Neal dropped into the hammock that was hung across the corner of the
porch, and waited for Edith to come. This was where she was apt to sit
in the morning, with her work or a book.
Bob lay on the grass near, panting with the heat. He had just had an
exciting chase after a bird that would perch occasionally on a low bush,
then flap its wings triumphantly, and fly away just as naughty Bob drew
near. He thought it a most mistaken arrangement of affairs that birds
were able to fly. Now, disgusted, he had apparently given up the game,
but lay with one eye open, awaiting further developments. Presently
Edith came out, followed by the children with their toys. She had her
work-basket, for she continued to take care of their clothes,
notwithstanding Mrs. Franklin's remonstrances.
She was not particularly pleased to see Neal in her favorite corner. She
said to herself that she would like to have one day at least free from
the Gordons. Edith felt cross with herself and every one else this
morning.
Neal rolled out of the hammock when he saw her, and sprang to draw up
her chair with extreme politeness and courtesy.
"And you would like this little table for your basket, wouldn't you?" he
said, lifting it across the porch.
"Thank you," said Edith, mollified in spite of herself. Then she
stiffened again.
"Where are Ben and Chester?" she asked, with a severe glance at Bob.
"I saw them around at the side door."
"It does seem a shame that they should be banished from the front of the
house. For years they have had the use of this piazza; and now, just
because Bob chooses to monopolize the place, they feel that they must
go."
"Very foolish feelings," said Neal, who had returned to his hammock. "If
they only had a little spirit they would soon show Bob his proper place.
Why don't they give him a good shaking when he nips their legs?"
"Because they are larger than he, and because they are too polite to do
it in their own home."
Neal laughed. He had a hearty, contagious laugh, and Edith could not
refrain from joining in it.
"They set you a very good example," he said. "Come, Edith, confess that
you hate the Gordons, from Bob up."
Edith colored. "How silly you are!" she said, with supreme dignity. "Why
should I trouble myself to dislike you?"
"Why, indeed? There's no accounting for tastes. Then, 'love me, love my
dog.' But I say, Edith, it rather pays to make you mad. You grow two
inches visibly, while I shrink in proportion. It is just as if you had
some of that cake in your pocket, that Alice came across in Wonderland,
don't you know?"
"Oh, Neal, tell us about it!" cried Janet, dropping her dolls and
flinging herself on the end of the hammock. "I just love your stories."
"It is more than can be said of your big sister, Janet, my child. Bob
and I are in disgrace."
"Bob's no good," said Willy; "he won't play."
"His coat is too thick," remarked Neal. "Bob wishes it were the fashion
to wear short hair in summer. I say, Edith, where are you going?" for
she had put up her work.
"I think I shall take the buggy and go down to see Gertrude Morgan. I'm
tired of it here."
"Thank you," said Neal, meekly.
"Children, you can stay here," she continued. "I sha'n't be gone more
than an hour or two."
The children did not object. They counted upon having Neal for a
companion, and he was all-sufficient.
But when the old buggy rounded the corner, and, instead of coming up to
the house, rattled down the drive on the farther side of the
"heater-piece," Neal sprang out of the hammock with a bounce and ran
across the grass. Bob wanted to follow, but he ordered him back. He
reached the fork in the avenue before Edith did.
"You're pretty cool, to go off this way when I'm going with you."
"And you are _very_ cool, to come when you are not invited," said
Edith, wrathfully, as Neal climbed into the carriage without waiting for
her to stop.
"I know. It's pleasant to be cool on such a hot day as this."
"Where is your hat?"
"I'm under the impression it is on the hall table; but no, it may be in
my room. On second thoughts, it is probably in the cellar. In fact--"
"Oh, hush!" said Edith, laughing involuntarily. "Where are you going in
this plight?"
"To see Miss Gertrude Morgan."
"Indeed you are not. I have no intention of driving to Brenton with a
hatless boy."
"'Then we'll go to the woods,' says this pig"; and seizing the reins, he
turned, abruptly, as they reached the gate of Oakleigh, into a rocky,
hilly lane that led up through the woods.
"Now, isn't this jolly?" said he, leaning back in his corner of the
buggy. "Just the place for a hot day."
"Oh, I must go back!" exclaimed Edith, suddenly. "It has just occurred
to me you have left the children."
"They're all right. They've got Bob, and we sha'n't be gone long. Great
Scott! what a road this is! I don't believe these wheels will stay on
long. Why don't you use the surrey?"
"Because the surrey is not mine, and this is."
"So that's your line of march, is it? I suspected as much. But I think
you are pretty hard on Hessie. She means well, and she's not a bad sort,
though I say it as shouldn't."
Edith made no answer.
"Why don't you try and make the best of things? I always do. It doesn't
really pay to do anything else."
"Very good philosophy. But if you have come out merely to lecture me on
my duties as a step-daughter, I think we may as well turn round and go
home again."
"Oh, come off, Edith! You're a nice girl in the main, and I think it's a
howling shame for you to make yourself so mighty offish and disagreeable
to Hessie. Why, if any one ought to mind it--her marrying, I mean--I'm
the one. It makes a big difference to me."
"Will you let me get out and walk home, if you have not the grace to
drive me there? You have no manner of right to talk to me this way."
"I know I haven't, and I'm awfully sorry if I've offended you. I'm
afraid I have. You'll forgive me, Edith, please! Don't go home. I've put
my foot in it, like the great awkward fellow I am. But I hate to see
things all at sixes and sevens the way they are, and I thought perhaps
if I told you what Hessie really is you would feel differently. If you
only knew what a good sister she's been to me! You know our father and
mother died when I was a little duffer, and Hessie's been an A1 sister
ever since. Our grandmother didn't take much stock in me because I was a
boy, but Hessie always stood up for me. It's natural I should take her
side. I hate to see any one dislike her. But I see it's no use, and I'm
sorry I spoke. But, say, you will excuse me, Edith. You don't like it,
and I ought not to have said anything, and I apologize."
This was Neal in a new light. Edith was astonished. She had supposed
that he was only a rollicking boy, too lazy to amount to anything, and
too fond of a joke to think of the more serious side of life.
She hesitated. She was very angry with him. Of course he had no business
to speak to her on this subject, but he was evidently sorry. His brown
eyes looked very repentant, and there was not a shadow of a smile in
them.
"Come now, Edith," he urged, "do it up handsomely, and forgive and
forget. Give me your hand on it."
And Edith did so, and with difficulty repressed a shriek at the hearty
squeeze that was given it. And just as they had reached this point in
their conversation there was a sudden crash. Off went the wheel, and
down went buggy, Edith, and Neal in a heap.
Fortunately the horse stood still. They were in the depths of the wood,
two miles from any house. A few startled birds fluttered among the
trees, and a gray squirrel paused in his day's work to view the scene.
Neal and Edith crawled out from the debris.
"Here's a pretty how-d'y' do," said Neal, surveying the wreck. "Edith, I
greatly fear you'll never drive in that buggy again."
He unhitched the horse, and then removed the remnants of the vehicle to
the side of what road there was, and partially hid them in the bushes.
"On that rock we split," said he, solemnly, pointing to a big stone that
rose high above a rut. "If I hadn't been so busy apologizing, Edith, we
wouldn't have gone to pieces. However, perhaps now you will use the
surrey."
[Illustration: THEN THEY STARTED HOME, CARRYING THE CUSHIONS BETWEEN
THEM.]
It was a dangerous speech, but Edith tried not to mind it, and she
helped Neal to clear away the stuff. Then they started for home, Ned
leading Robin, the old horse, while together they carried the cushions
and a lap-robe that had been under the seat.
Neal, his spirits raised by the accident, was in his gayest humor, and
the quiet air rang with his laughter as they trudged home in the heat.
Edith quite forgot her previous displeasure, and was so like her old
self that Neal in his turn was surprised, and thought she was almost as
nice as Cynthia. He had never seen her in this mood before.
* * * * *
When Neal abruptly deserted the children in his pursuit of Edith they
were at first too much amazed to do anything but stand perfectly still
and watch him. Then, as the back of the buggy disappeared behind the
trees, their wrath found words.
"Mean old things!" exclaimed Janet. "They've gone off and left us, an' I
tickerlarly wanted Neal to tell us a story."
Bob joined the group, his tail disconsolately lowered. His master had
been very harsh and unfeeling to leave him at home, he thought. The trio
stood in a row on the top step of the piazza. Then, with a feeble and
melancholy wag of the tail, Bob again stretched himself on the grass and
prepared to make the best of a bad bargain.
The others were not so easily appeased.
"We've got nuffun' to do," grumbled Willy. "I wish we could play wif de
chickens."
"We can't do that," said Janet, decidedly. "We can't touch those
chickens if we don't want a terrible spanking. You know what papa said."
The chickens presented a powerful fascination for Willy. He was
revolving in his mind the question as to whether it would or would not
pay to be spanked for the sake of having some fun with the chicks.
"No, no," said Janet, who had no fancy for a whipping. "We've got to do
somethin' else." She paused. Slowly a gleam of mischief came into her
eyes, and a smile broke over her round and rosy face. "Willy, we'll play
barber."
"How do we do it?"
"I speak to be barber. Don't you remember when papa took you to have
your hair cut? Well, you be papa an' you bring Bob, an' we'll cut his
hair. Neal said it was turrible hot for him. Neal'll be glad when he
comes home an' finds it all nicely cut."
"Course he will. Only I'd like to be barber, Janet."
"No, I will. It is my game, so I can be barber. Get the hat and be
papa."
Willy obeyed, and presently returned in a large straw hat that had once
been his father's farm hat, and was now relegated to a back closet for
use in the children's games. Janet, meanwhile, had found a large pair of
scissors in Edith's basket, unfortunately left on the porch, with which
she was viciously snipping the air.
"We'll have some fun even if they did go off an' leave us," said she.
"Bring along Bob. Here's the chair."
But Bob refused to be brought. He lay stretched on his side, now and
then weakly wagging his tail in response to their commands, but
otherwise not stirring. It was too hot to move for any one but his
master.
"We'll have to do it there. We'll pretend he's a sick person that has to
have his hair cut off. They do sometimes, you know," said Janet, with an
air of superior knowledge. "You can be my 'sistant. Here's a scissor for
you"--extracting another pair from the too convenient basket.
In a moment they were both hard at work. Snippity, snip, clip, clip,
went the two pairs of scissors. Bob's beautiful long black hair, the
pride of his master's heart and the means of securing a prize at the
last dog-show, lay in a heap on the grass.
"That's nice," said Janet, surveying the result with satisfaction. "He
must feel lovely and cool. Now let's do the other side."
But that was not so easy. Bob still refused to stir. They pulled and
punched and pushed, but he would not turn over.
"Well, we'll just have to leave it an' do it 'nother time," said Janet
at last, with a parting clip at ear and tail. "Let's go down an' play in
the brook."
And flinging the scissors on the grass, these two young persons deserted
the scene of their labors, and were soon building a fine dam across the
brook in the pasture. There they remained until the sound of the bell on
the carriage house, rung to summon to dinner the men at work in the
distant fields, warned them that it was twelve o'clock and almost time
to go in themselves.
* * * * *
Edith and Neal plodded slowly homeward. It was very warm, for though it
was not sunny in the woods, the trees shut off the air. They turned in
from the lane and walked up the avenue, Robin's hoofs falling regularly
on the gravel with a hot, thumping sound.
"Jiminy, this is a scorcher!" said Neal, wiping his forehead. "Here
comes Bob. He doesn't seem to mind the weather. No, it isn't Bob,
either. What dog is it? Great Scott, Edith, it _is_ Bob! What has
happened to him?"
He dropped the reins, and Robin trudged off alone to his stall.
"Why, Neal, I never saw such a sight!" cried Edith.
Bob, bounding merrily over the grass, overjoyed at seeing his master
return, was quite unconscious of the effect he produced. On one side he
was the same beautiful, glossy-coated creature he had ever been; on the
other, through stray, uneven bunches of hair gleamed touches of whitish
skin. His ears, which had measured a proud eighteen inches from tip to
tip, flapped on either side in ungraceful scantness; and his tail, from
which so short a time before had waved a beautiful raven plume, now
wagged in uncompromising stubbyness.
"Bob, Bob, what has happened to you? You look as if you had been in a
fire!"
Edith, with an awful foreboding in her heart, hurried towards the house.
Yes, her fears were realized! Two pairs of scissors and a mass of black
hair told the tale. She sank down on the steps and covered her face.
"The children have done it," she murmured. "Oh, Neal, we ought never to
have left them!"
Neal stood there perfectly silent. He had grown very white, and his eyes
looked dangerously dark.
"Oh, those children!" he said at last, between firmly set teeth. "You
had better keep them out of my way for a time, Edith. I'd just like to
murder them, the way I feel now."
"Oh, Neal, I am so sorry! I can't tell you how dreadfully I feel. But we
oughtn't to have both gone. You see, I didn't know you were coming too."
"And I didn't know I was expected to act as child's nurse," said Neal,
angrily. "The dog is done for, as far as shows are concerned. His coat
will never be the same again; it ruins it to cut it." He stopped
abruptly. "I guess I had better get out of the way," he said, presently.
"I can't answer for my temper. Come, Bob."
And he walked down across the grass and went off into the woods.
Edith, left alone, began to cry. She would not have had this happen for
the world. Again she said to herself, why had the Gordons ever come
there to disturb their peace of mind in so many ways? And where were the
children? They should be severely punished.
She looked for them all over the house, but of course they were not to
be found. After a long time she saw them coming slowly homeward. They
were wet and bedraggled, for the stones had been as obdurate as Bob and
refused to move. Willy had tumbled into the brook, and Janet had
followed, in a vain attempt to help him out.
And now they were met by an irate sister, who, seizing them roughly,
dragged them upstairs.
"You shall go straight to bed and stay there! You have ruined Neal's
dog, and he'll never get over it. You are bad, naughty children!"
"I think you're silly, Edith!" screamed Janet. "We didn't hurt him, and
we only cooled him off. You're mean to make us go to bed in the middle
of the day, an' you'd orter not drag us this way. Mamma wouldn't."
"I don't care what your mamma would do; it's what I do."
Edith did not realize that a few words spoken calmly but sternly to
Janet and Willy would have more lasting effect than this summary mode of
punishment. The truth was she was too angry to trust her tongue at all,
and this reference to Mrs. Franklin annoyed her. Everything seemed
against her, and the hot weather made things worse.
She ate her dinner in solitude, and then, when the afternoon had worn on
for an hour or two, she at last saw Neal coming across the fields.
Edith went to meet him.
"You want something to eat," she said. "Come in and I'll find you
something. Neal, I am so sorry."
"Oh, don't say anything. What's done can't be undone. Lend me your
shears after dinner and I'll finish things up with a flourish. I can get
him into better shape than he is. He looks like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
just now. I'm as hungry as a hunter, so I don't mind accepting your
offer of a bite."
Edith went off to find something, and as she prepared a dainty meal for
the boy, she thought to herself that he set her a good example. She knew
what pride he had taken in Bob's appearance, and she knew how angry he
had been at first. It must have been a hard battle for him.
And it was. Edith was far from realizing what a temper Neal had. He had
felt that morning that his only safety lay in flight, and he had tramped
many miles through the woods in the endeavor to overcome his anger.
After luncheon he took the scissors and set to work upon Bob's other
side. He could not repress a groan of dismay once or twice.
"If they had only done it decently!" he said. "In some places it looks
as if it had been torn out by the roots, they've cropped it so close,
and here again are these long pieces. Well, well, Bobby, my boy, I fancy
we were too vain of our appearance. Here goes!"
In a short time Bob had the appearance of a closely shaven French
poodle.
Edith watched the process for a few minutes, but presently went to her
room.
"I shall be held accountable for this too, I suppose," she said to
herself. "Oh, _why_ did those Gordons ever come?"
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
BUILDING OF MODERN WONDERS.
THE BOOK.
BY KIRK MUNROE.
Although we are apt to speak of the "writing" or the "making" of a book,
rather than of its "building," each of these is a distinct operation:
and when a book, first written, then made, is finally ready for the
reader, it has been built as truly as a house or a ship is built. It has
demanded an equal amount of careful planning, skilled labor, and close
attention to the thousand details that go to the making of a completed
whole. In reading an interesting book how very little we think of this,
or realize the amount of time and hard work expended in thus giving us a
few hours of pleasure. Most people consider writing to be a very easy
method of making a living, and nothing is more common in an author's
experience than to have his friends express surprise when he speaks of
going to his work.
"Work!" they exclaim. "Surely you do not call it work to occupy a
pleasant room at home, and write for hours each day? That's more like
play than work. If you want to know what real work is, come with us and
see what we have to do."
So every one, except those who know, imagines book-writing to be so easy
that most of those who desire to earn a livelihood without very hard
work try their hands at it. The girl of brains and education thrown upon
her own resources decides to become an author; and, after a desperate
struggle, fails because she has no real experiences to draw from. The
sea-captain who is too old to follow his chosen profession, but must
still make a living, and is brimful of experience and adventures,
decides to become an author. When he too meets with failure he blames
everybody and everything except himself, and rarely discovers that the
reason he cannot become a successful author at his time of life is
because he has not been trained to the business, and does not know how
to write.
Authorship, or book-writing, is a trade that must be learned the same as
any other, and I believe that any boy or girl of average intelligence
may be trained to successful authorship if only he or she is willing to
work hard enough and long enough at the trade. Even imagination can be
cultivated. Of course the literary apprentice must know how to apply the
rules of grammar, must practise clearness and conciseness of style, must
know how to use books of reference, must have what is known as a liberal
education, and, above all, must be possessed of a genuine liking for his
chosen calling. After leaving his school or college he should spend at
least two years--and four would be better--as a reporter, a private
secretary, an amanuensis to some skilled writer, or as assistant editor
of some first-class publication that insists upon the use of grammatical
English in its columns. During this apprenticeship he may try his hand
at sketches, essays, or short stories, and must learn to accept calmly a
dozen disappointments with each success.
When the author is ready to write a book his most difficult task is to
select a subject that shall be interesting, timely, and not already
overdone. It must be one that he can write about from his own
experience, or from the experience of others. The latter may be gained
from books or from the verbal accounts of those who have been through
with what he desires to describe; but a book compiled from other books
is apt to be dull and lifeless, while one dealing with a personal
experience is almost certain to be interesting. "Mark Twain's" best
books are those based upon his own life on the Mississippi, in Western
mining camps, or while travelling abroad. The great charm of Miss
Alcott's stories lay in the fact that she wrote of her every-day
surroundings. The absorbing interest of Captain King's _Cadet Days_ is
due to the author's absolute knowledge, from personal experience, of the
joys and sorrows, the trials and triumphs, of West Point life. Thus to
be a successful writer of books one must have something to say, and must
know how to say it. To these qualifications must be added tireless
industry, boundless patience, and a determination to succeed in spite of
all obstacles.
Let us suppose that our author decides to write a book for boys, and to
make it a mining-story. But he has never been down in a mine, nor even
seen one. He knows nothing about mines from personal experience. Under
these circumstances it is clearly his duty to visit the nearest mining
region, and remain there long enough to become familiar with its life,
its scenery, and its incidents, before he attempts to describe them.
From such a trip he returns to his workshop with a thorough knowledge of
what he desires to write about. Before beginning the actual work of
writing he must plan his book, decide how many chapters it is to
contain, and what shall be their length; lay out, either on paper or in
his mind, the general scheme of his story; select a name for his hero,
and, if possible, decide upon a title; for it is better to fit a story
to a title than to fit a title to a story.
In these preliminaries the author has invested a month or more of time,
and has expended a certain amount of money. In other words, he has paid
for the stock of goods upon which he hopes to realize a profit. Now he
is ready to enter upon the building of his book.
As writing is among the most tiresome and exhausting forms of labor, it
should never be allowed to occupy more than eight hours of each day, and
the best results are reached in four or five hours, followed by a change
of employment, recreation, out-of-door exercise, or complete rest for
the remainder of the day. Every book should be written twice, the first
draft being made on soft unglazed paper with a No. 2 pencil, while the
second is a revised and punctuated copy, written in ink or type-written
on sheets of a medium size. The neatness of a manuscript has much to do
with its favorable reception at the hands of an editor or a publisher's
reader. Some authors do not write at all, but dictate to a stenographer
or an amanuensis; but this requires extra practice, and is generally so
expensive a method that it can only be adopted by those who have an
assured market for their work, or are not obliged to earn a livelihood.
At length our book is written; a fair copy of the original rough draft
has been made, and provided with chapter headings, title page, and table
of contents. The precious manuscript is put into a box the exact size of
its sheets, sent off to a publisher, and, with his occupation gone, the
anxious author waits days, weeks, and sometimes months, for news of his
venture.
Very few publishers have either the time or inclination for a personal
reading of books in manuscript, and for this work they employ skilled
readers upon whose judgment they can rely. Some houses thus retain as
many as six such readers, and very often a manuscript book must pass
through the hands of all these, taking its turn with scores of others,
before a decision is reached concerning it. Each reader hands in a
written opinion as to its merits and demerits, its chances of success or
failure. Sometimes, if these opinions are conflicting, the publisher
hands them all, together with the book in question, to a seventh
reader--a sort of a court of final appeal--and requests him to write an
opinion on the opinions. Even if all the opinions are favorable, the
publisher may still refuse to bring out the work in question. There are
a hundred good reasons for declining to publish a book, and the
manuscript must run the gauntlet of them all. It may be too long or too
short, or too similar to something else already in hand. Its principal
characters may be too young or too old. It may not be in a certain
publisher's peculiar line, or it may contain sentiments of which he does
not approve. He may already have accepted as many books as he cares to
issue in that year. This one may be interesting but badly written, or it
may be beautifully expressed and as dull as dishwater. Thus an endless
list of "mays," "ifs," and "buts" present themselves, by any one of
which the fate of the book may be influenced. The one question to which
they all lead is: "Will it pay? If so, we will publish it; if not, we
won't."
Of course publishers and publishers' readers sometimes make mistakes
concerning the value of a book, and decline one that, in the hands of
another publisher, or brought out at the author's expense, achieves a
tremendous success. In fact, there is hardly a popular book about which
some tale of this kind is not told.
Our book having escaped the many perils that beset it, and been
accepted, the publisher makes the author one of three offers for it. He
will buy it outright, publish it subject to royalty, or on shares. If he
buys it and its copyright outright, he gives an unknown author for his
first book from $100 to $400, rarely more; while offers to well-known
and successful authors often run up into the thousands of dollars.
If the agreement is to publish on the royalty plan, the offer to an
unknown author will be that of a ten-per-cent. royalty on the retail
price of his book after one thousand copies shall have been sold. It
costs from $300 to $500 to publish one thousand copies of the ordinary
one-dollar book. One hundred or more of these are given to editors or
critics for the sake of the advertising contained in such notices as
they may write about the book. The remainder are sold in the trade at a
40-per-cent. discount from the retail price. The disposal in this manner
of 1000 copies of a book not only pays the cost of its publication, but
generally yields a small profit to the publisher.
By getting a one-dollar book for sixty cents, or "forty off," as they
say in the trade, the dry-goods stores, who now sell a great many books,
and the regular retail booksellers, are able to offer it at 65 or 70 or
75 cents, and still make a profit on it; while at the same time the
publisher is obliged, by his agreement with the trade, to charge the
full list price for every copy of a book that he sells at retail. For
this reason it is generally cheaper to buy a book from a dealer than
from the publisher.
If a book is successful enough to run into a second edition or reach its
second thousand, which very few first books ever do, then the author
begins to receive ten cents for every copy sold. If, however, it fails
to pass its first thousand, he receives nothing for his labor, except
the advertising of his name gained by the publication of a book. A
well-known and popular author whose work is certain to sell, bringing
out a book on the royalty plan, receives from 10 to 15 per cent. on
every copy sold from the very first.
The copyright life of a book, or the time during which it will pay its
author a royalty, is fourteen years, and may be extended, by
application, fourteen years longer.
If the publisher and author agree to bring out a book "on shares," it
means that they shall share equally all expenses and profits. In any
case a long and formidable contract, is drawn up, which both parties
must sign before the book can be "put in hand," or enter upon the second
stage of its building.
After a publisher has arranged to bring out a book, the questions for
him to decide concerning it are: At what time of year shall it appear?
Whether or not it shall be illustrated? What shall be its size, its
style of type, the weight of its paper, and the form of its binding? How
many copies shall be printed? How much money shall be expended in
advertising it? etc., etc. Occasionally the author is consulted
concerning some of these questions, especially in regard to
illustrations, for which he is sometimes requested to furnish
photographs; but more often he is not. The publisher, who bears the
expense of illustrating the book, generally reserves the right to select
the artist for this work as well as to decide upon the number, the
style, and the size of the pictures.
There is so much art in the making of a book that by the aid of large
type, wide spaces between lines, heavy paper, and broad margins a small
manuscript may suffice for a large volume; while by the use of small
type set "solid," thin paper, and narrow margins an immense amount of
matter may be compressed into very small compass. As a rule the large or
medium-sized volumes, especially among those known to the trade as
"Juveniles," sell best, for there are many people who in the purchase of
books follow the plan of the Chinaman in buying shoes, and select the
largest size to be had for the money.
[Illustration: SETTING UP THE BOOK.]
After forming the subject of innumerable consultations between those
interested in its success, our manuscript book is finally "put in hand,"
or sent to the foreman of the composing-room, who scatters its pages
here and there among his printers. As soon as half a dozen or ten or
twenty sheets have been "set up" or turned into type, a galley-proof is
"pulled" and handed to the proof-reader for correction. The galley is a
long, narrow, brass-lined frame, in which a column of type is placed.
The face of this type is inked with a hand-roller, a long strip of white
paper is laid over it, and the whole goes into a hand-press. The
printing thus done is not very fine, but it is plenty good enough to
enable the keen-eyed proof-reader to detect any errors that have been
made. He marks these on the margins of the proof, and hands it back to
the compositors, each of whom corrects the mistakes appearing in the
portion he has set. There is no more interesting sight in a
composing-room than that of a skilled compositor making these
corrections, picking out and replacing the little black types,
transferring whole lines or paragraphs from one place to another,
spacing, leading, punctuating, without dropping a type or making a
mistake. The untrained eye can make nothing at all out of the type
column, which has the same effect as the mirror reflection of an
ordinary page.
After all corrections are thus made, another galley-proof, called a
"revise," is pulled. Several copies of this are made, two of which are
sent to the author of the book. There is no prouder nor happier moment
in the life of an author than when he receives the first proofs of his
first book. Never again will they appear so beautiful or so precious,
though every author who is interested in his work always enjoys reading
the proofs of each new book, no matter how many he may write. His ideas
present such a different appearance in type from what they did in
manuscript that he hardly recognizes them. His characters have attained
such a dignity and reality that he almost needs an introduction to them.
On this galley-proof the author makes such changes and corrections as he
pleases, though of course the fewer the better, and then sends one copy
back to the composing-room, where all the alterations he has suggested
are made in type. The galley columns are now broken into pages of the
size previously agreed upon, and a set of page-proofs is pulled and sent
to the author for his final revision. He must read this proof very
carefully, for this is his last chance to make changes, and whatever
passes this time must go into the finished book. When this page-proof
returns to the composing-room, and the final corrections are made in the
types, they are sent to the foundry. Here stereotypes are made from them
in the manner described under the title "The Making of a Great
Newspaper" in Vol. XV. of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE. For book-printing these
type-metal stereotypes are converted into electrotypes by being hung in
an acid bath, where, in a very short time, by the action of electricity,
they are coated with a thin film of copper.
[Illustration: PRINTING OF THE BOOK IN THE PRESS-ROOM.]
The finished plates are sent down to the basement of the great building,
where are the book-presses that will turn out printed sheets of from
four to thirty-two pages each, almost as fast as the huge cylinder
presses of a newspaper office can turn out newspapers.
On the press the printed pages of our book meet and make the
acquaintance of the illustrated or picture pages with which they are
henceforth to be so intimately associated. In the building of a book the
artist's part must by no means be overlooked, for a well-illustrated
book, especially if intended for youthful readers, like the one we are
considering, is doubled in value by its pictures. For ordinary books
very little engraving or wood-cutting is now done, since by the aid of
photography and electricity so many cheap processes for reproducing
drawings have been discovered that the slower methods of the engraver
are only employed for the very best and finest work. If the picture is
to be engraved it is either drawn directly on the wood or transferred to
it by photography; while if it is to be reproduced by one of the cheaper
processes, it is photographed on a prepared plate of metal, from which
the light spaces are eaten out by acids, while the shadows remain
untouched. The thin plate is given a substantial wood-backing to
preserve its form, and is then ready for use.
[Illustration: STITCHING THE SHEETS.]
From the press-room the printed sheets are sent to the bindery, where
they are folded, once into quartos (4tos), twice into octavos (8vos),
three times into sextodecimos (16mos), or into any other size that shall
have been agreed upon. Then the sheets are stitched together, pressed,
their edges are cut by powerful machine knives, and the whole, finally
glued into its cover, is set aside under pressure to dry.
[Illustration: IN THE BINDERY.]
The making of covers is a distinct branch of book-building that gives
employment to a great many skilled workmen and workwomen. The most
conspicuous of these is the artist who draws the cover design, and
suggests its scheme of color--for the sale of a book depends very hugely
upon whether or not its cover is attractive. Covers are made of paper,
cloth, or leather. Most books are bound in "cloth," as it is called,
which means pasteboard, covered with muslin stiffened with sizing, and
colored a uniform tint before the design is stamped or printed on it. A
book bound in "boards" is enclosed between covers of pasteboard, and one
bound in calf or morocco has its heavy pasteboard covers hidden beneath
very thin sheets of leather. The inside of covers is often made of
"marbled" paper, and one of the most interesting corners of the bindery
is that devoted to marbling. Here a bath of gum-tragacanth, looking like
a mass of smooth black glue newly melted, has wet colors sprinkled over
it from paint-brushes. These are drawn into lines or figures with coarse
wooden combs. A dampened sheet of paper is spread over the colored
surface, quickly withdrawn thoroughly "marbled," and hung on a line to
dry.
In another corner of the room busy girls are applying gilding to covers
from packets of gold leaf; while elsewhere dozens of others are doing
different and equally interesting things, all belonging to the great
trade of book-binding.
At length our book, having passed through all these stages and
processes, is pronounced complete, and a date is set for its
"publication" or presentation to the public. On the day that it appears
half a dozen copies are sent to the author with compliments of the
publisher. If the author wishes any more copies of his book to present
to his admiring friends, he must buy them and pay for them like any one
else.
Thus the building of the book is finished, and it is launched on the
stormy sea of literature, to sink or swim according to whether or not it
has been constructed of poor material by incapable workmen, or has been
well and wisely built.
CLOTH OF GOLD.
Cloth of ermine covered
The earth awhile ago,
A royal robe on every hill;
In every valley low
The sparkle as of diamonds,
The sheen of dancing light,
And the world a fairy palace
By dawn and noon and night.
Cloth of gold is woven
To wrap the earth to-day,
With stars of many twinkling rays,
Broadcast upon the way.
The dandelions laughing,
The daisies coming soon,
And the world's a fairy palace
By morn and night and noon.
M. E. S.
ON BOARD THE ARK.[1]
BY ALBERT LEE.