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lion," as it was called, appeared to be a suitable mark, and he availed himself of the opportunity.

This obtained for him, on the following morning, a visit from the mayor-a man named Kruger, who was of German extraction and exceedingly popular.

"Look here!" said the mayor, "by which of them has your paper been subsidized, the dance-halls or the new Methodist mission?"

"What do you mean?" the editor asked. "Well," was the reply, "they are the only two institutions affected by the rival attraction you have roasted in your paper, so I thought maybe " Then he laughed, and so did the other in spite of himself.

"Don't be too serious," His Honor continued; "there's nothing in it. But," he added, as he reached the door, "that cat must have been doped, or the dog wouldn't have had such a picnic."

After all, a country paper must conform in some measure to the tastes of its constituents, even though they be tastes not easily acquired. And the paper had now become a daily-still at a dime per copy-for two railroads were approaching and the town was rapidly increasing in population. Telegraph service was shockingly poor, but there were always enough sprightly local happenings to fill up; many more than a weekly issue could well take care of. The new editor's predecessor had, he said, been considerably embarrassed, just prior to the former's arrival, by a sensation of great magnitude that developed the day after his paper had gone to press, and was all over before the next date of publication.

This was an Indian scare, which caused some of the more timorous inhabitants to dig holes under their homes in which they could hide. The Utes were in process of being driven out of their old reservation, which included the whole of the Gunnison valley, and a large body of them were encamped within twenty-five or thirty miles of Gunnison, down in the direction of what is to-day the thriving town of Grand Junction. Their natural dislike of the predatory white race was not decreased when a freighter named Jackson, in a scrimmage with several drunken members of the tribe, had the misfortune to kill a son of Chief Shavano.

News of this affair reached Gunnison through a frightened runner, coupled with the announcement that the tribe would, in all probability, seek to wreak vengeance upon the inhabitants of that place. But as Jackson failed to obtain protection from the officials at the near-by agency, they caught and wreaked vengeance upon him, and in less than a week the scare was over. The Indians, it may be said in passing, were not finally removed from Colorado into Utah until September, 1881.

"But how," inquired the New Yorker of his predecessor, "even if you had been publishing a daily at the time, could you have got any news of what was going on at the source of the danger?"

"Well, I could have guessed some, and faked more," was the unblushing reply.

That other editors, later on, might be forced to this expedient of guessing and faking to "cover" a news story developing in the same inaccessible region did not occur to the young man from Park Row at the time, but such proved to be the case.

In the same way as had come news of the threatened Indian uprising, came one day the intelligence that Gunnison's popular sheriff had met death at the hands of a band of horse thieves in pursuit of whom he had a day or two before ridden, with several deputies, down into the valley of the Uncompahgre River.

Mayor Kruger, with flashing eyes, promptly called for volunteers to avenge the sheriff's death, and it was a gallant, mounted party that set off in the direction of Grand Junction with that sanguinary purpose in mind. In the party were the editors of both the morning and the evening papers (the city boasted two dailies at that period). They could not be as splendidly gallant as the rest, because neither could accompany the expedition beyond a point that would enable him to return by press time. He of the evening sheet was of course compelled to head for home much earlier than was the other, in consequence of which the News-Democrat was able accurately to record the first day's progress of the avengers to a point considerably beyond where the evening paper had left them.

But the editor of the evening sheet was no tyro at "faking and guessing," and on

the afternoon of the second day he placed the expedition as "close upon the heels of the horse thieves" where, on the following morning, his rival journalist discreetly left them. In the meantime Mrs. Bowman, the wife of the sheriff, had accepted the news of her husband's death as authentic, and had caused crape to be hung on the door. Possibly this is what caused the evening paper, on the third day, to announce the recovery of the sheriff's body, and the fact that it was on its way home. Such, at all events, was the announcement made, and at twilight the editor of the morning sheet strolled out toward the foothills to cogitate upon the matter. He had about decided to kill or severely wound at least one of the bandits, in next morning's news, when he recognized in a horseman riding in from the east Sheriff Bowman himself!

"You're dead," he said, rushing up to the rider. "You can't go home; there's crape on your door; Mrs. Bowman will take you for a ghost!"

Being an amiable, as well as, undeniably, a brave man and good sport, the sheriff consented to dismount and remain in seclusion until the editor had prepared for him a homecoming that could be effected without undue confusion and publicity. The result was that his safe return and the thrilling story of the killing of George Howard, cattle thief, down on the White Water, became known to less than half a dozen residents of Gunnison until they read of it in the morning newspaper.

Possibly the sheriff's courteous recognition of a newspaper's duty to its readers was attributable to his recollection of a rather distasteful experience to which its editor had been subjected, some time before, by one of his deputies.

The circumstance referred to had occurred within a few weeks after the New Yorker's arrival in Gunnison, and before he had been able fully to remove those conceptions, formed on Park Row, of the calm and quiet dignity of a country editor's life. "They tell me," had said a man who came bustling in upon him with a package under his arm, and who was recognized as belonging to the sheriff's office, "that you come from the East and know something about boats."

Having once "covered" a cruise of the New York Yacht Club, the editor acknowledged the compliment as correct.

"Know something about knots, I guess?" continued his visitor, as he unwrapped the parcel and brought to view a long, new hemp rope; "so what do you say to tying a hangman's knot in this ere rope? We've got to use it over at the jail to-morrow morning."

The suggestion was made as calmly as though he were suggesting participation in a morning cocktail, but, as may be imagined, was much less appetizing, and was therefore politely declined.

Far better for the credit of the town was the orderly execution next morning of a condemned man in the county jail (some other seafaring person having been found to tie the rope) than was a more summary and impromptu hanging that took place a year or so later.

But of Gunnison's only lynching, the editor, after all these years, declines to speak. He presumes it may be accepted without description as the culminating point of disillusionment from preconceived notions of rural weekly journalism. He recalls that for his horrified editorial comments upon the affair, he was (and this perhaps better than anything else gives a true picture of Far West conditions at that time) soundly reproved by the leaders of his political party, and reminded that an election was approaching and that "we needed the votes." However it may be with small-town papers throughout the country to-day, in early Colorado "Politics" was the boss to be obeyed-although, of course, there was no objection to a paper's committing suicide if it chose to do so.

Very prominent among the difficulties of running a newspaper in western Colorado at this period was that of convincing compositors there was as much money in handling type at home as in searching for the various types of mineral in which the surrounding hills were supposed to abound. One Sunday it was learned with dismay from the foreman of the composingroom that the entire force, consisting of five compositors, had yielded to the call of the wilds, and as the foreman had decided to celebrate the event in a manner peculiar to himself, the editor's position was

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what may at least be called unenviable, he having no knowledge-how many metropolitan newspaper reporters have? -of the mechanical end of the business. Friends proved loyal in the emergency. One of the minor county officials announced that he could set type, and could, he believed, drum up several other equally accomplished residents of the town. Toward evening he said he had found one in the person of a young man whose more ostensible business was that of "lookout" at a "faro" table (happily not just then in operation), and that a clergyman, who had formerly been a compositor, had promised to come around at the close of the evening service and help out.

In the meantime it was suggested that a plainly marked letter be put in each compartment of the several type-cases, showing just what particular letter of the alphabet each such compartment contained. Mere novices, of which there were abundant volunteers, would thus, it was explained, be able to contribute as much as a "stickful" to the contents of the paper during the night. This plan, the editor now says, might have worked out but for the fact that the two or three kind souls who attempted to follow it knew nothing of the proper division or "spacing" of words, and, on coming across any word that would not fit in so much of a line as was left in their "stick," would promptly put in a lead and go on to the next line, with a jumbled result that hardly need be explained to any intelligent reader.

The county official was rather rusty at the game, and as the evening advanced, the sportive young man above referred to, seeing the need of additional skilled help, volunteered to get it. During his absence, the clergyman arrived, but had barely hung up his coat and stationed himself at a type-case, when laughter was heard on the stairs, and into the composing-room came the sportive youth, dragging by the arm a tow-headed girl from one of the dance halls.

"You know you can set type," said he. "You've told me you used to work in a Chicago job room."

The young woman, after her first unaccustomed shock of embarrassment, was plucky, and, removing her hat, she took

the "case" next to that of the parson, where she soon proved she had not forgotten her trade.

As daylight approached, there was enough type in the forms to make a fair showing, but nobody could "justify" it

that is, arrange the type in such manner that it wouldn't fall out when the forms were raised for removal to the bed of the adjacent press. A day's publicationseveral days, in fact-was thus lost, but the editor now somewhat proudly regards that Sunday night in the composing-room of the Gunnison News-Democrat as furnishing one of the most admirable instances on record of enthusiastic co-operation by the church, the state, and the stage for the perpetuation of the press.

A journey to Denver for the obtaining of printers to take the place of those whom dreams of glistening quartz had lured from the path of duty became necessary. But journeys to Denver were not unwelcome to editors on the western side of the range. The railroad kindly made it a matter of no expense, and their more metropolitan brethren of the press generally recorded their arrivals as matters of public moment, commenting not only upon their appearance, but upon the wondrous awe produced among them by a glimpse of life in the great metropolis.

Eugene Field, at that time city editor of the Denver Tribune, could always be relied upon not to let the visit of a rural editor go unnoticed. Upon the editor of the News-Democrat he had conferred the title of "Tall Darning-Needle of the Gunnison," and on one occasion, he having quoted the latter as authority for a ridiculous story concerning the then State senator, A. M. Stevenson, the editor had demanded that he make a retraction.

"All right," said Field. "You write a card and I'll print it." An explanatory card was written, and the next morning it appeared in The Tribune preceded by these words: "Senator Stevenson met the Tall Darning-Needle of the Gunnison on Arapahoe Street yesterday, and threatened to break him in two; hence the following card."

It is the opinion of the editor, now, forty years later, that no such act of

duplicity as that was ever perpetrated on old Park Row upon any visiting country editor, though hailing from the remotest wilds of Jersey or Connecticut. The latitude of a poet seems to have been accorded to Eugene Field before he really became one of national fame; nevertheless his Muse on one occasion in those early days, led him into a situation from which he emerged but second best.

C. C. Davis (better known as "Cad" Davis), who was editor of a daily paper in Leadville, on returning one day to Denver from Manitou Springs, informed Field that there was a party of tourists down there from Field's old home town, St. Joe, and, in advising Field to pay them a visit, laid particular emphasis upon the beauty and general attractiveness of a young lady in the party, whose charm had won her the well-deserved title of "Belle of St. Joe." He also announced his own intention of paying another visit to the Springs.

The next morning there appeared in the Denver Tribune a "poem," to which was boldly signed the name, "C. C. Davis." One verse of this amorous contribution ran as follows:

"I'm going to Leadville to print and to write With a little bird's song in my breast, But I'll hie to the Springs every Saturday-night,

And woo the sweet bird in her nest.

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Naturally Mr. Davis paid no further visits to Manitou Springs. On the contrary, he returned to Leadville, where, in every issue of his paper for a month or more, appeared the most senseless and amateurish "poems" he could anywhere discover, each bearing the name of Eugene Field as its author. Capitulation, it is said, was finally made at the request of Mr. Field.

This ingenious method of squaring accounts seems, to the reminiscent exile from Park Row, worthy of the description it has received, because, as a rule, the editorial paragrapher in the Colorado of those days did not clothe the expression of his resentments in diplomatic terms. There was a tendency toward the shorter and uglier words, which now and then brought about those reprisals that were responsible for a very general belief that certain editors bore charmed lives.

A book, as was said at the beginning of this article, may some day be written with the "Country Editor" as its chief moving spirit, but if its purpose be to picture the supposed tranquillity of his calling, its scenes will not be laid in early Colorado.

Mary Ellen

BY ROBERT BEVERLY HALE

THERE'S a river by your window, Mary Ellen, Mary Ellen,
And in the heavy shadow of the shore

There is some one singing softly, singing slowly to the rhythm
Of the drawing and the dripping of the oar.

Singing slowly, singing softly of a lovely lazy river,

Night-wandering, a dusk afar and free,

Of a woman in the moonlight paler even than the coral

That gleams in the still gardens of the sea;

Singing sadly of the hurt she gave in passing, of the feather

A-flutter where her woman's heart should be.

There's a whisper, Mary Ellen, cleaving through the river grasses,

The creaking oars go seaward and depart.

The night is singing; water ever ripples over water

And deep your eyes are, dreaming, feather heart.

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