rfect copy of my verses, at the
expense of a dozen sheets of blue-ruled note paper, I crossed the
Mystic River to Boston and boldly invaded Newspaper Row.

It never occurred to me to send my manuscript by mail. In fact, it has
never been my way to send a delegate where I could go myself.
Consciously or unconsciously, I have always acted on the motto of a
wise man who was one of the dearest friends that Boston kept for me
until I came. "Personal presence moves the world," said the great Dr.
Hale; and I went in person to beard the editor in his armchair.

From the ferry slip to the offices of the "Boston Transcript" the way
was long, strange, and full of perils; but I kept resolutely on up
Hanover Street, being familiar with that part of my route, till I came
to a puzzling corner. There I stopped, utterly bewildered by the
tangle of streets, the roar of traffic, the giddy swarm of
pedestrians. With the precious manuscript tightly clasped, I balanced
myself on the curbstone, afraid to plunge into the boiling vortex of
the crossing. Every time I made a start, a clanging street car
snatched up the way. I could not even pick out my street; the
unobtrusive street signs were lost to my unpractised sight, in the
glaring confusion of store signs and advertisements. If I accosted a
pedestrian to ask the way, I had to speak several times before I was
heard. Jews, hurrying by with bearded chins on their bosoms and eyes
intent, shrugged their shoulders at the name "Transcript," and
shrugged till they were out of sight. Italians sauntering behind their
fruit carts answered my inquiry with a lift of the head that made
their earrings gleam, and a wave of the hand that referred me to all
four points of the compass at once. I was trying to catch the eye of
the tall policeman who stood grandly in the middle of the crossing, a
stout pillar around which the waves of traffic broke, when deliverance
bellowed in my ear.

"Herald, Globe, Record, _Tra-avel-er_! Eh? Whatcher want, sis?" The
tall newsboy had to stoop to me. "Transcript? Sure!" And in half a
twinkling he had picked me out a paper from his bundle. When I
explained to him, he good-naturedly tucked the paper in again, piloted
me across, unravelled the end of Washington Street for me, and with
much pointing out of landmarks, headed me for my destination, my nose
seeking the spire of the Old South Church.

I found the "Transcript" building a waste of corridors tunnelled by a
maze of