Green-Mountain freeman. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1844-1884, 1856-03-06
])oetifal.
From the Home Journal.
Trials of an Editor.
ny KATE NEVILLE.

How often we think when reading the news,
An editor could please if he choose
But such paper this, why all must agree,
That a thing of less interest they never did see
But, Sir Critic, reflect, ere you make noise on,
That one mans meat is another mans poison;
And lest you persist in you steady denals,
Well give YOU a few of an EDITORS trials.
First, pretty young lady, sprightly and fair,
With paper in hand, watzes up to chair,
And hastily glancing DER all that she saw,
She throws it aside with muttered "pshaw "
No marriages here
think it queer,
When there's many,
They don't publish any.
Without ending, Apending
And tales And law suits
Sketches, And sieges
Here's poetry, And battles
But no picnics, concerts, or parties for me,
Such trash in paper, never did see
Then a nice young man, with a cane and moustache,
Who certainly thinks he is cutting dash,
Looks over the list of plays and soirees,
As if vainly trying his fancy to please,
In theatres, In races
ClrcusseS, Anu cndsesi
Operas, Banquets,
Balls, And calls,
And finally wonders what editors mean
By printing paper not fit to be seen.
Sentimental young lady next picks up'the paper
And reads by the light OF the dim, burning taper,
And wonders if lines addressed to MisssRello,
Were not written by clever young fellow,
IN T. Ju;tt- Ianrp danIyV ians
But she stops in alarm at the "dark hazel eyes,"
For hers deep blue,
What pity It's true
And now Mr.. Editor,
IT'S all blamed on you
What speeches, And lawing,
And sermons, And jawing
And news, And clawing,
By despatch, " match;
But no sketches or tales that l can see
What kind Of man must the editor be
Next grave politician who with dignity glows
Adjusts his gold spectaclls over his nose
Takes huge pinch of snuff before he proceeds,
Then opens the paper and leisurely reads
OF breeches, OF Senate,
And speeches, OF House,
And foreign OF railways,
Reports, And courts,
And says, as he reads the last column of war,
What strange kind of people these editors are,
These rhymes and these love-stores to print,
If 'twould do any good, l would give them hint.
Now an old maid the paper espies,
And holding it carefully off from her eyes,
And frequently muttering Ala /" and "du tell!
She manages some way to rad very well
The marriages, The robberies,
Accidents, And Murders,
Suicides, All in
Deaths, BREATH
And finishing wonders what sort of blunder
The whole of the community is under.
To support paper whose print is so small,
She wonders how people read it at all.
Next, an angry contributor eager for fdme,
Rushes into the sanctum to loudly complain
"I am ruined, sir, ruinedmy success sir, is DER,
So many mistakes meier heard of before,
Look here at this Sonnet addressed to my lady,
You've made it Bonnet and Dress for Baby !"
Don't talk of my writing, and say it was that
You're an editor, sir, but gent--that is fiat"
The farmer complains that his crop is neglected,
While much time is spent in guessing who'll be see
The minister says 1t should be more sedate,
And not 80 much wasted on matters of state;
And thousand Of other complaints are made known,
Which the EDITORS back has to bear all alone;
But the worst of it is, that they all join in saying
Su4h paper this he can print without paying