LETTER AND SPIRIT.
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.
[Illustration]
“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.
[Illustration]
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,—
[Illustration]
“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?
[Illustration]
Johnny was beginning to be famous for his kites, and as he was a
warm-hearted and generous little boy, with a large number of friends, he
frequently made a kite to give away. Tiny was always ready to help him,
and was particularly “handy” at making the devices of bright paper with
which the kites were generally ornamented, and pasting them neatly on.
When the kite was very large, she did even more than this, and Johnny
never gave one away, without explaining that Tiny had shared in the
making.
They had been saving all the best paper of every sort lately for the
largest kite they had ever undertaken; it was so large that it was
already named the Monster, and it was stretched, half finished, upon
the floor of the spare garret, where it would not be disturbed. It was
designed for a birthday present to one of Johnny’s very best friends, and
everybody in the house was interested in it. It was to be pure white,
with a pair of wings, and a bird’s head and tail, in brilliant red paper,
pasted upon one side, and on the other, in large blue letters, the
initials of the boy for whom it was intended.
But, with the perversity of things in general, or rather because it had
been a very warm summer, and most of the poor authors had been taking
holidays as much as they could, the waste-paper basket of late had not
been worth the trouble of emptying.
[Illustration]
So it was with no very great expectations that Johnny went to it
one Saturday morning to see if by chance there should be a rejected
manuscript of sufficient length to satisfy the Monster. No, there was
nothing there but a letter written on both sides of the paper, a few
pamphlets, likewise without blank sides, and some envelopes and postal
cards. Johnny was turning away with a natural sigh, and the conviction
that, if the Monster was ever to be finished, he must make a small
appropriation out of his Christmas money, when behold! on the floor, just
under the edge of the desk, and hidden by the basket, he spied a lovely
manuscript; large sheets, firm, white, unruled paper, written upon only
on one side.
He jumped for it with a joyful exclamation, but stopped as suddenly—had
it been _thrown_ down, and missed the basket, or had it fallen, and been
neglected for the moment, because it was hidden by the desk and basket?
[Illustration]
If Mr. Leslie had only been there, how quickly these questions could have
been answered! But alas! he had left home that very morning, to be gone
two days; and must a whole precious Saturday be lost on account of what
was, perhaps, after all, only a needless and foolish scruple?
Then the two Johnnys—you may have observed that there are two of
you?—began an argument something like this:—
Johnny No. 1. You’d better not take that thing till you’ve asked your
father about it. It looks to me as if it had merely fallen from the table.
Johnny No. 2. But papa won’t be back till Monday morning, and I can’t
wait. Bob’s birthday is next Wednesday, and the kite’s only half done now!
No. 1. That makes no difference. It is not the question. And you might at
least ask your mother what she thinks, and let her decide.
No. 2. Mamma never knows anything about papa’s papers; I’ve heard her
say so a dozen times. And why should it have been on the floor if it was
worth anything?
No. 1. You know quite well that your father never throws on the floor
things which are meant for the basket, and that it looks much more as if
it had fallen from the table. Come, put it back, and either wait till
Monday, or go and buy the rest of the paper you need.
No. 2. Papa’s a very careful man, and he wouldn’t have gone off for two
days and left anything worth while on the floor. It was almost in the
basket, and it’s all the same, and I mean to take it, so there!
The other Johnny made no reply to this conclusive argument—in fact, he
had no time, for the wrong Johnny rushed out of the library, shouting:—
“Tiny! Oh, Tiny! come at once! Here’s enough to finish the Monster, tail
and all!”
[Illustration]
Tiny dropped some very important work for her best doll without a
moment’s hesitation, and reached the garret almost as soon as Johnny did.
“Oh, that’s perfectly lovely!” she panted, “and it’s more than enough!
But oh, Johnny,” she added, in a changed tone, “if we should ever write
poems and stories and things, after we’re grown up, do you believe that
some dreadful editor will let his children make kites out of them?”
“I’m afraid he will, of mine,” said Johnny, frankly, “for that’s about
all they’d be good for, but you write much better compositions than I do,
Tiny, for all you’re so much younger than I am, so perhaps the editors
will print yours. But it does seem a sort of shame, when you think of
all the time it must take them to do it, and how flat they must feel
when it turns out to have been for nothing. Now this one”—looking at it
critically—“is really beautifully written, and on such good paper. Why,
even the paper must cost them ever so much! I say, Tiny, it’s just as if
we had to put on five dollar gold pieces, or gold dollars, for bait when
we go fishing, and then had them nibbled off without catching anything.
I’ll tell that to papa—I think he might make a story, or a poem, or a
fable, or something out of it—don’t you?”
“Yes, it’s just the kind of thing they use for a fable,” said Tiny,
approvingly, and so, in steady work at the kite, enlivened by such
intellectual conversations as this, the day flew by, and by evening the
Monster was finished, tail and all.
There had been more than enough of the strong white paper for everything,
and Tiny had carefully cut the “bobs” out of it, fringing each one at
both ends. The colored paper for the enterprise had been on hand for some
time, and Mrs. Leslie put the crowning glory on, by drawing a monogram
to take the place of the separate initials of Bob’s name, which were to
have adorned one side of the kite. This monogram was cut by Tiny’s deft
fingers from pink and blue paper, and carefully pasted together in the
middle of one side.
Johnny had so entirely succeeded in silencing his scruples about the
manuscript, that he would probably never have thought of it again, if it
had not been rather forcibly recalled to his memory. It had not occurred
to Tiny to ask any questions about it; such streaks of luck had come
to them before, and she had perfect faith in Johnny. So when, at the
dinner-table, on Monday, Mr. Leslie said to his wife,—
“I’ve somehow mislaid a very bright article by Mrs. —— which I meant to
use in the next number. Did you empty the waste basket, dear, or did the
children?”
Before his mother could answer, Johnny, with a very red face, and a lump
in his throat, had told the whole story.
Mr. Leslie looked exceedingly grave.
“I am very much annoyed by the loss of this manuscript,” he said, “for
even should Mrs. —— have a rough draft of it, she will be obliged to
take the trouble of making a second copy, and should she not, it will
be necessary for me to pay her for it, as if I had used it. But that is
not the worst of it, Johnny. If we deliberately stifle our consciences,
after a while, we cease to hear from them. Do you remember asking me what
‘Quench not the Spirit’ means?”
“Yes, papa,” said Johnny, in a choked voice.
“I think, then, that you remember what I told you, my boy, and I shall
pray that you may not again forget it. And now, the next thing is,
reparation, so far as you can make it. You must write to Mrs. —— and tell
her the whole story.”
“Oh, papa! please! I’ll do _anything_ else!” said Johnny, piteously. “But
won’t you _please_ write for me, and let me sign it, or put that it’s all
true, at the bottom?”
“No, my son,” said his father, firmly, “you must do this yourself, and I
shall take it as a proof of real repentance, if you do it promptly, and
without complaint.”
Johnny said not another word, and that evening, when he bade his father
good-night, he handed him a letter, saying meekly,—
“You’ll direct it for me, won’t you, papa?”
“Certainly, I will, my dear boy,” said his father, throwing his arm
around Johnny’s shoulder, and drawing him near for another kiss.
“And you’ll read it, and see if it will answer? Indeed, I did my very
best!” said poor Johnny.
“I don’t doubt it, dear boy,” said his father, warmly, “and I shall add a
few lines to tell Mrs. —— so.”
“Oh, will you do that? Thank you very much, dear papa!” said Johnny, and
he went to bed with a wonderfully lightened heart.
This was his letter:—
“DEAR MRS. —— Perhaps you will think I have no right to call
you that, when you hear what I have done. I took a story of
yours, which I heard papa say was a very bright one, and used
nearly all of it to finish a Monster Kite, which Tiny and I
were making. Tiny is my sister, but she knew nothing about
the way in which I took the story. It was this way. Papa lets
us have everything which he puts into the waste-paper basket,
but people don’t seem to have written much lately, and we had
not near enough. On Saturday morning I went to look. There was
nothing of any account in the basket, but your story had fallen
on the floor, and I made myself believe that I thought it had
been thrown at the basket, and missed it. Papa was away and
was not coming back till Monday, and we were in a great hurry
to finish the Monster for Bob Lane’s birthday, so I just took
it, and let Tiny think I found it in the basket, which was as
bad as a lie, though I didn’t say so. Now, I am so sorry that
I don’t know how to tell you, but that is not enough. If I
could unpaste your story, I would, but we put on a great deal
of paste—you have to, you know, or it don’t stick—and some of
it is all cut into fringe, for the bobs. But what I mean to say
is this: if you have any little boys, or little nephews, or
know anybody you would like to give that kite to, I will send
it right on. I have money enough, I am pretty sure, to pay for
expressing it, and I know a way of fixing it so that it will
not break. I sent one to my cousin. Will you please let me know
_at once_, if I may send it, and oblige,
“Yours very sorrowfully and very respectfully,
“JOHN LESLIE.”
It had taken Johnny three good hours to write and copy that letter. His
father made no alteration in it, merely adding a few courteous lines to
express his own regret for what had happened, and to say that he believed
his boy had repented his fault very sincerely, and had done his best with
the enclosed letter.
Mrs. —— was not a monster, if the kite was. She laughed till she cried,
and then cried a little till she laughed again, over Johnny’s letter.
Then she answered it, and this is what she said:—
“MY DEAR JOHN,—You have my hearty forgiveness. And I would like
very much to have the kite for my son, who is nearly as old as
I imagine you are, and has never yet made one. But you must
allow me to pay the expressage; I can only accept it on that
condition. I have a rough copy of the article which helped to
make the Monster, and from this I will make a fair copy for
your father to-day and to-morrow. Please tell him so, with my
kindest regards,—and that I hope it will circulate as widely as
will the first one, and in as high circles! I should very much
like to hear from you again; if you will write once in a while,
so will I, and some day, I hope, you and my boy will meet and
be friends. In the meantime, believe me sincerely and cordially
your friend,
“MARY ——.”
Johnny proved the sincerity of his repentance still further by the
perfect willingness with which he packed the Monster for his journey.
Tiny helped him, having first, by working very carefully, soaked off the
monograms, not much the worse for wear, and, as they were so fortunate
as to have some gilt paper in stock, the rough spot was covered with a
shining star.
An explanation was made to Bob, who, not having expected a kite, or
indeed any birthday present at all from Tiny and Johnny, was quite
resigned to wait, with so brilliant a prospect ahead of him, until one
or two more unfortunates had contributed a large enough supply of waste
paper. If they had known how eagerly it was welcomed, it might have
helped to console them a little, poor things!
The children built a third Monster for themselves, after Bob’s was
finished, and on this they pasted, in large gilt letters, upon a blue
ground, the motto they intended to use if they should ever have a
coat-of-arms—“Be sure you’re right, then go ahead.”
“Only I suppose it will have to be in Latin then,” said Johnny, as he
smoothed down the last letter of the last word, “and perhaps, by that
time, I’ll know enough Latin to do it myself!”