staircases. On the glazed-glass doors were many signs with the
names or nicknames of many persons: "City Editor"; "Beggars and
Peddlers not Allowed." The nameless world not included in these
categories was warned off, forbidden to be or do: "Private--No
Admittance"; "Don't Knock." And the various inhospitable legends on
the doors and walls were punctuated by frequent cuspidors on the
floor. There was no sign anywhere of the welcome which I, as an
author, expected to find in the home of a newspaper.

I was descending from the top story to the street for the seventh
time, trying to decide what kind of editor a patriotic poem belonged
to, when an untidy boy carrying broad paper streamers and whistling
shrilly, in defiance of an express prohibition on the wall, bustled
through the corridor and left a door ajar. I slipped in behind him,
and found myself in a room full of editors.

I was a little surprised at the appearance of the editors. I had
imagined my editor would look like Mr. Jones, the principal of my
school, whose coat was always buttoned, and whose finger nails were
beautiful. These people were in shirt sleeves, and they smoked, and
they didn't politely turn in their revolving chairs when I came in,
and ask, "What can I do for you?"

The room was noisy with typewriters, and nobody heard my "Please, can
you tell me." At last one of the machines stopped, and the operator
thought he heard something in the pause. He looked up through his own
smoke. I guess he thought he saw something, for he stared. It troubled
me a little to have him stare so. I realized suddenly that the hand in
which I carried my manuscript was moist, and I was afraid it would
make marks on the paper. I held out the manuscript to the editor,
explaining that it was a poem about George Washington, and would he
please print it in the "Transcript."

There was something queer about that particular editor. The way he
stared and smiled made me feel about eleven inches high, and my voice
kept growing smaller and smaller as I neared the end of my speech.

At last he spoke, laying down his pipe, and sitting back at his ease.

"So you have brought us a poem, my child?"

"It's about George Washington," I repeated impressively. "Don't you
want to read it?"

"I should be delighted, my dear, but the fact is--"

He did not take my paper. He stood up and called across the room.

"Say, Jack! here is a young lady who has brought us a poem--about
George Wa