Life — December 2, 1899 — page 25: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Kindly Types. By James 8. MEroatre. HRISTMAS was not a cheerful oc- casion for Eliphalet Grigsby, who was simultancously proprietor, editor, publisher, printer, compositor and devil of The Himshurg Hewgag. His few sub- scribers and advertisers were too busy making both ends meet at the end of the year to think of what they owed Gngsby, and on Christmas Eve the old man sat at his desk in the depths of despair. He had with weekly regularity ladled out political leaders, accounts of local hap- penings and compliments to neighboring agriculturists who had laid their products on his desk, but gratitude was in Hams- burg, as elsewhere, a rare virtue, Therefore, the customary festivity of the festive sea-on seemed likely to pass the office of the Hewgag without even 80 much as turning its eyes in his direction. Finally, his chin dropped oa his breast, and an intermittent noise, resembling the lower notes of the bassoon, indicated that the old man was free for a little while from the gloom which the joyous feast of Christmas brings to not a few adults in this supposedly happy world. Presently a faiot rustle was heard ia the type-case at the other side of the room. “Poor old fellow,” said a small-pica voice, ‘this isn’t much of a Christmas for him.” “It’s his own fault,” replied the Lour- geois, who, on account of his irregular size, was always making trouble with the othertype. ‘ Hedoesa’t put snap enough into the paper.” ‘Don’t blame him,” said some round- face on the imposing stone. ‘‘ He's an old man and has been country editor all his life, and that would take the courage out ef anyone. But he has always been good tous. He has never given us too much to do, and when he works the handpress we get a good deal less of that painful squeezing called impression than if he were a younger man.” “That's so,” said the small-pica, ‘I wonder if we can't do something to help him.” “What this paper needs,” said the bourgeois, ‘is some illustrations. You know I was on a yellow journal before I came here, and anything in the way of * LEE = pictures, no maticr how bad they were, always made the paper ecll better.” “*Suppose we do it,” said the round- face. “T'll write a story,” said the editorial head, which was standing in the chase, “if the rest of you will sct it up and illustrate it.” ‘¢ We'll illustrate it,” saida voice from the cut-rack, “So will we,” said a voice from the hell box, where there was a choice col- lection of bruised cuts, disabled type and broken leads. “And we'll set it up,” came in unison from the type-case. There was a moving around and changing of places until finally they found themselves on the bed of the old handpress arraycd like this: ANGELINE AND ADOLPRUS. A Story of Christmas Love. An3eline MaginNis was a beautiful girl. she had many virtues. She was a farmer's daughter, who Eilked the cows and was always kind to the bEES. One Christmas she wrote a letter to Santa Claus and tsked him to prin3 her a fine, handsome husbAnd, On the very next hursday when she was ont on the golf LINKS, she was accosted by