"You talk about type and belief and truth. Truth! You have the gall to keep on parroting those same old defenses about that electronic scrap heap you have the effrontery to call a--a Greeley! Elias Witherill thought Horace Greeley was a rotten newspaperman, but rotten or not, he was still too good to have that whining junkpile named after him. "What does a tangle of wires know about newspapering. What does WPA know about writing a story? What do _you_ know about news?" "Now, Sara," I said. "Don't now-sara me, dammit. You still fail utterly to realize that news is more than just what happened, when, where, to whom, how and why. It's what might still happen, even what might have happened otherwise or never did happen, if that's part of the story. "The Edict forbids every bit of it! "But most important, news is expressed--and this you simply cannot see--expressed in basic human terms, designed to arouse the basic human curiosity or sympathy that makes an abstract description palatable _to people_. If you like, it _tricks_ people into informing themselves. The _Sun_, your wonderful _Sun_, sticks to facts and statistics, and make a _hurricane_ dull. It doesn't tell about people, it lists numbers! "Real news has, by God, Heart! Without it, a newspaper is just a list, a long, long list that ... nobody ... will ... READ!" "Okay," I said. "Okay! This is better?" I tramped over to a framed _Argus_ front page down the wall from Vol. 1, No. 1, that was dated April 17, 1904. She started to protest, but I overrode her. "Listen to this," I said. And read from a story given prominent play on the page: NEAR-DEATH ... AND TRAGEDY "WHERE'S TINKLE?" HER FIRST QUESTION Death's clammy hand brushed a golden-haired moppet Tuesday afternoon. Gentlewomen swooned in the crowd that quickly gathered at the corner of South Main and Elm Streets, so near had tragedy come to that little girl, Irma Littlefield, aged four, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Adoniram Littlefield of 324 Elm Street, that afternoon. Men wept unashamedly when little Irma, lying crumpled in the dust, stirred her tiny limbs and opened eyes of deepest blue, even as her shrieking mother flew to the side of her baby. Death had passed by Irma, yes. Yet the uncaring runaway freight wagon that had so nearly snuffed out her brief existence had dealt the child a blow even as cruel, more savage; perhaps as grievous a hurt as would have been the sweet baby's death to her stricken parent, sobbing now with the child's golden head in her lap. For from Irma's ashen lips, cold still with the awful nearness of the Grim Reaper, the first faltering words were, "Where's Tinkle, my little doggie?"