Psmith Journalist

ve known it, but a great crisis wa

venue in its automobiles, and was there a furrow of anxiety upon Society's brow? None. At a thousand street corners a thousand policemen preserved their air of massive superiority to the things of this world. Not

d find on the bookstalls in all probability would be the _Blubber Magazine_, or some similar production written by Esquimaux for Esquimaux. Everybody reads in New York, and read

to take home with him from his office and read aloud to the chicks before bed-time. It was founded by its proprietor, Mr. Benjamin White, as an antidote to yellow journalism. One is forced to admit that up to the present yellow

y Moments_ thrives

by Jane (aged six), and other works of rising young authors. There is a "Moments of Meditation" page, conducted by the Reverend Edwin T. Philpotts; a "Moments Among the Masters" page, consisting of assorted chunks looted from the literature of the past, when foreheads were bulgy and thoughts prof

r. Wilberfloss. Nor had he proved unworthy of the trust or unequal to the duties. In that year _Cosy Moments_ had reached the highest possible level of domesticity. Anything not calculated to appeal to the home had been rigidly excluded. And as a result the circulation had increased steadily

oss could, perhaps, have endured, if this had been all. There are worse places than the mountains of America in which to spend ten weeks of the tail-end of summer, when the sun has ceased to grill and the mosquitoes have relaxed their exertions. But it was not all. The doctor, a far-seeing man who went down to first causes, had absolutely declined to consent to Mr. Wilberfl

o sure that it shouldn't be longer. You must forget that such a paper exists. You must dism

he had been fussing in and out of the office, to the discontent of its inmates, more especially Billy Windsor, the sub-editor, who was now listening moodily to the last harangue of the series, with the air of one whose heart is not in the subject. Billy Windsor was a tall,

rfloss made him tired. Sometimes he made him more tired than at other times. At the present moment he filled him with an aching weariness. The editor meant well, and was full of zeal, but he had a habit of covering and recovering the ground. He possessed the art of say

Mrs. Julia Burdett Parslow is a little in

said the

ss chirruped

easant letter, you understand, pointing out the necessity of being in good time. The machinery of a weekly paper, of course, cannot run smoothly u

-editor

tendency I have noticed lately in Mr. Asher to be just a trifle--wel

" said Bil

e of humour has led him just a little beyond the bounds. You understand? Well, that is a

id the sub-edi

the air of an exile bidding farewell to

deep scowl resumed his task of reading the proofs of