mpressionable little hearts, sang
exultantly--this song of home and country.

CHAPTER VIII

THE POWER OF INK

The Chicken Hill correspondent of the Millford "Mercury" described the
meeting in the school as follows:

"The Chicken Hill School was the scene of a happy gathering on Friday
afternoon last, when the neighbors and friends gathered to welcome
home Pearl Watson, who has just completed a successful First Class
Teacher's Normal course in Winnipeg. Pearl is a great favorite, and
certainly disappointed no one, for she gave an address on present day
questions which will not soon be forgotten. Pearl is an out and out
believer in temperance and woman suffrage, and before she was through,
she had every one with her--as one man put it, he'd like to see
the woman vote, if for nothing else than to get Pearl Watson into
parliament, for there would sure be hides on the barn door if she ever
got there, and a rustling of dry bones."

"After Pearl's address, the ladies of the district served
refreshments, and a good time was spent. Pearl's arm must have ached,
shaking hands, and if she could be spoiled with praise, she would be
spoiled for sure, but Pearl is not that kind. It is rumored that she
will be offered the Purple Springs school, and if she accepts, we
congratulate Purple Springs."

When George Steadman read the Chicken Hills news, his face became a
yellowish gray color--much like the hue of badly laundried clothes.
His skin prickled, as if with an electric current, for hot rage ate
into his soul. His name was not even mentioned. He wasn't there at
all--and he was the member for Millford. Of all the silly rot--well,
he'd see about it.

On Monday morning, with the offending sheet in his hand, Mr. Steadman
made his way to the "Mercury" office, a dingy, little flat-roofed
building, plastered with old circus posters outside, and filled with
every sort of junk inside. At an unpainted desk piled high with
papers, sat the editor. His hair stood up like a freshly laundried,
dustless mop; his shirt was dirty; his pipe hung listlessly in his
mouth--upside down, and a three days' crop of black beard peppered his
face. He looked like a man who in early youth had slept on newspapers
and drank ink, and who now would put his feet on the table if there
had been room, but there was scarcely room for them on the floor, for
it was under the table that he kept his exchanges. There were shelves
around the walls, but they we