Why the good old soul who last occupied the house, and who
was born in it fourscore years ago, should necessarily have had only her
grandmother's tableware, why every generation of this family should have
suffered no losses by breakage, was not asked. Every bit, even to
baking-powder prizes of green and greasy glass, antedated the
Revolution, and the wise and mighty of Smalltown knew no better. A bit
of egg shell sticking to a cracked teacup was stolen as a relic of
Washington's last breakfast in Smalltown.
* * * * *
"While willow-pattern china was passing into other hands the Spectator
made a discovery. A curious piece of polished, crooked mahogany was seen
lying between soup tureens and gravy boats. He picked it up cautiously,
fearing to attract attention, and, with one eye everywhere else, scanned
it closely. What a curious paper-knife! he thought, and slyly tucked it
back of a pile of plates. This must be kept track of; it may prove a
veritable prize. But all his care went for naught. A curious old lady at
his elbow had seen every action. 'What is it?' she asked, and the wooden
wonder was brought to light. 'It's an old-fashioned wooden butter
knife. I've seen 'em 'afore this. Don't you know in old times it wasn't
everybody as had silver, and mahogany knives for butter was put on the
table for big folks. We folks each used our own knife.' All this was
dribbled into the Spectator's willing ears, and have the relic he would
at any cost.
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