Gilpin observer., 1914-06-25
LOWED" TO THE EDIToR-MAN

LOWED" TO THE EDIToR-MAN
The editor sat at his Uttered desk
at the close of a tiresome day; he'd
pushed his pencil steadily with no
thought of glory or pay; his was the
dope that moved the world while 9TH
ers went and came, and much of his
stuff was the sort that boosts the
other fellows game; he'd gathered the
views OF Brother Jones, he gave them
to Brother Brown; he'd shown why
Pikeville on the Bum wasn't . in it
with his town; he'd penned the lines
that brought good cheer to many sor-
rowing folk; he'd put the props be-
meath the hulk Of some discouraged
bloke; he'd led the hosts into the
fray, along with his other loads, and
boosted as only an editor can, the
question Of good roads; he'd proved
tator-vag had laughed and sneered
and trampled on his country's starry
flag; he'd worked while others slept
or played no kick on his daily grind,
and, writing, all forgot himself for
the good of all mankind; he was
fair and square as he went along
and tried to do things nice, but cuss.
ed and discussed by his fellow-man,
he was knocked down once or twice;
still, things like these to the editor
man are incidents soon forgotten
he pushes ahead where other men
would refer to. his game as rotten;
and so the years as they come and
go make his pathway hard to travel
wrinkles creep into his sun-tanned
brow from problems hard to ravel.
Still, his is highway of joy, all told,
and his heart sings silent song
for the good he does for his fellow
man just as he goes along. The
world reads the tales of the editor
man, yet seldom gets the hunch, that
of all the men in the motley throng,
he's the king-bee Of the bunch; so he
tolls on from day to day, outlining
life's description, and then drops dead
when he receives two dollars on sub
scription; and another man steps in
to his shoes to play the same old
game; he suffers the same old grind
himself,but he's happy just the same.
He is called" to the work, he never
gets through, for the world still cries
for more, and the curtain is never
wrung down on him till he hikes for
the golden shore. Over there, kind
folks, there's a crown of gold reserv-
ed for the brow of tan of the fellow
who works and never kicks : and
that is the editor-man.
that is the editor or-man.-Denver Ho-
tel Bulletin.
The editor sits in his easy chair,
and pulls at a black cheroot., and
calls the man on the other sheet, a
brainless old galoot. He searches in
vain in his narrowed brain, for a
word he wishes to use, that con-
tains the venom he would inject in
the man he must abuse. OF course,
the editor tries to boost the town in
which he lives, and thinks he's the
only son of a gun who digs in his
jeans and gives. Supposing he wears
out a pencil or two in giving guy
a boost, his conscience is clear and
he feels like a man, at night when
he goes to roost. And this is worth
a dollar or two, to fellow built just
right, for conscience clear is a
weapon dear when engaging in a
fight. But the city editor sits and
writes in a stuffed and smoky room,
no wonder his temper is always ruff
ed. and his thoughts are filled with
gloom. But If he came here, where
the atmosphere, is sweet and pure
and clean, the clouds would all be
leaving his sad and murky bean. No
trials too great for the editor-man,
up here in the hills to pack, for with
a smile he carries load. that would
break horses back. So move from
the city's stencil and filth, where
i, crime and graft are rife, and with
your gun and fish pole, add some
years to your life; and when your
days are ended and you hike for
the golden shore, you'll be far near.
er heaven than you ever were be-
fore.