The Story Of The Treasure Seekers Chapter 8: Bedtime Story

Hello dear ones,

And welcome to today's reading,

The Story of the Treasure Seekers,

By Edith Nesbitt.

Chapter Eight Being Editors It was Albert's uncle who thought about trying a newspaper.

He said he thought we should not find a bandit business,

A paying industry,

But that journalism might be.

We had sold Knowles' poetry and that piece of information about Lord Topham to the good editor,

So we thought it would not be a bad idea to have a newspaper of our own.

We saw,

Plainly,

That editors must be very rich and powerful,

Because of the grand office and the man in the glass case,

Like a museum,

And the soft carpets and big writing table.

Besides our having seen a whole handful of money that the editor pulled out quite carelessly from his trouser pocket when he gave me my five bob.

Dora wanted to be editor,

And so did Oswald,

But he gave way to her because she is a girl,

And afterwards he knew that it is true what they say in the copybooks about virtue being its own reward,

Because you've no idea what a bother it is.

Everybody wanted putting everything just as they liked,

No matter how much room there was on the page.

It was simply awful.

Dora put up with it as long as she could,

And then she said if she wasn't left alone she wouldn't go on being editor,

They could be the paper's editors themselves,

And so they're.

Then Oswald said,

Like a good brother,

I will help you if you like,

Dora,

And she said you're more trouble than all the rest of them,

Come and be editor and see how you like it,

I give it up to you.

But she didn't,

And we did it together.

We let Albert next door be sub-editor,

Because he had hurt his foot with a nail in his boot.

When it was done,

Albert next door's uncle had it copied for us in typewriting,

And we sent copies to all our friends,

But then,

Of course,

There was no one left to ask to buy it.

We did not think of that until too late.

We called the paper the Lewisham Recorder,

Lewisham because we lived there,

And Recorder in memory of the good editor.

I could write a better paper on my head,

But an editor is not allowed to write all the paper.

It's very hard,

But he's not.

You just have to fill it up with what you can get from other writers.

If I ever have time,

I will write a paper all by myself.

It won't be patchy.

We had no time to make it an illustrated paper,

But I drew the ship going down with all the hands for the first copy.

But the typewriter can't draw ships,

So it was left out of the other copies.

The first time the paper took to write,

No one would believe.

This was the newspaper.

The Lewisham Recorder.

Editors Dora and Oswald Bastobon.

Editorial note.

Every paper is written for some reason.

Ours is because we want to sell it and get money.

If what we have written brings happiness to any sad heart,

We shall not have laboured in vain.

But we want the money too.

Many papers are content with the sad heart and the happiness,

But we are not like that,

And it's best not to be deceitful.

There will be two serial stories,

One by Dickie and one by all of us.

In a serial story,

You only put in one chapter at a time,

But we shall all put our serial story at once.

If Dora has time to copy it,

And Dickie's will come later on.

Serial Story by All of Us.

Chapter One by Dora.

The sun was setting behind a romantic-looking tower,

When two strangers might have been observed descending the crest of the hill.

The eldest,

A man in the prime of his life.

The other,

A handsome youth who reminded everybody of Quintin Durward.

They approached the castle,

In which the fair Lady Alicia awaited her deliverers.

She leaned from the window and waved her lily hand as they approached.

They returned her signal and retired to seek rest and refreshment at a neighbouring holstery.

Chapter Two by Alice.

The princess was very uncomfortable in the tower,

Because her fairy godmother had told her all sorts of horrid things would happen if she didn't catch a mouse every day,

And she had caught so many mice that now there were hardly any left to catch.

So she sent her carrier pigeon to ask the noble strangers if they could send her a few mice,

Because she'd be of age in a few days and then it wouldn't matter.

So the fairy godmother.

I'm so very,

Very sorry,

But there's no room to make the chapters any longer,

Editor.

Chapter Three by the sub-editor.

I can't.

I'd much rather not.

I don't know how.

Chapter Four by Dickie.

I must now retrace my steps and tell you something about our hero.

You must know he had been to an awfully jolly school,

Where they had turkey and goose every day for dinner and never any mutton,

And as many helps of pudding as a fellow cared to send his plate up for.

So of course they had all grown up very strong,

And before he left school he challenged the head to have it out,

Man to man,

And he gave it to him,

I tell you.

That was the education that made him able to fight Indians and to be the stranger who might have been observed in the first chapter.

Chapter Five by Noel.

I think it's time something happened in this story.

So then the dragon came out,

Blowing fire out of his nose,

And he said,

Come on,

You valiant man and true,

I'd like to have a set along you.

That's bad English,

Editor's note.

I don't care,

Is what the dragon said.

Who told you that dragons didn't talk bad English?

Noel.

So the hero,

Whose name was Neil,

Replied,

My blade is sharp,

My axe is keen.

You're not nearly as big as a good many dragons I've seen.

Don't put in so much poetry,

Noel.

It's not fair,

Because none of the others can do it,

Editor's note.

And then they went at it,

And he beat the dragon,

Just as he did,

The head in Dickie's part of the story.

And so he married the princess,

And they lived.

No,

They didn't,

Not until the last chapter,

Editor's note.

Chapter Six by H.

O.

I think it's a very nice story,

But what about the mice?

I don't want to say any more.

Dora can have what's left of my chapter.

Chapter Seven by The Editors And so,

When the dragon was dead,

There were lots of mice,

Because he used to kill them for his tea.

But now,

With him gone,

They rapidly multiplied and ravaged the country.

So the fair lady Alicia,

Sometimes called the princess,

Had to say she would not marry anyone unless they could rid the country of this plague of mice.

Then the prince,

Whose real name didn't begin with N,

Waved his magic sword,

And the dragon stood before them,

Bowing gracefully.

They made him promise to be good,

And when they forgave him,

And the wedding breakfast came,

All the bones were saved for him.

And so they were married,

And they lived happily ever after.

What became of the other stranger?

Null.

The dragon ate him because he asked too many questions,

Editor's note.

This is the end of the story.

Instructive It only takes four hours and a quarter now to get from London to Manchester,

But I should not think anyone would,

If they could help it.

Scientific Experiments should always be made out of doors,

And don't use Benzaline,

Dickie.

That was when he burnt his eyebrows off,

Editor's note.

The earth is 2,

400 miles round,

And 800 through.

At least I think so,

But perhaps it's the other way,

Dickie.

You ought to have been sure before you began,

Editor's note.

Scientific Column In this so-called 19th century,

Science is but too little considered in the nurseries of the rich and proud,

But we are not like that.

It is not generally known that if you put bits of camphor in lukewarm water,

It will move about.

If you drop sweet oil in,

The camphor will dart away,

And then stop moving.

But don't drop any until you are tired of it,

Because the camphor won't any more afterwards.

Much amusement and instruction is lost by not knowing things like this.

If you put a sixpence under a shilling in a wineglass and blow hard on the side of the glass,

The sixpence will jump up and sit on top of the shilling.

At least I can't do it myself,

But my cousin can.

He is in the Navy.

Answers to Correspondence Noel,

You are very poetical,

But I am sorry to say it will not do.

Alice,

Nothing will ever make your hair curl,

So it's no use.

Some people say it's more important to tidy up as you go along.

I don't mean you in particular,

But everyone.

Hey Cho,

We never said you were tubby,

But the editor does not know any cure for it.

Noel,

If there is any of the paper over when this newspaper is finished,

I will exchange it for your shut-up inkstand,

Or the knife that has the useful thing in it for taking out stones of horses' feet,

But you can't have it without.

Hey Cho,

There are many ways how your steam engine might stop working.

You might ask Dickie,

He knows of one of them.

I think it is the way that yours stopped.

Noel,

If you think that by filling the garden with sand you can make crabs build their nests,

You are not at all very sensible.

You have altered your poem about the Battle of Waterloo so often that we cannot read it,

Except where the Duke waves his sword and says something that we can't read either.

Why did you write it on blotting paper with purple chalk?

Editor's note.

Poetry.

The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold,

And the way he came down was awful,

I'm told.

But it's nothing to the way one of the editors comes down on me,

If I crumble my bread and butter or spill my tea.

Curious facts.

If you hold a guinea pig up by his tail,

His eyes drop out.

You can't do half the things yourself that children in books do,

Making models or such.

I wonder why.

If you take a date stone out and put in an almond and eat them together,

It is prime.

I found this out.

Sub-editor.

If you put your wet hand into boiling lead,

It will not hurt you,

If you draw it out quickly enough.

But I have never tried this.

Dora.

The purring class.

Instructive article.

If I ever keep a school,

Everything shall be quite different.

Nobody shall learn anything that they don't want to learn.

And sometimes,

Instead of having masters and mistresses,

We will have cats,

And we will dress up in catskins and learn purring.

Now,

My dears,

The old cat will say,

One,

Two,

Three,

All purr together now,

And we shall purr like anything.

She won't teach us how to meow,

But we shall know how without teaching.

Children do know some things without being taught.

Alice.

Recreations.

It is a mistake to think that cats are playful.

I often try to get a cat to play with me,

And she never seems to care about the game,

No matter how little it hurts.

H.

O.

Making pots and pans with clay is fun,

But do not tell the grown-ups.

It is better to surprise them,

And then you must say at once how easily it washes off,

Much easier than ink.

Dickie.

Sam Redfern,

Or the Bush Ranger's Burial.

Written by Dickie.

Well,

Annie,

I have bad news for you,

Said Mr Ridgeway,

As he entered the comfortable dining room of his cabin at the bush.

Sam Redfern,

The Bush Ranger,

Is about this part of the bush.

I hope he will not attack us with his gang.

Oh,

I hope not,

Responded Annie,

A gentle maiden of some sixteen summers.

Just then a knock came at the door,

And a gruff voice asked them to open it.

It is Sam Redfern,

The Bush Ranger,

Said the girl.

One and the same,

Responded the voice,

And the next moment the whole door was smashed in,

And Sam Redfern sprang in,

Followed by his gang.

Chapter Two.

Annie's father was at once overpowered,

And Annie herself lay bound with cords on the drawing-room sofa.

Sam Redfern set a guard round the lonely hut,

And all human aid was despaired of.

But you never know,

Because far away in the bush,

A different scene was being enacted.

Must be Indians,

Said a tall man to himself,

As he pushed his way through the brushwood.

It was Jim Carlton,

The celebrated detective.

I know them,

He added.

They are Apaches.

And just then ten Indians in full war-paint appeared.

Carlton raised his rifle and fired.

Chapter Three.

The moon was low on the horizon,

And Sam Redfern was seated at a drinking-bout with some of his booned companions.

They had rifled the cellars of the hut,

And the rich wines flowed like water in the golden goblets of Mr Ridgeway.

But Annie had made friends with one of the gang,

A noble,

Good-hearted man who had joined Sam Redfern by mistake,

And she had told him to go and get the police as quickly as possible.

Fa!

Cried Redfern.

Now I am enjoying myself.

He little knew that his doom was near upon him.

Just then Annie gave a piercing scream,

And Sam Redfern got up,

Seizing his revolver.

Who are you?

He cried,

As a man entered.

I am Jim Carlton,

The celebrated detective,

Said the new arrival.

Sam Redfern's revolver dropped from his nerveless fingers,

But the next moment he had sprung upon the detective with the well-known activity of the mountain sheep.

And Annie shrieked,

For she had grown to love the rough bushranger.

To be continued at the end of the paper,

If there is room.

Gardening Notes It is useless to plant cherry stones in the hopes of eating the fruit,

Because they don't.

Alice won't lend her gardening tools again,

Because the last time Noel left them out in the rain,

And I don't like it.

He said he didn't,

But he did.

Seeds and Bulbs Potatoes are not grown with seed,

But with chopped up potatoes.

Apple trees are grown from twigs,

Which is less wasteful.

Oak trees come from acorns,

Everyone knows this.

When Noel says he could grow one from a peach stone wrapped up in oak leaves,

He shows that he knows nothing about gardening.

A boy once dared me to eat a bulb.

Dogs are very industrious and very fond of gardening.

Pincher is always planting bones,

But they never grow up.

There couldn't be a bone tree.

I think this is what makes him bark so unhappily at night.

He has never tried planting dog biscuits,

Because he is quite fond of those.

Sam Redfern,

Or the Bush Ranger's Burial,

By Dickie Chapter Four and the Last This would have been a jolly good story,

If they had let me finish it at the beginning of the paper,

As I wanted to.

But now I have forgotten how I meant to end it,

And I have lost my book about Red Indians,

And all my boys of England have been sneaked.

The girls say good riddance,

So I expect that they did it.

They just want me to put in which Annie married,

And I shan't,

So they will never know.

We have now put everything we can think of into the paper.

It takes a lot of thinking about.

I don't know how grown-ups manage to write all they do.

It must make their heads ache,

Especially lesson books.

Albert Nextdoor only wrote one chapter of the serial story,

But he could have done some more,

If he had wanted to.

He could not write out any of the things,

Because he cannot spell.

He says he can,

But it takes him such a long time,

He might as well just not be able.

There are one or two things more.

I am sick of it,

But Dora says she will write them in.

Legal Answer Wanted A quantity of excellent string is offered if you know whether there really is a law passed about not buying gunpowder until you are thirteen.

Dickey The price of this paper is one shilling each,

And sixpence extra for the picture of the Malibu going down with all the hands.

If we sell one hundred copies,

We will write another paper.

And so we would have done,

But we never did.

Albert Nextdoor's uncle gave us two shillings,

And that was all.

You can't restore fallen fortunes with two shillings.