"Say thirty cents a month, or three-fifty a year.

That's as much as these poor people can stand." "I think so too," replied the girl, seriously.
"But it seems to me a penny paper isn't dignified," pouted Louise.

"I had intended to print all my poems in it, and I'm sure that ought to make it worth at least five cents a copy." "That will make it worth more, my dear," commented Uncle John; "but frequently one must sell property for less than it's actually worth.
You must remember these people have not been used to spending much money on literature, and I imagine you'll have to coax them to spend thirty cents a month.

Many of the big New York papers are sold for a penny, and without any loss of dignity, either." "Do you think we can make it pay on that basis, Uncle ?" asked Beth.
Uncle John coughed to gain time while he thought of a suitable reply.
"That, my dear," he informed his niece, "will depend upon how many subscribers you can get.

Subscribers and advertisers are necessary to make any paper pay." "Advertisers!" "Of course," said practical Beth.