shington.--Wrote it yourself, my dear?--Wrote it all herself.
What shall we do with her?"

Mr. Jack came over, and another man. My editor made me repeat my
business, and they all looked interested, but nobody took my paper
from me. They put their hands into their pockets, and my hand kept
growing clammier all the time. The three seemed to be consulting, but
I could not understand what they said, or why Mr. Jack laughed.

A fourth man, who had been writing busily at a desk near by, broke in
on the consultation.

"That's enough, boys," he said, "that's enough. Take the young lady to
Mr. Hurd."

Mr. Hurd, it was found, was away on a vacation, and of several other
editors in several offices, to whom I was referred, none proved to be
the proper editor to take charge of a poem about George Washington. At
last an elderly editor suggested that as Mr. Hurd would be away for
some time, I would do well to give up the "Transcript" and try the
"Herald," across the way.

A little tired by my wanderings, and bewildered by the complexity of
the editorial system, but still confident about my mission, I picked
my way across Washington Street and found the "Herald" offices. Here I
had instant good luck. The first editor I addressed took my paper and
invited me to a seat. He read my poem much more quickly than I could
myself, and said it was very nice, and asked me some questions, and
made notes on a slip of paper which he pinned to my manuscript. He
said he would have my piece printed very soon, and would send me a
copy of the issue in which it appeared. As I was going, I could not
help giving the editor my hand, although I had not experienced any
handshaking in Newspaper Row. I felt that as author and editor we were
on a very pleasant footing, and I gave him my hand in token of
comradeship.

I had regained my full stature and something over, during this cordial
interview, and when I stepped out into the street and saw the crowd
intently studying the bulletin board I swelled out of all proportion.
For I told myself that I, Mary Antin, was one of the inspired
brotherhood who made newspapers so interesting. I did not know whether
my poem would be put upon the bulletin board; but at any rate, it
would be in the paper, with my name at the bottom, like my story about
"Snow" in Miss Dillingham's school journal. And all these people in
the streets, and more, thousands of people--all Boston!--would read my
poem, and learn my name, and won