Having finished some literature I put it into an envelope, with postage stamps to get it back; for that happened sometimes, even when it was real, hand-made literature, as in this case. It came back, because the editor of the _Bugle_ said it was too long. I sat up that night paring and changing, and when it had been condensed a third it occurred to me that maybe there was a surer market for it in the office of the _Banner of Freedom_. Another try; more postage stamps. Returned with statement that “We never print stories less than 6,000 words long and yours is too short.” I rewrote it in part, restoring an episode on which I had slightly prided myself in the original version, and as it was neither long nor short I sent it, this time to _Tomlinson’s Bi-Monthly_. Tomlinson kept it for nearly two years before returning it, and it reached me a veritable tramp of a manuscript, dusty, creased, dog-eared and ragged, with editorial changes in blue pencil that could not be erased, and the remark that, as _Tomlinson’s_ circulated largely among the Bulgarians in America, and received advertising patronage from them, it was impossible to print anything that might offend Bulgarians. This surprised me, because the fact that one of my characters, Gilhooly McManus, was a Bulgarian had nearly escaped my notice. He was introduced because his nationality made occasion for an incident that I needed, and had he been an American every reader would have denounced his conduct as absurd. There was nothing for it but to copy it afresh and send it to _Bloxam’s_. It was returned in the next mail, manifestly unread, with the usual form announcement that “owing to pressure” etc., it was impossible, etc., so I tried _The Pacific_ with it next. It came back in time with the objection that it was too sensational, and the next week it was returned by the _Chambermaid’s Own_ as too quiet. _Hanks’ Review_ would not have it because plots were going out of fashion, and _The Athenian_ suggested that I imbue it with at least a trace of interest. At last a little one-horse magazine in Texas offered to print it if I would subscribe for three years to his magazine at two dollars per year. I accepted the offer by return mail, stipulating only that the magazine should be sent, with my compliments, to an almshouse. And I set out on my next story wondering if the time would ever come when a man could speak his mind to his fellow men in print, or if all written things would have to be shaped according to the Procrustean notions of the average editor. CHARLES M. SKINNER. THE MICKETTS OF A WYBIRT.