sts of
his business.

For three years his nimble feet pounded the sidewalks of the town. He
knew no business hours, and ate and slept with his work. He never ceased
to be a reporter--never took off his make-up, never let down from his
exalted part. One day he fell sick of a fever, and for three weeks
fretted and fumed in delirium. In his dreams he wrote pay locals, and
made trains, and described funerals, got lists of names for the society
column, and grumbled because his stuff was cut or left over till the
next day. When he awoke he was weak and wan, and they felt that they
must tell him the truth.

The doctor took the boy's hands and told him very simply what they
feared. He looked at the man for a moment in dumb wonder, and sighed a
long, tired sigh. Then he said: "Well, if I must, here goes"--and turned
his face to the wall and closed his eyes without a tremor.

And thus the Young Prince went home.

III

The Society Editor

They say that in the newspaper offices of the city men work in ruts;
that the editorial writer never reports an item, no matter how much he
knows of it; that a reporter is not allowed to express an editorial view
of a subject, even though he be well qualified to speak; but on our
little country daily newspaper it is entirely different. We work on the
interchangeable point system. Everyone writes items, all of us get
advertising and job-work when it comes our way, and when one of us
writes anything particularly good, it is marked for the editorial page.
The religious reporter does the racing matinee in Wildwood Park, and the
financial editor who gets the market reports from the feed-store men
also gets any church news that comes along.

The only time we ever established a department was when we made Miss
Larrabee society editor. She came from the high school, where her
graduating essay on Kipling attracted our attention, and, after an
office council had decided that a Saturday society page would be a
paying proposition.

At first, say for six months after she came to the office, Miss Larrabee
devoted herself to the accumulation of professional pride. This pride
was as much a part of her life as her pompadour, which at that time was
so high that she had to tiptoe to reach it. However she managed to keep
it up was the wonder of the office. Finally, we all agreed that she must
use chicken-fence. She denied this, but was inclined to be good-natured
about it, and, as an office-joke,