STORY OF A STOLEN PEN.  WRITTEN BY ITSELF.

My friend, Theodore Thinker, who is an odd sort of a genius, and frequently takes up things after a singular fashion, has put into my hands a paper with this caption:  “Story of a Stolen Pen, written by itself.”  It seems, from a somewhat lengthy introduction—­too lengthy to be here quoted—­that the pen once belonged to some editor or another; and as Theodore has something to do with editorial matters himself, I should not wonder if he is the one.  Some curious readers may be disposed to inquire how the pen was made to talk so fluently, and perhaps some others would like to know how it was found in the first place.  I can’t answer these reasonable inquiries.  The manuscript is entirely silent on both points.  I have my conjectures in relation to the thing—­pretty strong conjectures, too.  I guess the whole story is a fable, to tell the truth.  But never mind.  There is a great deal of sense in fables sometimes; and who knows but there may be some in this?  At all events, we must have

THE STORY.

[Illustration:  THE THIEF STEALING THE PEN.]

I wish you could have seen the thief in the act of stealing me.  What a sorry face he had on!  I send you a rough sketch of him—­for I have a little talent at drawing—­taken from memory.  I was lying on the desk, close by a manuscript which I had commenced.  He snatched me as soon as the editor’s back was turned, and ran out of the office.  I wonder the people did not notice that he was a rogue as he passed along the street.  Why, he stared at every body he met, as if he was afraid they were going to give him an invitation to walk to the police office.  The first thing he did was to call at several pawnbroker’s offices, where he tried to sell me.  No one would give him what he asked.  He wanted ten or twelve dollars, I believe.  Well, he gave up that project before night, and I heard him mutter to himself, “If I only had the money for it!” After supper he took me into his room, and when he had locked the door fast, he began to examine me carefully.  “It is a beautiful pen,” said he, and then he tried to see how I would write.  I should think he was a pretty good penman.  He made a great many flourishes with me, and wrote his name several times.  His name was John Smith, by the way, or at any rate, that was the signature he made.  “What a fine pen this is,” said he; “I never wrote with a better pen in my life.  But it won’t do for me to keep it.  I shall be found out, if I do.  Oh, dear!  I wish I had got it without stealing it.  I wonder where I can sell the troublesome thing.”

Just then somebody knocked at the door.  It was a long time before he let the person in.  He had to think what he would do with me first, and it took him a good while to put away the paper he had been scribbling on.  “Why, John!” said the man, when he came in, “what makes you look so frightened?  I should think you took me for a tiger, or some such animal.”  “I’ve got the toothache,” said the thief, “and I have sent for the doctor to pull it out.  I thought he had come when you knocked.  Dear me! how I dread it!  Did you ever have a tooth drawn?”

So you see the fellow told a lie.  Those who break one of God’s commandments, are pretty likely to break more before they get through.  My new owner seemed to find it difficult to get to sleep that night, and after he did get to sleep, he muttered a good deal in his dreams.  Once I heard him say, “No; I bought it of Mr Bagley, in Broadway.”  I could not help thinking that he ought to be content with telling lies when he was awake.

One day he left me on the table when he went out.  It was unfortunate for him.  That night I overheard the chambermaid talking with him about it, and I saw him turn very red in the face.  It was evident she did not believe his story about buying the pen of Mr Bagley, though he told it over and over again, and made use of a terrible oath, which I dare not repeat.  Poor man!  I pitied him.  He was certainly very unhappy.  He wanted to sell me very much indeed; but some how or other, no one would give the price he asked.  Perhaps they remembered the saying, “The buyer is as bad as the thief.”  He offered me to one man in Pearl street, who seemed a little disposed to buy.  “Wait a minute,” said he; and he went into a back room to speak to somebody.  But John Smith thought it would be safer for him not to wait.  I guess he had his mind on the subject of police officers at that time.

He never went to church with me but once; and then, strange enough, the minister preached from this text:  “The way of transgressors is hard.”  I could feel the poor man’s heart throb, as the clergyman slowly read the words.  When he went home, he was in great distress—­for the sermon was a very solemn one—­and he took down from a shelf a small Bible, all covered with dust, and looked at some words which were written on the first leaf.  I don’t wonder he wept, as he read them—­“A mother’s gift.”  He remembered where the text was, and he turned to it, and read it again and again.  “Yes,” said he, “it is true—­too true.  But what shall I do?  I have been to the theatre so much now, that I can’t be happy unless I go; and where am I to get the money?  I wish I had never begun to steal.  Oh! that was a sad day for me, when I listened to wicked boys, and robbed that old man’s pear tree.”  I saw then how he first became a thief; and I thought I should like to have every body know that when boys are stealing apples, and pears, and peaches, they are serving an apprenticeship to the business of stealing on a larger scale.  I myself have heard of many a highway robber, who began his career in the orchard of his neighbor.

Mr Smith did not reform.  About three months ago, he stole a horse from a stable in the upper part of the city, and immediately left for some place in New Jersey.  It was a beautiful horse, but he could not sell him.  People were suspicious.  At last he was arrested, and had to go to Sing Sing prison.  I hope he will make up his mind to be an honest man now; for he has certainly learned, by pretty dear experience, that “honesty is the best policy.”  I can’t think he would steal any more if they should let him out.  Still, I am not sure.  The habit was very strong.