a one is marred by misspelling or
miswording."

"I don't wonder it is," exclaimed Paul. "Why, the very thought that I
must not make a mistake would cause me to make one. Besides, I should
get so sleepy after I had written for hours that I should not know what
I was doing."

"Probably much of the time they didn't."

Paul thought a moment.

"I suppose, though, the monks were paid for their hard work, so it was
only fair for them to be careful," he reflected.

"On the contrary," replied his father, "they were not paid any more than
were the slaves whom the Greeks and Romans employed. Their living was
given them; that was all. Often the books they made were very beautiful
and were sold to dignitaries of the Church or to titled persons for
great sums; but any monies received from such a transaction went into
the coffers of the Church and not into the monks' pockets. The Church
however, in return, provided them with all they needed so they did not
go entirely unrewarded. Some day when we can find time we will go to the
city and hunt up some of these rare old manuscripts in the museum. You
would be interested to see how exquisitely many of them are done. The
initial letter, or frequently the catch word, is painted in color, and
the borders are richly decorated with intricate scroll-work."

"Did the monks have to design the pages as well as print them?"
inquired Paul with surprise.

"The same monk did not always do all the work," his father said. "Some
merely inscribed the text and illuminated the first letter or word;
afterward the sheets were handed to some one else who designed the
decoration and sketched it in. Then it went to the colorist, who in turn
illuminated, or painted, the drawing. You will find every inch of some
of the more ornate manuscripts filled in with designs. The great
objection to this method was that several persons handled the work and
therefore in many cases the decoration had no relation whatsoever to the
text; in fact, frequently it was entirely inappropriate to it."

Paul smiled.

"No more relation, I suppose, than the text of our school paper will
have to its name: _March Hare_."

"Just about the same," conceded his father with amusement. "So that's
the title you've selected for your monthly?"

"Yes, sir. We couldn't seem to think of anything better."

"It's not bad at all. How are you coming with the project? You seem
bothered."

"I am--a little."

"What's the matter? Haven't yo