CHAPTER I.


"Put into a small preserving pan three ounces of fresh butter, and, as
soon as it is just melted, add one pound of brown sugar of moderate
quality--"

"Not moderate; the browner the better," interpolates Algy.

"Cannot say I agree with you. I hate brown sugar--filthy stuff!" says
Bobby, contradictiously.

"Not half so _filthy_ as white, if you come to that," retorts Algy,
loftily, looking up from the lemon he is grating to extinguish his
brother. "They clear white sugar with but--"

"Keep these stirred gently over a clear fire for about fifteen minutes,"
interrupt I, beginning to read again very fast, in a loud, dull
recitative, to hinder further argument, "or until a little of the
mixture dipped into cold water breaks clear between the teeth without
sticking to them. When it is boiled to this point it must be poured out
immediately or it will burn."

Having galloped jovially along, scorning stops, I here pause out of
breath. We are a large family, we Greys, and we are _all_ making taffy.
Yes, every one of us. It would take all the fingers of one hand, and the
thumb of the other, to count us, O reader. Six! Yes, six. A Frenchman
might well hold up his hands in astonied horror at the insane