read its novels.

Pamela McArthur Cole.

East Bridgewater, Mass.

SNEAK REPORTING.

I do not beg the reader's pardon for the apparent egotism of this article, for, though I use the first person throughout, I feel that I do so as the spokesman of a large (if not an important) class.

To begin at the beginning, I have always believed that in time I could succeed as a journalist, if I could but secure a position on a live newspaper, where I could gain practical knowledge. In pursuance of this idea, I haunted the doors of an afternoon paper, and finally, by dint of perseverance, fairly worried the city editor into giving me an assignment.

Naturally, a beginner was not given an important task, but it proved to be a very embarrassing one. I was required, in the line of my duty, to stick my impertinent nose into another man's business, and elicit from him facts that he did not want published. I did not feel the least curiosity about the matter, and, I am sure, looked as guilty as if I had been a dog engaged in the sheep-stealing industry, and had been caught with the wool in my teeth. I approached him with inward fear and trembling, and requested information on a subject in connection with which he had been held up before the public in an unenviable light. He refused to talk, and when I persisted, as per orders, told me to go to the residence of a personage whom I do not like to hear mentioned, except by authority and by gentlemen who have the legal right to wear a handle to their names.

I did not resent this as ordinarily I should have done. I was so humbled and ashamed by my consciousness of the impudence of my errand, that if he had pulled my nose, I am sure I should have commended the spirit with which he did it.

It was in vain I represented to him that to withhold this matter of public interest was to show an unpardonable disregard of the rights of others, which, as contrary to public policy, could easily be construed into an act of overt disloyalty. He did not seem to be interested in the rights of others, and entirely refused to see the matter in the proper light. He was not a rational man. When I attempted to argue the case with him, he became violent, and roared at me until, I am sure, had the bulls of Bashan heard him, they would have been tempted to "hide their diminished heads." I decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and left him to fight it out alone. I returned to the office, rendered an account of the manner in which I had failed, and was the recipient of a scathing rebuke from the city editor. It was in vain I tried to get angry. Even to myself I could not simulate proper indignation, so thoroughly had the starch been taken out of me by my seance with an excusably irritated man, knowing the while that I was trespassing on the bounds of courtesy.

That experience was enough for me. While I might become a successful reporter, in doing so I fear I should lose that regard for the rights of others, the petty conscience of every-day life, that is conspicuously absent in so many of the men we meet.

While this incident has not altered my liking for newspaper work, it has very materially modified my ideas concerning certain branches of it. From the reporter's desk to the editor's chair is a natural and easy transition; and the outsider, unless he possesses the genius of George Kennan and his companions, must go through this stage of preliminary training. Those of us who have no influence, no startling genius, and a decided dislike to becoming inquisitive nuisances feel that we are overweighted in the journalistic handicap.

What course shall we pursue, that what few merits we possess shall not be overshadowed by the lack of one quality, which may be a useful one to the reporter, but is usually known and avoided in the ordinary man under the vulgar name of "gall"?

Herbert Corey.

Cincinnati, Ohio.

A PLEA FOR THE NOM DE PLUME.

Once upon a time there lived a good little girl whom everybody loved. She had six aunts, four uncles, and twenty-seven cousins, besides a brother and two sisters. All these relatives, of course, especially loved her, for that was only natural. And they were all very glad, indeed, to help her in every way possible.

She was a bright little thing as well as good, and by and by she thought she would see whether any of the papers and magazines cared to know of the things she thought, and she wrote a morsel of an article and timidly sent it off.

But before she sent it to the editor she read it to her sisters, each of whom had some slight correction to make; and she showed it to Aunt Emma, who was quite of a literary turn of mind, and Aunt Emma read it to her daughter Mabel, who had just left college.

These ladies so marked up the carefully written manuscript that the good little girl had to copy it all before it was fit to be sent.

After it had been gone eight days the article was returned. This made the little girl very sad, and she wept.

The other five aunts, and the uncles, and all the cousins were by this time interested, and they comforted her with many words, and censured her with a great many more, and gave her a great deal of good advice. But the little girl finally got so confused by the many conflicting opinions offered that she hardly knew what to do or say. One moment she would think she would write this and another that, and some of the time she declared that she would never write another line at all.

But one day a very pretty idea came into her mind all at once, and she did think it too sweet to be lost. So she wrote it down just as it came to her, and sent it away, and never told a soul a word about it.

By and by it was printed, and how happy the little girl was! She told nobody but her parents and her sisters this time, but all her friends saw her name in the paper, and they came running to her to talk about it.

"I saw your name in the paper," said Cousin Ada.

"Did you?" said the good little girl, pleasantly.

"Yes; an' Bert an' I know who you meant by 'The Old Bad Man.'"

"But I didn't mean anybody," explained she; "that was only a little story."

"Oh, we know you did. Mamma says it isn't a nice story at all, an' Mabelle says, 'Ugh!'"

It was no wonder that the little girl felt hurt at these words. And it was queer, but every time that any of the friends had any fault to find, or any help to give her, which was the same thing, of course, they began it by saying, "I saw your name in the paper."

At last the good little girl could endure it no longer, and she said to herself, "They sha'n't see my name in the paper any more"; and she sat down on the green grass and thought of a nice new name that pleased her, and she called herself by that name always when she wrote for the papers. And as she never got famous so that she wanted to tell people what her pen-name was, her friends never found it out, and she lived and died in peace.

Hæc fabula docet—Don't be made to feel it's cowardly to use a nom de plume if you want to. It isn't likely to do any harm, and it may save you lots of bother.

Persis E. Darrow.

Wentworth, N. H.

TO WRITE OR NOT TO WRITE.

When any one living in this age of the world feels that he has thoughts clamoring for utterance, he seeks advice from some one who has attained success in the profession of literature. In most instances he receives no satisfactory