the _i_s (_is_ that the way to pluralize them?)--get no dots
at all; and every now and then the head says, softly, "Oh, dear!" Miss
Muffin goes to something called by novel-writers "repose," toward one
o'clock that night, and the next night, and the next; she obliges the
"Monthly Signpost" with a comic story at a low price, and buys herself a
decent little bonnet for Sundays, replenishing her wardrobe generally by
the same process; and the head considers it work, I assure you.

But this is not the special grievance to which I direct this Memorial. I
like to work; it suits me much better to obtain my money by steady,
honest effort than it would to depend on anybody else for one round
cent. If I had a thousand dollars unexpectedly left me by some unknown
benefactor, I don't think it would be worth five cents on the dollar,
compared with what I earn; there is a healthy, trustworthy pleasure in
that, never yet attained by gifted or inherited specie. Neither is it
the publicity of the occupation that I here object to. I knew that,
before I began to write; and many an hour have I cried over the thought
of being known, and talked about, and commented on,--having my dear
name, that my mother called me by, printed on the cover of a magazine,
seeing it in newspapers, hearing it in whispers, when Miss Brown says to
Miss Black under her breath,--"That girl in the straw bonnet is Matilda
Muffin, who writes for the 'Snapdragon' and the 'Signpost.'"

I knew all this, as I say. I dreaded and hated it. I hate it now. But I
had to work, and this was the only way open to me; so I tried to be
brave, and to do what I ought, and let the rest go. I cannot say I am
very brave yet, or that I don't feel all this; but I do not memorialize
against it, because it is necessary to be borne, and I must bear it.
When I go to the dentist's to have a tooth out, I sit down, and hold the
chair tight, and open my mouth as wide as it will open, but I always
say, "Oh! don't, doctor! I can't! I can't possibly!" till the iron
what-d'you-call-it enters my soul and stops my tongue.

Yes, when I began to write, I knew I should some day see my name in
print. I knew people would wonder who and what I was, and how I
looked;--I had done it myself. I knew that I should be delivered over to
be the prey of tongues and the spoil of eyes. I was aware, I think, I am
aware now, of every possible "disagreeable" that can befall the state. I
am accustomed to hear people say, i