boxes stacked on shelves; on the other finished sample
toys not ready to be boxed. Shallow dishes of orange and emerald green
and bright pink and primrose and black and vivid blue.

"Yes," says the girl who is working there--she is fair and wears a
pale-green frock and a black work-apron,--"I do this part. Mr.
Dickerman, the artist, makes the pictures or designs, then we have
them turned out by the mill. See"--she shows queer shaped pieces of
wood that suggest nothing to the casual observer--"Then the rest is
done here!"

The room is full of all manner of curious and charming playthings.
Here is a real pirate's chest for your treasures--the young workwoman
is just painting the yellow nails on it--and here is a fierce-looking
pirate with a cutlass for a bookshelf end; here is a futurist
coat-hanger--a cubist-faced burglar with a jaw and the peremptory
legend: "Give me your hat, scarf and coat!" Here is a neatly capped
little waiting maid whose arms are constructed for flower holders;
here are delightful watering-pots, exquisitely painted; wonderful cake
covers, powder-boxes, blotters, brackets;--every single thing a little
gem of clever design and individual workmanship. It is more
fascinating than Toyland or Santa Claus' shop. These "rocking toys"
are particularly fascinating: the dreadnought that careens at perilous
angles, and the kicking mule which knocks its driver over as often as
you like to make it. Shelves on shelves of these wonder-things
complete, and a whole great table laden with them in half-finished
forms. Some of the little wooden figures are set in a long rack to
dry, for after the shellac has hardened each colour is put on and
allowed to dry thoroughly before applying the next. The flesh-coloured
enamel goes on first, then the other lighter shades, leaving the
darker for the last, and the inevitable touches of black to finish off
with.

"This way," says the girl in the black apron (which is really a
smock), taking up a squat but adorable little wooden figure which is
already coloured all over, but has a curiously unfinished aspect
nevertheless. She fills a tiny brush with glittering, black enamel and
begins to apply it in dots and lines. "This long dab is supposed to be
his gun. These two little squares of black make his belt. One line for
his trousers,--now he's done. He's for a blotter."

The little soldier has now taken on character and solidity as though
by magic. He grins at us, very martial