IT is not so very long ago that I swore off, in the matter of attendance upon public sales. I was always victimized, and finally became disgruntled. But many an Ephraim, not joined to his idols, occasionally takes a sly backward glance. It was so recently. A huge red flag was fluttering opposite the door of Smalltown's oldest dwelling-house. Furniture that had been in use since the Revolution, and a few odd pieces for nearly a century prior to those stirring times, were now to be sold. Even into this Smalltown house had drifted a “Mayflower" chest, and a bed upon which Washington had slept. Little wonder that every family of this inland village was well represented in the crowd of expectant buyers.

That red flag at the door merely announced in four words a public sale, but he is wise who reads between the lines: Who enters here leaves wits behind. He who is sane in such a crowd is scarcely human. Covetousness is epidemic. Never a thought of the effect of long years of use x enters our minds. Every colonial acorn has grown to a latter-day oak. Here the glamour of age has proved the transmuter of metal: pre-Revolutionary pewter is sterling silver. And now the sale begins. Perched upon a chair, from his coign of vantage the sea of fools is calmly surveyed by the auctioneer, and distorted truth charms the willing victim. A long table was covered with china, earthenware, and glass; and the mantel beyond — a narrow shelf quite near the ceiling — glittered with a tangled maze of clean brass candlesticks, steel snuffers, and plated trays. At one end dangled a huge warming-pan, and on the wall near it hung a bit of canvas in a gilded frame, from which the portrait had as utterly faded as he whom it represented had vanished into thin air. It was a strange place, — a room from which many a colonial citizen had passed to take a stroll upon the village street; and here, in sad confusion to be sure, the dishes that graced his breakfast-table. I could have lingered there, if alone, for half a day; but not willingly for half an hour in such a crowd. The crowds, however, closed every exit, and all had to submit. A possible chance to secure some odd bit was my only consolation. 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 table-ware; 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, I made a discovery. A curious piece of polished, crooked mahogany was seen lying between soup-tureens and gravy-boats. I picked it up cautiously, fearing to attract attention, and, with one eye everywhere else, scanned it closely. What a curious paper-knife! was my first thought, and the prize was slyly tucked back of a pile of plates. This must be kept track of. It may prove a veritable treasure. But all my care went for naught. An inquisitive old lady, standing near, 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 my willing ears, and have the relic I would at any cost. Time and again I nervously turned it over, to be sure that it was still on the table, and so excited another's curiosity. “What is it?” a second and still older lady asked. “A colonial butter-knife," I promptly replied, with an air of much antiquarian lore. "A butter-knife! No such thing. My grandfather had one just like this, and it's a pruning-knife. He wouldn't use a steel knife 'cause it poisoned the sap." What next? Paper-knife, butter-knife, pruning-knife! At all events, every new name added a dollar to its value, and my anxious thought was what the crowd would say, for now it was in the auctioneer's hands. He looked at it with a puzzled expression, and merely cried, “What is bid for this?" His ignorance was encouraging. It started at a dime, and I secured it for a quarter. For a moment I little wondered at the fascination of public sales. The past was forgiven, for now luck had turned, and I gloried in the possession of a prize.

To seek the outer world was a perilous undertaking, for fear that the triply-named knife might come to grief; but I reached home at last, and, hugging the precious bit, mysteriously disappeared for quite an hour. No one must know of my success until the mystery was cleaned, brightened, and restored to pristine beauty. I rubbed the gummy surface with kerosene, and then polished it with flannel. Then warm water and a toothbrush were brought into play, and the oil all removed. Then a long dry polishing, and the restoration was complete. Certainly no other Smalltowner had such a wooden knife; and it was indeed beautiful. Black in a cross light, red in direct light, and kaleidoscopic by gas light. Ah, such a prize! The family knew that something strange was transpiring, but what, no one had an inkling. They must wait patiently, and they did. In due time I proudly appeared with my prize in hand. “See there!” I cried in triumph, and they all looked eagerly; and when my pride was soaring at its highest, a younger daughter cried, “Why, papa, it's the back of a hair-brush!” And it was.