Newspaper Page Text
Was reduced to a stick full and
sandwiched in among the adver tising "because it couldn't displace the tale of the dead cat. And any one hunting for SUCH news would be forced to meet The Daily News advertisers' advertis ing face to face. While the cat story didn't es pecially harm any of The Daily News' patrons its space filling length furnished a legitimate newspaper excuse for cutting down and shoving to rear other dope that The News couldn't en tirely ignore, and which might peeve its friends; while at the same time it enabled The News to shoot a hot thought wave over the plate in the minds of such workers as actually read its col ' umns. Black Boy (the dead tom-cat) 'was forced to do what he did be "icause of parental influence. Knowing that this was to be the manner of his death, he tried on several occasions to meet his fate' (Kismet Allah thy will be dpne). If there is no escape for a tom cat from parental influence howl can humanity hope to escape its power? If the mother and father are compelled to "earn their 0 bread in the sweat of their brow, their children must bow their heads o the inevitable and cheer fully accept the life-long burden of similar servitude. Isn't that a swell way of preaching an industrial sermon by using a dead tom-cat as a text to teach live men the lesson that they are born to labor, and no I matter how much they must do, how little they get, it must never troublethem? It's fate and they can't es cape it. Isn't it rich, rare and racy the way it's told the use and almse not only of newspaper space, but the confidence of the honest pur chaser who pays a penny for news and gets the tale of a dead cat in stead ? MAYBE you never heard this one: Blows the wind today, and the sun and the rain are flying Blows the wind on the moors today and now, Where, about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying, My heart remenlbers how 1 ."" Gray, recumbent tombs of tfie dead in desert places, Standing stones on the vacant red-wine moor, Hills of sheep, and the homes of the silent, vanished races, And the wind'austre and pure Be it granted me to behold you -again in dying, Hills of home! and I heard again the call Hear above the graves of the martyrs the'pee-wees crying, And hear no more at all. Robert Louis Stevenson, o -o Next year will be leap year, when those London suffragettes can do the proposing Watch the parliament wilt !