I attended a newspaper men's banquet in Rochester, N. Y. One of the speakers, a quaint, funny appearing little old chap, was introduced as a man who lived in a town of six thousand population, but had a circulation of thirty thousand for his paper.
"And," said the toastmaster, as he introduced him, "I would like to have him tell us where those thirty thousand papers go to."
The little old chap arose, scratched his bushy head and said,
"Well—it goes all over. Of course most of 'em go 'round through New York state. But some of 'em go down to Massachusetts, Maine and New Hampshire. Then a few go down South. I have a few subscribers out through California and Oregon and Washington. Some go to Honolulu; the Philippines and two or three go as far as Australia.
"And," he continued, with a sigh, "along in the earlier days I used to have considerable trouble to keep it from going to Hell."
"Bring her Hither."
A young fellow up in New Hampshire has written a Vaudeville playlet and sent it on for my approval. If he could have kept up the gait he struck on the first page I should have bought it:
Maid: A lady waits without.