SCENE I.—_A country printing office. EDITOR pro tem. sitting R.

before a table C. covered with MSS. Piles of newspapers upon the floor on either side of him. A pair of scissors in one hand and a pen in the other. Enter EPHRAIM SIMPSON, L._

EPHRAIM SIMPSON. Is this the office of the “Petersville Post”?

EDITOR (_with some curiosity_). It is.

E. You are the editor, I reckon?

ED. You are right.

E. Well, you see my name is Ephraim Simpson, and I live over to Greenfield. I’ve been workin’ this summer hayin’, but I found it was too hard work, and I reckoned I’d come to you and see if you couldn’t give me a chance to edit a little.

ED. Why, you know it is quite a difficult thing to learn to edit a paper. It requires education, judgment, and a variety of other qualifications.

E. Oh, as to that, I guess I can satisfy you. I have tended school in our deestrict for four winters, and can read, write and cipher like a book.

ED. That is all very well, but you know one must be able to compose as well as write.

E. Oh, compositions you mean. Well, I have written them some. Don’t you want me to try my hand and show you what I kin do?

ED. I am not in particular need of an assistant just now, but perhaps you might as well sit down and try your hand at writing an editorial. (_EPHRAIM sits down, R._)

(_Enter, L., a rusty-looking individual, with a tin trunk under his arm._)

JOHN JENKINS. Are you the editor of the “Post”?

ED. I am.

J. J. Then, sir, allow me to present you with a box of my famous salve (_hands box to him_).

ED. Thank you.

J. J. Perhaps you’d be willing to insert this little paragraph about it. I wrote it off to save you trouble (_hands paper to editor_).

ED. (_reading aloud_). We have received from Dr. Jenkins a box of his Magnetic Salve, which is warranted to cure every description of cut or bruise in an incredibly short space of time. We know a boy who accidentally cut off one of his fingers. His mother being absent, he bethought himself of Dr. Jenkins’s salve, which she had bought the day previous. He applied it to the injured finger, and before night there was not even a scar to indicate where the wound had been.

ED. (_looking up_). You want me to insert this?

J. J. (_in an insinuating tone_). Yes, sir.

ED. But I don’t know the boy referred to.

J. J. My dear sir, aint you rather new in the business?

ED. (_indignantly_). Well, and what if I am?

J. J. (_smiling sarcastically_). I thought you were, or you’d understand that this is the way they always do things.

ED. We are a little more conscientious than editors generally. However, you assure me that the salve is good?

J. J. (_warmly_). Nothing better in the whole world, sir.

ED. And you think it would be safe to speak well of it?

J. J. Sir, you will be conferring a blessing on the community.

ED. Very well, I will write a little puff for you.

J. J. Thank you, sir.

(_Exit, L._)

PRINTER’S DEVIL (_entering, R._). More copy, sir.

ED. Here it is (_handing him a paper_).

(_Exit P. D._)

(_A knock is heard at the door, L._)

ED. Come in.

(_Enter young lady, L._)

YOUNG LADY. Please, sir, I am Araminta Ellis, the authoress of “Lines on a Faded Buttercup.”

ED. I am delighted to see you, Miss Ellis. Did the—the poem you speak of appear in the “Post”?

A. E. (_surprised at his ignorance_). No, sir, it was contributed to the “Weekly Bulletin.” I have never written anything for the “Post,” but should be willing to do so. What are your terms?

ED. (_blandly_). Three dollars a year.

A. E. I do not mean the subscription price of the paper, but how much do you pay your poetical contributors?

ED. We—ahem—that is, our friends are kind enough to make us a free gift of their productions in that line.

A. E. (_insinuatingly_). But don’t you pay for superior poetry? I have here a poem which I would like to see transferred to your columns (_passes manuscript to him_).

ED. (_taking the poem_). Seventy-seven stanzas! That would be too long for our columns. Couldn’t you shorten it?

A. E. Not without marring its symmetrical proportions. But I will write another and a shorter one soon, which will perhaps suit you better.

ED. Thank you, Miss Ellis. That will undoubtedly be better suited to our columns.

(_Exit A. E., L._)

(_Enter, L., GEORGE CRANE excitedly._)

GEORGE CRANE. Sir, don’t you regard it as a part of an editor’s duty to unmask villany and expose it to the world?

ED. Certainly, sir.

G. C. Then I should like to furnish you with some information respecting a neighbor of mine, named Henry Perkins. He is a hypocrite, sir! He professes a good deal, but secretly practises petty acts of meanness. I have every reason to believe that he beats his wife; and he has been suspected of robbing his neighbor’s hen-roosts. Just write an article touching him up, and I’ll subscribe to your paper for a year.

ED. (_cautiously_). Cash in advance?

G. C. (_promptly_). Yes.

ED. Very well, then. I’m your man.

(_G. C. hands ED. five-dollar bill, and receives two dollars back as change. Exit G. C., L. Enter WILLIAM RANDALL, L._)

WILLIAM RANDALL. Is Mr. Clark in?

ED. No, sir; but as his substitute I shall be happy to serve you.

W. R. You must know, sir, that I have been laboring for some years past on the preparation of a remedy for dyspepsia. At length, after great labor and research, I have prepared a pill which I am sure will prove an infallible cure in the most obstinate cases. I have the pleasure, sir, of presenting you with a box of Dr. William Randall’s Anti-Dyspepsia Pills (_passes box to him_).

ED. Thank you.

DR. R. (_preparing to leave_). By the way, I suppose you will favor me with a notice?

ED. (_hesitating_). Ye-es.

(_Exit DR. R., L._)

(_ED. sits down to write. After a moment’s pause EPHRAIM SIMPSON, who has been writing (when not gazing at visitors), starts up._)

E. S. Well, Mister Editor, how’s that? (_handing him a paper._)

ED. (_reading aloud_). The hoss.—The hoss is a noble animal. He is also interestin’ and knows a good deal. Some folks get very much attached to their hosses. I knowed a Frenchman once, that thought so much of his hoss that he even went so far as to call his own mother a _mare_ as a pet name. Hosses are very interestin’ animals when they don’t rare up. Not havin’ any more to say on this subjick, I will stop.

ED. (_gravely_). That is very good; but, on the whole, I don’t think there is any need of an assistant just yet. If there should be a time when I stand in need of one, I will certainly _think of you_.

E. S. (_disappointed_). Then you haint got anything for me to do?

ED. Not just now.

E. S. Then I must go.

(_Exit E. S., L._)

(_Curtain falls._)