MISCELLANEOUS TRICKS.
The Raisin Tortoise.
This noble animal is constructed as follows:—A muscatel raisin forms the body, and small portions of the stalk of the same fruit the head and legs. With a little judgment in the selection of the pieces of stalk and the mode in which they are thrust into the body, it is surprising what a lifelike tortoise may be thus produced. While the work of art in question is being handed round on a plate for admiration, the artist may further distinguish himself, if the wherewithal is obtainable, by constructing
The Lemon Pig.
The body of the pig consists of a lemon. The shape of this fruit renders it particularly well adapted for this purpose, the crease or shoulder at the small end of the lemon being just the right shape to form the head and neck of the pig. With three or four lemons to choose from, you cannot fail to find at least one which will answer the purpose exactly. The mouth and ears are made by cutting the rind with a penknife, the legs of short ends of lucifer matches, and the eyes either of black pins, thrust in up to the head, or of grape-stones.
The Seasick Passenger.
The requirements for this touching picture are an orange, a pocket-handkerchief or soft table-napkin, and a narrow water goblet. The orange is first prepared by cutting in the rind with a penknife the best ears, nose, and mouth which the artist can compass, a couple of raisin-pips supplying the place of eyes. A pocket-handkerchief is stretched lightly over the glass, and the prepared orange laid thereon. The pocket-handkerchief is then moved gently backward and forward over the top of the glass, imparting to the orange a rolling motion, and affording a laughable but striking caricature of the agonies of a seasick passenger.
The Enchanted Raisins.
Take four raisins or bread-pills, and place them about a foot apart, so as to form a square on the table. Next fold a couple of table-napkins, each into a pad of five inches square. Take one of these in each hand, the fingers undermost and the thumb uppermost. Then inform the company that you are about to give them a lesson in the art of hanky-panky, etc., and in the course of your remarks bring down the two napkins carelessly over the two raisins farthest from you. Leave the right-hand napkin on the table, but, in withdrawing the hand, bring away the raisin between the second and third fingers, and at the same moment remarking, “You must watch particularly how many raisins I place under each napkin,” lift the left-hand napkin (as if merely to show that there is one raisin only beneath it), and transfer it to the palm of the outstretched right hand, behind which the raisin is now concealed. Without any perceptible pause, but at the same time without any appearance of haste, you replace the folded napkin on raisin No. 2, and in so doing leave raisin No. 1 beside it. Now take up raisin No 3 (with the right hand). Put the hand under the table, and in doing so get raisin No. 3 between the second and third fingers, as much behind the hand as possible. Give a rap with the knuckles on the under-side of the table, at the same time saying, “Pass!” and forthwith pick up the left-hand napkin with the left hand, showing the raisins 1 and 2 beneath it. All eyes are drawn to the two raisins on the table, and as the right hand comes into sight from beneath the table the left quietly transfers the napkin to it, thereby effectually concealing the presence of raisin No. 3. The napkin is again laid over raisins 1 and 2, and No. 3 is secretly deposited with them. No. 4 is then taken in the right hand, and the process repeated, when three raisins are naturally discovered; the napkin being once more replaced, and No. 4 left with the rest. There are now four raisins under the left-hand napkin, and none under that on the right hand, though the spectators are persuaded that there is one under the latter, and only three under the former. The trick being now practically over, the performer may please himself as to the form of the dénouement and, having gone through any appropriate form of incantation, commands the imaginary one to go and join the other three, which is found to have taken place accordingly.
The Demon Lump of Sugar.
The performer commences by borrowing two hats, which he places, crown upward, upon the table, drawing particular attention to the fact that there is nothing whatever under either of them. He next demands the loan of the family sugar basin, and requests some one to select from it a lump of sugar (preferably one of an unusual and easily distinguished shape), at the same time informing them that, by means of a secret process, only known to himself, he will undertake to swallow such lump of sugar before their eyes, and yet, after a few minutes’ interval, bring it under either of the two hats they may choose. The company, having been prepared by the last trick to expect some ingenious piece of sleight-of-hand, are all on the qui vive to prevent any substitution of another lump of sugar, or any pretence of swallowing without actually doing so. However, the performer does unmistakably take the identical lump of sugar chosen and crush it to pieces with his teeth. He then asks, with unabated confidence, under which of the two hats he shall bring it, and, the choice having been made, places the chosen hat on his own head, and in that way fulfills his undertaking.
The Mysterious Production.
This is another feat of the genus “sell,” and to produce due effect should only be introduced after the performer has, by virtue of a little genuine magic, prepared the company to expect from him something a little out of the common. He begins by informing the spectators that he is about to show them a great mystery, a production of nature on which no human being has ever yet set eye, and which, when they have once seen, no human being will ever set eyes on again. When the general interest is sufficiently awakened, he takes a nut from the dish and, having gravely cracked it, exhibits the kernel, and says, “Here is an object which you will all admit no human being has ever seen, and which” (here he puts it into his mouth and gravely swallows it) “I am quite sure nobody will ever see again.”
The Family Giant.
A very fair giant, for domestic purposes, may be produced by the simple expedient of seating a young lad astride on the shoulders of one of the older members of the company, and draping the combined figure with a long cloak or Inverness cape. The “head” portion may, of course, be “made up” as much as you please, the more complete the disguise the more effective being the giant. A ferocious-looking moustache and whiskers will greatly add to his appearance. If some ready-witted and genial member of the party will undertake to act as showman, and exhibit the giant, holding a lively conversation with him, and calling attention to his gigantic idiosyncrasies, a great deal of fun may be produced. The joke should not, however, be very long continued, as the feelings of the “legs” have to be considered. If too long deprived of air and light they are apt to wax rebellious, and either carry the giant in directions he would fain avoid, or even occasionally to strike altogether, and bring the giant’s days to a sudden and undignified termination.
The Animated Telescope.
This is a much more finished deception, and is not unfrequently seen exhibited at theatres and circuses. The figure is constructed as follows:—You procure a stout broomstick, four feet long, and on one end thereof fasten firmly a grotesque pasteboard head, with appropriate headdress. Next construct an extinguisher-shaped robe of some dark material (a coarse black muslin or canvas is the best, as allowing a reasonable amount of light and ventilation to the performer). It should be gathered in with a frill round the neck of the figure, and should be of such a length that when the performer stands beneath, with the stick extended at full length above his neck, it shall all but reach the ground. The robe should taper gradually outward, from a diameter of about eight inches at the top to about two feet six at the bottom. A cane hoop should be fastened horizontally within it at about the height of the performer’s knees, and another at about the level of his chin. These keep the garment distended, and give the operator much greater freedom of movement than he would otherwise enjoy. The lower hoop should be attached by four pieces of tape to a belt around the performer’s waist, this arrangement keeping it at a uniform height from the floor, and preventing the skirt getting under the performer’s feet in walking.
With a little practice the figure thus composed may be made to go through a variety of the most eccentric manœuvres. For instance, by gradually lowering the stick, and at the same time contracting the body into a crouching position, it may be made to sink to the dimensions of a dwarf.
By bending the body, and at the same time lowering the stick into a horizontal position, the figure will be made to salute. While in this position the head may be made to describe a circle of three or four feet in diameter, with inexpressibly comical effect. The stick may then be sloped backward. By way of finale, the figure may be made to pass its head between its legs, and in that position make its exit. Some little practice is required to work the “Nondescript” effectively.
“The What-do-you-Think?”
Our next three or four sections will be devoted to the description of the after-dinner menagerie. We will begin with the “What-do-you-Think?”
The exhibitor begins, in proper showman style, “Ladies and Gentlemen, I have the pleasure of exhibiting to your notice the celebrated ‘What-do-you-Think?’ or Giant Uncle-Eater. You have all probably heard of the Ant-Eater. This is, as you will readily perceive, a member of the same family, but more so! He measures seven feet from the tip of his snout to the end of his tail, eight feet back again, five feet round the small of his waist, and has four feet of his own, making twenty-four in all. In his natural state he lives chiefly on blue-bottle flies and mixed pickles, but in captivity it is found that so rich a diet has a tendency to make him stout, and he is now fed exclusively on old champagne corks and back numbers of some daily paper. His voice, which you may perhaps have an opportunity of hearing (here the ‘What-do-you-Think?’ howls dismally), is in the key of B flat, and is greatly admired. People come here before breakfast to hear it, and when they have heard it, they assure us that they never heard anything like it before. Some have even gone so far as to say that they never wish to hear anything like it again.” Etc.
The “What-do-you-Think?” is manufactured as follows:—The performer, who should have black kid gloves on, places on his head a conical paper cap, worked up with the aid of the nursery paint-box into a rough semblance of an animal’s head. This being securely fastened on, he goes down on his hands and knees and a shaggy railway rug (of fur, if procurable) is thrown over him, and secured round his neck, when the animal is complete.
The Giraffe.
A grotesque head, as nearly approaching the required shape as possible, is securely fastened to the end of a long stick, which is held by the foremost of the two performers who form the body beneath. To this head is attached the cloth which is designed to form the body of the animal, and which should be pinned round the bodies of the two performers. A rope tail may be added.
A good deal of fun may be produced by the efforts of the animal to scratch his head with his hind leg, etc.
The Dwarf.
The Dwarf can scarcely be said to belong to the menagerie, but may appropriately follow in this place. He is constructed as follows:—A table, with cover, is placed just in front of the drawn curtains of a window. The performers, of whom there are two, place themselves behind the table, the one in front of the other. The foremost either stands, or kneels on a stool, as may be found most convenient, and rests his hands, which are encased in a pair of boots, upon the table. These form the feet of the Dwarf. The second performer stands behind the first, concealed by the curtain, and passes his arms, which are the only part of his person in view, over the shoulders of the first performer, to form the arms of the dwarf. The above arrangements are, of course, made before the company are admitted into the room. The dwarf then proceeds to make a speech or sing a song, which the arms accompany with (as a rule) singularly inappropriate gestures. Thus, at a very impressive portion of (say) Hamlet’s soliloquy, the right hand will be seen to tweak the nose violently, or even to “take a sight” at the assembled company. The arms have even been known to stop the eloquence of the mouth, by violently cramming a pocket-handkerchief into it. The legs are equally eccentric in their behavior, the Dwarf not hesitating, on an emergency, to scratch his nose with his foot, and so on.
The representation of the Dwarf demands a little practice, but, if it is well worked, the effect produced will fully repay the trouble expended in arranging it. A child’s pinafore will be found the most appropriate garment.
The Two Hats.
This is a modern version of the old “Game of Contraries.” The leader brings forward two hats; one he places on his own head, and hands the other to one of the company, with whom he enters into conversation. The person addressed must stand when the leader sits, and sit when he stands, take off his hat when the leader puts on his, and vice versa. A failure in any of these particulars is punishable by a forfeit. The conversation may be somewhat as follows:
Leader (standing and wearing his own hat). Allow me to offer you a hat, sir. (Sits down.)
Victim (standing up). I am much obliged to you, but I already have one.
Leader. Scarcely so becoming as this one, I think. But won’t you try it on? (Stands up, and victim sits down.) Allow me to place it on your head.
Victim. Not at present, thank you, though I quite admit it is a very charming hat.
Leader (throwing himself into a chair, and fanning himself with his hat). Dear me, how very hot the room is! Pray don’t rise on my account. (Victim stands up, but omits to put on his hat, whereby he incurs a forfeit, and the leader passes on to endeavor to entrap some other player.)
The Knight of the Whistle.
This is a capital game for everybody but the victim, and produces much fun. Some one who does not know the game is chosen to be Knight of the Whistle, and is commanded to kneel down and receive the honor of knighthood, which the leader (armed with a light cane, the drawing-room poker, or other substitute for a sword) confers in due form.
While placing him in position, opportunity is taken to attach to his back, by means of a bent pin or otherwise, a piece of string about a foot in length, to which is attached a small light whistle. Having been duly dubbed, in order to complete his dignity, he is informed that he must now go in quest of the Whistle, which is in the hands of one of the company, and will be sounded at intervals, in order to guide him in his search. Meanwhile the other players gather in a circle round him, making believe to pass an imaginary object from hand to hand. The victim naturally believes that this imaginary object must be the long-lost Whistle, and makes a dash for it accordingly, when the player who happens to be behind his back blows the actual whistle, and instantly drops it again. Round flies the unhappy Knight, and makes a fresh dash to seize the Whistle, but in vain. No sooner has he turned to a fresh quarter than the ubiquitous Whistle again sounds behind his back.
If the game is played smartly, and care taken not to pull upon the cord, the Knight may often be kept revolving for a considerable period before he discovers the secret.
Sometimes a lady is chosen to “dub” the intended Knight, and the following piece of doggerel is repeated, the leader prompting:—
The lady then strikes his shoulder with her fan or handkerchief, and says, “Rise up, Sir——”
In this case the victim is not told, but is left to discover that he himself is the Knight of the Whistle.
“He Can Do Little.”
This is another “sell” of almost childish simplicity, but we have seen people desperately puzzled over it, and even “give it up” in despair.
The leader takes a stick (or poker) in his left hand, thence transfers it to his right, and thumps three times on the floor, saying, “He can do little who can’t do this.” He then hands the stick to another person, who, as he supposes, goes through exactly the same performance, but if he does not know the game, is generally told, to his disgust, that he has incurred a forfeit, his imitation not having been exact.
The secret lies in the fact that the stick, when passed on, is first received in the left hand, and thence transferred to the right before going through.
“Throwing Light.”
Two of the company agree privately upon a word (which as before, should be one susceptible of two or three meanings), and interchange remarks tending to throw light upon it. The rest of the players do their best to guess the word, but when either of them fancies he has succeeded, he does not publicly announce his guess, but makes such a remark as to indicate to the two initiated that he has discovered their secret. If they have any doubt that he has really guessed the word, they challenge him, i. e., require him to name it in a whisper. If his guess proves to be right, he joins in the conversation, and assists in throwing light on the subject; but if, on the other hand, he is wrong, he must submit to have a handkerchief thrown over his head, and so remain, until by some more fortunate observation he shall prove that he really possesses the secret.
We will give an example. Mr. A. and Miss B. have agreed on “Bed” as the word, and proceed to throw light upon it; alternating upon its various meanings of a place of repose, a part of a garden, or the bed of a river.
Miss B. I don’t know what your opinion may be, but I am never tired of it.
Mr. A. Well, for my part, I am never in a hurry, either to get to it or to leave it.
Miss B. How delightful it is after a long tiring day!
Mr. A. Yes. But it is a pleasure that soon palls. The most luxurious person does not care for too much of it at a stretch.
Miss B. Oh! don’t you think so? In early spring for instance, with the dew upon the flowers!
Mr. A. Ah! you take the romantic view. But how would you like it beneath some rapid torrent, or some broad majestic river.
Miss C. (thinks she sees her way, and hazards a remark). Or in a souché!
Mr. A. I beg your pardon. Please tell me, in a whisper, what you suppose the word to be?
Miss C. (whispers). Fish! What! isn’t that right?
Mr. A. I am afraid you must submit to a temporary eclipse. (Throws her handkerchief over her face.)
Mr. A. to Miss B. You mentioned spring, I think. For my own part, I prefer feathers.
Mr. D. (rashly concludes, from the combination of “spring” and “feathers,” that spring-chickens must be referred to). Surely you would have them plucked?
Mr. A. (looks puzzled). I think not. May I ask you to name your guess? Oh, no, quite out. I must trouble you for your pocket-handkerchief.
Miss B. It is curious, isn’t it, that they must be made afresh every day?
Mr. A. So it is; though I confess it never struck me in that light before. I don’t fancy, however, that old Brown the gardener makes his quite so often.
Miss B. You may depend that he has it made for him, though.
Miss C. (from under the handkerchief). At any rate, according as he makes it, his fate will be affected accordingly. You know the proverb?
Mr. A. (removing the handkerchief). You have fairly earned your release. By the way, do you remember an old paradox upon this subject, “What nobody cares to give away, yet nobody wishes to keep?”
Miss E. Ah! now you have let out the secret. I certainly don’t wish to keep mine for long together, but I would willingly give it away if I could get a better.
Miss B. Tell me your guess. (Miss E. whispers.) Yes, you have hit it. I was afraid Mr. A.’s last “light” was rather too strong.
And so the game goes on, until every player is in the secret, or the few who may be still in the dark “give it up” and plead for mercy. This, however, is a rare occurrence, for, as the company in general become acquainted with the secret, the “lights” are flashed about in a rash and reckless manner, till the task of guessing becomes almost a matter of course to an ordinarily acute person.
Multiplying Shadows.
Before quitting the subject of fireside amusements, we may give a passing mention to the subject of the curious optical illusion called “The Multiplying Shadows,” sometimes also known, from one form in which it is presented, as The Witches’ Dance. A dummy figure (suppose that of a witch, riding on the conventional broomstick) is suspended by fine threads or wires on the side of the screen remote from the spectators. Behind this are ranged, one behind the other, and at right angles to the screen, a row of lighted candles. Being all in the same line, they throw one shadow only on the screen. The figure is now made to oscillate slightly, so as to impart some little motion to the shadow. One of the candles is now removed from its place in the row, and waved gently about, now high, now low, the effect to the spectators being that a second shadow springs out of the first, and dances about it on the screen. A second and third candle is then removed, and waved up and down, each candle as it leaves its place in the line producing a separate shadow. It is well to have three or four assistants, each taking a candle in each hand.
The Vanishing Knots.
For this trick you must use a silk handkerchief. Twisting it rope-fashion, and grasping it by the middle with both hands, you request one of the spectators to tie the two ends together. He does so, but you tell him he has not tied them half tight enough, and you yourself pull them still tighter. A second and a third knot are made in the same way, the handkerchief being drawn tighter by yourself after each knot is made. Finally, taking the handkerchief, and covering the knots with the loose part, you hand it to someone to hold. Breathing on it, you request him to shake out the handkerchief, when all the knots are found to have disappeared.
When the performer apparently tightens the knot, he in reality only strains one end of the handkerchief, grasping it above and below the knot. This pulls that end of the handkerchief out of its twisted condition and into a straight line, round which the other end of the handkerchief remains twisted; in other words, converts the knot into a slip-knot. After each successive knot he still straightens this same end of the handkerchief. This end, being thus made straight, would naturally be left longer than the other, which is twisted round and round it. This tendency the performer counteracts by drawing it partially back through the slip-knot at each pretended tightening. When he finally covers over the knots, which he does with the left hand, he holds the straightened portion of the handkerchief, immediately behind the knots, between the first finger and thumb of the right hand, and therewith, in the act of covering over the knots, draws this straightened portion completely out of the slip-knot.
The Dancing Sailor.
The Dancing Sailor is a figure cut out of cardboard, eight or nine inches in height, and with its arms and legs cut out separately, and attached to the trunk with thread in such a manner as to hang perfectly free. The mode of exhibiting it is as follows:—The performer, taking a seat facing the company, with his legs slightly apart, places the figure on the ground between them. As might be expected, it falls flat and lifeless, but after a few mesmeric passes it is induced to stand upright, though without visible support, and, on a lively piece of music being played, dances to it, keeping time, and ceasing as soon as the music ceases.
The secret lies in the fact that, from leg to leg of the performer, at about the height of the figure from the ground, is fixed (generally by means of a couple of bent pins), a fine black silk thread, of eighteen or twenty inches in length. This allows him to move about without any hindrance. On each side of the head of the figure is a little slanting cut, tending in a perpendicular direction, and about half an inch in length. The divided portions of the cardboard are bent back a little, thus forming two “hooks,” so to speak, at the sides of the head. When the performer takes his seat, as before mentioned, the separation of his legs draws the silk comparatively taut, though, against a moderately dark background, it remains wholly invisible. When he first places the figure on the ground, he does so simply, and the figure naturally falls. He makes a few sham mesmeric passes over it, but still it falls. At the third and fourth attempt, however, he places it so that the little hooks already mentioned just catch the thread, and the figure is thus kept upright. When the music commences, the smallest motion, or pretence of keeping time with the feet is enough to start the sailor in a vigorous hornpipe.