Home Fun

Practice gradually adds new notes to the voice, but the young singer must be careful not to strain the vocal organs by endeavoring to sing high and low notes before they are naturally developed.

Concones and every variety of singing exercises should be practiced before a song is undertaken. Over-practice is harmful. Vocal organs should never be fatigued or unduly taxed, and half-an-hour’s practice is ample—indeed, more valuable than an hour at a stretch.

Singing directly after meals should be avoided, and the throat must not be coddled in furs or compressed by high collars.

Dainty Modern Songs

In drawing-room singing, four or five-versed lyrics are not nearly so charming as the dainty modern songs of two or three verses, and these must never be undertaken until the student has reached a proper understanding of phrasing, breathing, and expression.

Many singers prefer to accompany themselves, but this has its disadvantages, as the voice is far better produced when the vocalist is standing. The position should be easy and natural, the head erect, but not lifted back, as this contracts and narrows the larynx.

While the singer should enter into the idea of the composer, she should have her own conception of the song, and endeavor to give it, as far as possible, her own individual expression, her voice being colored by the cultivation of her soul; otherwise the most perfect vocalization will fail to move the audience.

These elementary rules hold good for the male as well as the female singer, and cannot be too carefully considered.

A further important factor in the art of singing is the hygiene of the human body. The singer must cherish physical health. Plenty of outdoor exercise should be taken. Indulgence in drinking and over-eating is injurious. To practice when fatigued, or indisposed, is to risk permanent harm to the voice; and to sing when suffering from a cold is extremely foolish. At such times, breathing exercises may be taken with advantage, as they clear the lungs and help towards recovery.

Lady singers are sometimes inclined to wear gowns which do not allow them sufficient room for breathing purposes, and they will often willfully sacrifice the well-being of their voices to be fashionably attired. In order to perform their functions properly, the lungs and ribs must have space and freedom from pressure. Too narrow bodices are almost as pernicious to the voice as tight lacing, for these seriously retard the breathing, and what in loose garments is natural and easy of accomplishment, becomes an obvious struggle, which fatigues the singer and renders her voice thin and poor in quality. This is often the reason why a vocalist is seen to lift her shoulders and pant audibly during her song, thus marring her conception, which may be, in every other particular, delightful and artistic.

Many singers with weak lungs find voice production extremely beneficial, for proper breathing and careful practice do more to strengthen a delicate chest than any bottled remedies.

The vocalist should never stoop (for this narrows and compresses the vocal organs), and in singing the first care should be to see that the shoulders are well thrown back, although not strained to an unnatural position.

In practicing, it is beneficial to keep the arms folded behind the back, placing the hands over the elbows, and taking care not to thrust the head forward. This will keep the chest expanded, and the body easily upright.

The Value of a Good Accompanist

When performing, it is necessary to be equipped with a good accompanist—one who understands the art thoroughly, and refrains from banging out the notes as if the voice of the singer were merely the background to his own performance. The three qualities essential in an accompanist are sympathy, artistic sensibility, and discernment to understand the temperament and conception of the vocalist.

An inefficient accompanist has power to transform an artist’s highest and most conscientious endeavor into irritability and inability to render individual expression. Pianists frequently are highly recommended to singers because of their gift of sight reading. Now this is a very valuable and important accessory, but there are many excellent sight readers who have no idea of that delicate and tactful manipulation of accompaniment found in the true artist, and who, even though they play correctly the most difficult music placed before them, sadly fail because of inadequate comprehension of the needs vital to the singer.

To hustle the singer is almost as heinous a fault as to lag behind. Some accompanists convey the fatiguing impression of a brake applied to a carriage wheel, and the artist feels as if she were pulling the pianist through the song, while others play as if they were racing to catch a train, and there is not a moment to lose. Both these defects are equally fatal. The pianist on these occasions should neither be independent nor dependent. She or he must realize that, although the pianoforte is subordinate, it is extremely important because of its power to influence the mind and conception of the singer, who should feel an electric tide of sympathy and support flowing from the pianoforte and carrying the voice on a wave of sound.

An accompanist should be chosen with care, rehearsed with frequently, and must possess individual qualities in common with the temperament of the singer. A sense of reliability and strength conveyed will do much to put the most nervous vocalist at ease, and give that tranquility and self-possession without which no singing is successful.

Rehearsing before a mirror is of great assistance, for it is only in studying the reflection of one’s features when singing that one is able to check nervous mannerisms and facial contortions. Pains must be taken to open the lips adequately wide, for the mouth is the mold; the voice, the molten gold; and, if the mold is twisted or narrowed, the gold will be warped and flawed in quality.

The simpler the manner of the singer the sweeter the song, for the affectation sometimes indulged in, the airs and grimaces commonly known as “side,” which some singers see fit to employ, are as unsightly as a mud-splashed window-pane. They are often also the insignia of the incompetent and the ignorant, for it is never the true artist who thus obtrudes herself on her hearers.

Of course, in some cases apparent affectation really originates in extreme nervousness and hyper self-consciousness. In such cases the singer must battle patiently with this embarrassing trait until it is overcome, for unless this is accomplished one’s singing can never be a joy and delight.

In order to be successful, a song must be delivered harmoniously; to voice sweet exquisite words accompanied by facial contortions is to make a pitiful caricature of your performance.

Take care, therefore, that your attitude, features, and expression combine to carry the emotion conveyed in your voice. Study unity and repose. Endeavor to forget your own identity for the time being, considering yourself only as the cage that holds the nightingale.

Although the singer should be perfect mistress of the songs forming her repertoire, she should always deliver them freshly and spontaneously.

There is an old saying, “Familiarity breeds contempt,” and, notwithstanding the fact that this is usually said of individuals, it may be applied very truly to the relationship that exists between singer and song.

Why Singers Often Fail

It is very usual for an ambitious student to be consumed with conscientious determination. She makes up her mind to learn a difficult song, and she works assiduously at it day after day, week after week, until she knows every word and every note.

By-and-by she performs it proudly to a select circle of friends, and she is surprised and discouraged to find that all her keen enthusiasm for the song has gone. It does not seem to suit her voice; the words have lost meaning. The emotion she at first poured into it has disappeared, and she is thoroughly disheartened, and is quite unable to find reason or remedy for her indifference.

An experienced artist would be able to show that student in a moment wherein her failure lay.

She had allowed herself to become too familiar, and familiarity had bred contempt. The song doubtless needed practice, but not incessant grinding and toiling. One cannot hammer the arts into one’s head as if they were nails being driven into wood. The subtle essence, the ephemeral spirit of the song will still evade the singer. To catch that, and to reveal it to others, the work must be as pure as the widespread petals of a flower.

So, when listlessness replaces your high enthusiasm for a song with which you have become too familiar, do not be disheartened, but put it away, and determine not to touch it or hear it sung until your first eagerness to master it is reborn. Then, and then only, take it out and sing it, and you will be astonished at the result; for having mastered the technicalities you are able to pour your heart into your words, and the result amazes you and delights your hearers, who think you have never sung anything better or more suitable to the pitch and timbre of your voice.

CHAPTER XVI
DRAWING-ROOM RECITALS

The Keynote of Success

It is frequently and quite erroneously supposed by the uninitiated that, given a good memory and a pleasing voice, the young would-be elocutionist may become highly successful in the art of reciting. It is only the painstaking, experienced artist who realizes that these attributes are but as the husk to the nut, the calyx to the bud.

Cased in its shell is the kernel, and folded in its green sheath are the petals of the flower. So, likewise, the voice and power of memorizing must be but the covering of numerous other qualities, attained only by perseverance, judicious practice, and that artistic sense of fitness without which all attempts to excel are in vain.

It is impossible to play a symphony on the pianoforte before grinding away at the rudiments of music, and no one may build a house without mastering the elements of architecture. Yet the difficult art of reciting is often approached by a novice, who, having pounded some poem or prose into his or her memory (reciting is usually a feminine qualification) plunges into it with all the self-satisfaction of ignorance, and pains or fatigues her listeners by her flagrant and unsympathetic rendering of a masterpiece, which, in experienced hands, would be an exquisite piece of work, something to be remembered and dwelt upon with considerable pleasure.

The speaking voice, properly treated, is an instrument of exquisite music, capable of as many shades of feeling and power as the pipe organ. Before all else the voice must possess sympathy, sweetness, power of expression, and naturalness; and, unless these qualities are governed by a high sensibility, keen intuition, and common sense, they are futile.

The wing of the voice is the breath. Unless this is elastic, easily and naturally produced, the voice is like a crippled bird, or similar to a musical instrument with broken strings. Thus the cultivation of voice and breath is the most powerful adjunct to good reciting, and this only comes by constant practice.

In practicing, the reciter should stand in an easy attitude (Fig. 1)—erect, but not stiffly upright, and with muscles neither tense nor unduly lax, as in Fig. 1a. “There are no straight lines in Nature.” This is an invaluable motto for the student. The best method of gaining a clear and flexible voice is to read aloud some paragraph or verse softly at first, studying the meaning and sound of every word spoken, and endeavoring to express its phonetic quality, not only with the lip, but with the eyes. A mirror is an excellent help (Fig. 2). It will show the beginner the difference between facial expression and facial contortion (Fig. 2a).

The Speaking Register

The paragraph may be repeated in a gradual crescendo until the full power of the voice is used, always taking care to avoid harsh and stridulous tones, and not strain or fatigue the throat. When the student has accomplished this to her satisfaction, she should allow her voice to die gradually away, until it is almost a whisper, but her tone must always be clear and round in quality. This method will bring many different shades of inflection and feeling into the voice, and she will be astonished at the notes she will add to her speaking register.

A good exercise is to make out a list of abstract words, and, concentrating attention upon them, endeavor to convey their full meaning with the aid of the mirror. Such sentences as: “I love you dearly,” “My hate is too deep for words,” “My scorn is intense,” “My tender concern,” “My pity,” “My contempt,” “My indifference,” “My desire,” “My despair,” and other impromptu phrases may be spoken in different tones, united, with eye and features, to express the qualities voiced.

The student need not despair because she has a bad or untrained memory. The power of memorizing verse or prose only requires diligence and concentration to become facile and natural. Exaggeration, affectation, melodrama, and meaningless gesture should be avoided, for there is nothing so appealing as simplicity.

Before reading a poem aloud, the reciter should master the meaning of the story it sets forward. She must remember that she is about to paint a picture in words. To do this effectively, she must avoid daubing in lurid colors. She will find it helpful to regard her mind as her palette, her voice as her brush, and her color tones as sympathy, tranquillity, gentleness, optimism, faithfulness, and clearness of expression. She should take as much pains when practicing as when performing before others, endeavoring to criticise her mode of speech and expression just as though she were listening to some one else’s recital.

The following simple rules will prove of great assistance:—

•  1. Breathe easily, inflating the lungs slowly, and without effort or sound.
•  2. Speak distinctly and clearly, and avoid shouting.
•  3. Sound the consonants, but do not hiss them.
•  4. Sound the syllables distinctly, but without undue emphasis.
•  5. Sound the definite article without giving it too much importance.
•  6. Read brightly and naturally.
•  7. Avoid monotony: graduate tones by feeling.
•  8. Understand clearly and sympathetically what is studied.
•  9. Read with earnestness, but without heaviness.
• 10. Mind pauses and emphasis.

Here is an example from “David Copperfield”:

“Here is our pew in the church. What a high-backed pew! With a window near it, out of which our house can be seen, and is seen many times during the morning’s service by Peggotty, who likes to make herself as sure as she can that it’s not being robbed, or is not in flames. But, though Peggotty’s eye wanders, she is much offended if mine does, and frowns to me, as I stand upon the seat, that I am to look at the clergyman.”

In this passage the reciter is for the time being a little boy endeavoring to sit quietly in church and fix his eyes on the clergyman. She must be simplicity itself in order to depict the David and his surroundings, lending a sympathetic eye that probes the brain and heart of the child squeezed between his mother and nurse, and she must see every detail as he describes it.

In order to do this successfully, intuition is essential. It will inspire the voice to a like comprehension, with the result that her listeners will be able to see that little weary figure quite plainly. Thus, in everything undertaken, the student must learn to merge her personality into that of the man, woman, or child of whom she is speaking, so that the words spoken seem indeed to fall from the lips of the characters portrayed.

Appropriate Gesture

Appropriate gesture presents difficulties, and, although occasionally a powerful aid, it is more often a stumbling-block to the inexperienced reciter. Many otherwise excellent recitals have been marred by superfluous demonstrations, which remind one forcibly of the action songs and recitations performed in a kindergarten, whilst not a few reciters hedge themselves in with boundaries. They will mention the sea, and point to a horizon, indicate distant hills, wood and lake, frequently forgetting their respective situations. I have seen upon more than one occasion a reciter engaged in a ludicrous juggling of her scenery, pushing the sea aside to make room for the hills, and merging her forests in the lake. This forgetfulness, usually engendered by extreme nervousness, renders an artist ridiculous. How much better, then, to refrain from gesticulation, unless she has mastered its intricacies.

In drawing-room reciting the voice must expand according to the acoustic properties of the apartment. A good way of making the voice carry is to imagine it an india-rubber ball, which is being thrown against the opposite wall. This thought will gradually insure its elastic properties.

When reciting, the eyes should be kept from roving among the audience, nor should they be fixed in a strained, glassy stare on the ceiling, for they are too useful to the performer, and will be needed to express different shades of thought.

If the reciter is nervous, she should endeavor not to show it by twisting her fingers or moving her feet. The best cure for this harassing affliction is to glance quietly at the audience before beginning to recite. Taken individually, they will be found far from alarming. After this, a determined endeavor should be made to concentrate the mind on the artistic rendering of the recital.

To many elocutionists, costumes are a help, enabling them to grip more powerfully the character portrayed. In this case a certain amount of gesture is advisable, but there are no hard and fast rules. Actions must be governed by discretion and common sense.

The hand may properly be called a second tongue. As such it should be treated, and, to continue the simile, should not be allowed to stammer behind or chatter meaninglessly before the reciter.

The hands and arms are capable of a vast amount of expression when properly used.

Gesture may be divided into three classes:—

1. The epic radius, or mental zone, is the movement above the head and horizontal with the shoulder (Fig. 3). These are sweeping and graceful, not jerky movements, indicating such sentiments as honor, conscience, awe, veneration, &c., and may be used with advantage in such lines as—

In Shakespearean recitals and other blank verse, this epic zone may be used, as, for instance, in such pieces as the choruses of Henry V.

2. The rhetorical radius, or moral zone, includes the movements of the arm from breast to shoulder and from the region of the heart (Fig. 4), and may be used to appeal, implore, beseech, express love, hate, fear, contempt, &c., as in Queen Katherine’s speech in Shakespeare’s “King Henry VIII.,” Act ii. Scene 4:—

3. The colloquial radius, or vital zone, from below the waist (Fig. 5), is used to express ordinary sentiments that do not emanate in the heart or higher intellect, and may be used to give point to a simple, everyday occurrence, or narration, as in—

During the long winter evenings, when amusements and entertainments are cordially welcomed in home circles and at friends’ firesides, the youth or maiden who is unable to play or sing, may, with a little care and practice, provide a delightful item in the programme, which will add considerably to the evening’s enjoyment.

An hour’s regular practice a day will work wonders with the voice of these aspirants, and there are many simple and exquisite poems that are easily committed to memory, for the student is far more likely to succeed and give pleasure to others in memorizing at first only the simplest and shortest poems, remembering always Shakespeare’s invaluable counsel to players:—

“Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue; but, if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand—thus; but use all gently; for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) the whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness ... Be not too tame, neither, but let your discretion be your tutor; suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance, that you o’erstep not the modesty of Nature.”

CHAPTER XVII
THE ART OF WHISTLING

Methods of a Famous Siffleur

There is no form of drawing-room entertainment which, when well done, is more interesting than whistling, with pianoforte accompaniment.

Below are embodied the views and methods of Mr. Charles Capper, the famous English siffleur, regarding this unique and attractive means of entertainment.

The great part of humanity knows nothing of that ability of piping and whistling so natural and melodious in the blackbird and thrush. Most of us have at some time or other put by a little of our bread-and-butter earnings in order to take a few lessons in learning to sing or to play the pianoforte or some stringed instrument. But there are comparatively few who turn to whistling as a means of livelihood or as an accomplishment. It is fortunate that this is the case, for, unless one possesses considerable natural talent, it is mere waste of money, time, and endeavor.

Whistling cannot be hammered into being. It is only where real ability is possessed that the student may set himself to work and overcome its many difficulties, and hope to achieve his best.

Another gift equally essential is that of a good natural ear—an ear that instantly distinguishes and corrects the note which is a shade flatter or sharper than it should be.

It is a fact worthy of note that, while an unusually high roof to the mouth is a disadvantage to the singer, it is—so some medical specialists assert—a great gain to the whistler, and perhaps this is the reason why it is so rare to meet skilled exponents of the art.

However, it is common enough to hear in almost every grade of life the whistling that has never been cultivated. For example, in the early morning, a few shrill tuneless notes float up to one’s bedchamber from the area steps, as a dairyman hands in the allowance of milk; but this annoys rather than delights, although it speaks eloquently of the human soul of the whistler.

When the boy whistles, his mother knows he is well—in a good temper, and contented with the whole universe. The merchant, stepping into his office, may trill a few bars of “Tommy, make room for your uncle,” and the sound conveys volumes to the sharp-eared clerks, who foresee a day of unusual calm and peace; because a man suffering from spleen, liver, gout, or toothache never so far forgets his agony as to whistle.

Whistling invariably shows a light heart, and perhaps the reason why the birds indulge in this pastime so freely is because they know nothing of the burdens that beset mankind.

Breathing and Tone

The most important qualities to be observed in whistling are production and control of breathing, modulation, purity and roundness of tone.

The method of breathing in whistling is exactly similar to that used in vocalization, and can be taught by any good teacher of singing. Scales and exercises should be daily practiced with infinite care,—to keep the notes clear and of even pitch.

Slurring or stumbling in a quick passage can be easily perceived—perhaps more so in the whistler than in the singer. Scales and runs should be undertaken, slowly at first, gradually increasing speed and tone until perfect flexibility is attained.

Many a whistler capable of faultless execution fails to charm, through monotony of tone. This is a fault as common as it is serious. Whistling, with practice and thought, can be modulated in a far greater degree than either the flute or the piccolo, and with much greater effect.

It is not enough to whistle a song correctly. The student should first study and memorize the words, so that he may express the tender pathos expressed in the song.

The whistler should pay as much attention to artistic rendition as the vocalist—if possible, even more—because he cannot voice the words with which to appeal to the hearts of his hearers. He is obliged to convey the sorrow, or humor, as the case may be, without the utterances we recognize as the insignia of distress, joy, or love; and his heart must be behind his notes, and enter into them, to win the spirits of the audience to comprehension and sympathy.

Suitable Solos

Whistling may be divided into two classes:—

(1) The florid.—necessary in such solos as Arditi’s “Il Bacio,” which seems at first to the beginner to teem with insurmountable difficulties, but which a little earnest practice will soon overcome.

(2) The sentimental.—In this category are Bishop’s early English songs, such as “Bid me discourse,” “Tell me, my heart,” “Should he upbraid,” “Lo, hear the gentle lark,” “Love has eyes,” Clay’s “I’ll sing thee songs of Araby,” &c. All these songs make excellent whistling solos, and are delightful when rendered with artistic sympathy and meaning.

All songs must be memorized. The whistler cannot give necessary control to his breathing and production if he holds the music in his hand. In practicing, it should be placed on a music-stand, and, in performing, must be note perfect. His whistling must be so faultless in its conception that the audience must almost hear the words coming from his lips.

Most of the solos forming the whistler’s repertoire are well known and popular, and the verses of such songs as “My mother bids me bind my hair” are familiar wherever the English language is spoken, so that all audiences are capable of interpreting the meaning of the sweet lilting notes. When we listen to “The Lost Chord,” played on the organ, we seem to hear the throbbing rhythm of the words just as if some spirit were singing them, and so it should be in the whistling of Spohr’s “Rose softly blooming,” and many another song which will doubtless occur to the student.

Care should be taken not to whistle in too high a key, as this spoils the quality of the tone, rendering it thin and shrill. The middle register contains better notes than the higher.

The piccolo is pitched one octave higher than the flute, whilst the whistler’s notes are said to be two octaves above the flute. Although the notes whistled are apparently very high, when judged by the ear, or compared with the pianoforte accompaniment, they are not so, in reality.

It is rare to find the extremely high or the extremely low whistler. Except in a very few cases, all whistle in about the same pitch. The most usual key is F or G.

In spite of the old dogmatic assertion about the “whistling woman and the crowing hen,” there are more young lady performers in this profession than young men, and very charming whistlers some of them are.

It is a remarkable fact that not infrequently an individual, whose tonation is faultless in singing, cannot whistle such a simple melody as the national anthem without coming to grief.

Here are two useful points always observed by Mr. Capper.

The first is never to laugh when performing. The veriest novice knows that his risibilities must be well under control before he can whistle a single note, so that it is essential for him—no matter what funny incident is noticed and appeals to him—to hold tight to his gravity.

The second is that lip-salves should be strictly avoided, as they render the lips susceptible to cracks and cold; besides, they make a film which sticks and prevents clear whistling.

CHAPTER XVIII
BUNKUM ENTERTAINMENTS

The Cuckoo of Society

It has been asserted that the noun “bunkum” is first cousin to the verb “to bunk.” If so, the dealer in bunkumisms disdains the connection until matters grow too hot for him at the end of a performance, when, as a last resource, he hugs his relative gladly. Cupboard affection this, and in order to shelter himself from the righteous wrath of the audience, achieves a flying bunk from the platform.

The word “bunkum” is interesting. It is defined in the dictionary as “speech spoken merely to please one’s supporters or constituents and secure their votes—mere talk.” It originates from “Buncombe, a district in North Carolina, with a constituency, to please whom a member of theirs once boasted he made a speech in Congress.”

Bunkum covers a wider field than science, woman’s suffrage, or politics. It is an autocrat that stands aloof, and demands the gentle hearts of greenhorn and sage alike for its sacrificial fires. It endeavors to prove that the age of miracles has not been choked out of existence beneath the widespread fingers of civilization, or how could an orange be transformed before our eyes into a cauliflower, an egg into a peeled potato ?

The bunkum entertainer molds the brains of the most iron-headed cynic into putty, and transforms the scoffing jeers of the know-all schoolboy into humble admiration. He is a quack sorcerer, and, even while we designate him as such, we are obliged to own that his art is steeped in deepest mystery.

The bunkum entertainer is a parasite, a cartoonist, and mimic, a smooth-tongued, unscrupulous rascal, who deserves—the conscientious entertainer (who never tries bunkum because he is too stupid and wool-headed) so has it—to be banished to a desert island and served to cannibals as minced donkey flesh “à la bunkum.” He is the sort of man who borrows five pound notes, gold watches, and diamond rings from his audience, and forgets to return them. He cheats, deludes, patters, lies by the yard, swallows enough solid materials to furnish a warehouse, and give an ostrich indigestion.

He is tough and brazen, and cheaply cynical at the expense of the authentic conjurer, juggler, phrenologist, ventriloquist, seer, and spiritualist. He is the cuckoo of society. He concocts a potpourri of brains and wit, and offers it as his own; and yet, in spite of it all, how fascinating and overwhelming is his personality. He is the fool of the world—the jester who prances about in cap and bells, who causes our sides to ache in our futile effort to keep our risibilities decorously pitched. Never did a folly play pitch and toss with the pedantic phrases of solemn courtiers, kings and prelates, as ably and irreverently as this monster incarnate with the five senses of mankind.

He is wrapped in mystery. We regard him with awe and wonder: the curtains, the table, the walls, the footlights are his faithful agents. We gaze at the rabbit popping up from his hat, the watch flicked through a pistol barrel to the wall, the inane jack of diamonds darting from his mouth to the back of his coat, in trembling amazement of his cunning. We whisper to our beating hearts, “Can such things be?” At that instant he throws aside the cloak of secrecy, and shows us his glaring infidelity. He has not, as we supposed, ruptured and mastered every law of gravitation and nature. He has simply been dealing in the art of “bunkum,” and, when he reveals his methods to us, as he never fails to do in a continuous prattle of artless confidence, we see—or we think we see—that it is all child’s play and foolish absurdity.

The rabbit has not been suddenly created, full-grown, in the crown of his immaculate silk hat. It owes its mild behavior to constant discipline, its sleek coat to cabbage leaves. Like Topsy—like all other bipeds, quadrupeds and aquatic creatures—it has simply “growed.” Its cage is behind the stage, to which it will presently be spirited away, to rest in peace after its labors.

When we discover this we become very wide-awake, very “cute.” We will see through the next trick or perish in the attempt. Alas! alas! for our righteous determination; once again we are deluded and snared. The table performs a giddy reel, the watch of the confiding benign bald-headed gentleman in the corner is shattered before our eyes, and with a thrill of horror we strain our necks to gaze in his direction in order to witness the anticipated apoplectic seizure.

The gentleman, however, remains stolidly non-committal. My young schoolboy eyes observe a whitening of the gills, a compression of the lower jaw that bodes ill for the entertainer if he does not make good the loss; and a few minutes after he is bidden of the smiling performer to look in his pocket, and, lo and behold! the monogrammed watch, which we are ready to swear we saw him pass to the platform, dangles safely from the end of the chain spanning his stomach. The shattered timepiece, we are told glibly, was only a base imitation in tin and glass.

But how, where, in what manner? queries my boyish soul, steeped in perplexity; and, by-and-by, the monster answers all these questions as if he read that inner inquisitive voice so satisfactorily that I go home and try the trick before an admiring circle of friends, borrowing my maiden aunt’s watch for the purpose, she being quite unaware that I have its threepenny duplicate in my pocket.

Sure of Success

I am sure of success. I imitate the performer’s patronizing complacency perfectly. I smile and sneer politely with all his evil suavity, and then I fire my pistol, shatter the glass of the threepenny, and my aunt rises from her chair with a piercing shriek.

“Tom, you little wretch, what have you done?”

With an airy smile I bid her be calm, and from the rear part of my person produce with a deft movement her precious belonging.

“Your watch, madam,” I say, with all the superior pleasantry of the “bunkum” performer.

Then the smile freezes on my face, the timepiece feels strangely light in my clammy hand. I gaze at it in horror. My eyeballs distend, my heart swings backwards and forwards between my ribs. I have bungled! The good watch is shattered beyond hope of redemption. The disc of paper and glass cowers up at me, its hands stretched confusedly across its impudent face.

Disgrace and ignominy descend swiftly upon me. My maiden aunt prepares to leave the house, declaring she will never enter it again. My parents, who expect great things at her demise, beseech her forgiveness in vain. I am banished from the firelit circle to my own room, up to which a step presently approaches, striding away from the disorder and hysterics downstairs. My father enters with a long slender implement behind his back—an implement which, from former experience, I know portends woe terrific.

I draw the curtain—I am chastised and broken in body and spirit. For a whole week I keep severely aloof from the awful bunkum tyrant, and then, alas! I am drawn again to the hall, where he is performing as remorselessly as the silly fly is drawn to enmesh himself in the spider’s web.

The next time I played a trick on my family I took good care it should be of a kind that would do no one—not even the most hypersensitive individual—any harm. Needless to say, my aunt was not of the circle.

Thought-Reading Extraordinary

I told them briefly and airily that I was now about to exhibit my wonderful skill in thought-reading. Perhaps I should add that my sister Jane, who adores me, was chosen as my confederate. Bidding them fix on a number, which I would at once discover by the simple means of placing my fingers on their temples, I withdrew with a bland smile into the passage.

When I returned they giggled a little, and one twelve-year-old cynic of the opposite sex piped out scornfully—

“You’ll never guess it, Tom. You can’t possibly—so there.”

This maiden, often a thorn in my flesh, I silenced with a severe frown.

“If you please, I must request the audience to be perfectly silent, to concentrate their minds—those of you who possess them——” I paused to scowl at my pink-and-white torment—“concentrate them absolutely on the chosen number. I am not going to guess it. I am going to discover it by means of thought transference, and, as the strain is very great, I must ask you to be perfectly silent.”

“It’s like having our photo taken,” whispered the torment, but some one bumped her ribs, and she was reluctantly silent.

Solemnly, slowly, I moved round the circle. With drawn brows and narrowed eyes I placed my fingers lightly on the temples of my father, mother, uncle, and friends in succession, and then I reached Jane. She set her teeth just as I had shown her, and I felt the muscles at her temples work steadily. Having counted ten vibrations, I went on stolidly to the other heads until the circle was completed. Then, standing before them, I wiped the imaginary sweat of fatigue from my brow. The torment looked radiant.

“You don’t know it? There—I said so, Tom, you goose.”

“Madam,” I returned with a bow, “the digit fixed upon was ten!”

Tableau vivant! The complete confusion of the torment, the most guileless “bravo” from Jane, and my uncle’s audible whisper to my proud parents.

“The boy’s a positive genius!”

“And he looks quite white and tired,” quoth mamma.

Result—the promise of a ripping new bicycle from grandpa as a reward for my merit.

I owed a lot to Jane, who remained my faithful unsuspected confederate in many other tricks, which gained me a reputation of being something of an extraordinary phenomenon and possessed of embryo genius. It was delightful to enjoy the giddy pinnacle of fame to which my female relations raised me.

Another trick that caused much sensation was the following, and, for any youth who wishes to follow in the footsteps of the great (which I think some old poet chap—who had never studied the art of bunkum—remarked are written “on the sands of Time,”) I will state clearly the manner in which it was done.

Place three corks on the table, and tell your wondering home circle that, while you withdraw, they may touch one of them, and you will tell them which cork they touched. Your confederate must classify them as top, middle, and bottom.

When you return, do not look at her fixedly, but just once through the tail of your eye. If you observe her brush her hair carelessly from her forehead, you may safely conclude that the top cork is the one that has been touched. If she picks an imaginary speck from her nose or blows it, it is the middle cork. If she scratches her chin pensively, it is the bottom cork. She must take care not to prolong the process, and you must see at once (without appearing to do so) the hint conveyed.

Fake Ventriloquism

By-and-by, delighted with my many successes, I studied and exhibited the difficult art of ventriloquism. Jane and I, after long saving of pocket-money and hoarding of occasional tips—bestowed by kindly relatives, susceptible to hints—succeeded in purchasing a dilapidated doll from a second-hand dealer, and, mastering the anatomy of its joints, produced it, seated in the place of honor in front of a curtained receptacle in which Hyde, our servant, was cramped with a mouth organ, glass of water, straw and other apparatus, carefully schooled beforehand as to cues and the order of utensils to be used. Or in place of a lay figure, another boy seated in the chair, and appropriately dressed, can act as dummy (Fig. 1).

The bunkum ventriloquist must insert his hand in the hole at the back of the dummy, so that he can move his head and limbs as desired. He must also convey the appearance of throwing his voice outward from his chest, boots or stomach, without opening his lips except when addressing the dummy.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said I very grandly, “I am about to exhibit to you some marvelous feats to illustrate faithfully the psychological force which mind exerts over matter. This gentleman has spent thousands of years in an African tomb. He was buried on his face, and that accounts for his battered nose, while it typifies the greatness of the position he occupied in 15 B.C., when it was the custom to put corpses of royal blood with their features compressed against the bottom of their coffins. You would much prefer to hear his story from his own lips, and this he will now relate at my persuasion:—

“Androde!”

Hyde (in a far away husky voice): “Noble lord.”

“The audience here wish to know something of your experiences previous to your long confinement in the willy waily tomb on the Timbuctoo plains.”

(Hyde bubbles the water through the straw.)

“He’s overcome with emotion. These are tears trickling through the floodgates.” (Produce handkerchief and wipe them away.)

“There, there, old chappie, don’t cry.”

Hyde (huskily): “When I think of the sand and the worms, I can’t help it.”

“Don’t think about them. Tell us about the Palace Mahomé in which you lived.”

Hyde: “It was very beautiful—flowers, fountains, fruit, and baccy as much as I could consoom.”

Hyde’s pronunciation is somewhat faulty, but I excuse this by saying that poor Androde has not sufficient air in his sand-choked lungs to pronounce clearly.