and then I showed the edittur the paper wot the Fyend was reedin, wot gave a big account of the Sheecargo fire. Wen we got out our extra, we sold 'bout 10,000 coppies, with a artickel, wot red like this:

   "The latest despaches from that city report Sheecargo all quiett, thanks to the forethort of the Mayor, in swarein in a large number of extra perlice, for service durin the sittin of the Youmorists Conven-shun, and the grate precaushuns taken by Common Counsil to see that no lickher was sold to delergates!" You bet there was a mad crowd, wen they found out there warnt no fire a tall in Sheecargo. The 'xchange fyend's gone to New Jersey, cos it'll have time to blow over, 'fore Congres can promulgait a xtrodishun treety, with that government.

   This afternoon, I was appalled, my grate big spirit fell down into my shoes, like a Jump of led. Alass how grate the breech is, tween the orthor, and the columns of a noospaper, and how short the rode, wot leeds to the waist basket, espeschially the one, in a printin offis like the Daily "Buster," were the basket covers bout a square akrc of flore. I was put to cleenin up the waste basket, so as we'd hav the paper reddy, for the junk man, wot calls round with his six horse teem of goverment muels, once a week, I coldn't help lingerin over the contents, and sying, wen I thought, of the hopes wot lied burried thare. There was one littel peece of poultry, rittin on a sheet of 'lectric blue paper, and sented with otto of roses, and indited to "My dare George." I wunder if the poultryess ment me, wen she rote it, cos if she did, she struck it jest rite, for Ive got it stowed away, in my pants pocket next my hart.

   There was a nother roll of manerskript, wot wayed a pound, and come by xpress, without bein pade. I guess the edittur was mad, wen he paid 50 sents charges, and found out it warnt no berthday present. A note with it, red like this:

   Wat unappreciatin beins editturs are! Wen they wuld let a geneyus wot was capable of pennin the follerin lines go unrewarded:

   I'm in a peck of troubel to-day, wot I'll have ter trust ter Providence to get me outer. A typergraffickal devil ain't s'posed to know everything, enyway. Now the hull offis is mad at me, 'cos I ain't a walk-in' cyclopeeda of typograffickal turm.

   In the fust place, the foreman of the composin' room's mad, 'cos wen he tole me to fech him a long stick, I went down street and hunted round till I struck a house wot was bein plasturd, and brot him back a good lath. Wen 

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