est-sellers."

The late Ambassador Walter Hines Page was formerly editor of The
World's Work and, like all editors, was obliged to refuse a great many
stories. A lady once wrote him:

"_Sir_: you sent back last week a story of mine. I know that you did
not read the story, for as a test I had pasted together pages 18, 19,
and 20, and the story came back with these pages still pasted; and so
I know you are a fraud and turn down stories without reading same."

Mr. Page wrote back:

"_Madame_: At breakfast when I open an egg I don't have to eat the
whole egg to discover it is bad."

The great novelist summoned his publisher to his luxurious home.

"Have your salesmen," he asked, "prepared for their semi-annual trip
among the down-trodden booksellers?"

"They have."

"Has your publicity man written the usual biographical notices and
arranged for a series of dinners in my honor?"

"He has."

"Have your great minds selected a title for my forthcoming work?"

"Indeed, yes."

"Then what do you want me to write about?"

The publisher drew from his pocket a paper.

"Here is a wonderful plot," he replied. "It has every element--maudlin
sentiment, mystery, touches of your characteristic humor, profound
insight--everything."

The great author was conservative. He had had experience.

"I haven't time to read it just now," he said. "But are you sure? How
do you know that it is any good?"

"Good!" exclaimed the publisher. "Of course it is good. Why, my dear
sir, it has met with the unqualified approval of every member of our
motion-picture department."

THE PUBLISHER--"How are you going to introduce accurate local color in
your new story of life in Thibet? You've never been there."

THE EMINENT AUTHOR--"Neither has any of my public."--_Judge_.

"So you got your poem printed?"

"Yes," replied the author. "I sent the first stanza to the editor of
the Correspondence Column with the inquiry, 'Can anyone give me the
rest of this poem?' Then I sent in the complete poem over another
name!"

"Ye think a fine lot of Shakespeare?"

"I do, sir," was the reply.

"An' ye think he was mair clever than Rabbie Burns?"

"Why, there's no comparison between them."

"Maybe, no; but ye tell us it was Shakespeare who wrote 'Uneasy lies
the head that wears a crown.' Now, Rabbie would never hae sic nonsense
as that."

"Nonsense, sir!" thundered the other.

"Ay, just nonsense. Rabbie would hae kent fine that a kin