Martinsburg independent. [volume] (Martinsburg, W. Va.) 1875-1900, 1875-09-11
JOURNALISTIC.
What a Nevada Editor Has
Accumulated i'm His Sane


Sitting here in our sanctum and
thinking; our eye musing falls
upon, and the hand toys with a
little trinket, q keepsake, as the
world goes, q Udde necuns. 1t is
of no particular value as vsIues
are reckoned, but 1t is useful to
the hand and treasure to the
heart. A thousand times taken up
a thousand times used, q thousand
times found In readiness, it has
come to be like a fond friend wait
ing to anticipated want and ready
to supply it. And yet 1t is but a
thinker; a senseless thing; merely
the old dragoon revolver we
wrenched from Buffalo Bill, when
he came charging In here to ob.it-
crate us for writing police item
about him. We buried him in
our little graveyard, back of the
office; but we cum never gaze upon
that little pistol without feeling
of admiration for his misplaced
and unfortunate temerity.
That classicalIy moulded limb,
picked and dried, hanging on the
wall, is the left shank of Six-tocd
Pete, the great Mud Springs des-
perado, who came to demonstrate
with us for publishing his mar
rage under the head Of deaths"
1t was printers blunder not
ours, but no matter, we riddled
him with that revolver and then
took off his leg at the hip joint
with the first slash of our trusty
little Ratchet; we should have COM
pleted his Acknowledgement had he
not ran away coward that he was.
His two big brothers who came for
that leg and revenge, both rest in
our little graveyard. back Of the
Office; peace to their ashes.
The Jagged and knotty old Fee
jee war club in the corner, this d.
lapidated nose and broken jaw, as
well as this bullet which we still
feel evermore singing away in the
interior OF our right lung, were
left US by old Blifkins, the editor
of the Gospel Bugle, who comes on
from the East to kill us for con-
Meeting his name with the Beech
er scandal, and proving that he
was the father of Bessie Turner,as
well as the bosom friend of Susan
b. Anthony. Our trusty pistol and
little Ratchet did not fail us, and
he too lies, editorially,in our quiet
little graveyard, back Of the Of
fee.
That elongated, scoop-shaped
memento which we use for a waste
basket, was once the ear of a Vir-
gina City newspaper reporter
lie would persist In steaiin~ our
Items, so we were obliged to go
and cut off his ear with our little
Ratchet, fallaciously thinking that
would stop him. His head goes
next.
We cannot gaze upon that ear
Waste-basket without sentiment
tai degree of reflection stealing di-
agonally across our sensibilities. =
Overlooking as it now is, with re-
jected manuscript in exasperating
prose. abortive poetry, obituary
rhymes, and soul-harroWing liter
airy trash generally, was it net al
ways crammed full OF still worse
trash, in the way OF no-account
items, dog-fights, swill-cart acct
dents, and all sorts Of sensational
lies, gauzy humbugs, and cock
and-bulI stories? All! how eager
ly did that capacious gullible ear
drink them in. May it not in
some unknown or mysterious
way, have become so saturated
with those items that perhaps may
yet cling TO IL as the perfume Of
flowers around vase which held
them? 1t Is a thing Of more use
than, but it Is like our other keep
sakes, overfowIng with subtle en-
anations and personal reminders.
All this may be sentimental fam
cy, but 1t Is fancy without a fault;
IL may be nonsense, but it Ii non
sense which will make the world
better If acted upon, Tor thoughts
may be thus kept from wandering
and hearts from straying TIL the |
feet learn to tread the upper paths |
of life and love fine hpttpr yyayf