THERE once was a man who held an office that re-quired good penmanship．While he filled the office ablyotherwise， he was incapable of good penmanship． So headvertised in the newspaper for someone with a fine hand－ writing；and so many applied that the applications could have filled a whole bucket． But one was all he needed．And so he chose the first he came to， one with a script as beautiful as that of the finest writing machine． The man inoffice was an excellent writer．And when his writings ap- peared in the handsome lettering，everyone said，"That is beautifully written．"
"That's my work，"said the fellow，whose mind wasn't worth a penny．
And after hearing such praise for a whole week， hebecame so conceited that he wanted to be the man in office himself． He really would have made a fine writing teacher，and would have looked well in his white necktie at ladies'
tea parties． But that wasn't what he wanted； he Wanted tooutwrite all the other writers． And he wrote about paintersand sculptors， about composers and the theater． He wrotean awful lot of nonsense， and when it was too dreadful， hewould write the following day that it had been a misprint．
As a matter of fact， everything he wrote was a misprint，but the sad part was that his only asset， his beautiful hand－writing， couldn't be seen in print．
"I can break；I can make！I'm a hell of a fellow， sort of a little god， and not so little， at that！"
This was a lot of silly talk． And that he finally died of． On his death a flowery obituary appeared in the news－ paper． Now， wasn't that a sorry tale—his being painted inglowing terms by a friend who really could write stories？
Despite the good intentions of his friend， his life sto－ry， with all its nastiness， clamoring， and prattle， became avery sad fairy tale indeed．