Town and Country; Or, Life at Home and Abroad Part 43

"Now, sist-a-boy, Tozer; give her an editorial," said he; and, as dog and cat had been through the same performance before, they acted their parts in manner suiting. The dog barked, the cat snapped and snarled, and Jake Stubbs stood by rubbing his hands in a perfect ecstasy of delight.

It is needless for us to relate the many curious adventures Mr.

Stubbs met with whilst searching for a situation for Jake.

His endeavors to find a situation such as he wanted were, for a long time, ineffectual. At length he blundered into a small printing-office, where three men and a boy were testing the merits of half a dozen doughnuts, and a bottle of root beer.

Mr. Stubbs was very sorry to disturb them. When he mentioned his errand, one of the men-a tall fellow, with check shirt and green ap.r.o.n-said that he had, for a long time, contemplated starting a paper, but, as he was not capable of editing one, he had not carried out his intention. The princ.i.p.al reason why he had not published was, he was poor; business had not prospered in his hands, and an outlay of two thousand dollars would be needed to commence and continue the paper.

"Very well," replied Mr. Stubbs, "that is a large sum; but, if there is no doubt of its being returned, I might think of loaning it to you, for the sake of getting my talented son into business."

"Not the least doubt, not the least," replied Mr. Pica; and he so inflamed the imagination of Mr. Stubbs, that, strange as it may seem to the cautious reader, he wrote a check for the amount, merely taking the unendorsed note of Mr. Pica as security; then, hastening home, he told Mrs. Stubbs to brush up the boy, for he was an editor.

Behold, now, Mr. Jake Stubbs in a little room up three pair of stairs, preparing "copy" for the first number of "The Peg Top, or the Buzz of the Nation." He hasn't got black eyes now; all the blackness of his person, if not of his character, has settled in his fingers, and they are black with ink. Not all settled, for a few daubs of the "blood of the world," as the dark fluid has been called, were to be seen on his forehead, having pa.s.sed there from his fingers, when leaning upon them in a pensive mood, vainly endeavoring to bring up thoughts from the mighty depths of his intellect,--so mighty, in fact, that his thoughts were kept there, and refused to come up.

Mr. Jake Stubbs had been cutting and pasting all day, when, thinking it a little too severe to inflict further duty upon the a.s.sistant editor, he took his pen in hand, resolved upon writing a masterly article as a leader.

A sheet of blank paper had lain on the table before him for nearly an hour. He would sit and think. Some idea would pop into his head, then with a dash would the pen go into the ink, but before he could get his pen out the idea had flown, and the world was the loser.

Then he threw himself back into his chair,--thought, thought, thought. At length Jake obtained the mastery, as patience and perseverance always will, and the pen became his willing slave, though his mind, being the slave-driver, did not hurry it on very fast. He was able to pen a few words, and wrote "The war with Mexico-"

Well, he had got so far; that was very original, and if he never wrote anything else, would stamp him a man of talent. Into the ink, on the paper, and his pen wrote the little word are. "The war with Mexico are." Ten minutes more of steady thought, and three more words brought him to a full stop. "The war with Mexico are a indisputable fact." That last but one was a long word, and a close observer could have seen his head expand with the effort.

"Copy, sir, copy!" shouted the printer's boy, as he stood with his arms daubed with ink, and a straw hat upon his head that had seen service, and looked old enough to retire and live on a pension.

"Copy what?" inquired the editor, who began to feel indignant, imagining that the publisher had seen his labor to write an article, and had sent him word to copy from some paper.

"Here," said he, "take this to Mr. Pica, and tell him 't is original, and gives an account of the war with Mexico, with news up to this date."

The boy took it, trudged up stairs with two lines of MS., and the editor arose and walked his office, as though his labors were o'er, and he might rest and see some mighty spirit engrave his name upon the scroll of fame.

He had crossed the floor half a dozen times, when in came the same youth, shouting "Copy, sir, copy!"

"Copy what?" shouted Jake, laying hold of the boy's shirt-sleeve.

"Tell me what you want copied! tell me, sir, or I will shake your interiors out of you-"

The boy was small, but s.p.u.n.ky. His education had been received at the corners of the streets. He had never taken lessons of a professor, but he had practised upon a number of urchins smaller than himself, and had become a thoroughly proficient and expert pugilist.

It was not for Bill Bite to be roughly handled by any one, not even by an editor. So he pushed him from him, and said,

"I want copy; that's a civil question,--I want a civil answer."

Jake's organ of combativeness became enlarged. He sprang at the boy, grasped him by the waist, and would have thrown him down stairs, had not a movement the boy made prevented him.

Bill's arms were loose, and, nearing the table, he took the inkstand and dashed the contents into the face of his a.s.sailant.

"Murder!" shouted the editor.

"Copy!" shouted the boy; and such a rumpus was created, that up came Mr. Pica, saying that the building was so shaken that an article in type on the subject of "Health and Diet" suddenly transformed itself into "pi."

The two belligerents were parted; the editor and Master Bill Bite stood at extremes. At this crisis who should enter but Mr. Stubbs, senior, who, seeing his son's face blackened with ink, inquired the cause rather indignantly; at which Mr. Pica, not recognizing in the indignant inquirer the father of the "talented editor," turned suddenly about and struck him a blow in the face, that displaced his spectacles, knocked off his white hat into a pond of ink, and made the old fellow see stars amid the cobwebs and dust of the ceiling.

The son, seeing himself again at liberty, flew at the boy, and gave him "copy" of a very impressive kind.

Down from the shelves came dusty papers and empty bottles, whilst up from the printing-office came the inmates, to learn the cause of the disturbance.

A couple of police-officers pa.s.sing at the time, hearing the noise, entered, and one of them taking Mr. Stubbs, senior, and the other Mr. Stubbs, junior, bore them off to the lock-up.

This affair put a sudden stop to "The Buzz of the Nation." The first number never made its appearance.

Mr. Pica, having obtained the amount of the check, went into the country for his health, and has not been heard from since.

Elder Stubbs and Stubbs the younger paid a fine of five dollars each; and when they reached home and related to Mrs. Stubbs the facts in the case, she took off her spectacles, and, after a few moments' sober thought, came to the sage conclusion that her son Jake was not made for an editor.

HERE'S TO THE HEART THAT'S EVER BRIGHT.

HERE'S to a heart that's ever bright, Whatever may betide it, Though fortune may not smile aright, And evil is beside it; That lets the world go smiling on, But, when it leans to sadness, Will cheer the heart of every one With its bright smile of gladness!

A fig for those who always sigh And fear an ill to-morrow; Who, when they have no troubles nigh, Will countless evils borrow; Who poison every cup of joy, By throwing in a bramble; And every hour of time employ In a vexatious scramble.

What though the heart be sometimes sad!

'T is better not to show it; 'T will only chill a heart that's glad, If it should chance to know it.

So, cheer thee up if evil's nigh, Droop not beneath thy sadness; If sorrow finds thou wilt not sigh, 'T will leave thy heart to gladness.

MORNING BEAUTY.

BRIGHTLY now on every hill The sun's first rays are beaming, And dew-drops on each blade of gra.s.s Are in their beauty gleaming.

O'er every hill and every vale The huntsman's horn is sounding, And gayly o'er each brook and fence His n.o.ble steed is bounding.

There's beauty in the glorious sun When high mid heaven 't is shining, There's beauty in the forest oak When vines are round it twining; There's beauty in each flower that blooms, Each star whose light is glancing From heaven to earth, as on apace 'T is noiselessly advancing.

Beauties are all around thy path, And gloriously they're shining; Nature hath placed them everywhere, To guard men from repining.

Yet 'mong them all there's naught more fair, This beauteous earth adorning, Than the bright beauty gathering round The early hours of morning.