Bit of a judge, for his work is corrective;

Cheering the living and soothing the dying,

Risking all things, even dare-devil flying;

True to his paper and true to his clan—

Just look him over, the newspaper man.

Sleep! There are times that he'll do with a little,

Work till his nerves and his temper are brittle;

Fire cannot daunt him, nor long hours disturb him,

Gold cannot buy him and threats cannot curb him;

Highbrow or lowbrow, your own speech he'll hand you,

Talk as you will to him, he'll understand you;

He'll go wherever another man can—

That is the way of the newspaper man.

Surgeon, if urgent the need be, you'll find him,

Ready to help, nor will dizziness blind him;

He'll give the ether and never once falter,

Say the last rites like a priest at the altar;

Gentle and kind with the weak and the weary,

Which is proved now and then when his keen eye grows teary;

Facing all things in life's curious plan—

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