tell them this true story: Once upon a time there
was an old soldier, and he is alive yet, named
Chapellier. Discharged and poor he had made
it his business to live by what he could find in
the gutters of the streets of Paris,—horse-shoe
nails, on lucky days perhaps even a horse-shoe—
iron, toughened by much tramping, dear to the
gunmaker—poor scraps that, with help from odd
street jobs in opening carriage doors and so forth,
enabled him to support life. But he sought
advancement, and soared from this calling into the
service of a wholesale chiffonnier, whose baskets
he sorted, and in whose warehouse he arranged
the stores, till he fell sick, overpowered by the
smell of the articles in which his master traded,
and went into hospital. When he came out he
hired himself to a poultry merchant and earned
forty sous a day by filling his own mouth with
peas and then putting them out of his mouth
down the young pigeons' throats to fatten
them suddenly. But while here he reflected
on the fact that a poultry merchant could not
get full price for his birds unless they were
sold fresh killed on the day of their arrival.
However sweet a bird might be to the nose,
every cook saw at a glance whether it was fresh
killed. How was that,? he inquired. Oh, that
is because the feet that are brilliant and black on
the first day become greyer and duller every day
afterwards. The wise Chapellier having reflected
on this matter, made experiments, and invented a
varnish that should keep the birds' legs brilliant
and black for many days. There was a stir in
the poultry trade. Glorious was the invention,
and Chapellier, who kept his secret, went about
painting the feet of the poultry for a fee of
twelve and a half per cent upon all sales of
second day's stock. So he made money, but it
was as an itinerant professor. His desire was
to be head of an establishment. He retired,
therefore, from the claw-painting business, having
sold his secret and his connexion in the trade for
forty pounds to a friend who has since made a
fortune by it.

What should he do? Would his old master
the chiffonnier take him into partnership? He
would go and ask. He went and asked. Not
without a premium of two thousand pounds.
Chapellier could not afford that; but, while he
was in the warehouse he was struck by the great
number of unsaleable pieces of waste bread
brought in the baskets of the rubbish hunters.
Here was an idea—this is the lesson for you,
cook, and for you, children—and this great man
went out and bought a donkey and a cart, and
having hired a large room, went with his donkey-
cart to all the cooks of schools and colleges and
large establishments, to propose purchase from
them of all the stale scraps of bread they had been
used to throw into the street. They cordially
hailed the idea of a new perquisite. Chapellier
then bargained with the scullions of eating-
houses, and with all the chief cooks of the city,
that he might have the dry crusts and scrap,
destined to be thrown into the street; he also
contracted with the scavengers for all the bread
they found, nevertheless, in the dust-holes and
gutters. Having secured his monopoly, this
laudable person took his stand one morning in
the middle of the chief market of Paris with a
large placard on his hat, inscribed, "Bread crusts
for sale." The Parisian keeps rabbits, and the
rabbits require bread as well as cabbage; the
chickens fed for market, also require bread-crumbs.
Many domestic pets of the wealthy are in Paris
denied meat under the idea that it makes them
smell unpleasantly, and so, from one source and
another, came a large demand for bread-crusts,
sold at threepence a basketful. In four months
he had three horses and three waggons at work.
In a few years, he sold his business and retired
with a competence.

But it was only to come back in a month or
two. A refinement on his old idea had occurred
to him, and he could not rest until he worked it
out. He had seen enough of cooks and sausage-
makers to observe the value of bread-crumbs for
strewing over cutlets, and for other purposes.
Bread-crumbs made of stale bread pounded and
grated fetched fourpence per even quart. He
would turn his stale bread into bread-crumbs, and
sell that at threepence the heaped quart. It
was rather hard, to be sure, on his successor, who
was ruined in the trade he had bought. But
what was to be said? Bread-crumbs are not
crusts, and Chapellier was a great creature. As
manufacturer of bread-crumbs, then, a mighty
trade was driven. But the bread of which the
crumbs were made was, some good and some
bad. It would not pay to separate good from
bad, but it would pay to establish ovens, and sell
the crusts baked in lump or grated for the use of
cooks as "croûtes au pot." Except at the best
houses, these preserved scraps now find their
way into almost every Parisian's dish. The
burnt bits and scrapings are pounded and sifted
to be sold to the perfumers, who will make them
into tooth-powder. And thus the Père
Chapellier made his fortune. Now, my good (or
bad, as the case may be) cook, and my dear
children, you observe that a large fortune is to be
made by dry crusts and mouldy scraps of bread.
And yet you throw them away!

Another ingenious Frenchmen lately founded
an establishment at La Villette for the
revivification of coffee-grounds, which, after
mixture with pure coffee and other substances, were
sold again as the fresh article, and having been
used were yet again bought and revivified.
Then, as to tea. In France they prefer wine
to tea, but what will they do hereafter? Last
November, M. Perrie, the librarian of the town
of Cahors, who is something of a botanist,
wrote to the Emperor, "Sire: Napoleon I.
endowed France with an indigenous sugar;
your Majesty may now endow the country
with an indigenous tea." Two days afterwards,
an officer of the household invited M.
Perrie to call on him, and took him to the
ministry of Agriculture. A committee of