nk
you," each time more faintly, whilst his mother's eyes twinkle. At last
Santa Claus tried to lift a big bundle; he puffed and panted and called
Pete to help him. Pete comes slowly forward, bends down to help, felt
something cold and hard beneath the wrapper, fumbled over it, clasped it
round, excitedly tried to lift it, whispered awestruck, "It is, it _is_
a self-inker;" bends further down, lifted it up awkwardly, and dropped
it on his little slippered foot, with a big bang and a painful, "oh!"
The scene was too funny for sympathy and the general laugh increased the
ache in the right-hand corner of the big toe on the left foot. Pete
limped out of the room and was soon forgotten in the universal
excitement; but when all were busy with their ice cream, he crept back
to his beloved bundle, unwrapped it, and lying flat down on his stomach
hugged himself to it, and gazed at it again. It was growing late. He
knew that as soon as the guests were gone he must do his share in
putting things to rights, restoring furniture to its place, and worse
than all, in smoothing out the wrapping paper and tying it up in little
bundles, and in unravelling all the knotted strings; for his mother was
accustomed to take off the edge of too great Christmas enjoyment, by
enforcement of this economical rule. That night he dreamed of Franklin,
of editors, of type setting, and of sensible mothers, who knew what
fellows want.

The next morning he woke with a sense of much to do, and soon began his
future career by sorting the type. This was a long job, for he had
several kinds; capitals and small letters, heavy face and light face
type, besides commas, hyphens and periods, and somehow everything was
mixed up. Now and then he stopped to admire his new gift and his own
energy, or to call some one to help him.

At last his task was done. Pete was a methodical boy and always finished
one job before he began another. "Now," said he, "what shall I do first?
set the type or ink the tablet? I'll ink the tablet and then print my
name, it is so short."

He began the inking process just as Dick announced himself by his
war-whoop, and called out,

"At it, are you! Got any orders! Shel has a big job--whole lots of
placards from his father, flaming ones to print, takes all kinds of
type; makes money on it; so busy he can't speak to a fellow, so I came
along here, for I'm one of the kind don't believe in orders for boys.
Learn by looking on, is my way--have