Florence moaned.  “They don’t ‘upset’ me, mamma!  They have no effects on me by the slightest degree!  And I told you, mamma, they’re not ’playing’.”

“Then what are they doing?”

“Well, they’re having a newspaper.  They got the printing-press and an office in Herbert’s stable, and everything.  They got somebody to give ’em some ole banisters and a railing from a house that was torn down somewheres, and then they got it stuck up in the stable loft, so it runs across with a kind of a gate in the middle of these banisters, and on one side is the printing-press and a desk from that nasty little Henry Rooter’s mother’s attic; and a table and some chairs, and a map on the wall; and that’s their newspaper office.  They go out and look for what’s the news, and write it down in lead pencil; and then they go up to their office and write it in ink; and then they print it for their newspaper.”

“But what do they do on the fence?”

“That’s where they go to watch what the news is,” Florence explained morosely.  “They think they’re so grand, sittin’ up there, pokin’ around!  They go other places, too; and they ask people.  That’s all they said I could be!” Here the lady’s bitterness became strongly intensified.  “They said maybe I could be one o’ the ones they asked if I knew anything, sometimes, if they happened to think of it!  I just respectf’ly told ’em I’d decline to wipe my oldest shoes on ’em to save their lives!”

Mrs. Atwater sighed.  “You mustn’t use such expressions, Florence.”

“I don’t see why not,” the daughter promptly objected.  “They’re a lot more refined than the expressions they used on me!”

“Then I’m very glad you didn’t play with them.”

But at this, Florence once more gave way to filial despair.  “Mamma, you just can’t see through anything!  I’ve said anyhow fifty times they ain’t—­aren’t—­playing!  They’re getting up a real newspaper, and have people buy it and everything.  They been all over this part of town and got every aunt and uncle they have besides their own fathers and mothers, and some people in the neighbourhood, and Kitty Silver and two or three other coloured people besides.  They’re going to charge twenty-five cents a year, collect-in-advance because they want the money first; and even papa gave ’em a quarter last night; he told me so.”

“How often do they intend to publish their paper, Florence?” Mrs. Atwater inquired absently, having resumed her sewing.

“Every week; and they’re goin’ to have the first one a week from to-day.”

“What do they call it?”

“The North End Daily Oriole.  It’s the silliest name I ever heard for a newspaper; and I told ’em so.  I told ’em what I thought of it, I guess!”

“Was that the reason?” Mrs. Atwater asked.

“Was it what reason, mamma?”

“Was it the reason they wouldn’t let you be a reporter with them?”