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Rh bles. You will recall that at first the bubble was very small as it issued from the bowl of the pipe, but as we expanded our lungs into it, it gradually enlarged until it floated off in the air, a perfect sphere, scintillating in the sunlight with prismatic colors. But the bubble at the start was in miniature all which it afterwards became. So the small country weekly contains in itself the nucleus of the large metropolitan daily. It is then decidedly worth a man's best efforts, and will repay the time and care bestowed upon it. It serves as an advance agent for its community, as copies of it travel far and wide. My own paper goes east as far as New York City, south to Alabama, north to Alaska. It takes in Chicago and points in Michigan, Minnesota, Montana and southern California.

Now in all these places it will be scanned not only by those who take it but by others. Thus Estacada and vicinity become known by name to strangers, who will form impressions of the place from the appearance and style of the paper.' This is one reason why I have been particular about its typographical appearance and arrangement, and thanks to my efficient helpers, the result has been gratifying.

Only a few days ago I gave a copy to a friend who had been for two years librarian in the university of a neighboring state. She remarked that it was in such contrast to so many forlorn looking weeklies they received at the library. It is neither difficult nor expensive to pay attention to the detail of the paper's neat appearance and it pays well so to do.

When I first sat down in the editorial chair I had visions of striking and trenchant editorials ﬂowing from my pen, which would impress my readers and at tract the attention of my editorial brethren to a new luminary on the journalistic horizon. But it was not long before I discovered that what my readers wanted was not editorial writing but news items of local doings and persons, especially of themselves or their "sisters, their cousins and their aunts."

But in spite of this, a country weekly should try to maintain a strong editorial column, as I consider this the heart of the paper, and there will always be a few who will read it appreciatively. But the more personal and local news and country correspondence the paper contains, the more acceptable it will be. At first I was greatly bored by what seemed to me trivial gossip of the personal items. What did it matter whether Mrs. Jones went to Portland Saturday or not, and other such items? But after three years I find my self becoming interested in them, as they no longer relate to the comings and goings of strangers, but of those whom I know more or less well. In other words they are now charged with a human interest for me. A country editor when he writes the name of Mrs. Jones visualizes her. Besides, later he discovers that her trip to the city will be impressed upon him when his better half mentions that the aforesaid Mrs. Jones, on her trip to the city, purchased a new dress and hat at the store which advertises every article reduced in price, with double trading stamps thrown in.

To sum up, the small country weekly is a human document, replete with human interests, the record of the throbs and pulsations of human hearts. It affords an unrivalled opportunity to study human nature at close range, and for the furtherance of human welfare by the promotion of concord and good-will, and the advocacy of clean human living. I have not regretted my choice, for I find it has much in common with my former profession. Both deal with the same human subjects and conditions, and both clergyman and editor should take to heart Terence's well known classic line and adopt it as a motto: "Homo sum. Humani nihil a me alienum puto," which may be freely rendered: "I am a man. I deem nothing human alien to me, even though it be small town stuff."