a hundred typewriters. They peer into editorial dens, separated only by thin half-partitions from the rush of many feet, the issuing of many orders, all the turmoil common to any great business concern. And they murmur: "Nobody could write in an atmosphere like this and remain sane."
But we do—and we learn to love the atmosphere.
Then these women climb winding stairways to where intent, silent girls click out columns of copy on linotype machines, and they enter small, electrically-lighted rooms, where other intent girls sit beside coatless men, reading proof.
"Why, I never dreamed it was like this! I thought proof-sheets were sent to women to read at home. I could not think clearly in this dirt and noise."
Much of this misconception of publishing house work is due to the misleading advertising matter issued by certain unscrupulous managers of correspondence schools in proof-reading. They flood the country, and especially the rural districts, with circulars stating that the girls who master their system of proof-reading by correspondence will have work in plenty sent to their homes. These promises are so cleverly worded that the guarantee of work or a position on completion of the course is quite within the
