Washington standard. [volume] (Olympia, Wash. Territory) 1860-1921, 1874-11-07
My Editorial Career on the
"Skewtonville Roarer."

ming live newspaper over in Skewton-
vile. The village of Skewtonville is a
savage little place where centenarians
die in early life, and where undertakers
accumulate fortunes.
Last week was informed that Timo-
thy johnson, late editor of the Ske,c-
tonrille Roarer, had suddenly deceased,
and that the Board of Directors had
chosen me his successor at salary of
$50, drinks and shirt-collars per annum.
1 was requested to come at once to at
tend Johnson's funeral and get up his
obituary for the next issue.
1 tied necktie round my throat, told
Polly I was going to open few gems
of thought for paper, and started for
Skewtonville.
Three drunken rufins, smoking Ju-
nison weed in cob pipes, met me in the
suburbs of the town, informed me they
were the Board of Directors, and es-
corted me to house where the late Mr.
johnson was laying in state, in pine
coffin with his boots on. They told me
that was Skewtonville style of funeral
pomp. A melancholy looking fellow
said the usual things over the corpse
and assured the crowd that Johnson's
spirit had taken it's fight of which
fact I suppose nobody had any doubt.
johnson looked as if he had been a
great sinner, and I guess he needed all
the prayers they gave him.
The funeral procession started. The
other folks walked, but out of respect
to my high position was mounted on
a depraved mule. We laid the late
editor meath the daises, practically
speaking.
Then 1 was escorted back to town,
and ushered into dismal room with
half-inch hole punched through the wall,
which I presume was a Skewtonville
window. thought had inadvertently
violated some city ordinance and been
put in the calaboose, but one OF the
ruffians relieved me with the informa-
ton that I was in the Office of the
ShcutonriUe Roarer, live newspaper,
81 per annum, payable in corn whisky.
1 told him he was good jokist.
On the floor lay copy Of the Roarer
and next to it jug of whisky. l
could not help thinking that they looked
like twin brothers.
One of the Directors, who said that
his name was Stuff1estreet, raised the
bottle to his lips, and told me he was
the chief proprietor of the Roarer. If
l had sold myself to the devil to edit
paper in the Internal regions, couldn't
have felt meaner. He passed the bottle
to me, but I told him had a brother
named after Neal Dow and John Cough,
and I couldn't indulge. The trio gazed
at me as if I was wild animal, pulled
my hair and poked in my ribs to ascer-
tain if I had a tangible existence, and
then they said they couldn't solve the
mystery. I suppose they thought all
the angels were in heaven. -
"Make your will"
Make what?" I said, with horri-
bic chill creeping over me. nd
"Make your will, he repeated. IN
"why," said I. feeling my pulse in
alarm. ct amt dying, am I%
"No," he answered, "but an editors
life is uncertain, and it is well enough
70 provide for accidents"
Some conception of the danger of
my situation flashed upon me and I
commenced to bequeath my worldly
effects to Polly. Then he handed me
derringer pistol and said,
"Write Johnson's obituary"
"What am I to do with the der
ringer?' ".
Then he explained to me that the pen
was attached to the pistol, 80 tnat II
any one came in while the editor is
penning his billingsgate, and takes
exceptions. the editor is prepared to
meet him.
felt my courage oozing away when
the howitzer plan of journalism was ex-
planned to me. a -
But wrote Johnson's obituary.
The proprietor said johnson had died
of pistol shot"-said he. g that's the
way editors wrap the drapery of their
couch about 'em here" at...r 'Hi.
pronounced Johnson's taking off a
damnable assassination, and in the
course of the obituary slandered every
maiden, and remarked in general terms