possessor of six blocks on Broadway, Trinity Church, Erie Railroad, two steamboats on the Hudson River that won't burst, and vast territories on Coney Island.
Artist. Good gracious!
Mr. B. Happy hour—auspicious moment! to have thus met my son and niece on the same day. Puttyblow, my son—no longer Puttyblow, but Bullywingle—this is the lady I have destined for you for ten long years, if I could only have found you. She is rich and beautiful. I know you love each other; and if you don't, make believe you do, or you'll spoil the play. Bullywingle, junior, embrace your bride! Take her and be happy! Bless you, my children—bless you!
Grand tableau. Mr. Puttyblow and Miss MacSlasher embrace. Mr. Bullywingle opens his umbrella, and, standing on one leg, holds it over them.
CHAPTER XVI.
It may be remembered that in a recent chapter we mentioned being in a tranquil mood, and, while in that condition, calling on our friend Nix, and further, that Nix introduced us that same evening to some ladies with brown eyes.
Since that event the tranquil moods have come over us periodically, with rapidly increasing virulence. So much so that latterly we have found it desirable to dispense with the cumbrous ceremony of going round to call for Nix. The fact is we have taken a great fancy to that boy Little Pickle; he is certainly a very fine boy.
It occurs to us at this moment that we have not yet given a name to this family. Their real name is one of those which recall old revolutionary times directly it is uttered. One of those names which, to ourself at least, at once summons up a picture of marching ranks of men in three-cornered hats and yellow breeches, toiling forward with glistening muskets over their shoulders, past rows of quaint gabled houses. We cannot give the real name, of course—that is out of the question—so we will call them Adams, because that is not their name. Then we will subdivide them as follows: Mrs. Adams, Bud, Blossom, and Berry. We christen them thus because these were the titles they received in a little floral and pomological game we once played.
The Adams family were going to give a party. We were called in as consulting engineer, to suggest attractions. We readily accepted the office. The reader knows our system and will easily guess our first order. Objects to provoke conversation!
Pig made out of lemon. Good! The pig was made and applauded.
"But," suggested Bud, "why confine ourselves to a pig; surely we can make something else."
"Surely," we assented. So all of us set our wits to work at zoology.
Bud made the first discovery. "Oh!" she exclaimed, "I have found out something beautiful—a whole litter of little pigs to go with the lemon!"
And, indeed, 'twas true. In a few seconds she had some almonds soaking in a cup of boiling water. In a few seconds more she was peeling off their brown jackets, revealing the smooth white nut, as white as the tips of her own taper fingers. The almonds were soon converted into sucking-pigs, and were admitted on all hands to look quite cunning, and as natural as nature, with their little white bodies grouped round the maternal lemon—some running, some standing, and some seated on their haunches.
We need not explain to the gifted reader the modus operandi. It is much the same as with the lemon, only the eyes are dotted with a black lead pencil and the ears are made from small slips of wood.
Stimulated by the success of Bud, Blossom dived down into the depths of her imagination, and fished out a goat. The goat was unquestionably a triumph. The body consisted of a pear, the head of an unbleached almond, the legs, horns, and beard of raisin stalks.
On the same principle, and with wonderful celerity, Berry took up the idea, gracefully acknowledged her indebtedness to the original inventor, and produced a deer—a deer with wide-spreading antlers made of raisin stalks, and legs of the same material, which counterfeited nature even to the knee-joints. The neck cost some little mental exertion, but was finally triumphed over in the following shape, neatly cut out of wood.
The deer now appeared truly a monarch of the forest; a little weak in the shoulders perhaps, and rather full-chested behind, but still a noble animal.
Not to be outdone with her own idea, Blossom wrestled vigorously with her subject, and ere we had ceased admiring the deer, had very nearly completed a sheep—a sheep so fleecy and short in the legs that it was at once voted the greatest triumph of all, though WE personally and privately thought, and still think, that, for true genius, Bud's idea of the pigs far exceeded any of them. The white almond certainly made a most admirable sheep's head, but then apple, of which the body was made, grew rapidly rusty when once peeled—so much so that we had to scrape our sheep once or twice in the course of the evening to restore its fleeciness.
Having made large herds of deer, flocks of goats and sheep, not to mention litters of pigs, we disposed some of them on the mantel-piece and what-nots, while others were reserved to make a grand pastoral scene on the supper table. Having finished these, we devoted our energies to constructing scent-bags and mice, the latter made out of apple-seeds, as described in a previous chapter. Here the transcendent genius of Bud again asserted itself—she invented a rat; a rat made out of an unbleached almond. When grouped with the mice and flour-sacks the effect was truly grand.
What now?
"What shall we make next?" was the general inquiry.
"Oh, can't you make something that will jump up?" eagerly suggested Little Pickle, who had kept pretty quiet during our zoological researches.
"Can't you make something that will jump up?" This was so vague that we were fain to demand further light.
"Oh, you know at our school one of the boys made a kind of thing with a bit of wax that jumped up and frightened you."
This was still far from clear, but whatever it might be, it was evidently calculated to frighten somebody, and so was immediately voted down by the ladies.
"Oh, make that gorilla portrait, you know," again entreated Little Pickle; "that makes such fun."
This proposition, though received coolly, was, nevertheless, discussed at some length, till Blossom called her sister's attention to the fact that one of their invited guests would be a certain Dr. O'Tang, who really did resemble a gorilla, and should the glass fall into his hands, he would feel hurt at the joke; so Little Pickle's second proposition was voted down.
We now felt a heavy weight of responsibility hanging on our shoulders. Six brown eyes were resting upon us, each as deep and brown as a mountain pool.
"Can we not do something with paper?" suggested Bud, her exquisite genius again coming to our aid. This suggestion gave us the cue.
"I have it," we exclaimed; "I will teach you to make stained glass. To be sure, it is only a variation of your own beautiful art of making transparencies; still, if you have never heard of the process, it may afford some amusement, and help you to decorate your rooms."
One apartment in the house of Adams was of the kind known as extension room. The two windows which separated this apartment from the back parlor served admirably to exhibit the new art. The object of the process is to produce an effect somewhat similar to the heraldic painting on the casements of old European houses, and is done thus:
You procure several sheets of tissue paper of various colors, a pair of scissors, and some fine boiled paste. You fold a sheet of the paper twice, then cut out of the folded paper a form—say, for example, like the one on the left: so that when the sheet is open there will be two pieces like the one on the right.
Paste one of these in the centre of the window-pane you wish to decorate, then paste the other over it, only lapping over a little on one side and below, as represented in this diagram.
When this is dry it will have a very pretty effect. Of course you can cut the papers in any form you choose and have them in different colors—red over green, or yellow over blue. You may also stitch one pattern of a smaller size right in the centre of another, or paste three or four different patterns one above the other, as illustrated by our subjoined cuts.
Having delivered our short lecture (illustrated with examples) to the six brown eyes, and also to the six white ears—like quaint sea-shells from the shores of Elysium—we all proceeded to operate on the windows before mentioned, and we are glad to say with the most pleasing results.
Our scissorings with the colored paper brought to light an accomplishment of Little Pickle, which set us all to work anew with scissors and pen and ink for some time.
Master Adams's system was this: he took a small piece of writing paper, and dropping a minute quantity of ink in the centre, then folded it right across the blot and rubbed it over with his finger. When the paper was opened it displayed some curious form or another. This, with a few touches of the pen, we generally made to resemble some object in nature. Bud made an excellent stag's head on one occasion, which we subjoin.
But Little Pickle's course of instruction did not stop with blots. He folded bits of paper and cut them into grotesque patterns, and set us all to filling them up with pictures. The great art consisted in making your design conform to the outline of the paper. One of these, which we happened to have brought away by accident, we have here engraved. It was drawn by Bud, and is really very clever.
That was a very delightful evening we passed with the Adams's. Little Pickle is a very fine boy; guess we will call for him on our road up in the afternoon—to go skating.
That night, when we reached home, we found Nix had called and left us a very curious work—The Veda, or the Sacred Writings of the Hindoos. We slept sweetly, and dreamed we were reclining on the banks of the Ganges conversing pleasantly with Brahma. Singular dream, was it not?
CHAPTER XVII.
Blue and white Christmas, with his henchman, Santa Claus, having come and gone, leaving behind him, however, for a while, his raiment of white and blue, with a host of dear memories for our hearts' nourishment through the next twelvemonth's stage in this journey of life, we think we cannot better show our appreciation of his goodness than by painting a portrait of that small fraction of the universal jollity which fell to our individual lot.
We have some friends who live in the country, a long way from sidewalks and gas and railroads, or at least far enough off to debar the dear souls from many tastes of city pleasures. So, as these friends cannot well go to town for amusement, and as they have a large love of fun and several small children, they try to bring amusements home on all festive occasions.
To this house, with a small party of mutual acquaintances, we went our way on the twenty-fifth of December last. Before starting there were great business operations to be performed, and such a time as we had of it! One item was easily managed, and caused no mental anxiety. We went en masse to Ridley's, and, after waiting in a crowd of crinoline for some time, came away each with his dexter coat-pocket swelled out with a pound package of mixed candies. That, of course, was simple enough; but when it came to buying something else—something of a more durable nature—then our ingenuity was, indeed, put to the test. It will be seen that our task was no ordinary one. There were three of us, and we each wished, according to our annual custom, to present each member of the family with some appropriate gift; and as there were five in the family, namely—papa, mamma, daughter aged eleven, son aged four, and another daughter aged two, and assuming that we each only gave one object to each of the individuals in the country house, it would make—three fives are fifteen—fifteen different objects to be purchased, every one of which ought to differ from the other, besides being unlike anything they would be already likely to possess. When we came to compare notes, we found that we had, to a man, privately and separately resolved to present papa with a meerschaum pipe; two out of the three had thoughts of giving mamma a dressing-case; while the unanimity on the subject of work-boxes, dolls, and jumping-jacks was really marvellous.
But we must not linger around fancy-stores, and over candy counters, and in city streets. We have a long evening before us away off in the country, over miles of snowy roads. It is enough that, by the aid of a steaming locomotive, which whizzed and buzzed and thundered us through the lonely snow-clad cuttings, as though it were saying: "Come along! come along! come along! Hurry up! Pish! phew! Here's another stoppage! Clear the track! Don't keep us waiting!" stopping only now and then, stock still, to brighten up the mean way-station into a glow of mysterious grandeur, with fitful flashes of light, as though it were some monster fire-fly of the season. By means of this lusty bug at first, and afterwards by a rickety, ramshackle, old shandradan of a hack, tortured along by two horses, one of which was balky, we reached the house of our entertainers, where the light streamed out through the red curtains to meet us, and glorified the snow in our path long before we pulled up at the hospitable door.
Mr. and Mrs. Merryweather both greeted us heartily before we had kicked the snow from our boots; while the former, with a celerity equally creditable to his head and legs, dashed into the kitchen, and reappeared with three smoking glasses of hot brandy-punch.
"Here, boys," he cried, "take this. It will keep the cold out. Come, I insist upon it."
Mr. Greeley and other good people tell us that it is all wrong to drink spirituous liquors, and we are not quite clear ourself as to the propriety of the practice. But there was something genial in the thoughtful attention of our friend Merryweather, and something else grateful in the aroma of the brandy-punch, that certainly made us all feel more truly welcome and happy than had we been politely shown up-stairs to wash our hands in a cold bedroom, with the prospect of two doughnuts and a cup of weak tea to follow.
Aunty Delluvian was of the party, being a very old friend of the family. With regard to the company generally, it may be defined as mixed. Some of the children, whose parents were neighbors, betrayed their status by the excess of starch and bright colors which characterized their dresses; while others from the city displayed all the ostentatious simplicity of cultivated taste.
Mr. Merryweather opened the entertainment with an exceedingly well intentioned, though rather transparent, display of prestidigitation (if that is the way to spell the abominable word); but as most of his tricks depended upon the use of a new and complete set of conjuring apparatus he had purchased for the occasion, we will not linger over his magic rings and dice and cups. Two items, however, in his performance being attainable by very simple means, we will describe.
At one stage in the entertainment it seemed absolutely necessary that he should have the aid of a small boy, in order to make six copper cents pass from under a hat to the top of a bird-cage. Making known his want, a red-faced youth with black curly hair volunteered his services. The juvenile, be it observed, had rendered himself somewhat conspicuous by declaring at the end of every trick that he knew how it was done, and by inquisitively desiring to inspect the interior of goblets and the bottoms of boxes. Merryweather's eyes twinkled as this gentleman tendered his assistance.
"Here," he said, producing a small trumpet, "this is my magic horn. Take it in your right hand, till I say: 'Heigh! presto! pass!' Then, if your lungs are strong enough, and you blow with sufficient force, those six cents will pass from under the hat to the top of that cage yonder."
The youth took his stand firmly, looked knowingly, and placed the trumpet to his lips confidently.
"Are you ready?" asked Mr. Merryweather. "Then, heigh! presto! pass!"
In an instant the face of the bold volunteer, black hair, red cheeks, and all, were white as the driven snow; and comic enough he looked, as he gaped round with a chap-fallen expression, puzzled beyond measure to know into what condition he had blown himself. He had, in truth, blown himself all over flour, the trumpet being constructed for that special purpose.
This instrument is very simple. You first procure a tube of tin, or wood, or card-board, of about two inches in diameter. A box of the desired shape can be found in the store of almost any druggist, or in default of that, a wide-mouthed vial can be made to answer. The next thing required is a thin tube, for which a piece of elder or a stick of maccaroni will answer. These, with a large cork or bung, are all the materials that are required. Having cut a slice off the cork of about half an inch in thickness, you fit it tightly into the centre of the large tube; then cut another slice of the cork to fit into one end of the tube; but, before fixing it, cut some notches round the edge, and make a hole in the centre large enough to hold firmly the smaller tube. Now fix the smaller tube in the second cork, so that it will extend about two-thirds of the way down one of the compartments in the larger tube; fix the second cork (the one with the notches in it) in the mouth of the large tube, and the trumpet is made. By referring to the diagram, you will probably get a better idea of the construction of this weapon than from our description.
When you wish to use the instrument, pour flour through the notches you have cut in the cork, and it is ready. Any one blowing sharply through the small tube will, of course, blow all the flour in his own face.
The second item in Mr. Merryweather's entertainment we propose to describe is still more simple. One of his feats consisted in burning a hole in a pocket-handkerchief. To do this he required fire, so he ordered his assistant to bring in a candle, which was accordingly done, the candle being already lighted. As soon as Mr. Merryweather cast his eyes upon the luminary, he feigned to fly into a terrible passion, roundly rating the unfortunate attendant for presenting him with such a miserable fag-end of an old kitchen dip. Then taking the candle from the candlestick, he held the wretched stump up to the audience, and appealed to them whether it was not disgraceful that he, the great Wizard of the Western World, should be presented with such a paltry luminary.
"Why," he exclaimed, "I could eat a dozen such for lunch!"
And, suiting the action to the word, blew out the light, and popped the offending morsel in his mouth, and quietly munched it up.
A subdued cry of horror echoed through the apartments, above which was heard the exclamation of Aunty Delluvian:
"If the man isn't crunching his candle!"
To those not familiar with it, this trick is certainly startling. The truth is that the candle in question is made out of a piece of apple, with a small peg cut from a nut or almond for a wick. The almond wick will light readily, and burn brightly for some time, so that the deception is perfect. These diagrams will show the form in which to cut the candle and the wick, No. 1 representing the candle in its completed state, and No. 2 the wick before it is inserted.
The great wizard having completed his performances and retired into private life, even to the extent of handing cake round to the ladies and drinking a glass of wine himself, he mingled freely with the throng, but did not, however, unbend immediately, but smiled condescendingly when the ladies expressed admiration and surprise at the supernatural powers he had just displayed.
Aunty Delluvian continued to evince considerable disgust at our friend for eating the tallow candle, a feeling which found vent in utterance of the monosyllables:
"Finn! The Finn! The Finn!"
This good Aunty favored us with a narrative concerning an uncle of hers, who was a sea-captain, and once made a voyage to "Moscow!" It was a peculiarity, be it observed, of Aunty Delluvian, that she appeared to have uncles ready at hand for all emergencies. She told us that this uncle, when at the Sclavonic capital, invited some Russian officers on board his ship to dine. The dinner was of the most sumptuous description, but the Muscovites seemed to take but little interest in the repast, until something on deck happened to call the host up-stairs; on his return he found all the guests looking more cheerful. They chatted pleasantly until the party broke up; and then, and not till then, he discovered that his friends, during his absence, had drunk all the oil out of the lamps, eaten six boxes of candles stowed away under the table, and had even devoured the shaving-soap off his dressing-table.
THE HEADLESS BODY.—See page [209].
We had a faint recollection of having heard this story before, and quite pleased Aunty Delluvian by telling her so; she considered it quite a tribute to her uncle's popularity.
The second feature of the evening's programme was of a less cheerful character than the first, consisting of the display of a no more pleasing object than a bodyless head. Our illustration on next page will at once place the scene before our readers, bereft, however, of some of the grim features of the real spectacle; for, as we beheld it, there was the real flesh tint, and the eyes rolled fearfully.
Startling and complete as is the illusion in this case, it is very simply managed. Get some person with a high forehead and tolerably long hair, and paint under the eyes a pair of eyebrows, and on the forehead a nose and pair of moustaches, as represented in the annexed cut. Then make the person lie down on his back under a table, in such a way that you can arrange a curtain so as to conceal all the body and half the face. Brush the hair out to resemble a beard, and you have a perfect representation of a bodyless head.
For painting the moustaches and eyebrows, Indian-ink or burnt cork will answer.
There is one advantage which the spectacle can boast of: it affords the ladies an opportunity for giving those sweet little musical shrieks which are so charming, and of being frightened generally—some ladies look very bewitching when they are frightened—besides giving ladies an excuse for clinging to gentlemen's arms, which is very pleasant for the gentlemen.
Mr. Merryweather now introduced to our notice a young gentleman who was detailed to amuse us with some specimens of ventriloquism. We had no notion before this time, when our attention was particularly drawn to the subject, how much suitable action has to do with ventriloquial illusions. As performed before us by the young gentleman in question, whose name was Noddles, the deception was capital; but when the sounds were reproduced in a private room, without action, for our special instruction, we marvelled that any one could have been deluded by them. First of all, Mr. Noddles imitated the drawing of a cork. To give effect to this, he turned his back to the audience, and feigned to have a bottle between his knees. The method of doing this is so simple that we think we can almost describe it in words. First you make three or four chirps in succession, such as people are in the habit of making to birds; this sounds like driving in the corkscrew. Then you place your fore-finger in your mouth, and force it out so as to make a loud pop, which signifies that the cork is drawn. Then you smack your lips together, producing a sound something like "Pop—pop—pop—pop—pop—pop" rapidly, to imitate the wine bubbling from the bottle. Voilà tout!
After that, Mr. Noddles pretended to call to a mason up the chimney, the mason answering in a husky voice from above, and finally proceeding with his work of knocking out a brick. The knocking was produced much in the same way as the pouring out the wine, by parting the lips suddenly; only, in the case of the brick, the note was in a deeper key, more resembling "Bubp—bubp—bubp—bubp." We noticed particularly that when the performer addressed the person up the chimney, he spoke with especial clearness, delivering the words, as much as possible, from the lips. This was in order to produce a strong contrast to the tones of the man up the chimney, which were produced far down in his own throat.
Another of his performances was to pretend that a dog was under the lounge, which refused to come out, and finally bit him when he tried to drag it out by the leg.
Still another consisted in imitating a man outside the door trying to force it open. Sometimes the supposed man would succeed in forcing the door a short way, when a gush of his loud voice would rush in, to be immediately cut short by the sudden closing of the door.
Mr. Noddles concluded his part of the entertainment by the performance of the jumping rabbit—the rabbit on this occasion being made out of a lady's fur cuff tied up with a piece of string. This crude counterfeit of bunny he laid on the palm of his left hand, with one end resting against his fingers, as represented in the cut, while with the other hand he stroked and caressed it, saying at the same time, "Be still, bunny—don't run away; if you run away the dogs will catch you, and you will be made into chicken-pie, and your skin will be made into a fur cap and sold in the Bowery to—hallo! hold on! hi!" the latter exclamations being elicited by the rabbit jumping up his arm, while he struggled to capture it and bring it back with his right hand. The first jump made by the rabbit was produced by a sharp jerk of the fingers, which sometimes sends him flying into the middle of the room with a most lifelike effect.
But now a more imposing portion of the programme claims our attention. A subdued jingling of bells is heard at the door, a few spasmodic bumps, and in trots the patron saint of the day—good Santa Claus, sleigh, reindeer, red cap, and all. (See next page.) It may not have been polite, but we could not help it, and greeted the good saint with an unrestrained roar of laughter. Surely never before was seen out of Noah's Ark such a comical steed, such legs, such proportions, and such a dislocated style of locomotion. No matter, he amused us more than a whole troop of the veritable article from Spitzbergen; and, as a simple act of justice between man and beast, we must admit that he propelled Santa Claus and his turn-out in a most efficient, not to say intelligent, style around the room. This was the Merryweather substitute for a Christmas-tree. Santa Claus came to distribute the Christmas-gifts—a task he performed with a discretion beyond his years. It is pleasing to record that no one, not even the dullest in the company, recognised Master Georgy in his disguise; but one and all, with admirable tact, feigned to be completely taken in, and fully believed that they were receiving a visit from the good saint himself.
THE ARRIVAL OF SANTA CLAUS.—See page [214].
After the vulgaris pueris, the elephant, and other specimens of zoology, it is almost needless to explain how the reindeer was constructed. Our illustration seems almost superfluous; still, something may be made a little clearer by them; and to them we refer the reader who wishes to learn how to build a reindeer. In the case before us, the hide of the deer was made out of a pair of army blankets, purchased by Merryweather for five dollars in Chambers street—about the best material that could possibly be selected for the purpose. These he cut out and fitted himself, and had them sewed on his wife's sewing-machine. The head and horns were made of thick brown paper, and here is the most difficult part of the animal to describe—not the most difficult to make, bear in mind. We hate long explanations, and yet we feel puzzled now, as we have often been before, to tell you how to make this reindeer mask. However, here goes: You require two or three sheets of thick brown paper, a bowl of paste (flour and water boiled), and a block of wood, from the wood-pile, of about six or seven inches in diameter. (See annexed cut.) You moisten one sheet of the paper slightly, and then mould it over the block; having done this, you smear the entire surface with paste, and mould another sheet of paper over that; then you smear the second sheet over with paste, and mould a third sheet over all; then let them stand till dry. This, when dry, can be removed from the block, and will give you a hollow cone on which you can paint the eyes and mouth of the deer, and to which you can likewise paste the horns, as indicated in this diagram. It may strike you that the diagram looks more like a bottle-nosed shark than the face of any denizen of the forest. You must not, however, be discouraged on this account; it will look all right when you get it in its proper place.
Need we add, that after this we had supper; when good-humor culminated in the grand old song of "Auld Lang Syne," all singing and joining hands round the table, down even to the little two and a half year old Dolly, whose auld lang syne dated no further back than two strawberry seasons. The idea of taking a "richt gude wully wut" with such a wee mite of a thing was so very comic that we all laughed right merrily, while Mrs. Merryweather, with tears in her eyes, clasped the child to her bosom as though she would protect it from some impending danger, possibly the approach of the monster "richt gude wully wut."
The ladies and children retired. And we gentlemen soothed our excited nerves with a quiet cigar in Mr. Merryweather's library.
CHAPTER XVIII.
We shall now amuse the fireside with a little song, or rather we will try to tell our friends how to gladden their own chimney-corners with the songs of birds through the long winter evenings. It will be pleasant when the wind is howling without among the snow-laden limbs of the trees, to be reminded of the gay summer by the counterfeit notes of the woodland songsters. Still, we must warn our readers, that to acquire the art thoroughly needs patience and perseverance; we can but tell them how to make and use the instrument, and the rest they must learn for themselves. First look at the annexed diagram, and then procure a leek and cut off from the green leaf thereof a piece about the size of the diagram; then lay it on a smooth table, and with the thumb-nail delicately scrape away a semicircular patch of the green pulpy substance of the leaf (as represented in the diagram), being careful to leave the fine membrane or outer skin of the leaf uninjured—and there is the instrument complete. It may require several experiments to make the first one, but once having discovered the right way, they are very easily manufactured. The reader may not be aware of the fact that the leaf of the leek has a fine transparent outer skin which is quite tough, but by breaking and carefully examining one or two leaves, he will soon find out to what we allude.
The way of using this instrument is to place it in the roof of the mouth with the side on which is the membrane downwards; then press it gently in its place with the tongue, and blow between the tongue and the upper teeth. After the first two or three attempts, you will be able to produce a slight sound like a mild grunt; then as you practise it you will find that you can prolong and vary the sound somewhat, so that in the course of a couple of days you can imitate the barking of a dog and the neighing of a horse. With two or three weeks' practice, you will be able to imitate some of the song-birds; but to produce exact counterfeits of the best singing-birds will probably require months of study; the result, however, will reward you for all your pains; for certainly to be able to carry a mocking-bird, canary, thrush, cat-bird, and sucking-pig in your vest-pocket is no small accomplishment.
When not using the instrument, it should be kept in a glass of water to prevent its drying.
CHAPTER XIX.
Those tranquil moods of which we have twice spoken come over us with still increasing frequency. Little Pickle is certainly a very smart boy. We are giving him lessons in drawing; he comes on rapidly, but requires a great deal of attention. Our time passes peaceably enough in study and contemplation. Nix has procured us some more works of Brahminical lore. It is a curious religion, that of the Hindoos, resembling in many points Christianity. Nix declares, in his good-natured way, that we are more than half converted already, and threatens to send a missionary to reason us back from heathenism, as we need a minister badly. He is an exceedingly good-natured fellow is Nix, though a little broad, perhaps, at times, in his style of jocularity. Our readers are probably not aware that there is a certain form of vulgar humor known as a sell, which consists in inducing some person to ask you a question, and then giving some idiotic answer in reply. The other day Nix overtook us in Broadway. After talking a few minutes he exclaimed:
"Oh, by the way, I have a note for you," at the same time feeling vigorously in his pockets.
"When did you get it? Who is it from?" we inquired, with some earnestness, for we were expecting a letter from some one.
"Don't know—don't know," he replied, continuing to fumble in his pockets. "Ah, here it is."
At the same time grasping one hand, he placed in it an oat—one seed of the grain upon which horses and Scotchmen are fed.
Nix laughed boisterously, and told us we were sold. We don't see very much fun in it.
We have spent another pleasant evening at the Adams'. We mentioned in a recent chapter making some preparations for a little party they were about to give. Well, it went off very pleasantly indeed; there were no hitches and no awful pauses. Indeed, our own pleasure would have been unalloyed had it not been for the presence of one officious person with large whiskers, who (there are always one or more such persons in every assembly) obtruded his attentions too much on the ladies; we observed that Bud, amongst others, was quite embarrassed by them. She was too well bred, however, to allow him to perceive her vexations, though I must say I think there is is such a thing as carrying complaisance and self-abnegation too far.
The scientific gentleman with gold spectacles was there, and had an electrical novelty for us which attracted much attention. At first we supposed the gentleman named was giving Little Pickle lessons in skating, for he was directing that youth's movements as he shuffled up and down the hearth-rug in his slippered feet. Rather jealous for the credit of our pupil, we informed the spectacles that there was nothing in the way of skating he could teach Master Pickle, he being already a proficient in that art. To which he only replied:
"Put your knuckle to his nose."
Rather staggered by this request, which savored somewhat of the ruder style of badinage, and the very last thing we expected from the decorous gentleman of science, we replied, with just a shade of hauteur:
"Sir?"
"Put your knuckle to his nose."
"Really, I do not comprehend you."
"Put your finger to his nose and you will get a shock."
All this time Little Pickle was sliding and slithering up and down the rug in a manner highly calculated to wear out that costly piece of furniture.
"You perceive," continued spectacles, in an explanatory way, "that he has slippers on his feet. By keeping his feet in close contact with the rug, and rubbing them violently up and down, he generates electricity in his body to such an extent that he can transmit quite a sensible shock to another person.[A] Now try!"
We tried. Tick! A most unmistakable spark passed from the nose of L. P. to our knuckle.
The guests now began to crowd round, applying their knuckles to the poor boy's nose to that extent that it grew quite red, which, combined with a trifling unsteadiness his legs acquired from the unusual exertion, gave the dear boy quite a groggy appearance. Indeed, we observed his mother soon after draw him towards her and, stooping down, whisper something in his ear, at which he colored up, shook his head, and replied quickly, "No, only lemonade."
The scientific person, who was really a very amiable gentleman after all, taught us during the evening to make quite a curious little toy—to wit, a miniature camera. Having enlisted the services of Little Pickle, he procured a small pill-box, a minute fragment about half an inch square of broken looking-glass, and a fragment of beeswax. He first bored a small hole in the centre of the lid of the pill-box and another in the side; he then, with the aid of the beeswax, stuck the piece of the mirror across the bottom of the box at an angle of forty-five degrees to the axis of the disc of the box, so that by looking through one hole he could see objects through the other hole, thus enabling a person to look behind him. We feel that this description is not very clear, and yet for the life of us we do not know how to make it clearer. The best plan for the reader will be to look well at the diagrams showing the inside and outside of the camera, get the wax, glass, and pill-box, and then potter about with them till he gets it right.
Camera led the conversation in our corner of the room to the subject of optical illusions, when some one of course suggested the hat experiment. There is probably nothing the proportions of which are so deceptive as a hat. Reader, if you have never tried the experiment, take a stick and point out on the wall how high you think a hat would reach from the floor if placed on its crown, as represented in our sketch.
Aunty Delluvian, the first to try, took the stick and boldly measured off a distance of between two and three feet, and utterly laughed to scorn the moderate persons who satisfied themselves with ten inches. After each of the measurements was marked with a pencil, and the hat itself put beside them, showing every one to be wrong, Aunty's amazement knew no bounds. Indeed, she would not be satisfied till we brought our own hat to convince her that some deception had not been practised.
This was Aunty Delluvian's first visit to the Adams', having only recently been introduced through the agency of Nix. I was, therefore, not unprepared for some criticism on our friends; but when the good lady, towards the close of the evening, took us to one side and said confidentially and emphatically, nodding her head at the same time knowingly, "No flippery, flummery. I like her!" we were a little surprised, the statement was so emphatic and yet so vague. That was all she said, walking away briskly when she had so delivered herself, as though she had rendered a final verdict. To which of the family did she refer? To Mrs. Adams, we presume, and yet she might have said something about the other members of the family. She is a queer creature is Aunty Delluvian.
We are disposed to think that the ART of entertaining is rarely if ever regarded as an ART, and certainly never treated as such. We, however, on this occasion, laid our plans and arranged our forces with as much care and skill as a general exercises in laying out a campaign. We have as profound a respect for a good commissary as ever did Napoleon Bonaparte. We had our reserve, too, and our signal corps, so that should the battle waver at any moment, it might be immediately set going again. Amongst other resources, we had a number of surprise pictures concealed in a certain place, which were to be produced when occasion might require. One of these will be found on opposite page, and comprises fifteen faces in one. Pictures of this kind always amuse, and are fine provocatives of conversation.
FIFTEEN FACES IN ONE.—See page [229].
Reader, when you give a party, do not bring your entire force into action at first; always have a reserve to fall back upon.
We saw a whole group which was showing alarming symptoms of demoralization rallied with a pocket-handkerchief. Nix saw the emergency, drew his handkerchief, tied one end round the tip of his finger, on which, with a few dots of the pen, he had indicated a comic face, and threw himself into the dispirited crew, exclaiming:
"This is Rantepolefungus, the mysterious magician of Morocco." Then, in a feigned voice:
"How do, pretty ladee and gentlemen? Me tell fortune, work spell, makee incantation. Me tell you fortune, pretty missee; you be, by-a-by, sixt wife great street contractor; favorite wife, he givee dust-cart full of greeny-back; much lovee you; cut off head of all other wife, makee you much happy; he givee you large gold ring big's flour-barrel to wear in your nosee, and six whiskey cocktails every morning. Pretty ladee, give great magician buckshees," and a whole string of other nonsense, the little Moor moving his head and hands all the time, suiting the action to the words.
The sketches opposite will show how the Moor is made.
As we walked home with Nix, smoking our cigars, we agreed that the party had been managed with consummate generalship. As we parted, he asked us if we should like to have a small statue of Vishnu? Wonder what he meant.
[A] The spark emitted is sufficiently powerful to light a jet of gas.
CHAPTER XX.
Those red and green lights which lend such a glory to the final tableaux of fairy pieces on the public stage, can easily be introduced into private parlor performances. There is no danger in using them; they are quite inexpensive, and very easily managed. Warning, however, should be given to all asthmatic persons to vacate the ranch before firing off, as their fumes are apt to produce unpleasant results. When we first performed the play of Bullywingle the Beloved, the red light was calculated on as a startling feature of the performance. At the proper moment the match was applied, the combustibles behaved handsomely, everybody was entranced, all save one unfortunate gentleman, subject to asthma, who created quite a sensation by rushing out of the house in a choking condition, and remaining speechless in the snow for over twenty minutes.
The mode of working these lights is to place one of the powders, for which we shall presently give you prescriptions, in an iron shovel, and apply a lighted match. The powder will begin to burn slowly, emitting a bright red or green light, accompanied by volumes of smoke. Before exhibiting these lights, all others in the room, gas or lamps, should be turned down as low as possible.
If the operator stands behind the scenes, so as to be out of sight during the performance, the effect is what Artemus Ward would call Trooly Grand.
In order to procure the lights, go to some druggist and give him the following prescriptions. He will procure the necessary materials and mix them for you.