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It was a fine spring day in 1952. Edna was sitting, on a barrel out in the Jamnback's little family factory in Lunenburg, Massachusetts, cutting out matchboxes with a pair of tin snips.

Perhaps we should explain here that in their factory the Jamnbacks—Edna, her husband Allan, Allan's brother Hugo and Hugo's wife Sigi—make handmade reproductions of early American tinware. The business originally started from a hobby of Allan's.

As Edna snipped away at the matchboxes, the pile of tin-scraps kept getting bigger. She hated to see all that good tin going to waste. You ought to be able to do something with it, she told herself. Surely the scraps were big enough for something.

But what? She picked one up and began snipping, almost at random. A little here, a little there—and she had a rectangle with clipped-off corners, two by 1¼ inches.

But it was so small—not even big enough for an ash tray. What could you do with anything so small? She sat and looked at it. A pin? That was it.

She was so excited she almost forgot to breathe. Handling it like porcelain, she carefully soldered a catch on it and polished it up. Then she fastened it on her blouse and went into the office to show husband Allan and brother-in-law Hugo.

WITH THE firm's books spread out on the desk between them, Allan and Hugo were looking more than a little worried. Started on the proverbial shoe-string, the quartet's joint enterprise was barely keeping its head above water. They were beginning to wonder if it was worth all the hard work and headaches it entailed.

What they needed, they agreed, was a break of some kind. What they didn't realize, of course, was that Edna was wearing the "break"—in the shape of the pin on her blouse.

So what they did was to look at it, then at each other, then burst out laughing. What a crazy idea! Who would ever want a tin pin?

The harder they laughed the more stubborn Edna got—she still was sure she had something. What if she decorated it—made it look like a tiny hand-painted tray? She went to her workbench and picked up her brushes. First she painted it black, then added a lively little brushstroke design. She held it up. It really was cute!

Allan and Hugo came up behind her. "Hey!" Allan said, "that's all right." Hugo enthusiastically agreed.

Edna made several more of various shapes and showed them to some of their customers. They loved them. They wanted some right away.

"You've got the Cut Corner—and the Williamsburg," one said, looking over the assortment. "But where's your Chippendale?"

She was referring to types of early American tin trays: a Chippendale has a distinctive scrolled edge; a Williamsburg is round; a Cut Corner rectangular.

Of course, Edna thought. They must be authentic miniatures. They could call them "Colonial Tray-Pins."

AS YOU will presently see, Edna's inspiration proved the lucky break that took the Jamnback's little business over the hump.

But their family success story really started long before—back in the winter of 1946, in fact, when Allan was "fooling around with his hands" in his spare time, fashioning knickknacks out of copper over in his father's auto body shop.

This was something he took to quite naturally, It—"fooling around with his hands"—was a trait he had inherited from his father. The latter as a boy was apprenticed to a tinsmith back in his native village of Kivijarvi, Finland. All his life he had taken pride in the work of his hands.

So did Allan. But this was the first time in years he could do anything about it. All during the war he had put in seventy hours a week at his job as a welder at the Jennison Sheet Metal Co. in the nearby city of Fitchburg.

So now he went to work with a will. By summer he had piled up quite a stock of copper ash trays and candle sticks. So Edna and he decided to spend their vacation peddling them up in the White Mountain region of New Hampshire—an area they knew to be as full of gift shops as a pudding of plums.

They would drive along until they came to a gift shop, Edna says, then stop and go in and, with their hearts in their throats, ask to see the proprietor.

Inexperienced as they were, they managed to place most of their stock on commission. And after they got home, re-orders began to trickle in.

Then two things happened. For one, copper got very scarce and expensive. For another, it came to their attention that the old art of decorating tinware was being revived in New England.

This at first didn't seem too important to them. It all happened so gradually. But one day a woman came into the auto body shop and asked Allan to repair an old tin apple dish so she could redecorate it. A little later someone else came along with a tray she wanted fixed. Before long, when the supply of antiques ran out, the local women were wanting reproductions of the old apple dishes, candle sconces, match safes and so forth.

ALMOST BEFORE he knew what was happening, all Allan's leisure time had been diverted to "tin-whacking." And Edna, bitten by the painting bug herself, had joined an evening class at the Fitchburg Art Center.

Daytimes, however, they were still both punching time clocks—Allan still at the Jennison Co. and Edna in the shipping room of a greeting card concern. And how they hated it!

The first hint that this hobby, which they found so absorbing, might grow into a full-time occupation, came in 1948 when Allan ventured to place a modest mail-order advertisement for two of the tinware items in a small regional magazine.

The response amazed them. It didn't come with a rush. But before they were done they had over 100 inquiries, some from as far away as Alaska and Puerto Rico. In time these snowballed into orders.

To keep up with them and with the local demand, Edna gave up her job and willingly. She too began to learn "tin-whacking," with Allan's father as her teacher.

When did the rest of the family come into the picture? At the point in 1949 when Allan was on the verge of a nervous breakdown trying to keep up with the tinware in his spare time and still hold down his job in Fitchburg. Actually, he says, it wasn't the physical effort he minded so much as the endless clerical details of bills and orders and correspondence, which was something he knew nothing about.

Up to then Hugo and Sigi had been living down near Boston, where Hugo had an excellent position as an accountant with a costume-jewelry firm. The only drawback was that both of them were fed up with life in the city—they kept talking about going back to the country to live.

So it was Hugo who came up with the idea, one week-end when Sigi and he were visiting in Lunenburg. "Why go on messing around with this part-time stuff?" he said to Allan. "What if we put it all together—your technical knowledge, my business experience, Edna's painting—?"

Sigi? A professional photographer, she had artistic ability, too—plus a somewhat sketchy knowledge of advertising.

It seemed like a surefire combination. But to make doubly sure, they batted the idea around all during that spring of 1950 before taking any decisive action. Hugo in the meantime went to the library and got everything he could find on how to run a small business.

Then that summer they took the big step: Hugo gave up his job in Arlington; Sigi and he came back to Lunenburg. The quartet legally incorporated as a family corporation under the name of Crafts Mfg. Co., Inc. And that August—for better or worse—they were in business.

FOR A factory they took over the auto body building from the boys' father, who, at 75, said he was ready to retire. Once an old cider mill, it still had its original hand-hewn beams which Edna and Sigi felt gave it just the right atmosphere for a craft-type industry.

Dipping into their collective savings for the price of lumber and wallboard—they did most of the work themselves—little by little they remodeled the old building. As the first step, they partitioned off space for an office and gift shop. Since all four had a horror of going into debt, further improvements had to wait upon cash enough to make them. "That way we slept nights," Sigi observes.

So far as selling the tinware was concerned, Hugo—a great believer in advertising—decided on the basis of Allan's experience with the advertisement in the little regional magazine that their best bet was to concentrate on mail-order business, plus what the gift shop might bring in.

Through trial and error, he found that the small specialized magazines whose circulation included a large proportion of people interested in handwork were best for their purposes.

However, sales got an unexpected but very welcome shot in the arm when a jobber or two saw their advertisements and came to them to place orders on a wholesale scale.

They made their mistakes, of course, and the next two years held many discouraging moments. Edna and Sigi would occasionally cast a wistful glance at their friends' pretty new clothes and shiny new cars. But somehow they struggled along, putting whatever profit they made back into materials and machinery and advertising.

THIS WAS the state of affairs in the spring of 1952 when Edna had her inspiration for the tray-pins.

There was still one more hurdle to cross, even after that. While they were convinced from the response of customers in the gift shop that the tray-pins had great possibilities, they soon found it very time consuming to shape them by hand.

The question then arose: should they put the money into dies? These would have to be cast. While Allan could do some of the preliminary work and so cut down the cost, the dies would still be several hundred dollars apiece. The three—for the Cut Corner, Williamsburg and Chippendale styles—would take almost every cent they had between them.

Once more they went into a huddle. But they all agreed that in the pins they had something unique that might spell the difference between success or failure for the business. So they decided to take the gamble.

It paid off almost from the day the first batch of pins came from the dies. Orders by mail from their little advertisements started pouring in. The jobbers couldn't keep the pins in stock. In the weeks before Christmas they had half a dozen of their relatives and a good share of the neighborhood housewives coming in to give them a hand.

MEANWHILE EDNA had to work out a technique and patterns for decorating the tiny trays. They were so small none of the traditional ones fitted. By the time she was through, she had invented what she decided was practically a hobby in its own right: the art of making and painting miniature trays.

How do you do it?

Here are her directions; first to make the trays, then to paint them:

While Edna had sheets of tin on hand already, you can use tin cans instead. She found all she needed for tools were things that might be found in any home workshop. These included a pair of tin snips, a pair of regular scissors (not your best ones!) a block of soft wood about the size of a brick, a short length of square dowel (¾ by ⁵/8 inch), a file, a pair of small pliers, a rectangular bread board, library paste, and paper.

Surprisingly enough, although she first tried to cut the pins out with tin snips, she found regular medium-sized scissors did a much better job, the tin being fairly lightweight.

With your materials on hand, you would proceed like this:

1. With a can opener, cut off the ends of a tin can, then cut it open along the seam with your tin snips. Flatten it carefully with the palm of your hand, sliding the can little by little over the bread board.

2. With the regular scissors, cut a rectangle the approximate size of the pin.

3. Draw the outline of the pin on paper. Paste on tin.

4. Cut out the pin with the scissors.

5. Holding the pin with the right side toward you, file the edges with a back-and-forth motion of the file.

6. Each of the three pins is shaped in a slightly different way. For the Williamsburg (round pin) you curl the edge over the blade of your tin snips in this manner: Take the pin in your left hand with the back toward you. Hold the snips in your right hand. Catch the edge between the blades and bear down a little on the pin. The blades will roll off, curling the edge instead of cutting it. You repeat with short strokes all around the edge,

To shape the Chippendale pin, first put the square dowel on top of the pin perpendicular to the side you want to bend, with the end of the dowel about ¹/8 inch in from the edge. Holding the dowel in place, put the edge on the block of wood. With the dowel held tight, pull the pin gently up from the block with your pliers until the curve is formed. On the longer sides, put the dowel first at one corner, then the other. Repeat on all four sides. Then curl the scallops of the edge over the blade of the tin snips as you did on the Williamsburg pin; and accent the curves of the scrolled edge by pinching with your pliers.

To shape the Cut Corner pin, leave the pattern pasted on until you have snipped diagonal slashes from outer to inner corners of what will be the rim of the tray. Place the pin on the block, with one edge extending beyond the block to the width of the rim. Put the dowel on top of the pin, with the end of the dowel even with the edge of the block. With your pliers bend the edge of the pin up toward the dowel until it is at an oblique angle to the base. On the longer side you will have to put the dowel first in one corner, then the other. After you have bent up the four sides, take your pliers and bend up the wedge-shaped pieces to meet the sides. Pinch together where the sides and corner pieces overlap.

You are then ready to solder the catches on the backs of the pins. If you prefer, you may purchase the undecorated tin pins from the Jamnbacks and limit your activity to decorating them. Those with a base coat of either black, antique red or green or off-white sell for three for $1. For the raw metal trays the price is four for $1. The completely decorated trays are priced at $1.20 each. Matching earrings are fifty cents a pair, raw; sixty cents in solid colors, and $1.80 completely decorated. These prices are subject to change.

NOW YOU have your pins. How do you paint them?

Of course, the prettiest of all is the one that seems hardest to do: the rose-pattern Chippendale.

If you haven't done much painting, you may despair of making a lifelike rose. But once you know the secret, it's not hard at all.

However, before you try a rose or even touch a brush to a pin, the first thing to do is practice the basic brushstrokes. The way Edna learned to do them was to practice on a piece of wrapping paper painted with flat black enamel

"Don't give in to the temptation of just drawing with the point of your brush," she warns. "If you do, your designs will look stiff and crude."

For painting materials, you will need small cans of flat black enamel and a good grade of slow-drying varnish; and small tubes of paint in the following colors: white, yellow ochre, burnt sienna, chrome yellow medium, Prussian blue, alizarin crimson and raw umber.

The oil colors are mixed with the clear varnish until the paint is the consistency of thin cream. If it is too thick, it will ridge; if too thin, it will run and get fuzzy.

When you are ready to paint, pour a little varnish from the can into a bottle top or doll-sized cup. For a palette you can use the glossy cover from a "slick" magazine. For brushes, you will need a No. 2 French quill (square-tipped) and a fine (No. 1 or No. 2) pointed sable.

When you start, work on a comfortably large scale. As you grow proficient, you can reduce the size of your brush-strokes.

There are four basic brush-strokes: "Polliwogs," "S-strokes," "loaded" brushstrokes and "curly-Q's." There is also a trick to striping—which brings it under this heading.

1. To paint a "polliwog," fill your French quill with color, wipe off the excess paint. Using your left hand as a lever, lightly press the flat side of the brush onto the paper, then bear down until the brush spreads to the width you want. Then, moving your whole hand (not your fingers), pull the brush toward you, releasing the pressure so the stroke trails off to a point.

Practice curving these to the right, to the left, and making them straight. Combined, the three will make a "berry" or circle.

2. The "S-stroke" is a variation of the polliwog. Point your brush by first making a polliwog. To make the "s," touch the point lightly to the surface, bear down, then release, always pulling with your whole hand, not your fingers.

3. "Loaded" brush-strokes give shading and depth over a flat undercoat. That is, you use them for overtones on flowers, berries, etc. Fill your French quill with clear varnish. Holding your brush straight up-and-down, with the flat edge down, stroke it back and forth. "Sneak up" on your oil-color, until one side of your brush is loaded with color, while the other remains almost clear. This gives you a built-in shading.

4. For "curly-Q's," you use your fine sable brush. Dip it in paint, remove excess and work it to a point. Using your left hand for a lever, hold the brush straight up-and-down and let it dangle so the point just touches the surface. Then, moving your wrist with a circular motion, pull the brush lightly over the paper.

5. To make a nice even stripe or line, flatten out your French quill after you have filled it with paint. Use the narrow sharp edge so made. With your left hand as a lever, pull the brush along in the direction you want the stripes to go.

When you are through painting, always clean your brushes well with turpentine, then dip them into lard oil or Vaseline before putting them away. This will keep them soft and flexible.

WHEN YOU have mastered your basic brush-strokes, you are ready to try painting a rose. Here again it is better to start "big" and work down to miniature size.

The secret is to think of a rose as a cup and saucer: the saucer, the opened petals; the cup, those still closed; the inside of the cup is the heart of the rose.

The shading, highlights and detail of a white rose, which we will use for an example, are built up over a basic coat of pale yellow. You should let the undercoat and overtones dry thoroughly in between.

1. Mix a pale yellow (white-yellow ochre-varnish). Paint a circle for the "cup." For the "saucer," first paint two polliwogs along the left side of the circle, one along the right, curving your strokes into the base of the cup. Then, working up toward the base of the cup, curve in two small polliwogs from the right, one from the left. Let dry.

2. Shade the heart of the rose with your French quill and cover the pin with at least two coats of clear varnish, letting it dry in between.

Varnishing is the final step. Using the cup with loaded brush-strokes of burnt sienna and varnish: one polliwog curving horizontally from right to left in the upper part of the cup; a second larger polliwog curving from right to left around the base of the cup. Let dry.

3. Using your white paint quite thick, add highlights as follows: on the cup a little in from the edge paint one small polliwog down from the right and two larger ones staggered horizontally from right to left around the cup's fullest part. On the saucer paint a polliwog of white along the center of each petal. Curve three tiny polliwogs from left to right along the upper side of the "heart." Dot the heart with yellow ochre for the stamens, as the finishing touch.

Leaves and buds on your pin will be similarly built up by painting first the undercoat, then overtones, then fine details, letting the coats dry thoroughly in between. The dark green of the leaves is made by mixing chrome yellow medium, Prussian blue and a little raw umber; the buds are white with dots of alizarin crimson near the stems. Stems and squiggles are chrome yellow medium mixed with a little raw umber.

NOW YOU are ready to paint your pin. First cover it with flat black enamel. While this is drying, trace the design in pencil on tracing-paper. Turn the tracing over and cover the black with white blackboard chalk, brushing off any excess powder.

Center the design on the pin, chalked side down. With a stylus or hard pencil, trace the outlines of the design. Don't fill in details like veins of leaves, etc.; you will just paint right over them.

Using your French quill, paint the undercoat of the roses. For the leaves, curve a polliwog down the center, then fill in the sides. For the buds, paint ovals. Let dry.

Next, shade the "cup and saucer" of the rose with loaded brush-strokes of burnt sienna, as you were previously told how to do. Dot the buds with alizarin crimson. Let dry.

Highlight the rose with polliwogs of thick white on the cup and along each petal. With your fine sable brush, dot the heart of the rose with chrome yellow; vein the leaves with lighter green; link the buds with fine curved lines. Add squiggles of yellow to fill in the design. Let dry.

Stripe the outer edge of the pin with chrome yellow medium mixed with a little raw umber. Let dry.