One more mound has arisen. Not over one of those thousands who merely live and die in this world, but over one of those few, those very few whose profession and workshop are their hearts and minds.

That heart stopped beating suddenly--as if struck by lightning. It had worked too hard, it had endured too much, it had been beating too hard and fast for years, trying to awaken the hearts of others to a faster tempo for Poland and the Polish cause. A cable of the strongest steel will break if too great a strain is placed upon it; a human heart will fail much sooner and especially the heart of a Polish-American journalist. The heart of a Polish-American journalist becomes a synthesis of emotions, an arena of hopeless spiritual struggle; it hides within itself despair and disappointment; it endures the ill 2will and stupidity of people, but despite this, it struggles continously, constantly endeavoring to be the guiding light, the directing force or, at least, the right hand of every good effort. For the public, the journalist must always present a calm and cheerful exterior, striving always to maintain, at least externally, an indestructible faith in the future--his heart is forced to work beyond human strength; when finally it begins to seem as if the goal is being attained, that heart breaks, for there is no material on earth that can stand so great a strain over a prolonged period of time.

That is why the first editor of Dziennik Zwiazkowy, Jerome Jablonski, died of heart failure, as did Casimir Neuman, late editor of Dziennik Chicagoski, and Stanislaus Slisz, late editor in chief of Polak w Ameryce (The Pole in America). And many other Polish-American journalists have died of heart failure, the latest of whom was Stanislaus Szwajkart, editor in chief of Dziennik Chicagoski. They lived by their hearts, worked with their hearts, and finally, their hearts failed them.

They leave this life one after another without receiving the slightest recognition during their lifetime, for it is a known fact that heartfelt effort is never repaid in kind. They do not even receive the pay that the world is accustomed to give to skilled workmen in the trades. They work for fifteen, twenty, or twenty-five years, plodding tirelessly under the journalistic yoke, working both for themselves and others, gaining fame and fortune for other people while, though they themselves become experts, since they put the whole of their knowledge gained both in schools and in life into their work, they are not even as well paid as the average carpenter, bricklayer, or locksmith. Even a mere petty politician, even in the first year of his "administration," is awarded valuable gifts by his fellow workers, although he has not yet performed a single service. In vain does the newspaperman work for everyone, in vain does he tear away at his own strength, in vain does he try to raise the general level of the public, to guard its rights, to lead it to a path by which it can win the respect of others, to help it materially. No one gives him--this laborer who does his work every single day in every single field--a thought.

Not only does no one recognize his worth, not only is he not singled out, but that public, in its incomprehensible blindness, demands that the newspaperman work for "buttons" [Translator's note: Psie Pieniadze (dog's money)], giving everything that he has within himself and without.

It is no wonder then, that every Polish-American journalist dies of heart failure after surviving at best twenty years in the nerve-wracking editorial yoke.

The late Stanislaus Szwajkart was relatively better situated, for the newspaper that he edited at least pays its editors a decent salary. To tell the truth, however, today a two-hundred-dollar monthly salary for an editor who endeavors to participate in every important phase of social and national life, is a ridiculously small honorarium as compared with the salaries paid their principal journalists by Americans, or every other community. The Polish newspaperman understands, however, that we are a nation of wanderers, and so 5does not make great demands. But he wants to live at least on the same level as the average skilled workman, and he has a right to demand that society, in which and for which he works with his brain, heart, and all his strength, give him at least some small recognition for his efforts. Unfortunately, our public does not yet understand sacrifice, it does not understand giving oneself to a cause, and does not know how to appreciate these things. And so even our best and most earnest workers sometimes become bitter and embittered, forgotten and disdained, and since they cannot accumulate even a modest fortune, they pass away quietly, suddenly, and as nervously as they lived, and, overworked, they take with them to the grave all their regrets, pretensions, and all the difficulties of a life spent working not for themselves but for others.

Such is the life of a newspaperman.