There was a blue pitcher on a shelf in the house, and into this
pitcher every boy dropped his contribution, and one of them--of course
the most intelligent one--carefully went through them, selected the
best, and copied them all out in one large sheet, and this was their
weekly journal called _The Blue Pitcher_, and it was read and enjoyed
by the whole house. He proposed that we should do the same; he, of
course, would edit the paper and write a large portion of it; it would
occupy two or four sheets of quarto paper, all in his beautiful
handwriting, which resembled copper-plate, and it would be issued for
all of us to read every Saturday. We all agreed joyfully, and as the
title had taken our fancy we started hunting for a blue pitcher all
over the house, but couldn't find such a thing, and finally had to put
up with a tin box with a wooden lid and a lock and key. The
contributions were to be dropped in through a slit in the lid which
the carpenter made for us, and my brother took possession of the key.
The title of the paper was to be _The Tin Box,_ and we were instructed
to write about the happenings of the week and anything in fact which
had interested us, and not to be such little asses as to try to deal
with subjects we knew nothing about. I was to say something about
birds: there was never a week went by in which I didn't tell them a
wonderful story of a strange bird I had seen for the first time: well,
I could write about that strange bird and make it just as wonderful as
I liked.
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