A man who writeth for a newspaper is of few days and lots of grief. He riseth in the morning and knoweth not what the day will bring forth. If he telleth all the news he runneth a great risk of getting a tin ear put on him, and if he telleth not the news the people say he is n.g. and there is no joy in it. The crafty man cajoleth him into giving him a fifty cent puff for a five cent cigar, and fond mothers frown on him if he faileth to flatter their freckled faced broods. And all his ways are ways of woe, and his days are full of sorry. The life insurance man tackleth snares for him, and the whole he hath a deuce of a time. So saith an exchange.