The Snowflake Herald

The Troubles of a Printer

Of all the men that walk the earth or creep or crawl or crumble, we know of none that from his birth has half our cause to grumble. We get the scoffs of every class, from suckling babe to mummy. They never let occasion pass without calling us a dummy. We have the common shape of man; our wants and needs are many. But do the very best we can—they hand us not a penny.

Day in, day out, from morn till night, we rack our fertile brain, or run the press with all our might till our body aches with pain. What profit do we get from this—this ceaseless toil and grinding? You just go on in perfect bliss, our wants and needs not minding, till now our waist is small in girt, our limbs more bony growing, and our small pay consists of dirt which you are pleased at throwing.

Oh if some guy with manly heart and wealth untold unneeded, would give to us a generous part, your dirt would go unheeded. We'd send our paper to your homes; the parcel post we'd settle: we'd never ask you for those bones composed of silver metal; but we, for love of you and yours, for one year or for many, would tell you how to do your chores and never ask a penny. But till that time, that future day, all we can do is holler for those who owe to come and pay, and let us see a dollar.

—Mart Zona.