ean
sheets of paper over the platen and clamped them down; then he inked the
type and pressed down the lever. Thus he gained an impression on the
platen itself. At this point he hesitated. On his father's desk down
stairs was mucilage, but mucilage was strictly forbidden. The hesitation
was but momentary, however, for the creative spirit in full blast does
not recognize ordinary restrictions. With his own round-pointed scissors
he cut out little squares of paper. These he pasted on the platen over
the letters whose impression had been too faint. A few moments adjusted
the guides. Bobby inked the type and inserted a fresh card. The moment
of test was at hand.

He paused and drew a long breath. From one point of view the matter was
a small one. From another it was of the exact importance of a little
boy's development, for it represented the first fruits of all the
hereditary influences that had silently and through the small
experiences of babyhood, led him over the edge of the dark, warm nest to
this first independent trial of the wings. He pressed the lever gently
and took out the card. It was not a very good job of printing; the ink
was not quite evenly distributed, the type were so heavily impressed
that they showed through the reverse of the card like stamping; _but
each letter had evidently received the same amount of pressure!_

Bobby uttered a little chuckle of joy--he had not time for more--and
plunged into the rectification of minor errors. And by noon the press
was working steadily, though slowly, and a very neat array of _Mr. John
Ordes_ was spread out on the window drying.

The game was absorbing. Bobby brushed his type with the benzine and
toothbrush; distributed it and set up another name--Miss Celia Carleton.
He had printed nearly a dozen of these when his mother's voice behind
him interrupted his labours.

"Robert," said the voice sternly, "what are you doing with that
mucilage?"

V

THE LITTLE GIRL

Bobby spent as much time with Celia as he was allowed. On Sunday he took
her on his regular excursion to Auntie Kate--and Auntie Kate's cookies.

"Aren't you glad there was no Sunday School to-day?" he inquired
blithely.

"I like Sunday School," stated Celia.

Bobby stopped short and looked at her.

"Do you like church too?" he demanded.

"I love it," she said.

"Do you like pollywogs?"

"Ugh, No!"

"Or stripy snakes?"

"They're _horrid!_"

"Or forts?"

"I don't know."

"O