Entries from April 2008 ↓

Pussy Makes a Pet of the Rat and Is a Mother to It

It is related in the San Francisco Chronicle that, four miles from Farmington, in California, resides a well-to-do rancher named Morrow. He has a little 4-year-old son, Vernie, who usually has about everything he takes a fancy to. Among the things he fancies an which he has is a large, matronly cat that has been brought up to make due provisions for herself and her progeny. Jet is this cat’s name and jet her color. Jet and Vernie are great friends, and they are frequently seen roaming around the premises together when Jet’s time is not taken up with her own private affairs. Jet has always borne the reputation of being “sure death” to any rats or ground squirrels. A short time ago, in exploring the barns, granaries, and barn yard, Vernie came upon a nest of young rats, which he immediately took up an carried to the house, and placed carefully in a drawer in his mother’s sewing machine. Mrs. Morrow objected to the nest of rats being in the drawer, and took them out to drown them, when Vernie insisted he must keep one, and begged so hard for it that his mother gave it to him. In a short time he laid it down and forgot about it. Then Jet came along and took up the young rat and carried it to her bed as a companion for her one kitten and a solace to her own mind. Strange as it may appear, the young rat made himself at home, derived his sustenance from the same source as the kitten, received the same maternal attention from Jet, who seemed to forget that she was nursing her legitimate prey, to the great delight of Vernie and the surprise of the older heads about the neighborhood. This strange state of affairs continued for two or three weeks, when the baby rat strayed from Jet’s protection, and met his death at the claws of another cat not so merciful as Jet. Strange as this may appear, it is a fact, and can be verified by several persons who witnessed this peculiar and happy family.

Three Things, by Elinor Glyn. Published 1915.

I post-processed this book pretty much at random — I was looking for something easy to do and there it was…

Elinor Glyn invented the It girl. In this small book of essays she discusses love, sex, marriage (and divorce) and motherhood.

When winter’s snows promise to make hazards too hazardous for indulgence in golf playing, the old and interesting game of billiards will amuse the house-bound. Now the occasional woman has played billiards, for many years, and played it well; but it was not until Lord Dunraven’s pretty daughter, Lady Aileen Wyndham-Quin, came over this year, to see her father race his handsome yacht, that billiards came suddenly into great social favor. Lady Aileen, it appears, used her cue not only with uncommon facility, but proved how exceedingly graceful a slender woman can appear when in evening dress she pockets her balls or smashes her opponent’s most careful combinations. The English girl’s exhibitions of prowess not only set her feminine friends in America seriously thinking, but valorously practicing on the baize-covered tables, until the majority of even callow debutants know something more than how to prettily chalk their cues. After many of the smartest autumn dinners the women quickly wandered down, from coffee, small talk, and satin-hung drawing-room, to the big leather-upholstered basement billiard-room, where the men found them, pink of cheek and bright of eye, over a game of sufficient strength to command even masculine respect and a desire to engage therein.–Demorest Magazine.

Moral Principles in Education, by John Dewey. Published 1909.

Bookp(h)ile

Color Value, by C. R. Clifford. Published 1907.

A reference (with black-and-white illustrations!) primarily for interior decoration.

Thanks to Anne Storer for post-processing this project!

Bookp(h)ile

The Uses of Italic, by Frederick W. Hamilton. Published 1918.

Thanks to Jana Srna for post-processing this project!

Bookp(h)ile

Left His Astral Body to be Kicked by the Cashier

The shabbily dressed man arose from a table containing numerous empty dishes, and with a toothpick projecting from a corner of his mouth, walked over to the cashier near the door, and remarked:

“Say, mister, do you believe in psychology?”

“To some extent, yes,” replied he, curiously. “Why?”

“An’ astral bodies?”

“Yes.”

“I was told so on the outside. Now, my bill is one-forty, ain’t it? The question arises who is to foot the bill? With no chink, I can’t. But I’ll make a proposition. I’ll open the door in this way, move out in this way–”

“Come back here, you beat.”

“Not much. My astral self is just inside the door. Administer to it a dozen or so good, sound kicks, and fire it out into the middle of next month. I won’t care. S’long.”–Ex.

ASSES MUST NOT EXPECT TO BE FONDLED

From The Baby’s Own Aesop, by Walter Crane. 1887 (Page 52)