Tiny and Johnny congratulated themselves, and each other, at least once a week, upon being the children of an editor.
You will think, perhaps, that they had literary tendencies, and hoped to grow up into co-editors? Not in the least! They each wondered, as they groaned over “composition day,” how anybody could be found willing to spend the greater part of his time either in writing, or in reading what other people had written; they knew that at least a column of the “large print” in their father’s paper, was always written by himself, and they had often seen him plodding through pages of bad writing, which must be read and decided upon, so that, proud as they were of him for being able to do these things, and much as they admired him, I am afraid they pitied him even more.
“Poor papa!” they would say to each other, when they saw him at his desk, with a mountain of manuscript before him; and sometimes, I must confess, Mr. Leslie echoed this sigh, for an editor’s life is not invariably “a happy one,” any more than a policeman’s is.
No, their pleasure in having an editor for their father was a very practical one; among the many books which were sent to him for review were numbers of nice story and picture books for children; among the “exchanges” which came to the office were delightful picture papers, selected, apparently, with a view to playroom walls and scrap-books. And last, but by no means least, there was the waste-paper basket! They had learned the signs and tokens, and whenever a very fat manuscript was being read, they would ask eagerly,—
“Did she send any stamps, papa?”
They were so nearly sure that the fat manuscript would prove “not available for the purposes of, etc.,” that the whole thing hinged on the stamps—if she had sent them, why then, of course, she must have her “old manuscript” back, if she wished it; but if she had not, then, oh, then! there were all those sheets of paper, perfectly blank on one side, anyhow. And what with colored envelopes, and pamphlets printed on pink and blue paper, and envelope bands, and monograms, and occasional coats-of-arms, that waste paper basket, with skilful handling of its contents, had yielded many a handsome kite.
Its contents had been given over to Johnny, and those of the rag-bag to Tiny, at the same time, but they preferred to make partnership affairs of both. As the rag-bag yielded sails for boats, and covers for balls, and “bobs” for kites, so did the waste-paper basket yield colored paper wherewith to dress paper dolls, and stiff cards which made excellent cardboard furniture, not to mention those pieces of blank-on-both-sides writing paper, which could be cut into small sheets and envelopes. And if a monogram is really handsome, why should not one person use it as well as another?