“I sat up last night and wrote a poem for the first page of the first number,” announced Louise earnestly.

“Poems don’t go on the first page,” observed Patsy; “but they’re needed to fill in with.  What’s it about, dear?”

“It’s called ‘Ode to a Mignonette,’” answered Louise.  “It begins this way: 

    “Wee brown blossom, humble and sweet,
      Content on my bosom lying,
     Who would guess from your quiet dress
      The beauty there is lying
          Under the rust?”

“Hm,” said Patsy, “I don’t see as there’s any beauty under the rust, at all.  There’s no beauty about a mignonette, anyhow, suspected or unsuspected.”

“She means ‘fragrance,’” suggested Beth.  “Change it to:  ’The fragrance there is lying under the rust.’  That’ll fix it all right, Louise.”

“It doesn’t seem right, even then,” remarked Uncle John.  “If the fragrance lies under the rust, it can’t be smelt, can it?”

“I did not anticipate all this criticism,” said Louise, with an air of injured dignity.  “None of the big publishing houses that returned my poems ever said anything mean about them; they merely said they were ‘not available.’  However, as this poem has not made a hit with the managing editor, I’ll tear it up and write another.”

“Don’t do that,” begged Patsy.  “Save it for emergencies.  We’ve got to fill twenty-four columns every day, remember!”

By Wednesday night the equipment was fully installed and the workmen departed, leaving only Jim McGaffey, an experienced pressman, and Lawrence Doane—­familiarly called Larry—­who was to attend to the electrotyping and “make-up.”  The press was of the best modern construction, and folded, cut and counted the papers automatically, with a capacity for printing three thousand copies an hour.

“And at that rate,” observed Patsy, “It will run off our regular edition in eight minutes.”

Aside from the newspaper press there were two “job” presses and an assortment of type for printing anything that might be required, from a calling card to a circus poster.  A third man, who came from the city Thursday morning, was to take charge of the job printing and assist in the newspaper work.  Three girls also arrived, pale-faced, sad-eyed creatures, who were expert typesetters.  Uncle John arranged with Mrs. Kebble, the landlady at the hotel, to board all the “help” at moderate charge.

It had been decided, after much consultation, to make the Tribune a morning paper.  At first it was feared this would result in keeping the girls up nights, but it was finally arranged that all the copy they furnished would be turned in by nine o’clock, and Miss Briggs, the telegraph editor, would attend to anything further that came in over the wires.  The advantages of a morning edition were obvious.

“You’ll have all day to distribute a morning paper,” Arthur pointed out, “whereas an evening paper couldn’t get to your scattered subscribers until the next morning.”