The Placer herald., 1861-04-06
TRIALS OF AN EDITOR.
BY KATE NEVILLE.

| How oft we think, when reading the news,
An editor could please, if he choose
But such paper as this why, all must agree,
That thing of less interest they never did see.
But, Sir Critic, reflect, ere you make noise on,
What is one man. meat is another mans poison;
And. lest you persist in your steady denials,
Wen give YOU few Of IN editors trials.
First, pretty young lady, sprghtly and fair,
With paper in hand, waltzes up to the chair,
And hastily gancing DER all that she saw,
She throws it aside with muttered "pshaw!"
"No marriages here
l think it is queer,
When there's ever so many,
They don't publish any!
Here's poetry, sketches,
And tales without ending,
And battles and sieges
And law suits pending,
But no picnics, or concerts, or parties for me,
Such trash upon paper never did see!"
Then nice young man with cane and nous
tache
Who certainly thinks be is cutting dash,
Looks over the list of plays and sorees,
AS if vainly trying his fancy to please
In theatres, circuses,
Operas, balls,
In races, and chascs,
In banquets and calls,
And finally wonders what editors mean
By printing paper not fit to be scent
Sentimental young lady next picks up the paper,
And reads by the light of u dim burning taper,
And wonders if lines addressed to Miss Relic,
Were not written to her by some clever young
fellow,
Who is pretty, and witty, and learned and wise,
But she drops in alarm at the 'dark, hazel eyes, "
For hers are deep blue,
What pity tits true!
And now, Mr.. Editor,
'Tis all blamed on you
"What speeches, and sermons.
And news by despatch!
And having. and jawing,
And cawing to match;
But no sketches or tales that can see
| What sort of a man must the editor be-"
Next, grave politician, who with dignity glows.
Adjusts his gold spectacles over his nose,
Takes huge pinch of snuff before he proceeds,
Then opens the paper and leisurely reads,
OF breaches and speeches,
And foreign reports,
OF senate, of house.
or railways, 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 stories to print!
If 'twould do any good, would give them hint"
Now, prim old maid the paper espcs,
And holding it carefully off from her eyes.
And frequently muttcring "la!" and "du tell"
She manages some way to read very we'll
The marriages, accidents,
Suicides. deaths,
The robberies und murders
All in breath,
And finishing, wonders what sort of blunder
The whole of the cheated communitys under
To support paper whose print is so SMALL
She wonders how some people read it at all.
Next, an angry contributor, eager for fame,
Rushes into the sanctum to loudly complain
I'm ruined, SIR ruined-my success. sir, is DER!
So many mistakes were ne'er heard of before!
Look here at this Sonnet Addressed to my Lady,
You've made it "A Bonnet and Dress for Baby!
Don't talk of my writing, and say it was that
Your an editor, sir, but no gent-that is tat!"
The farmer complains that his crop is neglected.
While so much time is spent in guessing who'll
be elected;
The minister says it should be more scdate,
And not so much wasted on matters of state;
And thousands 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
"Such paper as this he can print without pay
| ing"