A kind old gentleman seeing a small boy who was carrying a lot of newspapers under his arm said: "Don't all those papers make you tired, my boy?"
"Naw, I don't read 'em," replied the lad.
VOX POPULI—"Do you think you've boosted your circulation by giving a year's subscription for the biggest potato raised in the county?"
THE EDITOR—"Mebbe not; but I got four barrels of samples."
COLONEL HIGHFLYER—"What are your rates per column?"
EDITOR OF "SWELL SOCIETY"—"For insertion or suppression?"—Life.
EDITOR—"You wish a position as a proofreader?"
"Do you understand the requirements of that responsible position?"
"Perfectly, sir. Whenever you make any mistakes in the paper, just blame 'em on me, and I'll never say a word."
A prominent Montana newspaper man was making the round of the insane asylum of that state in an official capacity as an inspector. One of the inmates mistook him for a recent arrival.
"What made you go crazy?"
"I was trying to make money out of the newspaper business," replied the editor, to humor the demented one.
"Rats, you're not crazy; you're just a plain darn fool," was the lunatic's comment.
"Did you write this report on my lecture, 'The Curse of Whiskey'?"
"Then kindly explain what you mean by saying, 'The lecturer was evidently full of her subject!'"
We clip the following for the benefit of those who doubt the power of the press:
"Owing to the overcrowded condition of our columns, a number of births and deaths are unavoidably postponed this week."
"Binks has sued us for libel," announced the assistant editor of the sensational paper.
The managing editor's face brightened.
"Tell him," he said, "that if he will put up a strong fight we'll cheerfully pay the damages and charge them up to the advertising account."
Booth Tarkington says that in no state have the newspapers more "journalistic enterprise" than in his native Indiana. While stopping at a little Hoosier hotel in the course of a hunting trip Mr. Tarkington lost one of his dogs.
"Have you a newspaper in town?" he asked of the landlord.
"Right across the way, there, back of the shoemaker's," the landlord told him. "The Daily News—best little paper of its size in the state."
The editor, the printer, and the printer's devil were all busy doing justice to Mr. Tarkington with an "in-our-midst" paragraph when the novelist arrived.
"I've just lost a dog," Tarkington explained after he had introduced himself, "and I'd like to have you insert this ad for me: 'Fifty dollars reward for the return of a pointer dog answering to the name of Rex. Disappeared from the yard of the Mansion House Monday night.'"
"Why, we are just going to press, sir," the editor said, "but we'll be only too glad to hold the edition for your ad."
Mr. Tarkington returned to the hotel. After a few minutes he decided, however, that it might be well to add, "No questions asked" to his advertisement, and returned to the Daily News office.
The place was deserted, save for the skinny little freckle-faced devil, who sat perched on a high stool, gazing wistfully out of the window.
"Where is everybody?" Tarkington asked.
"Gawn to hunt for th' dawg," replied the boy.
"You are the greatest inventor in the world," exclaimed a newspaper man to Alexander Graham Bell.
"Oh, no, my friend, I'm not," said Professor Bell. "I've never been a reporter."
Not long ago a city editor in Ottumwa, Iowa, was told over the telephone that a prominent citizen had just died suddenly. He called a reporter and told him to rush out and get the "story." Twenty minutes later the reporter returned, sat down at his desk, and began to rattle off copy on his typewriter.
"Well, what about it?" asked the city editor.
"Oh, nothing much," replied the reporter, without looking up. "He was walking along the street when he suddenly clasped his hands to his heart and said, 'I'm going to die!' Then he leaned up against a fence and made good."
Enraged over something the local newspaper had printed about him, a subscriber burst into the editor's office in search of the responsible reporter. "Who are you?" he demanded, glaring at the editor, who was also the main stockholder.
"I'm the newspaper," was the calm reply.
"And who are you?" he next inquired, turning his resentful gaze on the chocolate-colored office-devil clearing out the waste basket.
"Me?" rejoined the darky, grinning from ear to ear. "Ah guess ah's de cul'ud supplement."
Four hostile newspapers are more to be feared than a thousand bayonets.—Napoleon I.
Newspapers always excite curiosity. No one ever lays one down without a feeling of disappointment.—Charles Lamb.