(A Fairy Tale of Anglo-Russian Origin.)
Once upon a time there was a feeble little Ailment called "Cold-in-the-head," which was treated in the most contemptuous fashion by its relations. The nearest of its kith and kin—Measles and Scarlatina—absolutely laughed when its name was mentioned, and scarcely recognised it as a connection. So Cold-in-the-head had rather a bad time of it generally.
One day the feeble little Ailment was wandering aimlessly about in search of a resting-place, when it came upon an enormous establishment thronged with thousands of working-men. When the employés are described as "working-men," it is not, however, quite accurate, for at that moment they were not working.
"Why are you idle?" sneezed out little Cold-in-the-head in a tone of compassion.
"Because," replied one of the employés, rather gruffly, "there is nothing to do. If you want further information, you had better inquire at that office."
And the man pointed to a door bearing the legend, "Editor's Room." The poor little Ailment entered the apartment, and found a Gentleman seated in front of a desk covered with papers. The Gentleman was staring before him, and the ink in his pen had dried up.
"What do you want?" asked the Gentleman. "And why don't you shut the door behind you?"
"I should cease to exist without draughts," explained the poor little Ailment, "and please don't speak roughly to me, as I want to help you."
"You help me!" exclaimed the Editor—for the Gentleman was an Editor. "How can you do that?"
"I think I can give you a subject."