The Barre daily times. (Barre, Vt.) 1897-1959, 1917-07-26
NEWSPAPER DAY.
There Is No 8 O'clock a. m. for the Re-
porter on a Morning Paper, for
Which He Is Duly Thankful

Which He Is Duly Thankful
The reporter went down town at S
o'clock the other morning, and he was
shocked 1t was as if new world were
opened to his sight, and he had to rub his
eyes to be sure that it was not dream.
II was beautiful autumn day, and there
was chill in the air, but it was not the
chill that penetrated his system-it was
the people. Men and women, boys and
girls, trolley cars and jitneys - there
they were hustling as if their very souls
depended on their getting somewhere,
and it grated harshly on the peaceful re-
porter.
The women's faces were chalky, the
men in the dairy lunch room swallowed
their coffee and bolted for the door, no
body looked happy, the whole world was
trying to get somewhere on time and was
decidedly cross about it. Why did not
the people stay in bed where they be-
longed and not get up until they felt like
| it and could face the sunshine without a
snarlf The reporter felt saddened that
the lot of the other half was so fretful.
For years the reporter, toiling merrily
on the morning newspaper, had lolled in
bed and enjoyed life in the sacred morn.
ingtide without a thought of the crazy
world that was heaying so restlessly
about him This morning, by some
strange chance, he strolled out to see
EI~a pI
the crazy people were spelling it all.
Nobody felt the crispness of the air,
no one saw the little leaves whirlng from
the trees, all were vexed. The prettiest |
part was passing but nobody knew it.
Soon the hot sun would be shining white |
on the asphalt, and the fairy touch would
be no more. Only at nightfall, when
the lights twinkled once more and the
city fusher at 7;30 prompt began to
swash off Windsor avenue, would life
again be worth living
The garish day! What miserable,
prosaic life is theirs who work therein.
The reporters mind went back to the
past when he, too, went to bed at Q
o'clock He thought of it all recently
when he visited his old home and saw old
friends reading magazines and gossiping
and even yawning in the evening
He was fairly scandalized that the
precious hours should be wasted so fool
ishly, the best hours of the day, the
hours in which the mind OF man is the
keenest and his thoughts the freest
Then the washtub and the ironing board
are put away, the imports of the week
and the bank elearings are forgotten, ,
the jitneys dash madly toward the
movie house, and life begins.
There are people who say that night.
time is for sleep, as there are those who
see no art in movie show, but they are
too good to be companionable Even the
folk, rock ribbed in the early to-
bed maxim of Poor Richard, confess that ..
they ofttimes are gathered together after !
supper and that games are played, re-
'reshments served and pleasant even.
ng had. |
1t was such thoughts as these that
'urged through the expansive brain of
he reporter who saw the people hurry :
ng to their work. The youth gulping
Iown coffee knew that he would be sip
,ing a more soothing draft at nightfall
With his friends. The two young women
With tired white faces would be happy
o-night on their way to Laurel park. I
They, too, like the reporter, lived ever
With their eyes toward the setting sun.
true, the long black night teens with
york for the reporter, but he does not R
ate it. How could he? How can any n
ne hate the nightf N
There is no galley slave look to the A
ewspapermen as they hasten to their
vening work. Ever see them? just
box at them whirling down Windsor l.
venue as the city flusher washes the y
treet, JOY in their hearts, apple pic in r
heir stomaehs, pretty girls swsying in
heir laps, as the jitney makes the curve .
{ the tunnel, and the lights of the city
onward to the fairy land that
waits. SO
Then comes midnight, happy day, when
ork is done and soul communes with
,ul, and everybody tells how he would =
in the paper if he owned it, and the
yift swish home in the cold night air
nd sleep that knows no whistle call and
D hasty breakfast There is no o'clock
the newspaper mans career. Thank
Cd for tbati-Hartford Couraut