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day his name unfortunately crept into the obituary column. He was reported dead. And the next day an exceedingly angry John Brown presented himself to the managing editor of that paper. He held the previous day's issue in his hand. Shaking it under the nose of the editor he said:
"See here! Yesterday you had me in the death column. I'm not dead. And it's hurting my business. I want you to take it back."
"Well," said the editor, "I'm sorry about that. You see, we don't correct mistakes on this paper. But I'll fix it for you. If we had you in the death column yesterday I'll put you in the birth column tomorrow. That'll make it right."
The newspapers figure that you—the reading public—have just that much chance of getting the truth or a retraction, if the paper wishes not to give it to you.
When a president of the United States, a senator or some other person of importance delivers a speech on a given night, the newspapers print it entire the next morning. You've noticed that. Mr. Roosevelt is just now delivering speeches. Next week he speaks at Chicago, I believe. He'll speak at 8 p. m. By 4 o'clock next morning your papers will be on the streets with his talk, word for word. You'll see a line at the top of the first column, "By Telegraph." Also you're liable to find a short editorial elaborating upon the excellency of "our" news service. News-gathering facilities of today and twenty-five years ago will be compared. You'll be told of the number of men who sat up all the night before—telegraphers, reporters, editors and others how they worked all the night long to get this particular speech to you early in the morning. And you'll not be allowed to forget the "enormous expense" incident to getting the telegraphic news on a modern daily. "Always read this paper. It spares neither pains nor expense. Its telegraphic service is unexcelled."—Yes! Well, that speech is in every newspaper office in Kansas City—now. And
