Democratic Sentinel, Volume 5, Number 51, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 20 January 1882 — A Word About Carving. [ARTICLE]

A Word About Carving.

It is not alone the fact that the amateur carver misses the joints and tries to cut through the largest bones, that fills him witli regret and his lap full of sage and onions. It is the horrible thought that the entire family is looking at him. No matter how the perspiration may trickle down between his shoulder blades, or how the hot flashes may chase up and down his spinal column, or how much his eyes may be dimmed by unshed tears, the rest of the company never allows its interest to flag a moment. We remember one time we were called to assume the management of a free-for-all carving tournament at the home of a dove-eyed dumpling, whose kind regard we desired to catch, on to as far as possible. How clearly come back to us now the smiling faces of the guests, the rippling laugh, the bald-headed joke, the thanksgiving conundrum, and all as merry as a marriage bell. We call to mind the girlish laughter of that one whose very existence, as she sat on our left that day, seemed cemented and glued to our own. As we sharpened the glittering blade on the ringing steel, we felt buoyant and proud. Proud to think how we would slice the white, calm bosom of that deceased hen. Proud to think how in our minds we had laid out the different pregnable points about that old cackler, and in the anticipation of applause glad and free, when we had accomplished the warfare, and victory and stuffing had perched upon our banner. We softly jabbed the shimmering fork a-straddle the breast bone, tore off a few goose pimples from under the wings of the late lamented, gouged out a few shattered fragments from the neck, and tried to cut a sirloin steak off the back. An oppressive gloom seemed to pervade the air. The old hen didn’t have her joints where we had laid them out in our mind. She was deformed. She seemed to be a freak of nature. It rattled us and unnerved us. We gouged wildly at the remains, squirting the gravy right and left, and filling the air with fragments of bread crumbs and sage. By some kind of omission or miscalculation, we made a wild stab at the back of the late lamented hen, and with a frenzy born of repeated defeats and depressing failures, the knife struck the platter with a loud crash, and ceasing not in its untamed fury, glanced aside, and in an instant buried itself with a sickening thud in the corset of the hired girl. With difficulty we drew out the glittering blade, now ensanguined with the gore of a fellowcreature, wiped it on the table-cloth, and fled out into the cold, unsympathetic world, out into the crash and confusion of struggling humanity, to battle on through life under an assumed name. That is why we tremble and turn pale when our past life is inquired into by biographers. That is why a baked fowl makes us quail. That is why we always sign our nom de plumejo a promissory note. That, too, is why we always trav« «1 incog, and without baggage,