*242 
C»c RURAL NEW-YORKER 
February 17, 1917, 
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The 
Editor’s 
G 
1 r 
1 
Th© Press is Our Lever— Fa.T Down in the 
Heart of the People it Reachesi 
By The Hope Farm Man 
You know the old fellow—who long ago said, 
After patiently wagging and rubbing his head, 
That with one simple lever he’d make the world jump 
From its place—into space—with a terrible thump. 
If he had but a log and a good place to stand 
He would tumble the world at one pull of his hand. 
The old fellow’s lever was easily found. 
But the log and the place to stand never came ’round. 
The people laughed loud at the dreaming old man; 
They called him a lunatic—sneered at his plan. 
The world was as fixed as an 
editor’s cash. 
And no one could budge it an inch 
with such trash. 
But we, brother quill-drivers, know 
he was right; 
The world can be swayed from the 
darkness to light. 
The press is our lever—far down in 
the heart 
Of the people it reaches and holds 
for its part. 
And then if the man at the lever is 
true, 
With courage and patience and 
hope ever new. 
Up, up to the sunlight the busy world swings, 
With a power that strikes terror to tyrants and kings. 
The press is our lever—but where does it rest? 
That dreaming hack number of old at his best 
Was forced to abandon the job long ago, 
But we have discovered it—^listen. I’ll show 
The lever swings on as the busy years whirl, 
And it rests in the hands of—the editor’s girl! 
The Editor’s girl—what, that small party there, 
With a square inch of forehead down under her hair? 
With a fist like a snowball—a mouth like a rose. 
And a smile that would thaw out your heart tho’ it froze! 
Just the same, and you know it—the world as it stands 
Is pretty much held in the palms of her hands. 
I can prove it—come back to that beautiful time 
When you shaggy old fellows fell off into rhyme. 
Don’t you know how you stood—it was long years ago. 
How you wanted to stay and yet wanted 
to go. 
How you stood on one foot and then stood 
on the other. 
Afraid that she simply would call you her 
brother. 
While the little girl looked up at you with a 
smile. 
With a queer sort of look in her eyes all the 
while. 
Till you found that you couldn’t stay longer 
aloof. 
So you reached fpr her mouth and, in fact, 
you took proof? 
The profession may change, but to your 
dying day 
You will claim that you proved in the old- 
fashioned way. 
READ AT THE MEETING OF THE^. MISSISSIPPI STATE 
EDITORIAL CONVENTION AT JACKSON, MISS., 1884 
How You "Wanted to Stay and Yet 
Wanted to Go. 
Now answer me, honestly, after that night 
What guided your .brain as you sat down to 
write 
Those fine editorials? How they did shine. 
Touched up by friend Cupid, that fellow divine! 
She would smile up at you from the bottle of ink. 
While there you sat patiently trying to think! 
You knew that your paper would always be read 
Old Jones of the Eagle Might Tear 
You Apart. 
By at least one subscriber—whose wise little head 
Would treasure the good and forget all the ill. 
And think you a wonderful personage still. 
Old Jones of the Eagle might tear you apart, 
But your fame was enduring in one loyal heart. 
And under your jacket you carried a charm 
That would make trouble crawl to his hole in alarm. 
I know what it was—it was only a 
curl 
That you cut from the head of the 
Editor’s girl. 
You smile at me now and you say 
that these joys 
Are all well enough for a rabble of 
boys. 
But that when a man’s hair and his 
beard have grown gray 
The romance and the poetry all fly 
away. 
You are wrong! You are wrong! 
You will know if you think 
What it is that puts vision and 
hope into ink. 
He drinks of the sweet wine of life at the bung. 
Who can say in his heart I will ever be young. 
And if it be true that the heart will grow cold. 
Let us solemnly swear we will never grow old. 
Think over your life—all the joys you have had. 
All the beautiful memories, happy or sad. 
That came as the starlight breaks down through the pine, 
That twine roxmd your heart as the soft tendrils twine. 
She is there! At your side—ever patient and true— 
Ever sharing the burdens life throws upon you. 
They tell you she leaves youth and beauty behind. 
But, thank the good Lord, love has always been blind. 
So tell me you bald-headed men over there. 
You studious fellows with more brains than hair. 
You men who stand looking back down the dim years. 
All filled up with troubles and trials 
and tears. 
Does the little girl really grow old 
with each year? 
Is she ever less fair? Is she ever less 
dear 
Than she was on that night when you 
bent down your head 
That you might hear the better what 
soft words she said? 
Do her cheeks really fade as the busy 
years whirl? 
Is she ever aught else but the Editor’s 
girl? 
You’ve been over the road—you know 
what you’re about. 
We giddy young fellows would like to 
find out. 
For we have a notion—no doubt it’s all wrong. 
No doubt down in practice—it’s not worth a song. 
A man may mount high to the temple of fame. 
The honor, the love of the world he may claim. 
Yet, back of it all, unobserved and unknown, 
A woman is silently building his throne. 
She is patiently, lovingly working the while. 
With a woman’s unreasoning love and a smile. 
Wife, mother and counselor, comrade and friend. 
Through the long, busy years she works on to the end. 
All her work, all her worth you will gladly confess 
When they close up the forms at the last for the press. 
So, as long as the years dance their magical whirl. 
We will praise fier. Lord bless her! the Editor’s girl. 
So Tell Mo, You Bald-headed Men 
Over There. 
