d she found ways to make them ask if we
couldn't do something for Miss Bolton. She could teach school; indeed,
she had a place in the Academy. But she loathed school-teaching. She
had always felt that, if she could once get a start, she could make a
name for herself.

She had written something that she called "A Critique on Hamlet," which
she submitted to us, and was deeply pained when we told her that we
didn't care for editorial matter; that what our paper needed was the
names of the people in our own country town and county, printed as many
times a day or a week or a month as they could be put into type. We
tried to tell her that more important to us than the influence of the
Celtic element on our national life and literature was the fact that
John Jones of Lebo--that is to say, red John, as distinguished from
black John--or Jones the tinner, or Jones of the Possum Holler
settlement was in town with a load of hay. "Other papers," we explained
carefully, while she looked as sympathetic and intelligent as a collie,
"other papers might be interested in the radio-activity of uranium X;
they might care to print articles on the psychological phenomena of
mobs"--to which she snapped eager agreement with her eyes--"others,
with entire propriety, might be interested in inorganic evolution"--and
she cheeped "yes, yes" with feverish intensity--"but in our little local
paper we cared only for the person who could tell our readers with the
most delicacy and precision how many spoons Mrs. Worthington had to
borrow for her party, who had the largest number of finger-bowls in
town, what Mrs. Conklin paid for the broilers she served at her party
last February, and the name of the country woman who raised them, and
why it was that all the women failed to make Jennie's recipe for
sunshine cake work when they tried it." Such are the things that
interest our people, and he, she or it who can turn in two or three
columns a day of items setting forth these things in a good-natured way,
so that the persons mentioned will only grin and wonder who told it, is
good for ten dollars of our money every Saturday night.

Maybelle thought it was such interesting work, and her eyes floated in
tears of happiness at the thought of such joy. If she could only have a
chance! It would be just lovely--simply grand, and she knew she could do
it! Something in her innermost soul thrilled with a tintinabulation that
made her quiver with anticipation. Whereupo