[to be continued.]
[THE GOOD LITTLE BOY.]
BY L. A. TEREBEL.
When first we moved into this street
My Mamma wouldn't let me meet
The other little girls and boys
Out on the sidewalk with their toys.
She said perhaps some naughty child
Would teach me to be bad and wild;
And so for several weeks I stood
At the window being good.
Until a lady came to see
My Mamma, and she said to me:
"My little boy is good and sweet;
We live near by, across the street."
She told my Mamma I must meet
Her little boy across the street;
And so they sent me out one day
To find that little boy and play.
They said he was so very good
He could not be bad if he would.
I almost thought he must have wings,
And other holy sorts of things.
But when the nurse left us at play,
He said to me: "Let's run away;
I know a pond where, if you please,
We both can wade up to our knees!"
[THE GIRL WHO COMES TO EARN A LIVING IN NEW YORK.]
BY ELIZABETH BISLAND.
To-day in many families of modest means the daughters, as well as the sons, begin, as the school days draw to a close, to consider seriously the question of a career and the best means of earning a living. Every wise girl interests herself not only in the possibilities for success held out by the various professions, but the best method of so ordering her working life that it may result not only in success, but in pleasure and happiness as well. The one does not necessarily imply the other. One may rise in one's profession and earn an excellent income, and yet miss happiness and fail of true success. A wise old lady writing to a young girl of great wealth about to make her début in society, said:
"The really important matter is to succeed. Don't make the mistake of thinking that I mean mere success of fashion, money, and rank—though they are all most desirable and delightful things too. I am speaking of the success of being loved, of being popular, useful, and important. To my mind a woman is a success when she holds such a place in the world that her going out of it, at any age, is a severe loss to many people. There must be many so dependent upon her for love, for help, for advice, for pleasure and amusement, that her death leaves a wide gap and a bitter grief. Thousands of women die every day whose going affects no one deeply, except, perhaps, with a sense of relief, and such women I consider failures, whether they were rich or poor, humble or proud."
This is an excellent piece of advice for the girl about to enter on a life of labor, as well as for one destined for a fashionable career. Let a girl then fix her ambition upon a real all-round success, and be content with nothing less.
The most important thing to settle in the beginning is her way of living, which—while the style of it depends in large measure upon her earnings; or upon the allowance she receives from home while she is preparing herself to earn—is capable of infinite variations between the levels of comfort and discomfort, according to her own skill.
There are some so-called women's hotels in New York, but these are, without exception, to be avoided by a young girl with all her might. They are very cheap, but are dirty, squalid, and vulgar. They contain no provision for decent privacy, for adequate bathing, or for proper cleanliness; the food is unwholesome and uninviting, and the society no better than the accommodations, being composed in large part of broken-down failures of the sex, who are little likely to inspire a young girl with hopefulness or high ideals. Their one recommendation is the exclusion of men, which is not, after all, a matter of importance, since there is no reason why a self-respecting girl should not meet men and enjoy their acquaintance when circumstances and the proprieties admit of it. There is an enterprise on foot to build a woman's apartment-house, where the rooms and flats will be rented only to women working for a living who can furnish adequate and respectable references; where the rent will be low, the accommodations pleasant and pretty, and a restaurant of moderate prices in the building; but as yet this admirable scheme remains unrealized in New York, though similar Ladies' Chambers are settled and profitable institutions in London.
Perhaps the best thing a girl unacquainted with New York can do is to write and secure a room for two weeks at the Margaret-Louisa Home in East Seventeenth Street. This home—one of the many admirable foundations made by the Vanderbilt family—was built for the purpose of providing a safe and comfortable stopping-place for women of small means, and is closely connected with the Young Women's Christian Association in the next street. Owing to the constant demand for admission, no one person may remain longer than two weeks, which, after all, allows quite sufficient time for the search of a permanent abiding-place. In the interim one pays $3 a week for a room, and finds meals in the restaurant below at very moderate prices. That is to say, one can live there, with economy, at the rate of about seventy-five cents a day.
The best permanent arrangement for a girl young and alone is to find lodgings in a boarding-house. Excellent accommodations in the pleasantest quarters of the city can be had for $10 a week. This means a small hall room, the use of the bath-room and of the drawing-room, light, heat, attendance, and three meals a day. Two girls can usually arrange to lessen their expenses and double their comfort by taking a double room at $16. This plan is advisable, because it gives one a home in a clean, healthy, and agreeable part of town; provides ample food, which a girl hard at work requires; and insures attendance and consideration in case of illness. From a social point of view it provides her with entire protection and respectability; she meets and makes friends with a nice class of men and women living in the house, and has a pleasant reception-room in which to receive visits. Madison Avenue and the side streets leading out of Fifth Avenue contain a rich choice of such boarding-houses, but here and there certain streets are considered undesirable places to live, and it is well to select a boarding-house which appears quiet and dignified in its aspect, and whose landlady has the same appearance.
Another method is to take a room in a house that furnishes merely lodgings, where one can be housed for a sum ranging between $3 and $5 a week. A small gas-stove will serve for preparing breakfast and a light supper at night, and the hearty meal of the day can be had at a restaurant at one o'clock, when others are lunching. When two girls club together this is not a bad plan. The quickly cooked oatmeal, an egg, and a cup of tea will serve for breakfast; jam, a roll, and a glass of milk make a supper; and there are many cheap restaurants where a table d'hôte midday dinner of the most ample description is to be had for fifty cents, and one portion is ample for two. There are, of course, in the less-fashionable quarters of town, plain, cheap boarding-houses where everything is included for from $6 to $7 a week, but these rarely give the use of a general drawing-room, and the accommodations are very plain. Still, in Washington Square, Lafayette Place, and similar places one may by careful search sometimes find excellent lodgings at a most reasonable rate.
Still another method is to rent a large empty room somewhere, usually a sort of loft at the top of a house, and furnish it one's self. This is a popular plan among the girls in the art schools who wish a home and studio combined. They divide off the corners of the room by cheap screens into bedrooms and kitchen, and leave the centre for sitting and work room. They paint their floor to save a carpet, content themselves with a divan or two, a table, and a few chairs, and they do "light housekeeping" by the aid of a gas-stove, tinned goods, and the delicatessen stores, where one can find all manner of cooked dishes needing only to be warmed. When two or three girls combine on such a scheme they can keep their expenses down to about $18 or $20 a month each, and have a very good time of it.
There is also apartment life, which is not very dear, and is often most agreeable. Indeed, if it can be afforded, it is the pleasantest of all, since no one appreciates the pleasant privacy and relaxation of home life more than the woman who must face the world and fight her own battle. These housekeeping flats may be had all the way from $25 a month up, according to size, location, and convenience. A maid-of-all-work will serve as laundress, cook, and house-maid for from $12 to $15 a month, and the other expenses can be regulated according to one's means; but when two or three share the expenses, and the pennies are looked after closely, this is not an expensive mode of life.
Dress is possibly the next most important point for consideration, for nowhere is a woman judged more by her appearance than in New York. This does not imply that a girl unable to dress expensively need ever suffer from that fact, but it does mean that gewgaws, frippery, loud colors, affectations of masculinity, slovenliness, or eccentricities of costume will severely militate against the success, socially and financially, of a girl who comes to New York to earn her living. New-Yorkers possibly more than others are very sensitive as to the appearance of persons they are seen with, and many a pleasant clever girl has found it hard to get on here because she could not or would not realize that people did not like to be seen walking with her in the street, and shrank from presenting her to their friends because her appearance seemed to require an explanation on their part that she was better than she looked.
It is not infrequent that a high-spirited girl, when warned of this, replies proudly that those who judge her by her clothes are unworthy of her consideration, and are no loss as friends, but such an answer, though natural perhaps, is certainly foolish. Strangers and new acquaintances are necessarily ignorant of her qualities of mind and heart, and their only clew to her character is her outward appearance. Very properly they reason that a dignified, well-bred girl would be likely to dress with quiet, inconspicuous neatness, and if they find no such outward indication of refinement, they see no particular reason to continue the acquaintance on the possible chance of their being mistaken. Of course capable women can conquer this prejudice in time, but it certainly seems hardly worth while to deliberately place in one's path an obstacle to be overcome.
Avoid fierce frizzy untidy fringes, fluttering ribbons, cheap finery, high-heeled shoes; flee the short-haired, mannish, hands-in-pocket swagger, the dirty plush and draggled cheese-cloth attempt at æstheticism, and, above all, eschew the still more unforgivable offence of dingy fingernails, greasy skin, unbrushed skirt edges, and unblackened shoes. There is still another type of girl who needs a suggestion. She of plain appearance, who apparently has become convinced of the uselessness of any attempt to beautify herself, and who screws her hair into an uncompromising knot at the most unbecoming angle; wears, if she is near-sighted, great steel-bowed spectacles instead of pince-nez, and arrays herself in colors and costumes which seem specially chosen for their unsuitability to her coloring and figure. Each and all of these need to be reminded that success in life consists as much in being a charming and agreeable-looking woman, sought after as an acquaintance and companion by refined and pleasant people, as in winning fame and money by one's own efforts.
The wardrobe needed by a girl who is in New York for work instead of play is very simple, and not at all expensive. The serge or cloth tailor gown, consisting of a skirt and coat, has grown to be as much a uniform of the well-dressed business woman as the simple regulation morning suit is that of the business man. These can be had at prices ranging from $12 to $30, ready made in the big shops, or can be ordered from a tailor for about $35 or $40. The latter is the more advisable purchase, as the material is so good and the cut so recent that a serge gown, if of medium weight, can be worn summer and winter for two years. An addition of a heavy outer coat or cape makes such a costume sufficiently warm for any weather one is exposed to in New York, and by leaving off the coat and wearing the skirt with a bodice, the hottest weather of summer can be endured. If, added to this, one possesses a pretty silk costume, with one high-necked and one low-necked bodice, one is provided to meet all social as well as work-a-day demands upon one's wardrobe. In New York one either wears street dress and a bonnet, or else full dress. A demi-toilet is not necessary except when one can afford to indulge one's tastes regardless of economy. To the theatre, to restaurants in the evening, for calling, at afternoon teas or luncheons, for any social event, in fact, that occurs in the daytime or in a public place one wears a street dress and bonnet or hat. For even the simplest dinner parties—unless, indeed, one is the only guest and the invitation is impromptu—evening dress is the correct wear, and if by chance one has an invitation to a box at the opera, it is again customary to wear evening dress. Sitting in the orchestra stalls in the opera one would wear street dress and bonnet.
For morning and business wear the tailor skirt and coat, worn with a quiet-colored bodice, would be accompanied by a plain walking hat, with no more trimming than a few cocks' plumes, low-heeled walking shoes, and heavy dark gloves. If one's business lay in an office there should be worn as few rings or jewelry of any description as possible. It is considered a sign of great carelessness to go upon the street with no gloves, or with gloves half on, or not tidily buttoned; and nothing has a more provincial appearance than to have one's feet crowded into high-heeled boots.
Certainly New York provides as much innocent and inexpensive amusement for the girl who earns her living as any other city in this country—if one knows where to look for it. Two girls can go alone together to the theatre at night in perfect safety—that is, if their manner is quiet and dignified, and not such as to attract attention. A very respectable and respectful class of neighbors is found up in the cheap, fifty-cent galleries of the better class of theatres, and one may see all the best actors for small sums and in perfect comfort. The Sunday night concerts at Carnegie Hall and the Berkeley Lyceum afford one a chance to hear the best music and listen to the most famous soloists and singers for prices ranging from two dollars to fifty cents; and here again it is quite correct to go in couples without other escort.
A little pains will keep one cognizant of the many free lectures. Five dollars is the cost of a yearly subscription to the Mercantile Library, and provides one with the best books, and the Astor and Lenox libraries are open without charge to those who have time to use their reading-rooms. The Museum of Art, with its ever-growing collection of pictures, models from the antique, gems, statues, musical instruments, silver, laces, tapestry, etc., is open without charge five days of the week, and this museum, the zoo, and the Museum of Natural History are all in Central Park, which affords one all the loveliness of nature, as well as tennis, skating, and boating.
In summer a few cents will make one very familiar with New York Harbor by means of its many ferry lines to all the various points, and for tiny sums one can go by the elevated trains and their continuations, in the form of steam trains and trolleys, upon fifty charming country excursions. There are a number of working-girls' clubs, where one can find companionship of one's own age, and can join classes for learning to make one's own dresses, trim one's bonnets, typewrite, embroider, dance, and endless other accomplishments. The churches offer, beside spiritual help and benefit, the best music, the most inspired eloquence, and in many instances splendid ceremonials and treasures of art. Much is said about the loneliness of strangers in New York, but loneliness and ennui in such a city simply arise from laziness and lack of intelligence. A girl with only half a dozen acquaintances here can still find some expedition, some delightful musical, artistic, dramatic, or literary experience, to fill every moment that she can spare from her work.
Socially New York is a delightful place for a girl of small means who is yet agreeable, intelligent, and refined. But let her from the first carefully refrain from making the mistake of forming intimacies without discrimination. She should make up her mind as to the class of persons she wishes to know, and wait for that class. The easy conquest of an inferior grade of social life will only prevent her ever gratifying her better ambitions, for acquaintances once made are not easily got rid of, and she will be unfavorably judged by those she wishes to know when they see her associates. Let her fill her life with such pleasures as are to be had for the taking, and let her wait for the natural course of events to bring her friends. The first year is always the hardest and loneliest, but suddenly one finds after about a twelvemonth that people have become aware of one's existence, and begin to recognize whatever one may possess of amiability or cleverness. Then one's "good times" begin. The New-Yorkers are generous, hospitable, and friendly, and are glad to offer all the pleasantest forms of amusement and hospitality to an agreeable girl who looks neat and attractive and is amiable and vivacious.
In conclusion, it may be suggested that a girl would do well to connect herself with some church and interest herself in some charity. There are none so poor and so friendless that others do not need their aid, and apart from all the moral help and restraint to be found in serving others, such work brings one in contact with the very best and noblest women, from whom one learns to form noble ideals, and to discriminate between apparent and real success in life.
BY CAROLINE A. CREEVEY AND MARGARET E. SANGSTER.
THE NIGHT BEFORE THANKSGIVING.
CHARACTERS:
| Ethel Forrester. |
| Elise Forrester, sister of Ethel. |
| First Fairy. |
| Second Fairy. |
| Elgin, a fairy messenger. |
| Genius of Thanksgiving. |
| Purveyor of Turkeys (a boy). |
| Miss Maize. |
| Miss Corn Tassel. |
| Rosy-cheeked Apple (a girl). |
| Golden Pumpkin (a boy). |
| Nuts and Raisins (a boy). |
| Red Cranberry (a girl). |
| Beets, Carrots, and Turnips (a boy). |
| Miss Grape. |
| Miss Mince Pie. |
| Miss Celery. |
Scene.—Ethel's bedroom.
Enter Ethel Forrester. She throws off her hat and shawl, and sits upon her cot-bed.
Ethel. So tired! So tired! Shall I ever get rested? To-morrow is a holiday, but for me a sad one. I have no nice dinner for mamma and Elise. I hoped something would turn up. But nothing has. After all, things don't turn up. You have to wade right through things. It's foolish to expect, for instance, a nice dinner to drop from the clouds for us, mamma and Elise and me; yet unless one does we shall not stand much chance of anything except bread and tea. Here are my car fares, though. I will buy an orange for mamma, and two apples for Elise. They've got to be content with that. What time is it? (Clock strikes outside.) Twelve, I do declare. Well, I'm too tired to undress. I am sleepy—and hungry. To-morrow is—Thanksgiv— [Falls on the bed, and sleeps.]
Enter two Fairies. They stand, one on each side of Ethel's head, wave wands over her, and sing "The Fairies' Sleep Charm."
Sleep, dear one, sleep, and close thy tired eyelids;
Good angels wake and watch till morning light.
Love sees the trouble and the brave endurance,
And soon, for thee, dear child, will all be bright.
First Fairy. She seems quite exhausted.
Second Fairy. She does indeed.
First Fairy. A brave little struggler?
Second Fairy. She is.
First Fairy. But she is trying to carry too big a burden.
Second Fairy. Much too big.
First Fairy. I love to see her rest.
Second Fairy. She is smiling now, and reposing.
[The Fairies walk away from the bed and sit down.]
First Fairy. Do you know why she is so late in getting to bed?
Second Fairy. No.
First Fairy. She carried a bonnet to Miss Van Noir, with strict orders to see the lady herself, and find out whether the bonnet suited. Miss Van Noir was at dinner with a party of friends, and the maid would not disturb her. It was ten o'clock before the lady saw the little girl and tried on the bonnet. After that, to save her car fare, Ethel walked home. So, no wonder she is late and tired.
Second Fairy. I see no preparations for a Thanksgiving dinner in this house.
First Fairy. Ethel's mother is ill. She has lain in bed some weeks, and may never get well. If she could go to the hospital and have good nursing, she might recover. But she will not leave her little girls. She thinks she can look after them, although so ill. But there is no prospect of a Thanksgiving dinner here. That is plain to see.
Second Fairy. What does Ethel do to earn money?
First Fairy. She is cash-girl and errand-girl in a milliner's establishment. Every one in the house wants her, and sends her on countless errands, so that madame herself is not so tired sometimes at night as my little Ethel there.
Second Fairy. Poor little soul! How much better off she would be if she were a fairy! I never heard of a sick or tired fairy. Did you?
First Fairy. No. But though we never feel fatigue nor suffer hardship, we sympathize with mortals.
Second Fairy. Oh yes, we do!
First Fairy. Now I am thinking.
Second Fairy. What?
First Fairy. Could we get somebody to give these little girls a home and put their mother in a hospital, how nice it would be!
Second Fairy. Nice indeed.
First Fairy. I will summon the elfin messenger, and see what can be done.
Second Fairy. Count on my assistance.
[Fairies arise, make motions with their hands, and repeat,]
Hither hasten, lovely boy,
Whom we fairy-folk employ;
Here are errands to be done,
Finished ere to-morrow's sun.
Enter Elgin, the messenger, a boy of six to eight years.
Elgin (bowing).
Fairies dear, I heard your call;
Elgin is my name.
First Fairy. Come hither, good Elgin. Wilt run errands in the air for us to-night?
Elgin.
Only let me know your wish,
I will do that same.
First Fairy. Behold yon sleeping child.
Second Fairy. She sleeps sweetly under our loving enchantment. Do you see her?
Elgin. Fairies, I do. 'Tis a young and gentle face.
First Fairy. Knowest thou a lady rich and lonely who would give a home to this girl and her sister?
Elgin.
You ask a most uncommon thing.
Most mortals are so cold and hard,
To wealth and luxury they cling,
And if they give, they seek reward.
Second Fairy. But, Elgin, think. Rich, lonely, and with loving hearts. Are there no such among mortals?
Elgin.
A few, no doubt;
To find one out,
That is the enterprise.
One can but try,
And that will I
Beneath the starry skies.
First Fairy. But prithee think quickly, Elgin, boy. Time waits not.
Elgin (musing). Idle and frivolous—she won't do. How would a maiden lady do? I know one living in a large and beautiful house, her father's dying gift. She has no one to love her, and no one to love. Shall I go to her, Fairies? One can but try.
First Fairy. Now you are my sweet Elgin. Ask her in dreams to-night. And, dear boy, on thy way bid hither the Genius of Thanksgiving and many of his sprites. We can arrange a little dinner for to-morrow.
Elgin. Depend on me, good fairies dear. [Exit.]
Second Fairy (walking to Ethel). She sleeps and smiles. Rest, sweet one.
Enter Rosy-cheeked Apple, a girl dressed in red cheese-cloth, and Golden Pumpkin, a boy in yellow.
Both Fairies. Welcome, sprites—Rosy-cheeked Apple and Golden Pumpkin. We have work for you to-night.
Rosy-cheeked Apple. It's frosty out to-night, so we ran and tumbled, and Golden Pumpkin there, jolly boy, rolled till we came hither.
Golden Pumpkin. 'Twas a merry game of tag, sister, and I won.
Rosy-cheeked Apple. Naughty boy, I won. Last tag was mine.
Golden Pumpkin. Well, then it's mine now.
[Touches her, and together they play tag around the room, nearly knocking over Nuts and Raisins, Red Cranberry, and Beets, Carrots and Turnips, who enter.]
Nuts and Raisins (dressed in brown). Why, here's fun! Let's join the game.
[All play tag.]
[Enter Genius of Thanksgiving, fat, jolly, corn-husks for hair, trimmed in any fantastic way with pop-corn, strings of raisins, apples, etc.]
Genius of Thanksgiving. Tut, tut, sprites! Not so fast, my fine fellows. Here, now. Peace! Silence!
[Catches one by the ear, shakes another, and soon the sprites are quiet.]
Nuts and Raisins. We were but having a little game of tag, master.
Genius of Thanksgiving. Another time, sprites. Now there's work to be done. Have you made your manners to the ladies? Oh, saucy children! Fairies, forgive them.
First Fairy. Since the sleeping child was not disturbed, 'twas of no consequence, sir. You were kind to come at our call, Genius of Thanksgiving. Here is a family that you have overlooked. There is no dinner provided for to-morrow. Is it too late?
WHY, NO, THE NAME IS NOT HERE!
Genius of Thanksgiving. Why, how comes that? (Looks over a long list of names.) No, the name—what is it, Forrester?—is not here. Well, that's a sad omission. No, ma'am, it's not too late. Sprites, you must hustle and bustle, and get up a first-class dinner for the Forresters. Do you hear?
Sprites all. We hear—we will.
Genius of Thanksgiving. Are we all present? No. [Impatiently taps on the floor.]
Enter Purveyor of Turkeys, strutting. He gobbles.
Purveyor of Turkeys. Good-evening, master, and you, Fairies.
Genius of Thanksgiving. Sirrah, Purveyor of Turkeys, you're late. Have you a fine fat turkey left?
Purveyor of Turkeys. I have, sir. The demand was terrible this year, but I have laid by a few, thinking they would be wanted for late dinners.
Genius of Thanksgiving. Save us a good one, then—twelve-pound weight. Is that big enough, Fairies? The family is small, I believe.
First Fairy. That will do, sir.
Genius of Thanksgiving. Will you have it cooked or uncooked.
Second Fairy. Uncooked. But pray do not forget the stuffing.
Enter Miss Maize and Miss Corn Tassel, dressed in white and yellow.
Miss Maize. Who speaks of turkey stuffing? I will attend to that.
Miss Corn Tassel. Yes, we will furnish the bread and biscuit, the butter and thyme, and I can add the eggs.
Genius of Thanksgiving. Miss Maize and Miss Corn Tassel, young ladies, you are late. But there are others later still.
Enter Miss Grape, elegantly attired in purple.
Nuts and Raisins. Ah! See Miss Grape, our purple sprite. So pretty, so graceful! Did Master Frost speak with thee, child?
Miss Grape. He did indeed take my hand, and waltz me hither.
Genius of Thanksgiving. Nay, I warrant me, he stopped not there.
Miss Grape. He pressed a kiss upon my cheek. He said 'twould give it a richer bloom.
Genius of Thanksgiving. Well, naughty, pretty child, canst give us grapes for our Thanksgiving dinner?
Miss Grape. That can I, both white and black, pretty to look upon, sweet to taste, and no harm within.
Genius of Thanksgiving. So? Good! Child, do. And you shall have my thanks.
Enter Miss Mince Pie, dressed in mixed black and white.
All shout. Oh, late Mince Pie! What has made thee late?
Miss Mince Pie. Your honor, I got lost. I thought I would take a short way hither, and it proved thrice as long as the other. I came whizzing, and nearly left my breath behind me.
Genius of Thanksgiving. Next time, Miss Mince Pie, take your shortening in your crust, and don't put it into your feet. But listen. Have you spices and boiled cider, apples and beef, so as to make us a right merry mince pie to eat after the Forresters' turkey to-morrow? Good heavens! It's to-day. The night is waning. We must hasten.
Miss Mince Pie. Your honor, as fine a mince pie as ever went on a Thanksgiving table shall be ready for Ethel Forrester's dinner to-morrow.
Genius of Thanksgiving. Thanks. And now where is the cranberry jelly?
Red Cranberry. Your honor, I have a fine mould ready.
Genius of Thanksgiving. Ah! Red Cranberry, you are just the sprite to attend to that. And Beets, Carrots, and Turnips?
Beets, Carrots, and Turnips. Here, sir. I will furnish a goodly array of vegetables.
Genius of Thanksgiving. Golden Pumpkin, a pie from you, rich, thick, and yellow. Plenty of cream and eggs, sirrah.
Golden Pumpkin. I know a good pie when I see it.
Genius of Thanksgiving. Rosy-cheeked Apple, some of your best, please?
Rosy-cheeked Apple. I have beauties, sir.
Enter Elgin.
Elgin. Good-morning, your honor, and you, sprites. I was hurrying here, and passed a beautiful young lady combing her hair. She seemed nowise in a hurry. Miss Celery—
All. Miss Celery! Where is she? No dinner can be complete on Thanksgiving day without her.
Enter Miss Celery, dressed in white and green.
Miss Celery. Did you call? I did but sleep a little, but methought you called.
Genius of Thanksgiving (sternly). We did call. 'Tis no time to sleep, the night before Thanksgiving. Have you, miss, two nice crisp bunches of celery?
Miss Celery. Yes, your honor, four if you like.
Genius of Thanksgiving. No, two. But your very best. And now, Fairies, the dinner is arranged. The night passes. My sprites must be busy. Go, children, weave a spell over the ovens. Let nothing burn. Have everything well baked. See to the dinners of the poor as well as the rich. Let no one go hungry on Thanksgiving day. And see to it that Ethel Forrester's dinner is complete.
First Fairy. Dear good Genius of Thanksgiving! How can we thank you enough?
Second Fairy. Dear friend, how old are you? Pardon the question, but I am mystified—you seem so old and so young.
Genius of Thanksgiving.
Ah! ask me an easier question;
I am older than any one thinks.
Why, I've perched on the eaves of Palmyra,
And slept on the breast of the Sphynx.
But yet I am young as the youngest,
With a heart that can never grow old,
For my work is Love's own inspiration,
Defiant of hunger and cold.
So, Fairies, to you let me bow my adieu.
Come, sprites, with a whir and a flurry,
To get this well done will be jolly great fun,
But I tell you we'll all have to hurry.
[Exeunt Genius and sprites.]
First Fairy. What a splendid fellow Genius of Thanksgiving is! So well preserved!
Second Fairy. Doubtless he may live a thousand years yet.
First Fairy. I hope he may.
Elgin. As fine a fellow as ever breathed. But, Fairies, the morning dawns. Have you further commands for your most willing servant?
First Fairy. No, thank you, boy. You have nobly done. We can only thank you.
Elgin. The Fairies' thanks are sweet reward. I go, then, to my mountain cave, where all the day I lie and sleep, and when night comes I wake again and fly and run in the sparkling night air. [Exit Elgin.]
Second Fairy. This night's work could not have been done save for that merry boy.
First Fairy. True. He is a treasure. But now we must remove the charm from Ethel, and waken her.
[Both advance to the bed, and stand one on each side of Ethel. Fairies repeat the waking charm:]
Wake, dear one, wake; unclose thy rested eyelids;
The night is gone, the beauteous morning breaks.
The angels know the day will bring you gladness,
So please accept the gifts that Heaven makes.
[Ethel stirs, the Fairies step lightly towards the door.]
Second Fairy. They say mortals do not believe in us.
First Fairy. Perhaps Ethel will when she sees the basket of good things which even now I hear the sprites leaving at the door. But let us hasten—the dawn will come.
[Exeunt Fairies. Ethel moves, sits up on the bed, looks around the room, rubs her eyes, and seems bewildered.]
Ethel. Are they all gone? How beautiful—fairies and sprites in my poor little room! (Smiles.) Only a dream, I suppose. But so real. What a funny old Genius of Thanksgiving it was! [Laughs aloud.]
Enter Elise with a note.
Elise. Oh, sister, I heard you laugh, so I knew you were awake; otherwise I would not have disturbed you, for you, poor thing, were so tired last night. But, Ethel, a most wonderful thing has happened. So wonderful, it seems like a dream.
Ethel. The night abounds in dreams. I have had one. I must tell it, if I can.
Elise. But hear mine first, dear. I think it was about two o'clock when I heard feet in the passageway and a noise at the door. I was frightened, but did not alarm mother; for why should burglars visit our poor home? After a while the noise ceased, and I ventured to get out of bed and softly open the door. There stood—what do you think, Ethel?
Ethel. I know.
Elise. No, you don't, you goose.
Ethel. I do know.
Elise. Silly child. Listen, a large basket—
Ethel. With our Thanksgiving dinner in it—a turkey and cranberry jelly. Oh, how pretty Red Cranberry was in her bright dress—and Nuts and Raisins—and Beets, Carrots, and Turnips—what a funny boy he was.
Elise. Ethel! are you ill?
Ethel. No, dear. And Miss Mince Pie was late, but she got there, and Golden Pumpkin was to make a pumpkin pie—
Elise. You are out of your head! Oh, my poor sister! you are coming down with a fever on Thanksgiving day—[Begins to cry.]
Ethel. Nonsense, darling. It was my dream. But I will wait and tell you about it later. Go on with your story. I am not ill.
Elise. Are you sure? You talk so strangely.
Ethel. I'll prove it soon by helping to eat the best dinner in all the land. Oh, Elise, we will have as good a dinner as the queen! [They hug each other.]
Elise. Well, there's everything nice in that basket. I was so impatient, I put my hand in and felt to the bottom.
Ethel. Are the grapes and celery there?
Elise. There are black grapes and white, dear—mamma will like those—and two lovely bunches of celery.
Ethel (laughs). Excuse me, but Miss Celery was late because she was combing her hair and taking a nap.
Elise. Sister!
Ethel. That's in the dream too. But it was funny. What is that note?
Elise. A letter lay upon the top of the basket, addressed to you. I have not opened it. Do hurry and read it.
Ethel (opens and reads).
"My dear Ethel,—For some time I have had my eye upon you. I see in you a brave little girl struggling under burdens too heavy to be borne; your little sister is scarcely less brave and sweet in the care she gives her sick mother. She wins my love also. Children, will you come and live with me for a while? I will send your mother to a private room in the hospital, where she shall have everything to make her better. God grant she may recover! Meanwhile, and for as long thereafter as you and mamma are willing, you shall stay with me and be my little girls. When mamma is well, why, we have a house big enough for her too. My coachman will place at your door, during the night, your Thanksgiving dinner. I hope it will taste good. I will call in the course of to-morrow afternoon, and learn if you are coming to me. Remember, children, I need you. My heart is a mother's although I am an old maid, supposed not to have any heart. Will you come to
"Your loving friend,
"Phebe Wilson.
"P.S.—I have spoken to madame, and Elise is not to return to her work there. She may call the morning after Thanksgiving and receive what wages are owing her."
Elise. How wonderful! It is all like a fairy story!
Ethel. It is a fairy story. I did not know who was going to take us, though. Elgin did not mention her name. But I wonder I did not think of Miss Wilson. She is rich and lonely, and has a warm heart. Those were Elgin's conditions, and he found her.
Elise. Elgin?
Ethel. That's the dream again. Come, Elise, let us see if our dear mother is awake. I am nearly bursting with this good news. And I must tell you my dream. For, you see, the letter and the basket just agree with the dream. And after I have told my dream, and we have read the letter, and seen our Thanksgiving dinner, why, if you and mamma don't believe in fairies, you're funny people, that is all. (Kisses her hand to the air.) I believe in you two dear fairies, at all events.
Exeunt.
[ABSALOM.]
BY R. K. MUNKITTRICK.
It was a few days before Thanksgiving, and Herbert was out in the woods with his father shooting. It was lovely autumn weather, and the dreamy Indian-summer smiled upon the few yellow leaves that still fluttered on the woodland boughs. Herbert was the first to break the silence:
"Papa, I hope you are not going to kill dear old Absalom for Thanksgiving. Let's try to shoot a wild gobbler, instead."
"But there are no wild gobblers around here, my boy," replied the father.
Herbert thought of the solitary turkey in their barn-yard, and it made him very sad to think that that poor bird should be beheaded for the Thanksgiving feast. And this was because the early summer rains had killed Absalom's little brothers and sisters, and left him to make his way on the farm as best he could. Herbert well remembered the morning when he brought Absalom, limp and almost dead, from the coop, and wrapt him in flannel, and put him under the kitchen stove to dry. And he reflected upon the pleasure he had experienced in bringing the little fellow up until they became companions. Many a time the gobbler had jumped upon his knee and made himself as much at home as he possibly could have done upon the bough of a tree. Herbert had fed him with scraps of meat and bread, until Absalom followed him about and seemed to feel that they were brothers. Herbert, like Absalom, had neither a brother nor a sister, and this may have been one reason that they were inseparable friends. Now when Herbert thought of Absalom in the light of a feast, it was like a little Chinese boy thinking of his pet poodle being made into pies and patties.
"You are not really going to eat Absalom on Thanksgiving, are you, papa?" asked Herbert, sadly.
"He's a fine fat gobbler," replied the father, evading a direct answer—"he's a fine fat gobbler, Herbert, and you know what the gobbler's mission is."
Herbert knew very well from his father's remarks that Absalom would be killed that very night, to be eaten upon the morrow, and he was very sad as they trudged homeward. But when he did arrive at his home he determined to do his best to save the old gobbler's life. Going down to the barn-yard, he was met by the bird, which, not being suspicious of his impending doom, ran gayly to meet his little friend.
"Oh, Absalom," he said, "they would eat you to-morrow!"
"Eat me to-morrow?" mused Absalom, wearily, for up to this time he had imagined that he was simply ornamental, like a peacock. "I don't quite understand you. Pray explain."
Then Herbert told him about Thanksgiving day and its sacred traditions, and the poor bird was so badly upset that he couldn't conceal his emotion. He hurriedly wiped a tear from his eye with his left wattle, and thrust his head beneath his wing to conceal the fact that he was weeping. Herbert took him gently in his arms, and said, as he laid his cheek against his head,
"Well, they sha'n't kill you if I can help it."
And then he stole softly into the house, and, without being seen, carried Absalom up to the garret, and perched him gently on a rafter in a dark corner. He then put a little red shawl over him to protect him against the draughts, and fastened it just over his wish-bone with a safety-pin.
"Now you must keep perfectly still until to-morrow is over."
"I will do so," promised Absalom.
"Promise me that you will not forget yourself and go 'gobble, gobble, gobble,' for if you should do so you would certainly be discovered, only to become a memory and a dinner."
"I won't gobble once," replied Absalom; "I fully appreciate the importance of keeping still."
Then Herbert gave him an ear or two of pop-corn that was hanging in the garret to dry, and afterwards went down stairs and brought him some tea-biscuits and cracked English walnuts.
"You shall be the first gobbler on record to celebrate Thanksgiving by having a feast instead of making one. Here is some nice celery, and here is a handful of minced meat, and you shall have all you can eat to-morrow."
"I shall never forget your kindness," said the gobbler, with feeling. "This is twice you have saved my life—once from being drowned in the rain, and once from being eaten with cranberry sauce. Believe me, I shall never forget your kindness."
Just then they were startled by the voice of Herbert's father downstairs.
"Michael," said he, "just go down to the barn-yard and chop the head off that gobbler!"
It was an awful moment for Absalom, who almost shivered himself off his perch.
After awhile Michael returned, long-faced and empty-handed.
"I cannot find the gobbler, and I think the old Uncle Ned who works here by the day has stolen him for his Thanksgiving dinner."
Herbert's father was so indignant at the disappointment occasioned by the reported loss of the gobbler that, without the slightest consideration for the old darky, who was working in the celery ditch, he shouted,
"See here, Uncle Ned, why did you steal our last turkey?"
"I didn't steal him, sah!" replied Uncle Ned, with a crestfallen air.
"Then get right off the place, and don't let me see you around here again," shouted the proprietor, with great indignation.
Uncle Ned dropped his spade and went sullenly away, while Absalom smiled through his tears on the old dusty rafter in the dark corner of the garret.
"Now what are we going to have for Thanksgiving dinner?" inquired the head of the house. "It's three miles to the village, the butcher's will be closed in an hour, and we can't even get a steak!"
"Say, papa," suggested Herbert, "let's have nothing only dessert. What do you say? Nothing but plum pudding; that'll make a fine old dinner."
Although the adults of the family frowned on such a suggestion, the family had to make out a dinner on plum pudding or go hungry. Herbert had never eaten so fine a dinner before; and when it was over he slipped up to the garret with a plateful for Absalom.
"What in the world is this, Herbert?" asked the bird, as he smacked his bill.
"It's plum pudding with hard sauce for your Thanksgiving dinner."
"Well, it's mighty fine, and I think it must be called hard sauce, because it's hard to find anything else quite so good."
So he ate away until he fell asleep. In the bright rosy morning he returned to the barn-yard, greatly relieved and in buoyant spirits.
"Take Uncle Ned right back to work at once," said Herbert's father at about noon to Michael.
"What, after stealing the gobbler?" asked Michael.
"He didn't do it," responded Herbert's father, meekly; "he didn't do it. I just met the gobbler, and I admit that while I am not oversuperstitious, the mysterious disappearance of that bird when he was ripe and due for the axe, and his sudden return when the danger had passed, fills me with dire foreboding, and makes me think he'll bring me good luck if I only treat him right. So I am not going to kill him even for Christmas, but intend to feed him on the fat of the farm, and let him die of old age. When I saw him a little while ago he actually winked at me and grinned, and that was too much for my suspicious temperament."
So Uncle Ned was at once restored to his former position, and Absalom thrived and lived to a grand old age, the faithful companion of his devoted little friend and preserver.
[THE REAL DOLL.]
BY H. G. PAINE.
On little Frances's birthday
She had dolls of every size:
Baby dolls and lady dolls,
And dolls in mannish guise.
She had china dolls and rubber dolls,
Wax, worsted, wood, and some
That squeaked when Frances squeezed them hard,
And others that were dumb.
She had a little sailor doll,
A boy doll dressed in blue,
A doll that rode a bicycle,
A colored dolly, too.
But one and all she passed them by,
And cried with glad surprise:
"Oh, look, I've got a real doll!"
'Twas the doll that shuts its eyes.
[STRADDLED ON A MAD MOOSE.]
BY HUBERT EARL.
We sat around the big open brick fireplace in the main cabin of the camp, watching the birch logs as the flames greedily licked them and threw forth a strong ruddy light upon our faces. What with the guides and a few old veterans we made quite a party. Hunting stories had been the topic of the evening's conversation, and I, who had seldom hunted (this being, in fact, my first trip into the region), had listened to these stories very much interested. The camp was situated on an island in one of the numerous lakes found along the borders of northern Maine. It consisted of a few log cabins, with a large one in the centre, where we were at the moment congregated. The night air was very cold, and Billy, our host, had predicted a frost before morning. Billy was practically born in the woods, and knew every sign that could be learned. It was a pleasure to watch his quiet face as he pulled away on a big black cigar, gazing the while reflectively at the blazing logs. While I watched him my eyes drifted now and then around the walls of the cabin. Stacked in the corners were rifles and shot-guns of all descriptions, and strung along the log sides, upon wooden pins, rested fly-rods innumerable, their polished reels catching and reflecting the flicker of the fire.
Off in the shadowy corner a rude stairway, with moose-legs for rails, went climbing up into the loft overhead, and in the deepest part of the shadow I made out the head of a magnificent bull moose with immense spreading antlers. As I looked at it, it seemed to appear exceedingly savage, and the glass eyes had been so skilfully placed that in the flickering light they stared in the most baleful manner. Involuntarily I drew my chair closer to Billy's, and patiently watched his cigar dwindle down, ever and anon glancing at the ferocious-looking head behind me.
In a short time the conversation lulled, and I ventured to ask Billy to tell the story connected with the shooting of the moose behind us. "It is sure to be interesting," I said, "for he looks as if he died fighting hard."
Billy glanced at me in a protesting sort of way, but the chorus of requests for the story was too much for him.
"Well, boys," he said, "just give me a moment till I load my pipe, and I'll tell it to you; and you can judge for yourselves whether it is interesting or not.
"It was ten years ago coming winter when I had a camp near the mouth of the river below here. Some of you saw what's left of it when you came over the Parmachene trail yesterday. I was all alone that fall, except for an occasional hunter or so going up the trail, and for some reason deer was scarce. Well, I was hugging the fire one cold evening early in November, when I heard a loud crash outside the camp. Now that meant one of two things: either a windfall had taken place, or some large game was floundering through the bog near at hand. Seizing my rifle, I slipped out of the cabin.
"I looked in the direction from which the crash had come, but I could see nothing. Softly launching my canoe, I placed the rifle in the bottom of it, to be handy, you know, and started to paddle up the stream a little way. I had probably gone about fifty feet when a branch snapped, and then came a tremendous crash. The sound was close at hand, and I gave a quick look in the direction whence it came. The night was too black to see much, but I made out the huge stump of a tree that I had often thrashed for trout from. Immediately back of this stump lay a tangle of dead trees. I had stopped paddling, and the current of the stream was slowly drifting the canoe towards it, and, with my rifle ready, I waited for a sight of the game. Judging from the noise of the last crash, I knew it must be near the stump.
"Most of you boys can appreciate what my feelings were at the moment, for I felt pretty sure of big game and a good stock of meat. It took but a few seconds to drift around to the lee of that stump, and I quickly brought up with a thump against some of the dead wood in the bog. What I saw gave me a start, for there in the deep shadow stood the largest bull moose it has ever been my fortune to run across.
"Well, I'm an old hunter, guide, or whatever you want to call me, and have tracked deer from boyhood, also bear, moose, and caribou; but, boys, when I saw that magnificent bull glaring at me I grew feverish with excitement, and for a few minutes I simply stared back at him. I guess we were not more than twenty feet apart, and as far as I could tell through the steam rising from him, he was caught in the bog some way, and was fighting mad.
"I had been at close quarters with moose before, but never saw such dangerous-looking eyes. Raising my gun, I aimed as well as I could just back of his fore-shoulder. I felt shaky, though, and the sights went bobbing up and down like a cork float. I tried hard to get her steady, and when I had her fairly so I fired.
"There was a most unearthly, savage cry, and the dark body with those fearful eyes and antlers launched itself forward at me. I had hit him, but, as I afterward discovered, the bullet had cut along through the skin behind the fore-legs, and the pain forced the supreme effort by which he freed himself from the bog. He was rapidly coming for me when I let fly at him again. By this time my blood was up, mad with disgust at having missed killing him at such close range. I hit him the second time, and hit him hard, but on he came as though nothing could stop him, and I had just time enough to plant another bit of lead in him when he threw himself half out of the water and planted his forehoofs clean through the canoe. I knew I could never get away from him, as his savage eyes were watching me, so when I saw what his game was, I made a leap for his back as his hoofs went crashing through the canoe. As I landed on him I caught his antlers with one hand, drawing my knife with the other. Well, boys, I actually laughed at my queer position, and I dare say that moose was more than surprised. For a moment he couldn't realize where I had gone to and what was on his back. That moment of hesitation probably saved my life, for I reached over and drove the knife into him as near the heart as I could judge.
"There were a few seconds of trouble, during which I hung on to his antlers, until finally, with a big toss of his head, he threw me out into the stream. I had lost my knife in the struggle, and knew if he was not done for it was all up with me. So I swam away as rapidly as I could, expecting every minute to hear him after me. But his last effort had settled him, and, with a cry of satisfaction, I looked around, to find him again caught in the bog. He was dead at last, and with a rope I hitched him to the stump. The next morning I hauled him up to the camp, and, after some trouble, secured the canoe and rifle. He gave me the gamiest fight of my life, and that is the reason his head—the finest specimen you've probably seen—stands in the camp to-day."
This Department is conducted in the interest of Amateur Photographers, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on the subject so far as possible. Correspondents should address Editor Camera Club Department.
PAPERS FOR BEGINNERS, No. 15.
BROMIDE PRINTS.
Bromide paper differs from the printing-out papers both in manner of using and in the finished picture. Bromide paper is a paper coated with silver bromide and gelatine in emulsion, and is first printed and then developed in the same way as a negative. The prints when finished are a brilliant black and white.
This paper may be prepared by the amateur, but the ready-prepared papers are so reliable and so inexpensive, that it is really cheaper to buy the paper already sensitized. One great advantage of bromide paper over printing-out paper is that in using it one is entirely independent of day or sunlight. Strong "plucky" negatives are the best for bromide printing, but very good prints may be made with weak negatives by carefully timing the printing.
All the process of working bromide paper, except that of the printing, must be conducted by a red or yellow light. Open the package of paper in the dark-room, and the negative being already in the printing-frame, adjust a sheet of paper over the negative. The face of bromide paper may always be distinguished by its curling in. Cover the frame with a dark cloth, open the door of the lantern, and get your timepiece ready, for one must always print by exact seconds; never guess at the time. Uncover the frame and hold the negative about fifteen inches from the flame of the lamp, and if the negative is an ordinary printing one, expose to the light for ten seconds. Cover the frame immediately, close the door of the lantern, take the print from the frame, and if you wish to develop it at once soak the paper in clear water till it is limp enough to lie flat. Place it in the developing-tray face up, and flood it with developer. One may use almost any kind of developer with bromide paper. Eikonogen and hydrochinon are good developers, and do not stain the hands; but ferrous oxalate is the developer most used.
The image on the paper should develop rather slowly, and come up clear and brilliant. Develop till the detail is well out and the shadows deep enough. Pour off all the developer, leaving the print in the tray, and cover it with a solution composed of 1 dr. acetic acid, and 32 oz. of water. Allow this to act one minute; turn off, and repeat the operation twice more. Wash the print thoroughly, and place in a fixing bath of hypo, 3 oz.; water, 16 oz. After fixing, wash for an hour in running water, and hang up to dry. If prints are washed in running water they should be taken from the bowl two or three times during the washing, and the bowl filled with clean water. If running water is not used wash in ten changes of water, allowing the prints to remain ten minutes in each change of water.
In bromide prints one must be very careful to have all dishes used in the operation strictly clean. Greenish tones in the prints are caused by over-exposure and too much bromide in the developing solution. Yellow prints are caused by under-exposure, and too long development. In developing rock the tray in all directions. If it is rocked in one direction only, the prints will be streaked. Do not let water run directly on the prints, as it will cause blisters.
Bromide prints are always satisfactory, require no burnishing, do not fade, and when well printed and developed resemble engravings. They can be used for book illustrations, and will not curl or exhibit any of the disagreeable traits of the aristo prints.
Will Sir Knight Harry Hamner, of Philadelphia, please send his street and number? The Editor wishes to write to him in regard to a branch Camera Club in Philadelphia—which it is hoped he will organize.
[THE IMP OF THE TELEPHONE.]
BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS.
III.—ELECTRIC COOKING.
"Hurrah!" cried Jimmieboy, in ecstasy. "This is great, isn't it?"
"Pretty great," assented the Imp, proudly. "That is, unless you mean large. If you mean it that way it isn't great at all; but if you mean great like me, who, though very, very small, am simply tremendous as a success, I agree with you. I like it here very much. The room is extremely comfortable, and I do everything by electricity—cooking, reading, writing—everything."
"I don't see how," said Jimmieboy.
"Oh, it's simply a matter of buttons and batteries. The battery makes the electricity, I press the buttons, and there you are. You know what a battery is, don't you?"
"Not exactly," said Jimmieboy. "You might explain it to me."
"Yes, I might if I hadn't a better way," replied the Imp. "I won't explain it to you, because I can have it explained to you in another way entirely, though I won't promise that either of us will understand the explanation. Let's see," he added, rising from his chair and inspecting a huge button-board that hung from the wall at the left of the room. "Where's the Dictionary button? Ah, here—"
"The what?" queried the visitor, his face alive with wonderment.
"The Dictionary button. I press the Dictionary button, and the Dictionary tells me whatever I want to know. Just listen to this."
The Imp pressed a button as he spoke, and Jimmieboy listened. In an instant there was a loud buzzing sound, and then an invisible something began to speak, or rather, to sing:
"She's my Annie,
I'm her Joe.
Little Annie Rooney—"
"Dear me!" cried the Imp, his face flushing to a deep crimson. "Dear me, I got the wrong button. That's my Music-room button. It's right next the Dictionary button, and my finger must have slipped. I'll just turn 'Annie Rooney' off and try again. Now listen."
Again the Imp touched a button, and Jimmieboy once more heard the buzzing sound, followed by a squeaking voice, which said:
"Battery is a noun—plural, batteries. In baseball the pitcher and catcher is the battery; in electricity a battery is a number of Leyden jars, usually arranged with their inner coatings connected, and their outer coatings also connected, so that they may be all charged and discharged at the same time."
"Understand that, Jimmieboy?" queried the Imp, with a smile, turning the Dictionary button off.
"No, I don't," said Jimmieboy. "But I suppose it is all right."
"Perhaps you'd like an explanation of the explanation?" suggested the Imp.
"If it's one I can understand, I would," returned Jimmieboy. "But I don't see the use of explanations that don't explain."
"They aren't much good," observed the Imp, touching another button. "This will make it clear, I think."
"The Dictionary doesn't say it," said another squeaking voice, in response to the touch of the Imp on the third button; "but a battery is a thing that looks like a row of jars full of preserves, but isn't, and when properly cared for and not allowed to freeze up, it makes electricity, which is a sort of red-hot invisible fluid that pricks your hands when you touch it, and makes them feel as if they were asleep if you keep hold of it for any length of time, and which carries messages over wires, makes horse-cars go without horses, lights a room better than gas, and is so like lightning that no man who has tried both can tell the difference between them."
Here the squeaking voice turned into a buzz again, and then stopped altogether.
"Now do you understand?" asked the Imp, anxiously.
"I think I do," replied Jimmieboy. "A battery is nothing but a lot of big glass jars in which 'lectricity is made, just as pie is made in a tin plate and custard is made in cups."
"Exactly," said the Imp. "But, of course, electricity is a great deal more useful than pie or custard. The best custard in the world wouldn't move a horse-car, and I don't believe anybody ever saw a pie that could light up a room the way this is. It's a pretty wonderful thing, electricity is, but not particularly good eating, and sometimes I don't think it's as good for cooking as the good old-fashioned fire. I've had pie that was too hot, and I've had pie that was too electric, and between the two I think the too-hot pie was the pleasanter, though really nothing can make pie positively unpleasant."
"So I have heard," said Jimmieboy, with an approving nod. "I haven't had any sperience with pie, you know. That and red pepper are two things I am not allowed to eat at dinner."
"You wouldn't like to taste some of my electric custard, would you?" asked the Imp, his sympathies aroused by Jimmieboy's statement that as yet he and pie were strangers.
"Indeed I would!" cried Jimmieboy, with a gleeful smile. "I'd like it more than anything else!"
"Very well," said the Imp, turning to the button-board, and scratching his head as if perplexed for a moment. "Let's see," he added. "What is custard made of?"
"Custard?" said Jimmieboy, who thought there never could be any question on that point. "It's made of custard. I know, because I eat it all up when I get it, and there's nothing but custard in it from beginning to end."
The Imp smiled. He knew better than that. "You are right partially," he said. "But there aren't custard-mines or custard-trees or custard-wells in the world, so it has to be made of something. I guess I'll ask my cookery-book."
Here he touched a pink button in the left-hand upper corner of the board.
"Milk—sugar—and—egg," came the squeaking voice. "Three-quarters of a pint of milk, two table-spoonfuls of sugar, and one whole egg."
"Don't you flavor it with anything?" asked the Imp, pressing the button a second time.
"If you want to," squeaked the voice. "Vanilla, strawberry, huckleberry, sarsaparilla, or anything else, just as you want it."
Jimmieboy's mouth watered. A strawberry custard! "Dear me!" he thought. "Wouldn't that be just the dish of dishes to live on all one's days!"
"Two teaspoonfuls of whatever flavor you want will be enough for one cup of custard," said the squeaky voice, lapsing back immediately thereafter into the curious buzz.
THE ELECTRIC CUSTARD.
"Thanks," said the Imp, returning to the table and putting down the receipt on a piece paper.
"You're welcome," said the buzz.
"Now, Jimmieboy, we'll have two cup custards in two minutes," said the Imp. "What flavor will you have?"
"Strawberry cream, please," said Jimmieboy, as if he were ordering soda-water.
"All right. I guess I'll take sarsaparilla," said the Imp, walking to the board again. "Now see me get the eggs."
He pressed a blue button this time. The squeaky voice began to cackle, and in a second two beautiful white eggs appeared on the table. In the same manner the milk, flavoring, and sugar were obtained; only when the Imp signalled for the milk the invisible voice mooed so like a cow that Jimmieboy looked anxiously about him, half expecting to see a soft-eyed Jersey enter the room.
"Now," said the Imp, opening the eggs into a bowl, and pouring the milk and flavoring and sugar in with them, and mixing them all up together, "we'll pour this into that funnel over there, turn on the electricity, and get our custard in a jiffy. Just watch that small hole at the end of the funnel, and you'll see the custard come out."
"Are the cups inside? Or do we have to catch the custards in 'em as they come out?" asked Jimmieboy.
"Oh, my!" cried the Imp. "I'm glad you spoke of that. I had forgotten the cups. We've got to put them in with the other things."
The Imp rushed to the button-board, and soon had two handsome little cups in response to his summons; and then casting them into the funnel he turned on the electric current, and Jimmieboy watched carefully for the resulting custards. In two minutes by the clock they appeared below, both at the same time, one a creamy strawberry in hue, and the other brown.
"It's wonderful!" said Jimmieboy, in breathless astonishment. "I wish I had a stove like that in my room."
"It wouldn't be good for you. You'd be using it all day and eating what you got. But how is the custard?"
"Lovely," said Jimmieboy, smacking his lips as he ate the soft creamy sweet. "I could eat a thousand of them."
"I rather doubt it," said the Imp. "But you needn't try to prove it. I don't want to wear out the stove on custard when it has my dinner still to prepare. What do you say to listening to my library a little while? I've got a splendid library in the next room. It has everything in it that has ever been written, and a great many things that haven't. That's a great thing about this electric-button business. Nothing is impossible for it to do, and if you want to hear a story some man is going to tell next year or next century you can get it just as well as you can something that was written last year or last century. Come along."