Editor. Oh!—but there’s “4,000,000 in the hands of passengers!”
Grab. Ah!—that makes a difference—2 per cent. a month is the rate on this!
“Can such things be—and overcome us?” asks an astounded country editor. Yes, brother—but such things don’t come over Graham.
Love Letters.—A perfect shower of perfumed billets, with the odor of violets and roses fresh upon them, has fallen upon us since our last; and we can almost fancy the sunny faces of the fair writers in all their witchery before us. Well, Graham is a happy rascal: he labors from early morn to dewy Eve—ah, now the charm’s dispelled—if she had never tasted the forbidden fruit we should have been in Paradise with all these beautiful girls, and instead of reading their delicious love-letters on this spring morning, we should have been crowning their fair brows with flowers, and talking—talking!—singing Love’s own music to them, under “the greenwood tree.” We are mad about it.
The editor of the Evening Bulletin, who confesses to the writing of his editorials up in the fourth story—in a dingy apartment, insufferably close, recently closed a long editorial upon summer-houses, walks in shady lanes, and roses, with the cry “a-lass—a-lass!” Considering that the man is married, he ought to be ashamed of himself.
Did anybody ever write a piece of bad poetry, without sending it to some unfortunate editor, with the story, that “numerous friends urged the publication—some of them critics, too—or the writer would never have thought of it?” An answer is requested.