THE XCHANGE FYEND.—SHEECARGO ALL QUIETT.—THE FYEND GOES
ABROAD.—HIS GRATE SPERIT APALLED.—THE BERRIED HOPES OF A
RUMATIICK POET.
Our offis has got wot is called a xchange fyend wot comes in every mornin wen we get the male and looks over all the papers, cos he's too meen to buy his own readin matter. I knovv'd by the way the edittur looks at him, he'd like to kick him down 3 flites of steep steps, but I guess he borrowed a dime from him, bout ten years ago, and he's 'frade he'll 'tach the offis furniture for it. I alwus like to help my 'mployers outer a tite place, so, this mornin, I run 'cross a paper that was printed this day sevral yares ago, so I lade it down on the tabil where the Fyend'd strike it the first thing, and then I got orful busy dustin the book-case. Wen he cum in, he picked up the paper and looked down the hed-lines. I seen he was gettin orful xcited, then he snatched up his hat and segar stump, and run like he was chased by litenin. Purty soon, there was more an 5,000 peepel on the street in front of the offis, and the edittur got orful scared, cos he thought they was goin to run him outer town, on account of the big soshill scandell wot he published yesterday, so he sent me to the door to see wot they all wanted. Wen I got there the peeple was most crazey for noose from the Sheecargo fire. I told em to hold on and we'd hav out an xtra in a few minits, and then I showed the edittur the paper wot the Fyend was reedin, wot gave a big account of the Sheecargo fire. Wen we got out our extra, we sold 'bout 10,000 coppies, with a artickel, wot red like this:
“The latest despaches from that city report Sheecargo all quiett, thanks to the forethort of the Mayor, in swarein in a large number of extra perlice, for service durin the sittin of the Youmorists Conven-shun, and the grate precaushuns taken by Common Counsil to see that no lickher was sold to delergates!” You bet there was a mad crowd, wen they found out there warnt no fire a tall in Sheecargo. The 'xchange fyend's gone to New Jersey, cos it'll have time to blow over, 'fore Congres can promulgait a xtrodishun treety, with that government.
This afternoon, I was appalled, my grate big spirit fell down into my shoes, like a Jump of led. Alass how grate the breech is, tween the orthor, and the columns of a noospaper, and how short the rode, wot leeds to the waist basket, espeschially the one, in a printin offis like the Daily “Buster,” were the basket covers bout a square akrc of flore. I was put to cleenin up the waste basket, so as we'd hav the paper reddy, for the junk man, wot calls round with his six horse teem of goverment muels, once a week, I coldn't help lingerin over the contents, and sying, wen I thought, of the hopes wot lied burried thare. There was one littel peece of poultry, rittin on a sheet of 'lectric blue paper, and sented with otto of roses, and indited to “My dare George.” I wunder if the poultryess ment me, wen she rote it, cos if she did, she struck it jest rite, for Ive got it stowed away, in my pants pocket next my hart.
There was a nother roll of manerskript, wot wayed a pound, and come by xpress, without bein pade. I guess the edittur was mad, wen he paid 50 sents charges, and found out it warnt no berthday present. A note with it, red like this:
My dare Edittur Buster—
The enclosed storie entitled “Dudish Dick, the Flirtin
Corn-Doctor of Horse-car No. 36,” is wurth $500, but in
complerment of the high standin of your valewbel jurnal, I
will allow you to publish it for notthin, if you will send
me papers containin it.
Yours trooly,
Sammy Lane, Author.
Wat unappreciatin beins editturs are! Wen they wuld let a geneyus wot was capable of pennin the follerin lines go unrewarded:
A big politishun named Kelley,
Had a gripin pane in his belly.
He used St. Jacobs oil,
And now he's nussin a boil,
But his pane has left him by golly.