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.