Then
there was a wonderful and more successful hoarding of marbles, of a variety
so great that my memory refuses to bear the names of the different kinds,
which, I think, must have greatly increased since the time when I too was
a boy, when some marbles--one of real, white marble with red veins
especially--produced in my mind something of the delight that a work of art
produces now. These were carefully deposited in one of the many divisions
of a huge old hair-trunk, which they had got their uncle Weir, who could
use his father's tools with pleasure if not to profit, to fit up for them
with a multiplicity of boxes, and cupboards, and drawers, and trays, and
slides, that was quite bewildering. In this same box was stowed also a
quantity of hair, the gleanings of all the horse-tails upon the premises.
This was for making fishing-tackle, with a vague notion on the part of
Harry that it was to be employed in catching whales and crocodiles. Then
all their favourite books were stowed away in the same chest, in especial
a packet of a dozen penny books, of which I think I could give a complete
list now. For one afternoon as I searched about in the lumber-room after a
set of old library steps, which I wanted to get repaired, I came upon the
chest, and opening it, discovered my boys' hoard, and in it this packet of
books.
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