The Albany register. [volume] (Albany, Or.) 1868-18??, 1874-10-23

Il
brother named after Neal Dow and
John B. Cough, and COUNT indulge.
| The trio gazed at me as if was wild
| animal, pulled my hair, and poked in
my ribs to ascertain if I had tangi-
| BILE existence, and then they said they
couldn't solve the mystery. I suppose
they thought all the angels were in
heaven.
The proprietor then handed me slip
of paper and said
snake your will.
&c Make what ?" said, with horri-
BILE chill creeping over me.
Make your will, " he repeated.
"Why?" said I, feeling my pulse in
alarm, F'I amt dying, am I?"
'No," he answered, Sc but an editors
life is uncertain, and it is well enough
to provide for accidents"
Some conception of the danger of my
situation flashed upon me, and l COM
menced to bequeath my worldly effects
ringer pistol, and said:
f' Write Johnson's obituary"
"What am / to do with the Derrin-
ger ?" demanded.
90 Write the obituary with it, he
said.
Then he explained to me that the pen
was attached to the pistol, so that if
any one came in while the editor is
pennipg his Billingsgate, and takes ex-
| ceptions the editor is prepared to meet
him.
l felt my courage oozing away when
the howitzer plan of journalism was
explained to me.
But wrote Johnson's obituary.
TIE proprietor said Johnson had died
| of pistol-shot." Said he: "that's
tho of
their couch about 'em here"
pronounced Johnson's taking-oH a
'' damnable assassination, and in the
course of the obituary slandered every
maiden, and remarked in general terms
that, with few exceptions, every man
for miles around there was a horse
thief and a felon.
The proprietor after interlining lit
tie profanity, said the obituary would
do, and told me to state at the bottem
that 81 was personally responsible for
it and could be found on the street at
all hours OF the day
"Why," said I, Z" won't have to be
in the Office occasionally ?"
"Oh, yes, said he, that is just a
fguraJive expression.
Then I signed my name to the obitu.
ary which contained enough slander to
subject me to be butchered a thousand
times.
Then the proprietor bade me follow
him.
He led the way to the graveyard
where he had put Johnson away.
"This," he observed, is the Editors
Cemetery Read them boards, said
he.
began-tTim Sniggles age 29:
late editor Roorea'; bowie knife. - '' Tom
Jones, editor Ro0reT pistol shot, &C.,
&C., until I had read forty of them, and
all had died violent deaths, except one.
Only one died like Christian, and the
proprietor informed me that he didn'
have any editorial ability.
Now" continued the proprietor,
backing up against tombstone, eve
run live newspaper here. We make
it hot and lively"
eyes," I rejoined, glancing around
the cemetery, 't It may be live news
paper, but I notice it has several dead
editors"
Pshaw I" was his answer, "what is
life compared to independent journal
ism ?'
had to give IN.
Glow 1ong,",I inquired, "dees the
average editor live here ?''
'' Two or three weeks" was his reply
I was thinking of my gentle Polly
VINO might never again DenOId me VIII
the bloom of health on my cheek
Then dropping one huge tear to tn,
memory of all "them dead editors
walked back gloomily. At the Office
was handed a dictionary With the re
mark
"We use this altogether. Webste
don't express our ideas"
The dictionary" didn't have de
cent word in it.
The Office was well fortified. Th
broom was half pitchfork, and we poke,
the fire with a Spanish stilletto. A
midnight arose from my couch, tool
some chalk and wrote on the floor, NJ
darling Stuf1estreet, GmreUoir! Here
my resignation. Take your newspape
into the cemetery and employ Stew
Lowery's ghost to run it.
Five minutes later solitary fl1gitiv
might have been seen going throug
the darkness and gloom in the direction
of Oshkosh. That was this individus
fleeing from the sweets of '' independ
ent journalism =" to the bosom of hi
. family, and propose to stay in tha
? bosom for considerable length of time
and Skewtonville journals can seek else
xrIaaro for or, oditoriaI GGoornSo - 10H