um is done in
newspapers an' magazines an' sich; so these gals thought they'd cut
under an' take the business away from her."

"Can't the Widder Clark sell the new paper, then?" asked the blacksmith.

"I dunno. Hadn't thought o' that," said Skim. "But the price is to be
jus' one cent, an' we've ben gittin' five cents fer all the outside
papers. Where's the profit comin' from, on one cent, I'd like to know?
Why, we make two or three cents on all the five cent papers."

"As fer that," remarked the druggist, "we'll get a cheap paper--if it's
any good--an' that's somethin' to be thankful for."

"'Twon't be any good," asserted Skim. "Ma says so."

But no one except McNutt was prepared to agree with this prediction.
The extensive plans in preparation seemed to indicate that the new paper
would be fully equal to the requirements of the populace.

On Monday, when the news spread that two big freight cars had arrived at
the Junction, and Nick Thorne began working three teams to haul the
outfit to Millville, the rest of the town abandoned all business other
than watching the arrival of the drays. Workmen and machinists arrived
from the city and began unpacking and setting up the presses, type cases
and all other paraphernalia, every motion being watched by eager faces
that lined the windows. These workmen were lodged at the hotel, which
had never entertained so many guests at one time in all its past
history. The three girls, even more excited and full of awe than the
townspeople, were at the office early and late, taking note of
everything installed and getting by degrees a fair idea of the extent of
their new plaything.

"It almost takes my breath away, Uncle," said Patsy. "You've given the
_Tribune_ such a splendid start that we must hustle to make good and
prove we are worthy your generosity."

"I sat up last night and wrote a poem for the first page of the first
number," announced Louise earnestly.

"Poems don't go on the first page," observed Patsy; "but they're needed
to fill in with. What's it about, dear?"

"It's called 'Ode to a Mignonette,'" answered Louise. "It begins this
way:

"Wee brown blossom, humble and sweet,
Content on my bosom lying,
Who would guess from your quiet dress
The beauty there is lying
Under the rust?"

"Hm," said Patsy, "I don't see as there's any beauty under the rust, at
all. There's no beauty about a mignonette, anyhow, suspected or
unsuspected."