“Say,” she said, “Mama told me to come in here and thank you for that piece you put in the paper about us.  You ought to see the eatin’s folks has brought us!  Heaps an’ heaps!  And Ma’s got a job scrubbin’ three stores.”

The story to which she referred was one that I had written about a family left fatherless, a mother and three small children in real poverty.  I had written a plain appeal to the home people, with the usual results.

    “That,” I said, “is one reason that I am staying here.  Maybe it
    isn’t fame in big letters signed to an article, but it’s another
    kind.”

    His face wore a queer expression; but before he could retort another
    caller appeared, a well-dressed woman.

    “What do you mean,” she declared, “by putting it in the paper that I
    served light refreshments at my party?”

    “Wasn’t it so?” I meekly inquired.

    “No!” she thundered.  “I served ice cream, cake and coffee, and that
    makes two courses.  See that it is right next time, or we’ll stop the
    paper.”

    Here my visitor laughed.  “I suppose that’s another reason for your
    staying here.  When we write anything about a person we don’t have to
    see them again and hear about it.”

“But,” I replied, “that’s the very reason I cling to the small town.  I want to see the people about whom I am writing, and live with them.  That’s what brings the rewards in our business.  It’s the personal side that makes it worth while, the real living of a newspaper instead of merely writing to fill its columns.”

In many small towns women have not heretofore been overly welcome on the staff of the local paper, for the small town is essentially conservative and suspicious of change.  This war, however, is changing all that, and many a woman with newspaper ambitions will now have her chance at home.

For ten years I have been what may be classified as a small town newspaper woman, serving in every capacity from society reporter to city and managing editor.  During this time I have been tempted many times to go to fields where national fame and a larger salary awaited those who won.  But it was that latter part that held me back, that and one other factor:  “Those who won,” and “What do they get out of it more than I?”

It is generally conceded that for one woman who succeeds in the metropolitan newspaper field about ten fail before the vicissitudes of city life, the orders of managing editors, and the merciless grind of the big city’s working world.  And with those who succeed, what have they more than I?  They sign their names to articles; they receive big salaries; they are famous—­as such fame goes.  Why is a signed name to an article necessary, when everyone knows when the paper comes out that I wrote the article?  What does