A good many people think, no doubt, that newspaper work is a wonderfully easy way of getting a living.  It is, if you know how to work it so.  I haven’t found out the way yet.  Newspaper work is too mixed up.  Sometimes one has to report a harvest thanksgiving service or a missionary meeting, and then next day has to write up a football match, or do the same as I have to do this week – describe the Rushden Feast and do it according to order – “in a nice, tasty style, without too many dictionary words in it.”

  It is not to be expected that one man can mix things up in that way and do justice to himself.  The various branches of the work ought to be specialised –

“One Man, One Job.”

 (N.B. – I’m not responsible for this phrase, having copied it from the Trade Unions.)

  The man who does the devotional meetings ought, of course, to be a solemn-faced individual with a white starched tie, a sepulchral voice, and a far-away look on his clean-shaven countenance.  On the other hand, the man who writes the description of the Feast ought to be festive in nature, humorous in style as a writer, and a cheery optimist all round.

  Of course in real life it’s just the opposite generally.  The man who writes the humorous articles almost invariably wears a worried look and is hen-pecked at home, while the clown and champion beer-lifter of the staff revels in the lurid details of the

Suppers of Boiled Missionary

indulged in by the cheerful cannibals of Timbuctoo.  I don’t really know whether Timbuctoo is the name of the place they live in because I have not got my ready reckoner with me, but the name will do very well for the present.  Besides, it’s not in this district, so none of my readers will take it as a personal insult when I use the word cannibals.

  Having given you this little explanation in the beginning you will see how it is that I was selected for the task of describing the Feast – just out of the natural perversity of things.  Those who know me will be aware that the terrible depravity of anything in the way of enjoyment afflicts me deeply.  As for the fearfully misguided people who do not realize that

Chastened Misery

should be their aim – well, I don’t know where they’ll die when they go to.  Still, there it is, and many in Rushden have been walking in the ways of wickedness this week, just down beyond the railway bridge.  Others have been rushing to perdition on the motor switchback.  (N.B. - You will notice that I use the word “perdition” here instead of “the ways of wickedness” mentioned in the preceding sentence.  I could not put “ways of wickedness” again because it would have looked too funny when it was printed and the printers might not have enough w’s.)

  But I am forgetting about the Feast.  The depths to which the human race can sink have to be seen to be believed.  At any rate I can never believe it without going to see it.  That was why

I Went To The Feast

  It is most necessary that we should know what dangers we have to guard against, and how can we get to know better than by coming into close personal contact with them?

  When I got to the Feast, I found that a great crowd of people had come to the conclusions I had.  Most of them were grown-up folk, and all agreed that the Feast was a fine thing “for children.” But of course, they like myself, wanted to see whether everything was all right before letting the youngsters go down.  So most of the parents put the children to bed and went down and tried the thing themselves.  Some of them had to have about

Ten Goes On The Motors

before they could be sure whether they were safe or not.  The toboggan tower was another thing about which there was a good deal of uncertainty, and I watched one anxious mother have six slides before her mind was easy.  As for myself, I could come to no decision on the subject.  After several trials of the various and fearsome delights provided and failing to find out whether they were as wicked as I had expected I was successful in inducing an attractive and affectionate young lady to investigate the subject with me but it was of no use.  The more we studied it the more delightfully confused it seemed to get, till I began to be afraid that if I stopped much longer I should be in great danger of enjoying myself.