This was Saturday evening, and the family had just settled down in the library with the Transcript, each with a section. Alden had the news; Otis, the sporting page; his father was perusing the editorials, his mother was reading the religious items. Cousin Virginia dabbled a few moments in the theatrical columns, like a canary unwilling to get wet all over in his china tub, and then laid down her section, suppressed a yawn, and said,
“Why does all Boston find its greatest dissipation Saturday night in reading the Saturday evening Transcript?”
“Habit, pure habit,” growled Alden, without raising his eyes.
“Not altogether habit,” said his mother, gently and seriously. “The Transcript, Virginia, is quite different from any other paper. It is reliable and conservative and sound.”
“You know, Virginia”—her uncle looked up for a moment with a twinkle in his eye—“good Bostonians always make a point of dying on Friday, so that their obituaries can go into the Saturday evening Transcript.”
“No? That is consistent,” laughed Virginia. “But even the Boston children quote it. I saw the funniest little chap as I was crossing the Common to-day—a short fat little fellow, having a lot of fun with a false beard and whiskers. He was twirling around on one leg, to get dizzy, I suppose, and chanting loudly something like this, that didn’t make any sense:—
“‘The boy—will soon—belong—to me,
Unless—the Trans—cript he—should see.
Ha! Ha!—the ed—ito—rial page
He’ll nev—er read—until—old age!’
Would you believe it? I never would—outside of Boston.”
Wendell listened no further. He could hardly wait for his father to drop the editorial section. What a foolish old Kobold!—giving the whole thing away, just as the Pixie said he always did. Thank goodness!