John R. McLean, owner of the Cincinnati Enquirer and the Washington Post, tells this story of the days when he was actively in charge of the Cincinnati newspaper:  An Enquirer reporter was sent to a town in southwestern Ohio to get the story of a woman evangelist who had been greatly talked about.  The reporter attended one of her meetings and occupied a front seat.  When those who wished to be saved were asked to arise, he kept his seat and used his notebook.  The evangelist approached, and, taking him by the hand, said, “Come to Jesus.”

“Madam,” said the newspaper man, “I’m here solely on business—­to report your work.”

“Brother,” said she, “there is no business so important as God’s.”

“Well, may be not,” said the reporter; “but you don’t know John R. McLean.”

  A newspaper man named Fling
  Could make “copy” from any old thing. 
    But the copy he wrote
    Of a five dollar note
  Was so good he is now in Sing Sing.

  —­Columbia Jester.

“Come in,” called the magazine editor.

“Sir, I have called to see about that article of mine that you bought two years ago.  My name is Pensnink—­Percival Perrhyn Pensnink.  My composition was called ‘The Behavior of Chipmunks in Thunderstorms,’ and I should like to know how much longer I must watch and wait before I shall see it in print.”

“I remember,” the editor replied.  “We are saving your little essay to use at the time of your death.  When public attention is drawn to an author we like to have something of his on hand.”

  Hear, land o’ cakes, and brither Scots,
  Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat’s;
  If there’s a hole in a’ your coats,
  I rede you tent it: 
  A chiel’s amang you taking notes,
  And, faith, he’ll prent it.

  —­Burns.

See also Newspapers.

JUDGES

A judge once had a case in which the accused man understood only Irish.  An interpreter was accordingly sworn.  The prisoner said something to the interpreter.

“What does he say?” demanded his lordship.

“Nothing, my lord,” was the reply.

“How dare you say that when we all heard him?  Come on, sir, what was it?”

“My lord,” said the interpreter beginning to tremble, “it had nothing to do with the case.”

“If you don’t answer I’ll commit you, sir!” roared the judge.  “Now, what did he say?”

“Well, my lord, you’ll excuse me, but he said, ’Who’s that old woman with the red bed curtain round her, sitting up there?”

At which the court roared.

“And what did you say?” asked the judge, looking a little uncomfortable.

“I said:  ’Whist, ye spalpeen!  That’s the ould boy that’s going to hang you.”

A gentleman of color who was brought before a police judge, on a charge of stealing chickens, pleaded guilty.  After sentencing him, the judge asked how he had managed to steal the chickens when the coop was so near the owner’s house and there was a vicious dog in the yard.