In one corner of the room was the bust of a man, whose only existence was in the imagination of a miserable ship-carver, who, in his endeavors to breathe life into his block, came near breathing life out of himself, by sitting up late at night at his task.  In the other hung a crook-necked squash, festooned with wreaths of spider-webs.  Above the mantel-piece was suspended a painting representing a feat performed by a certain dog, of destroying one hundred rats in eight minutes.  The frame in which this gem of art was placed was once gilt, but, at the time to which we refer, was covered with the dust of ages.

Mr. Stubbs poked the fire.  Mrs. Stubbs poked the dog, when suddenly the door flew open, and their son entered with blackened eyes, bloody hands; bruised face and dirty clothes, the most belligerent-looking creature this side of the “Rio Grande.”

“My voice a’nt still for war, it’s loud for war,” he said, as, with a braggadocia sort of air, he threw his cap at the dog, who clenched it between his teeth, shook it nearly to tatters, and then passed it over to the cat.

“What’s the matter now, Jake?” said Mrs. Stubbs.  “Always in trouble,—­fights and broils seem to be your element.  I don’t know, Jake, what will become of you, if you go on at this rate.  What say you, father?”

Mr. Stubbs threw down the poker, and casting a glance first at his hopeful son, and then at his hoping wife, replied that Jake was an ignorant, pugnacious, good-for-nothing scamp, and never would come to anything, unless to a rope’s end.

“O, how can you talk so?” said his wife.  “You know it’s nat’ral.”

“Nat’ral!” shouted the father; “then it’s ten times worse-the harder then to rid him of his quarrelsome habits.  But I’ve an idea,” said he, his face brightening up at the thought, as though he had clenched and made it fast and sure.

The mother started as by an electric shock.  The boy, who had retired into one corner in a sullen mood, freshened up, and looked at his father.  The ship-carver’s fancy sketch brightened up also; but not of its own free will, for the force with which Mr. Stubbs brought his hand in contact with the table caused the dirty veil to fall from the bust-er’s face.

“What is it?” inquired Mrs. Stubbs, with much animation.

“Why, my dear woman, as we can do nothing with him, we’ll make him an editor.”

The old lady inquired what that was; and, being informed, expressed doubts as to his ability.

“Why,” said she, “he cannot write distinctly.”

“What of that?’-let him write with the scissors and paste-pot.  Let him learn; many know q great deal more after having learned.”

“But he must have some originality in his paper,” said Mrs. Stubbs, who, it seemed, did not fall in with the general opinion that “any one can edit a paper.”

“Never fear that,” said Mr. Stubbs; “he’ll conduct anything he takes hold of, rather than have that conduct him.  I’ll tell you what, old woman, Jake shall be an editor, whether he can write a line of editorial or not.  Jake, come here.”