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Here a certain married lady avowed her great delight in knowing that one had at last been proved equal to two. She had been for years, she said, trying to convince her husband of this fact, but he always obstinately refused to listen to the voice of reason. She now trusted he would not have the effrontery to fly in the face of an algebraic paradox.

Seeing the talk had taken an arithmetical turn, and was moreover getting fearfully abstruse, our friend Nix thought he would gently lead the tide of conversation into some shallower channel, wherein the young ladies might dabble their pretty feet without danger of being swept away in the scientific torrent. To this end he submitted the well known problem: "What is the difference between six dozen dozen and half a dozen dozen?" Strange to say, no one present had ever before heard of it, but the best part of the joke consisted in Mr. Sprawl being completely taken by it.

"Why, they are both the same," he answered promptly.

All the rest seemed to think so too, and some could not get into their heads, although poor Nix spent half an hour trying to convince them, that half a dozen dozen was the same thing as six dozen, or 72; whilst six dozen dozen must of course be seventy-two dozen, or 864.

While Nix still spoke, a handmaiden appeared, bearing tinkling cups and vessels of aromatic tea (not the weak green kind, bear in mind), and plates of sweet cookies and toast, and then bread and butter, and steaming waffles, and divers and sundry other delicacies known to true housewives and good Christian women, who love their fellow-creatures and respect their organs of digestion.

As the tea is being served, we walk up to a young gentleman and ask him if he knows why the blind man was restored to sight when he drank tea. The young gentleman gave it up precipitately.

"Because he took his cup and saucer (saw sir)."

The gentleman in gold spectacles says something about our being a sorcerer, but we heed him not, fearing he may put us through another algebraic paradox. Then comes a general demand for the answer to the charade we published in our last chapter, which commenced:

"My whole is the name of a school-boy's dread."

"The answer to this, ladies, is Rattan; and you will find it," said we, "a most excellent charade for children."

Now commenced a grand festival of puzzles and riddles. Specimens of all kinds were trotted out for inspection, from the ponderous construction of our ancestors, commencing in some such style as, "All round the house, through the house, and never touching the house," etc., to the neatly turned modern con.

Our friend Nix asked why Moses and the Jews were the best-bred people in the world?

Another wished to know why meat should always be served rare?

Both these individuals, however, refused to give the solution until the next meeting of the assembled company. Others were more obliging, but as their riddles were mostly old friends, somebody knew the answers and revealed them. It is a mistake to suppose that a good thing ought not to be repeated more than once. There are certain funny things that we remember for the last twenty years, and yet we never recall them without enjoying a hearty laugh. We have read Holmes's Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table once every six months, ever since it was published, and enjoy it better each time. We have been working away at the Sparrowgrass Papers for years, and yet we raise just as good a crop of laughter from them as ever. These books resemble some of our rich Western lands: they are inexhaustible. So when one of the company asked, "When does a sculptor die of a fit?" we waited quietly for the answer, "When he makes faces and busts," and laughed as heartily as though it were quite new, although we had been intimate with the old con ever since it was made, some fifteen years ago. We even enjoyed the time-honored riddle: "What was Joan of Arc made of?" "Why, she was Maid of Orleans, of course." But then this was put by a seraph with amber eyes, and a very bewildering way of using them. The success attending this effort seemed to stimulate the gentleman in gold spectacles, who rushed into the arena with the inquiry: "What was Eve made for?" Most of us knew the answer well enough, but we waited politely to let him deliver it himself. Our surprise may be readily conceived when he informed us, with evident glee, that "she was made for Harnden's Express Company." Some looked blank, and others tittered, whilst Nix explained to the ladies the true solution. It was for Adam's Express Company that Eve was made. After this followed in quick succession a shower of riddles, some of them so abominably bad, that an old gentleman, who did not seem to take kindly to that sort of amusement, gave the finishing-stroke to the entertainment by the annexed:

Question. "Why is an apple-tart like a slipper?"

Answer. "Because you can put your foot in it – if you like."

After that we all went home.

CHAPTER VI

A friend of ours, Dudley Wegger, who recently gave an extemporaneous entertainment, amongst other things, devised a new kind of play, of such exceedingly simple construction that we have judged it expedient to put it on record. It must be observed that it is his method especially which we applaud and recommend, and further be it observed, that we applaud and recommend it on account of no other excellence save that of simplicity.

Mr. Wegger possessed the power of imitating one or two popular actors. He had read our instructions on make-up– viz.: curled hair, turn-up nose, high shoulders, etc., and from these slender materials he made the body of his play. As soon as we arrived, he seized upon ourself, dragged us into a back room, put a hideous mask on our face (which smelt painfully of glue and brown paper, by the way), and then commanded us to don sundry articles of female attire – to wit, a hat and gown. To our earnest appeals as to what we were to do, he only replied:

"Oh, nothing; just come on the stage, kick about, and answer my questions. You hold the stage and talk to the audience, whilst I go off and change my dress."

This we pledged ourself to do, and were nearly suffocated in the mask as a consequence.

When the curtain rose, Wegger marched on the stage attired in blue coat, brass buttons, striped pantaloons, yellow vest, and stylish hat stuck on one side. In his hand he held a small walking-cane, with which he frequently slapped his leg. This was the walking-gentleman part.

"Egad! here I am at last, after the fastest run across country on record. Slipped the Billies, took flying hollow at a leap, gave my admirable aunt the go-by, extracted the governor's lynch-pin, sent them all sprawling in the ditch, just in time to be picked up by old Hodge, the carrier, jogging along with his blind mare and rumbling old shandrydan. Gad, Mortimer, you are a sad rogue! I must turn over a new leaf, ecod! become steady, forget kissing and claret, go to church, read the Times, and in fact, become a respectable member of society. Ah, ha, ha! What has brought me here? Gad, I deserve success. Heard from my valet last night that certain lady just come into immense fortune; lovely as she is wealthy, Venus and an heiress; total stranger, no means of procuring introduction; hired coach and four, gave post-boy guinea, told drive like devil, and here I am in a strange country, a strange house, and amongst strange people, to kill or conquer, veni, vidi, vici! Ha! ha! ha! first in the field – fair start and a free run; back myself at long odds to be in at the death. But gad! here she comes, the country Hebe, the pastoral Venus, the naiad of turnip-tops and mangel-wurzel.

Enter Heiress (ourself)

Gad! she is a devilish fine-looking woman. I must approach her (advances). Have I the honor to address the Lady Cicily de Rhino?"

Lady Cicily de Rhino. "You get eout!"

Mortimer (aside). "Charming! Gad! I am over head and ears in love already. Oh, bright divinity, why hide those radiant charms in sylvan shades, when charms of fashion and bon-ton beckon you away! With me your life shall be one live-long summer's day, and you and I two butterflies sipping sweet nectar from the ruby rims of endless brimming goblets. Say you'll be mine! A chaise awaits us, and on the wings of love we'll fly away! Say, charmer, say the word, and I am your slave for life."

Lady Cicily de Rhino. "Wal, slavery's bin abolished even in New Jersey – guess you forgot that. However, I don't keer if I do; jist hold on till I git my things."

[Exit.

Mortimer. "Gad! I took the citadel by storm – but some one approaches; I must withdraw for a moment."

[Withdraws.

Re-enter Lady C., with bundle and umbrella

Lady C. "Wal, if the young man arn't gone; now that's mean."

Enter Reginald Spooneigh (Wegger, in a new dress)

Reginald. "Kynde fortune has thrown me in the angel's path. The belue skuye already smyles more beounteously on my poor fate. Fayer laydee, turn not away those gentle eyes, that e'en the turtle-dove might sigh, and dying, envy, envying, die of envy."

Lady C. "Oh, git eout!"

Reginald. "Say not so, fair laydee. A wanderer on this cruel earth, a lover of the sweet songs of birds, the murmuring of streams, the gay garb of nature, from mighty mountain-tops to rustling glens. I bring an aching spirit seeking sympathy to thee."

Lady C. "Dew tell!"

Reginald. "A sympathetic heart within your bosom burns; say, let it beat in unison with mine?"

Lady C. "Well, I don't keer if I do; only hurry up, there's some one coming."

Reginald. "Coming? sayest though; then will I retire for a brief space."

[Retires.

Lady C. "He seems a pretty nice kind or young man, tho' he ain't got so much style into him as tother feller. Wal, them folks didn't come this way arter all, so he'd no call to be so scart," etc., etc.

Enter General Hab-grabemall (Wegger again)

General. "Thunder and Mars! I thought I should never have got here. Road as dusty as a canteen of ashes; coach as slow as a commissary mule. Had half a mind to bivouac on the roadside – make a fire of the axletrees, and roast the postilion for dinner. But shells and rockets! I must beat up the quarters of this fair one, or some jackanapes civilian will be stealing a march upon me (sees Lady C.). Gad! there she is! I must make a charge on her left wing. Hey! my little beauty, here's a battered old soldier, wounded everywhere except in his heart, crying surrender at your first fire. He yields himself prisoner-of-war, and gives up his untarnished sword to you and you alone."

Lady C. "Wal, I ain't no use for swords, and there are summeny solgers straggling round now with old weppins – "

General. "I have fought for my king and country through many a burning summer noon, and many an Arctic winter night, and now I would plant my laurels in the sunshine of your eyes, that they may bring forth bright blossoms."

Lady C. "Wal, if them's the case, they makes a difference."

General (aside). "Now for a bold charge! (aloud). Share, oh fairest of your sex, my niche in the Temple of Fame, my hand and heart as true as steel. Say, will you accept a rough old soldier's hand and a Major-General's cocked hat."

Lady C. "Wal, I don't mind if I dew, only don't you fool me as them other fellers did."

General. "What, blood and ouns! have any fellers dared to fool the fairest of her sex. I will demand satisfaction; where are they?"

[Exit.

Lady C. "I want to know! Ef the Genrl ain't gone off to whip them two fellers! O my! won't there be a muss, jest. But Lor! he'd no call to be so mad about it. I didn't keer.

 
(Sings) – "When the moon is on the mountain,
My heart it is with you,
And stirring thoughts come stirring up
The extra oyster stew."
 

Enter Adolphus Tinkletop (Wegger again)

Adolphus. "Well I declare, if here ain't a feminine young woman of the female persuasion a-singing a song. Go on, most charming of your sex, and I'll jine in the chorus. But hold! pause – be calm, Tinkletop: this must be she, the lovely heiress I have come in search of. The young and lovely female heiress, who has just dropt into a very large fortune in silver and gold, sing tooral lol, looral, lol looral le day. Tinkletop, my boy, you are a lucky fellow. I think I may venture to remark, without any immediate dread of contradiction, that I am an exceedingly fortunate individual. I must put on my most insinuating manner without further procrastination, which is the thief of time. Ah! ahem! how shall I begin? Ahem! how de do, my dear? How's the folks?"

Lady C. "Purty well; how's yourself?"

Adolphus. "Oh! I'm exceedingly well; remarkably well; excessively well. I've quite got over that pain in my chest."

Lady C. "Ye don't say!"

Adolphus. "Fact! Hembold's Cosmos cured me immediately, if not sooner. Oh, yes! I'm all right, thank ye. But excuse me, young woman. I've come down here on a little matter of business of the highest importance. Your name is Lady Cicily Rhino?"

Lady C. "Wal, 'taint nothin' else."

Adolphus. "That is precisely what I want to arrive at. I am in the dry-goods business, than which there is no higher social position in the world. I am not rich, but I expect to be. Of my personal appearance you can form a more just and adequate opinion than any language of mine could convey. In other words, I am more easily conceived than described. Now, the question is, whether you will accept my hand and heart."

Lady C. "Wal, I don't keer if I do."

Adolphus. "Most charming little pippetsy poppetsy; let me embrace those virgin lips."

Lady C. "Oh, lor! Now wait a minute." (Turns her head away bashfully, and puts up her umbrella. Both parties retire behind the umbrella, when a loud smack is heard – such a smack as has been compared to the noise produced by a horse dragging his foot out of a mud-hole. Then both strike an attitude with the umbrella between them, and the curtain descends in a blaze of red light.)

THE END

Now if this is not a simple way of building a drama, we are no judge.

Our adjoining illustration represents the interview between General Hab-grabemall and the lady. The General acquires a gigantic appearance by tying a folded shawl or small pillow on each shoulder before he puts on his cloak; his face is made up chiefly of curled hair and diachylon. Reginald Spooneigh has long flaxen hair, made out of some rope unravelled for the purpose, and sewed on to a tightly-fitting cap, moustache and beard to match, and turn-down collar. The rest of his attire may be in any style most convenient.

Mr. Tinkletop is remarkable for a red nose, turned up, and one tooth missing (both according to our prescription given in a previous chapter). His vest and cravat are of bright colors, and his coat also, if possible.

CHAPTER VII

Mankind in general, and we modern Americans in particular, are perpetually striving to come a "gouge game" over nature. We feel that this expression is very slangy and low-lived, but as none other seems so precisely to convey our idea, we must for once borrow a phrase from the ring and the race-course. So we repeat that we are, most of us, perpetually striving to "gouge" nature; but nature is too smart for us, and will not allow herself to be fooled by any clumsy device it is in our power to invent. Nature starts us in the business of life with a certain amount of capital in mental, physical, and nervous power; and just so much capacity for enjoyment; and we, instead of investing this in the best manner to produce the largest legitimate amount of interest, are perpetually engaged in trying some "dodge" whereby we may spend the capital and still draw the interest. A young man starts in business with the resolution that he will make a fortune in such and such a number of years, and then he will retire while he is still young, and lead the most glorious life mortal ever knew. And so he pitches in, buys, sells, wheedles, bullies, tricks, cheats, works night and day, without any let-up at all. There will be plenty of time, he thinks, for recreation when he has made his fortune. Then he will go to Europe, build himself a house on the Hudson, buy the fastest pair of horses, cultivate society, purchase pictures, and be supremely happy. The years trot on, but the hopeful man finds it is slower work making a pile than he thought; or perhaps he raises his figure, so he sets to work with renewed vigor. His nerves are allowed no rest to recover their tone; his stomach is allowed no leisure to perform its work; his body gets no healthful exercise; and his soul no ray of light from the beautiful and lovable. "There will be time for all these things by and by, when he has made that two hundred thousand dollars." At last the sum is made, though our hopeful man is a few years older than he intended he should be on retiring. Still the money is made, and he is going to enjoy it. He builds himself a fine house in the country, with "lots of style into it," and plants around it a number of small trees, which will be of decent size about twenty years after he is buried. But that is of no consequence – there is beautiful scenery all around. But what is this the rich man discovers? Why, that the trees and hills and streams are not the same that they were when he was young. He finds, too, that pictures "don't amount to much." He is rather nervous about driving fast horses; and as to society, he has got quite out of the way of that whilst making his fortune. He finds that collecting round one congenial and agreeable people is a work of time and care, besides which, there is no society in the country any way. Then his wife hates the country. So our rich man sells his house in the country, returns to the city, and enters into some new business operations just to pass the time away; having made the melancholy discovery that whilst engaged in acquiring means, he has lost the capacity for enjoyment. The fact is, nature will not stand much nonsense. If you think you are going to work her without mercy or consideration the best part of your life, and then expect that she will gaily bear you on her back, sporting through valleys of delight, you are very much mistaken.

Another man thinks he will get the maximum enjoyment out of life by aid of wine, and so he mortgages his whole capacity of enjoyment for a few years' excessive excitement, and is amazingly surprised when he finds himself a bankrupt. Nature will not cash his draft at any price. He is not aware that every thrill of pleasure derived from excessive stimulating has to be paid for with usury. Others again fancy they will get ahead of nature by forcing the minds of their children as they would cucumbers; but after an incalculable amount of trouble, expense, and cruelty, the child comes of age a bankrupt, mentally and physically. The soil has run out; it can produce no more – and what wonder! It was never allowed to lie fallow; it was never renewed; and now it is fit for little or nothing.

These are some of the ways in which we attempt to gouge nature. We overtax her in every way, until we drive the willing horse to death, and then our journey ends; all the load of fine goods we have been to market for, must be dumped into the mud for the next traveller coming along with a fresh horse.

Now, one great aim of this book on "Fireside Amusements," is to persuade people to let up on nature. We should all be so much healthier, so much kinder, so much better Christians, if we would only amuse ourselves and each other a good deal more. We should get such infinitely better work out of ourselves, and more of it, so that we should be richer into the bargain. No man can expect to win the race with a jaded horse. Suppose you owned Flora Temple, and in your eagerness to make money, should oblige her to run two or three races every day; why, the chances are you would lose every time, and soon be a beggar. But suppose you only match her at proper intervals, when she is fresh and in good condition; you don't run so many races, but you win every time. Why should you treat yourself so much worse than a horse? Is it because you are – ? No, you have simply adopted a bad national custom.

AUNTY DELLUVIAN GIVES A PARTY

We have a female relative whom we have playfully christened Aunty Delluvian – an old-fashioned person, who is particularly opposed to all "new-fangled notions," who loves the "good old times" and "good old ways;" who thinks there are no young men nowadays to compare with those of her day. She tells how straight they used to carry themselves, and she draws herself bolt upright and throws back her shoulders to give effect to her words, and "they didn't wear those nasty things – pshaw! – over their lips." She has never become reconciled to moustaches. She thinks, too, the girls are not so pretty nowadays as they used to be; then, their cheeks were so bright and red, "just like roses," and their eyes were so bright they fairly snapped and twinkled; "but now, my dear, it's all dough and boiled gooseberries – dough and boiled gooseberries!" She tells us, too, of many persons, long since gone, among whom stands, out in bold relief and heroic proportions one 'Squire Dexter. Then there is another person, Sally Mason, of whom we hear repeatedly, who must have been a very deceitful character, from what Aunty Delluvian tells us. But why does she take such pains to tell us so much about Sally Mason, and to convince us that she was not pretty "one mite," only "she had those forward, pushing ways with her, my dear, which men find out sooner or later, my dear, and 'Squire Dexter found her out at last, to his sorrow." Why does she tell us this, and ask our opinion as to whether getting into a seat in a gig, which had been expressly reserved for another person, was not conduct unworthy of a girl of proper modesty and self-respect? When we answer, as we invariably do, with feigned surprise that such conduct "would be unpardonable," she straightens herself up, saying: "Well, my dear, Sally Mason did just that thing!" Why does Aunty Delluvian consult us on this point, and many other trivial points concerning the proper conduct of a "modest, right-minded maiden?" It is hard to say. But, though we laugh and quizz Aunty Delluvian about many things, we feel that this is, somehow or another, sacred ground, and tread gently over the graves of her dead memories.

Aunty Delluvian is a great favorite in our circle. She has many stories to tell, popular legends in her girlhood, of General George Washington and the Hessians and Red-Coats; and though she does not understand the humor of the present day, she knows some very funny verses by George Coleman the Younger, and some riddles of the composite order of architecture.

Well, Aunty Delluvian has taken quite an interest in our theory on "Fireside Amusements." She thinks its tendency good, for, as she justly observes, "young people are far too stuck up nowadays; too stuck up, my dear." So, in the goodness of her heart, the other evening she gave a little party, built on our principle, which we herewith beg to report.

At the back of her old-fashioned country-house spreads a green lawn, surrounded by old apple and cherry-trees, with trunks as big round as the body of a horse. On this lawn she gave her party. When we arrived we found tables spread out with a goodly array of eatables and drinkables, the aroma of the tea mingled with the songs of the birds, whilst the perfume of the ripe strawberries, the grape-jelly, the steaming biscuits, and the hundred other country delicacies, blended harmoniously with the chirp of the crickets and the drone of the bees. It was a pretty, a very pretty sight; the long rows of snow-white table-cloth, the old china, the shining silver and steel, the glittering glass, the mountains of red strawberries surrounded by grape-leaves, and the innumerable nosegays of bright flowers. Not far off, in the little barn-yard, we heard the "peet-peet," of the young chickens, whilst the occasional double-bass of the family cow gave delightful assurance of the freshness of the milk and the purity of the cream. Aunty Delluvian, clad in brown silk with full sleeves and scanty skirt, was all bustle and smiles. Her old handmaiden, and hired boy from the farm-yard, and two women who were strangers in the land of Delluvian, aided with enthusiasm.

Between forty and fifty persons, little (some very little) and big (some very big), sat down to tea, and did generously by the repast. The meal concluded, dignity received informal notice to quit, and all pitched in to clear away the things. A circle of humanity formed itself, and behold the noble sport of "Oats, peas, beans, and barley grows." Leading moral philosophers, eminent divines, weather-beaten old vikings, gallant soldiers, and care-worn editors, sowed their seed, took their ease, stamped their feet, clapped their hands, viewed their lands, and, after waiting for a partner, became united in the bonds of juvenile matrimony with little curly-headed toddlers, and seemed to enjoy the fun just as much as though they had never looked into a Greek lexicon, heard the boom of cannon, or written a leader.

We would like to dwell long upon this merry-making under the sky, for there occurred enough pretty incidents and enough funny things out there to bear telling for a week; but our mission is to instruct our friends how to amuse others; so we must pass from the romps in the open air to the amusements which took place inside, after darkness had driven the merry-makers from the lawn.

First in order came a great duck, chiefly made out of a boy and a sheet. First of all we were requested to introduce the bird, and expatiate to the company on its qualities. For who, they said, could speak better on the virtues of a great canard than an editor? Some one, however, maliciously mentioned that the family doctor, Mr. Pillules, was the best person to show up a quack. Some one else argued that some lady would be better qualified to speak on Ducks; but no lady could be found with courage enough to attempt the task, so it was finally agreed that Dr. Pillules and ourself should deliver a double-barrelled speech. This novel idea was, of course, rapturously received, so the doctor and editor were compelled, nolens volens, to stand up and deliver, which we did something after the following manner:

Doctor. "This bird which you now see before you, ladies and gentlemen, is one of those detestable creatures known as the Canard. This specimen was recently captured down South by some of the brave soldiers in General Grant's army on the occasion of that gentleman's recent visit to Richmond. This bird was formally the property of several newspaper editors, and was used by them for the purpose of raising fowl for the English market, where – "

Editor. "They found a ready sale, being served up in the columns of the Times with peace-pudding, and subsequently rehashed with coal lies and bully sauce, to satisfy the cravings of the British public. This curious bird has, however – "

Doctor. "Fallen into disrepute of late, and the people of England will have to take a big dose of truth (a very unpleasant thing to an Englishman) to counteract the disease which their gross indulgence in the flesh of this foul bird has engendered; they will likewise – "

Editor. "Be obliged to confine their diet to the wholesome but unsavory humble pie. A kind of pie – "

Doctor. "We have often prescribed for them before. However, the cloud-capped summits of the mountains of Jehoshaphat – "

Editor (a little nonplussed). "May have summit to do with the question, and then again they may not. We are inclined to think that Jehoshaphat was not half so fat as John Bull, and would have scorned to eat a canard anyhow, particularly one raised by "niggers," and hatched by steam; a bird which Shakspeare justly remarked – "

Doctor (a little puzzled this time). "Didn't know beans, or at all events did not care about that wholesome and nutritious vegetable, preferring to pick up the sentiments falling from the lips of Bull Run Russell, or the revolting food provided for travellers at refreshment saloons on the Camden and Amboy Railway, which, as every one knows – "

Editor. "Are simply provided by that company to kill off transient citizens of loyal States, which they do as effectually as the greatest quack, even were he as large as the specimen now before us. I do not of course refer to our friend the – "

How long this double-barrelled speech might have continued, this chronicle cannot say, had not the duck at this moment declared, in very plain English, that "Oh thunder! he couldn't stand it any longer, he was getting tired," which terminated that part of the entertainment.

The latent principle, the motive power, the core, the occult substratum of the duck is, of course, as in the case of the vulgaris pueris– a small boy. The mode of transforming him into a duck needs scarcely any explanation; the illustrations save all that trouble. A board tied on the youth's back, a sufficiency of wadding in the way of rags, and a sheet properly arranged over all; then a ball of rags, with a couple of sticks for the bill, making the head, and a newspaper cut into strips representing the tail, and web-feet cut out of brown paper – and there is your duck! The next thing in order for the evening's entertainment proved to be a little dwarf, who was exhibited on a table. He made a speech, danced a jig, took snuff, and altogether made himself very amusing and entertaining. The mode of manufacturing this lusus naturæ is, as usual, with the substratum of small boy. The small boy paints a pair of moustaches on his upper lip and puts a pair of boots on his hands, resting his booted hands on a table, whilst a taller person stands behind him and reaches his arms over the first one's shoulders, as represented in the engraving; then a loose cloak or great-coat or shawl is arranged about the dwarf so as to allow the arms of No. 2 to project and appear as if they belonged to No. 1. This performance should take place in a window or doorway, where a curtain can be so arranged as to hide the head and body of No. 2. Then you have the dwarf all complete, as represented in the annexed sketch. It is almost impossible to describe this performance with precision, as much of the arrangement must be left to the intelligence of the exhibitor. The dwarf, however, we may state, is very easily made when you once get the idea.