The FLY LEAF appeals to the Young Man and Young Woman’s sense of humor. It is time some of us youngsters were allowed to belong to some generation, and if we do not assert our right to be _now_, we shall experience some difficulty in squeezing into the ranks of the generations unborn. The old fogies fail to see the reasonableness of this. If the younger generation also fails to perceive our right to exist, it will bring our gray hairs in sorrow to the grave--for we are but belated boys, after all. This is a world in which it takes one a long while to grow up, when one is poor--especially in Grub Street. When I get so poor that I cannot afford to buy any more clothes, I intend to dress in _Fly Leaves_, as I believe this badge of honorable endeavor will save me somewhat from the scoffs of the mob, in a community that holds letters in the high esteem they are held in Boston. Then when I am dead and gone ten cities will contend for the honor of my birth. I never tell where I was born. It is unwise; for people will never forgive the impertinence of your being born among them. All these personal notes are relevant in up-to-date journalism, because this is an age of confidences; and not to let the public know all about one’s private life is to argue one’s self unknown. I may begin on my autobiography in earnest, in a little while. I have “Passions” in great number and variety. To J. W. S.: No, my dear friend, I sympathize with your ambition, but you cannot bribe the Editor of the FLY LEAF with any such consideration as a year’s subscription to print your Ode. We have not yet been tempted, as some of our popular contemporaries are every month, with an offer to purchase an edition of fifty thousand and dine the editor; but conscious virtue inclines us to repudiate your one dollar and get the full credit of it with posterity.