Page:Oregon Exchanges volume 7.djvu/5



EED ’em what they want in news. If you don't know what they want, try to find out. If you can't find out. feed ’em a little of everything.

They call me the editor. At odd times I am supposed to mount shanks’ mare and gallop furiously in pursuit of news. It takes a persistent and skilled guy on the end of the rope to lasso a worthwhile story—to get all of it and get it all correct.

If everything is not exactly right there come the guys to tell the editor about it. There is required the patience of a woodpecker and the tact of a. dentist to withstand the barrage of advice that sweeps against the editor who rubs the dust beyond the chalk-line. Imeet aguywho runs a farmout in the sticks. “ Harya,” sez he, “that was the most magnolious piece I ever saw in print which you printed last week about the conglomerated condition of the wheat market.” But he switches from the glorious symphony of commendation and hands me the line, “There’s one thing y’ do, however, the same of which I don’t app:-ove —you prints a lot of dope about the merchandise the merchants sells here in town—now us guys knows that's just dope to get us to trade here, and we ain’t goin’ to do so until their prices comes down.” Then he continues, “How soever, you might mention next week that my daughter, Clementine, who has just returned from visiting relatives in Peanutville, Montana, is now home with her folks. ” In the hardware store I meet the man who sells pans, kettles, plows, harvesters and such haberdashery. “Say,” he be gins efiulgently, “I sure want to thank you for the writeup you gimme on selling that big line of harvesters this year. Y ’ give the names of all the guys that bought machines—great stud’. boosting home sales like that helps wonderful.” But his grin vanishes and he says, “But what’s the idea of printing that bank about the rotten price of wheat! Can’t y’ leave good enough alone—l'irst thing y’ l(llu‘ you'll have them farmers think in’ that they really are broke.” Into the sweet-smelling atmosphere of the tonsorial parlor I hie myself to listen and take part in conversation with a dozen of the four billion. The ideas of these common fellows are always in teresting. “I I ’lo, Editor,” says one rosy-beak, “Lotsa news in the paper this week everybody went everywhere and every thing. Must keep ya pretty busy keepin’ track of everybody, don't it?” “Shut up,” crows a second bird, ‘that's his business, ain’t it! Say, Ed., that’s the easiest job on earth you got—just roam around and hear the guys talk and then print it and you got a newspaper. But what’s the idea of running that serial story—doncha know that everybody has read that long before Minnehaha threw the dollar across the Columbia. ” “Aw gwan,” chirps a small fellow, “that's a great story—I read it first thing when I get the paper. It's all them society items I don't like. What's the use of printin’ all the junk about Mrs. Paderewski Jones entertained twenty-six feminines at bridge last Tues day and Alexandria Hammendutfer won the first prize of a silvcr-plated pickle . -tabbcrl” It sometimes seems hard to feed all the fellows what they want without flavoring their food with the extract of something that they don't want. Feed ’ em a little of everything and you’ll bat .3 00 —which is good enough for a coun try editor. [5]