A Louisville journalist was excessively proud of his little boy. Turning to the old black nurse, "Aunty," said he, stroking the little pate, "this boy seems to have a journalistic head." "Oh," cried the untutored old aunty, soothingly, "never you mind 'bout dat; dat'll come right in time."
John R. McLean, owner of the Cincinnati Enquirer and the Washington Post, tells this story of the days when he was actively in charge of the Cincinnati newspaper: An Enquirer reporter was sent to a town in southwestern Ohio to get the story of a woman evangelist who had been greatly talked about. The reporter attended one of her meetings and occupied a front seat. When those who wished to be saved were asked to arise, he kept his seat and used his notebook. The evangelist approached, and, taking him by the hand, said, "Come to Jesus."
"Madam," said the newspaper man, "I'm here solely on business—to report your work."
"Brother," said she, "there is no business so important as God's."
"Well, maybe not," said the reporter; "but you don't know John R. McLean."
A newspaper man named Fling
Could make "copy" from any old thing.
But the copy he wrote
Of a five dollar note
Was so good he is now in Sing Sing.—Columbia Jester.
"Come in," called the magazine editor.
"Sir, I have called to see about that article of mine that you bought two years ago. My name is Pensnink—Percival Perrhyn Pensnink. My composition was called 'The Behavior of Chipmunks in Thunderstorms,' and I should like to know how much longer I must watch and wait before I shall see it in print."
"I remember," the editor replied. "We are saving your little essay to use at the time of your death. When public attention is drawn to an author we like to have something of his on hand."
Hear, land o' cakes, and brither Scots,
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's;
If there's a hole in a' your coats,
I rede you tent it:
A chiel's amang you taking notes,
And, faith, he'll prent it.—Burns.