Rensselaer Republican, Volume 21, Number 36, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 9 May 1889 — ARTSMUS WARD'S FORESIONT. [ARTICLE]

ARTSMUS WARD'S FORESIONT.

OmMi'l Afkrd t* Work Mi m Hsw» fmpmr that W*» Unreliable. Then is an unlimited amount of humor on tap in the average newspaper effioe, and the historian has unearthed an anecdote of Artemus Ward’s ’ first •xperience as a reporter on a Cleveland newspaper. That was before he become known as a humorist, and he was pressed into the harness as the Jenkins of the establishment. One evening he was ant oat to write up a “swell” entertainment to be given by the leading club of the city. On his way to the hall Ward met a fried. “Which way, Charles?” “Going to write up a sort of a fly shindig. ” “Let's go in and take a bowl. I’m going down tbat way pretty soon.” They went into the beer ball. “I must go,” said Ward, after they had spent half an hour In the place. ‘*Oh, no; sit down. Let’s have another bowL Say you can write up that affair just as well from the program as you can by seeing the performance. Got a urogram, haven’t you?” “Yes.” “Well, write it up and let’s make a little round?” Ward surrendered. He wrote up the performance, took the article to the office, and, after having received the praise of the city editor for the gracefulness of his work, went out with his friend. The next morning he read his “report” and was mncli pleased with his own ingenuity, but his complacency was of short life, for, taking up another paper, he read the following anouncement;

“The performance of the A Club, In consequence of the sudden illness of a ‘leading feature,’ did not take place. ” Ward had not the courage to go to the office, but boarded the first-outgoing train. Three months later he returned to Cleveland and was walking lazily along a Street when he iiretrthe managing—editorof the paper for which he had worked. “Why, hello, Browne!” the editor exclaimed, “Good morning. ” “Where have you been?” “Sequestered.” “Why didn’t you come back to the office after making your bad break?” “Conscious stricken.” “Ah, that was all right.” “It might have been all right for you,” Ward replied, “but for me. You see I audde.nly-. discovercd--that I—could notafford to work on so unreliable a paper. The paper that makes use of my servic s must be above reproach. Your sheet does not pay enough attention to telling the truth. I have decided to go to work on an afternoon contemporary—a paper that never tells nothing. Farewell.” A I ! > m > Thrust. “Yes,” she said, in answer to something be had said, “the old songs are very beautiful.” “Beautiful I” he exclaimed, enthusiastically, “beautiful hardly describes them. They are—they are—well, compared with them, tin; songs of the day are trash, the veriest of trash.” “I agree with you, yet the old songs sometimes contain sentiments that one Can not wholly approve.” “I think you arc mistaken.” “I will give you an illustration. There ia Jolm Howard Sweet Home,' For instance. “You surely do not agree with all the sentiments it contains?” “Why not?” he asked, warmly; “why not?” “Because,” she said, glancing at the clock, which was marking the hour of eleven, “because there is a line in that song which says ‘There’s no place like borne.’ You do not believe that, do you?” Then he coughed a hollow cough and arose and went silently out into the night. 3h ' T>. ctivr’s Error. Two agents for a new kind of churn came to the house of Or. L ©f Panola county, Mississippi, in the evening and were invited to spend the night. While one was caring for the horses the doctor, conversing with tho other, found the men were from a place where he had practiced medicine in his youth. Inquiring about different persons he at length asked: “And the Misses Brown, where are they? They were without doubt the most ugly women I ever saw."

"Yes,” said the agent “What became of them?’’ “One is my wife,” There was silence. The doctor presently left the room. Going to the stable he saw the other agent and made a confident of him, winding up with; “Well, they were uncommonly uglv women. Did you ever see them?" “Yes.” And he married the other. Dr. L claims that this is the only break he ever made in entertaining strangers. Something to Be Thankfnl For. “Have you done anything for me?” asked the condemned man, in pitiful tones, as his lawyer entered the cell. “Yes, indeed,” said the legal gentle- j man, gleefully. “Oh, what is it,” demanded the murderer, "a pardon?” “No.” . “A commutation of septence?” “No.” “Then in mercy’s name, what?” “I have succeeded,’’said the lawyer, '‘in having the day of your execution changed from Friday to Monday.. Friday is an unlucky day, you know.”