It was at this time that Mrs. Budlong spent two weeks' hard labor
painting Easter lilies on an umbrella jug. When it came home from
the furnace, her husband stared at it and mumbled:
"It's artistic, but what is it?"
Little Ulysses shrieked: "Oh, I know!" and darting away, returned
with his physiology opened at one of those gastric sunsets,
and--well, it was this that impelled Mrs. Budlong to a solemn pledge
never to paint china again--a pledge she has nobly kept.
From smeared china she went to that art in which a woman buys
something at a store, pulls out half of it, and calls the remnant
drawn work. A season of this was succeeded by a mania for sofa
cushions. It fairly snowed sofa cushions all over Carthage that
Christmas; and Yale, Harvard and Princeton pillows could be found in
homes that had never known even a night school alumnus.
There ensued a sober period of burnt wood and a period of burnt
leather, during which excited neighbors with a keen sense of smell
called the fire department three times and the board of health once.
And now Indian heads broke out all over town and the walls looked as
if a shoemaker's apron had been chosen for the national pennant.
There were various other spasms of manufacture, each of them
fashionable at its time and foolish at anytime. As Mr. Detwiller
said:
"Somebody ought to write a history of Mrs.
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