Language." But I
shall not do so, because, to whatever branch of our tongue the word may
belong, it is exactly descriptive, and descriptive as no other word can
be, of what a boy does with things that click and "go," and is therefore
not at all out of place in a tale which I trust will be regarded as a
polite one.

The discovery of the machine put an end to my attic potterings. I cared
little for finding old bill-files and collections of Atlantic cable-ends
when, with a whole morning, a type-writing machine, and a screw-driver
before me I could penetrate the mysteries of that useful mechanism. I
shall not endeavor to describe the delightful sensations of that hour of
screwing and unscrewing; they surpass the powers of my pen. Suffice it
to say that I took the whole apparatus apart, cleaned it well, oiled
every joint, and then put it together again. I do not suppose a
seven-year-old boy could have derived more satisfaction from taking a
piano to pieces. It was exhilarating, and I resolved that as a reward
for the pleasure it had given me the machine should have a brand-new
ribbon and as much ink as it could consume. And that, in brief, is how
it came to be that this machine of antiquated pattern was added to the
library bric-a-brac. To say the truth, it was of no more practical
use than Barye's dancing bear, a plaster cast of which adorns my
mantel-shelf, so that when I classify it with the bric-a-brac I do so
advisedly. I frequently tried to write a jest or two upon it, but the
results were extraordinarily like Sir Arthur Sullivan's experience with
the organ into whose depths the lost chord sank, never to return. I
dashed off the jests well enough, but somewhere between the keys and the
types they were lost, and the results, when I came to scan the paper,
were depressing. And once I tried a sonnet on the keys. Exactly how
to classify the jumble that came out of it I do not know, but it was
curious enough to have appealed strongly to D'Israeli or any other
collector of the literary oddity. More singular than the sonnet, though,
was the fact that when I tried to write my name upon this strange
machine, instead of finding it in all its glorious length written upon
the paper, I did find "William Shakespeare" printed there in its stead.
Of course you will say that in putting the machine together I mixed up
the keys and the letters. I have no doubt that I did, but when I tell
you that there have been times when, looking at m