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‘The Timm Ham Comm;
dw Waives said . . •
Every dog has his day. This coming week will be National Newspaper Week.
Any Wednesday you think you’d like to own a nice country weekly (to play around with in your spare time), come on around, you could buy it cheap. But on Thursday morning when the week’s edition is out, the price is plenty high, and the only way you could purchase the rag would be to buy the entire personnel with it.
There’s a problem or two with running a paper—whether it’s a big city sheet with an air-conditioned plant and regular hours of shifts working, or whether it’s the one-room weekly of men who go to work when the week begins and “quittin’ time” is when the work is done. The same problems exist: try to have the news that the people are interested in, avoid items that, though may be called news by some, can do nothing but harm and are of no value, and see that the Linotype stops kicking out slugs of “ahrdlu etaoini”
By the end of next week, after the newspaper people have eet| their little linotypes dry of metal, each and sundry member of the “fourth estate” can sit in the same attitude of the orchardist when he listens to National Apple Week. Those shiny, perfect apples oil display*—wth >11 the bally-;™ hoo running lush from the mouths of the high-tone orators — may mean glamour to the average man, but, the orchardist knows the work, worry, and sweat that went into raising those apples, and he also knows about what percent of culls went along with those perfect ones.
One of these days the newspaper man will be able to prop his feet on a celestial desk, with the filmy clouds of golden ink about him, and only there will he see that movie newspaper man who is always present at the scene of a big scoop—daily—and rushes to the phone to inform the scurrying office force to ‘stop the presses.” The answer to that one is told in many a newsman’s top stories: The old guy in the press room who informs the world in general that the paper is now “put to bed” and he wouldn’t change it for a picture of the Supreme Court doing a fan dance with a Salvation Army Band*
* * ♦
The sun looked like the moon Saturday afternoon and Sunday, Sunday afternoon and Monday, and the moon was in eclipse Mon-, day night—all confusing. But the smart men had all the necessary explanations: the sun was obscured by smoke from the northern forest fires. (In Pennsylvania it was reported that motorists had to drive with lights on during the day.) The moon eclipse was too long for most of us sleepy-heads. It began early in the night, was complete after 11 o’clock, and be
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