f this world, but
seldom meet with them; for, as soon as we begin to know a person, we
discover peculiarities that quite remove him from the ranks of the
conventional--if such ranks exist at all. The remark of the old Scotch
divine to his good wife: "Everybody's queer but thee and me, Nancy, and
sometimes I think _thee_ a little queer," sums up human nature
admirably. We seldom recognize our own queerness, but are prone to mark
the erratic temperaments of others, and this is rather more comfortable
than to be annoyed by a consciousness of our personal deficits.

The inhabitants of a country town are so limited in their experiences
that we generally find their personal characteristics very amusing. No
amount of scholastic learning could have rendered the Millville people
sophisticated, for contact with the world and humanity is the only true
educator; but, as a matter of fact, there was little scholastic learning
among them, with one or two exceptions, and the villagers as a rule were
of limited intelligence. Every one was really a "character," and Uncle
John's nieces, who all possessed a keen sense of humor, enjoyed the
oddities of the Millvillites immensely.

A humorous situation occurred through a seemingly innocent editorial of
Beth on authorship. In the course of her remarks she said: "A prominent
author is stated to have accumulated a large fortune by writing short
stories for the newspapers and magazines. He is said to receive ten
cents a word, and this unusual price is warranted by the eager demand
for his stories, of which the reading public is very fond. However, the
unknown author does not fare so badly. The sum of from thirty to fifty
dollars usually remitted for a short story pays the beginner a better
recompense, for the actual time he is engaged upon the work, than any
other occupation he might undertake."

This was seriously considered the morning it appeared in the _Tribune_
by Peggy McNutt and Skim Clark, as they sat in the sunshine on the
former's little front porch. Peggy had read it aloud in his laborious,
halting way, and Skim listened with growing amazement.

"Thirty dollars!" he cried; "thirty to fifty fer a short story! Great
Snakes, Peggy, I'm goin' into it."

"Heh? Goin' into what?" asked Peggy, raising his eyes from the paper.

"I kin write a story," declared Skim confidently.

"Ye kin, Skim?"

"It's a cinch, Peggy. Mother keeps all the magazines an' paper novils,
an' we allus reads '