By Krissy Clark and Geoff McGhee
“Our papers, our little country papers, seem drab and miserably provincial to strangers; yet we who read them read in their lines the sweet, intimate story of life."
– William Allen White, Editor of the Emporia Gazette, Emporia, Kansas in 19161
When William Allen White touchingly wrote about “our little country papers,” in the nineteen-teens, they were at their all-time peak, with over 17,000 weeklies in circulation, according to the Ayer’s American Newspaper Directory of 1915.2 They had arrived at this summit after a century or more of struggle by pioneers hauling printing presses to an ever-farther frontier.
The history of newspapers in the rural West is a history of crisis and triumph in alternation. Failure, and bouncing back from it, have been a tradition.3 And at a time when there is so much talk about the future of newspapers, this past is worth considering. Ironically, this legacy of turbulence finds rural newspapers relatively unscathed by the calamities currently facing many big city papers. Put another way, there is no crisis in rural Western newspapers; the crisis has always been there. And the papers are stronger for it.
Consider the very first American newspaper — Publick Occurrences, published in 1690 from the back of a coffee house in Boston. That town, at least from the point of view of its British imperial rulers back in London, arguably fit the definition of both “rural” and “Western.” Its first paper, three pages of stories with a blank page at the end for readers to add their own comments or corrections, lasted exactly one issue before it folded.4 Expansion and contraction, boom and bust, and smaller, smarter boom again: that’s how journalism in the rural West was won.
Of course, as the country grew, in population and geography, the definition of “rural” and “western” kept changing. Each time the frontier shifted further west, a newspaper would quickly pop up to chronicle the story. The result was a series of “firsts” — the first newspaper West of the Alleghenies came to Pittsburgh in 1786; the first West of the Mississippi came to St. Louis in 1808; the first paper to span the continent and show up on the West Coast was The Californian, a Spanish/English bilingual paper that began in 1846 in Monterey, California.
Often, these papers would collapse or morph just as quickly as they had emerged. Less than a year after launching, The Californian left Monterey for San Francisco and then suspended publishing altogether when the printer decided gold mining was a more lucrative profession.
But even if these “first” papers were themselves short-lived, their impact was lasting. In fact, when you look at their location on the map above and see how closely they track westward migration patterns, a chicken-or-egg question arises. Did the development of the West help newspapers, or did newspapers help develop the West?
The answer is a bit of both. Sometimes a frontier paper was an organic outgrowth of the influx in migration to a new place. When enough people got there, an itinerant printer looking for readers might decide that place was a good one to set up shop. “Wherever a town sprang up…a printer with a rude press and a ‘shirt-tail-full of type’ was sure to appear,” wrote newspaper historian Frank Mott5. That was the case in the sleepy town of Denver, Colorado — then called Cherry Creek — where not one but two printers raced to publish the pioneering paper. Accounts of the “Battle of the Newspapers” have it that William N. Byers’ Rocky Mountain News beat out the journeyman printer Jack Merrick’s Cherry Creek Pioneer by a mere 20 minutes. The Rocky Mountain News would publish continuously until 2009; Merrick, for his part, took off to pick gold.6
In some, though regrettably few cases, newspapers also sprang up to tell the story of pre-existing populations. In Oklahoma, for example, a young, Princeton-educated silversmith by the name of Sequoyah began developing an alphabet for the Cherokee language in 1809, with the hope of making written communication possible for his tribe. In 1828, the Cherokee Phoenix, the first Indian newspaper, came off of a press in Georgia that was typeset in his syllabary. It is instructive of the relationship between the natives and the coming settlers that one of the later papers to use the alphabet was not a newspaper at all, but a publication called the Cherokee Messenger, meant to proselytize Christianity in 1844.7
Report: Rural Newspapers in the West
Other times, a pioneering newspaper would precede mass migration to a place, or be set up by town boosters to help encourage it. These printers were often hired by area businessmen to promote the town, with the hopes that new residents would send copies of the papers back to the East, and lure even more emigration. As one newspaper reader from the East described the town descriptions he read in western papers: “Every particular locality is the garden spot of the Union; every little community is the most energetic and intelligent.”8 As Larry McMurtry writes, the “selling of the West” often preceded the “settling” of it.9 And newspapers were often seen as the most effective form of advertisement. The prime goal of the frontier publisher was “to obliterate the frontier,” wrote newspaper historian William H. Lyon.10 So it is no coincidence that Horace Greeley’s famous charge to “Go West Young Man” first showed up in a newspaper — his New York Tribune, in 1865. The history of the West and westward expansion are inextricably linked to the history of newspapers, and vice versa.
Whether newspapers enabled or merely exploited the many waves of migration to the rural West during the 19th century, newspapers were certainly an “active agent in western urbanization” and a “catalyst in social change” according to the historian Oliver Knight.11 And a small mining camp newspaper in Silver City, Idaho, called the Owyhee Avalanche, saw it that way too, proudly announcing in their first issue that “a paper faithfully devoted to local affairs is of incalculable value to the community in which it is published.” And then there is this letter, written by a Nevada woman in 1863 to her newly established local paper, the Gold Hill News:
I am so glad that you’ve brought here your civilizer—your printing press…however civilized a place may be, the addition of an enlightened public journal to its institutions will serve the best of all civilizing processes in use.12
A “real” town in the mid-19th century had at least one newspaper; the publications were “legitimizers,” and proof of “civilization” for their readers. They were also major forces in politics and sometimes that force was quite literal. When the Free Staters were battling the Proslavery party in Kansas in 1856, a newspaper called the Herald of Freedom in Lawrence melted down its type to make cannon balls for the fight. Each time the cannon fired the printers called it a “new edition” of the paper.13 More often, newspapers in the 19th century rural West played a subtler role in politics — but only slightly. It was common for a small town to have multiple papers as each new politician to come on the scene started his own. Towns with newspapers often became logical county seats or even state capitals, because the press that printed the newspaper could also be used to print laws and other official government business, and make money from that business.14
That last point serves as a reminder of another important reality of early newspapers in the rural West: back then printing presses were rare, not to mention heavy and humongous. The average press weighed 1,500 pounds, and until the advent of the transcontinental railroad in 1869, it had to be strapped to a wagon, floated on a barge, or shipped by steamer around the horn to get to the frontier. Such mundane details played as much a role as any in shaping the history of the rural press. In Idaho, writes historian Barbara Cloud, newspapers might have arrived much earlier if a packhorse hauling the state’s first printing press had not plummeted off a cliff and left the press in shards.15
There were a few touching cases of “manuscript newspapers” that emerged before printing presses arrived. In Oregon in 1843, Charles Edward Picket, who went by the pseudonym of “Curltail Coon” was so concerned about his region’s political future that he hand-wrote multiple copies of his eight-page Flumbgudgeon Gazette and Bumble Bee Budget and circulated them during a meeting of delegates discussing whether to break away from Great Britain, which then shared joint governance of the Willamette Valley.16
But aside from those exceptions, newspapers needed printing presses, and that was only the beginning of the list. Materials we take for granted today could be devilishly hard to come by for printers in the 19th century rural West. Stories abound of printers who had to publish their stories on wallpaper, cigar wrappers, or donated rags when weather or war delayed a paper delivery from a paper mill in a more urban area.17 Other printers just folded altogether when resources got scarce.
More than production material, rural newspapers also depended on the outside world for content. Often small town papers were one-man-band affairs, and the printer did not have time to go out and actually report on things. While several-page long stories about local murder trials grew fashionable in big city papers in the East by the second half of the 19th century, small towns in the rural West had neither the technology nor the space to give a lot of coverage to anything. Many of the stories in a rural paper were reprints of news of the world clipped from urban newspapers in the East. They were delivered through an elaborate arrangement of postage-free “newspaper exchanges,” on horseback, or, later, railroad and telegraph.
It was a rare paper like the Territorial Enterprise, in the booming mine town of Virginia City, Nevada, that could in the 1860s hire its own reporter. In the Enterprise’s case, that reporter was Samuel Clemens, aka Mark Twain, who gave questionable endorsement to his local news assignment when he described his job as keeping the universe “thoroughly posted concerning murders and street fights, and balls, and theaters, and pack-trains, and churches, lectures, and school-houses, and city military affairs, and highway robberies, and Bible societies, and haywagons, and a thousand other things which it is in the province of local reporters to keep track of and magnify into undue importance for the instruction of the readers…” 18 Twenty-five years later, reportage on local happenings had gained a few more fans, including the publisher of the Denver Post, who once said “a dog fight in a Denver street is more important than a war in Europe.”19
That tension — between local news versus news of the outside world — played out again and again in rural Western newspapers. The debate was revisited each time communication and transportation technology shifted, thanks to developments like overland mail delivery, the transcontinental railroad, telegraphs and wire services, and ultimately free rural mail delivery.
RURAL FREE DELIVERY
These changing technologies and policies also affected the news diets of rural western residents compared to those in the urban East. Before the dawn of free rural mail delivery, the average American in an East Coast city had access to dozens of daily newspapers, while in the country only one in 300 farmers received a daily paper, according to a government survey in the 1880s.20 Instead, most rural residents would buy a “country weekly” when they made their weekly shopping trip to town.
Things changed dramatically when mail trains got faster, and then rural mail delivery was made free in the last years of the 19th century. Soon after those milestones, a country editor described an exchange between two farmers that said much about the growing threat of big city dailies to small papers like his: “A farmer rode on a sulky plough turning over brown furrows for the new crop. ‘I see by today’s Kansas City papers that there is trouble in Russia again.’ ‘What do you know about what is in today’s Kansas City Papers?’ ‘Oh, we got them from the carrier an hour ago.’”21. By the 1920s, a government survey of Nebraska and Missouri farmers in the 1920s found that three-quarters took at least one daily paper.
As national print media threatened to eclipse country journalism, a chorus of voices came to country journalism’s defense. One was Liberty Hyde Bailey. Inspired by his work on the Country Life Commission convened by President Theodore Roosevelt, he saw the health of country papers as key to the health of country life. In his book, the Country Life Movement, he wrote “the local rural press ought to have a powerful influence in furthering community action. Many small rural newspapers…are to be considered among the agents that make for an improved country life.” On the flip side, Bailey worried that a rural newspaper’s “power as a public organ” would only be fully realized if it were free from dependence on “political organizations, hack politicians and patent medicine advertisements.”22
Yet, patent medicine ads helped pay the bills, along with ads from local merchants, until those two reliable sources of revenue stopped being so reliable. First, Congress passed the Pure Food and Drug Act in 1906, clamping down on misleading medicinal ads. Then in 1913, came the inauguration of a parcel post service which could deliver mail-ordered goods from far away places, giving local shops — and the rural newspapers they advertised in — a run for their money. (A pre-Amazon.com version of the disruption we know so well today between online retailers and local businesses.) This drying up of local retailers’ ad dollars is counted as a major force in the decline of weekly rural papers soon after — from an all-time high of 17,000 in 1915 to 11,205 in 1930.23
It was around this time that William Allen White, editor of the Kansas Emporia Gazette began soul searching about whether rural western papers like his were still valuable — or to put it more bluntly — worth paying for. The answer White found was a definitive yes. The rural press, he wrote in one editorial “stands for the town, for a decent town, for a wide awake town, for a live town.”24 He went on:
“When the girl at the glove-counter marries the boy in the wholesale house, the news of their wedding is good for a forty-line wedding-notice, and the forty lines in the country paper give them self-respect. When in due course we know that their baby is a twelve-pounder, named Grover or Theodore or Woodrow, we have that neighborly feeling that breeds the real democracy.”25
White's comments also reflected a growing self-examination by journalists in the early part of the 20th century, when the press was becoming increasingly professionalized amid calls for standards and training. The nation's first school of journalism opened in 1908 at the University of Missouri, and in 1912 the Columbia Journalism School opened, thanks to a $2 million gift from the New York World magnate Joseph Pulitzer. Industry publications like the Journalist, Quill and Editor and Publisher soon arrived on the scene to "serve as vehicles through which journalists could discuss issues related to their profession."26
According to John D. Keeler, William Brown and Doughlas Tarpley (in American Journalism: History, Principles, Practices, McFarland & Co. Publishers, Jefferson, NC, 2002) part of the press' self-doubt was driven by the experience of World War I, when the government went to unprecedented lengths to influence news coverage leading up to — and after — the United States entered the war. In 1917, President Woodrow Wilson had hired George Creel, an editor at the Rocky Mountain News, to head a nationwide propaganda campaign geared at building support for the war in Europe. Creel's Committee on Public Information provided the press with a raft of publicity materials, and many papers — rural papers included — took up the cause with alacrity, pushing Red Cross campaigns, war bonds and fund drives to supply cigarettes to the doughboys in Europe.27
Other signs of the government's heavy influence on the press came with the Espionage Act of 1917 and the Sedition Act of 1918, which empowered postmasters to refuse delivery of mail deemed "disloyal, profane, scurrilous," or containing "abusive language," so long as the country was at war. The climate turned hostile to what had been a vibrant German-language press since Benjamin Franklin and Louis Timothee first published the Philadelphia Zeitung in 1732. Where by 1892 there had been almost a hundred German daily newspapers, the war brought a quick turnabout for German papers and their readers. "German books were burned," writes Robert Karolevitz, "Hun became a word of derision, and suspected Kaiser suporters had their houses splashed with yellow paint." Though the Sedition Act was repealed in 1920, German papers entered that decade just a shadow of their former selves, at about half of their prewar numbers. 28
When wartime propaganda recast itself in the civilian guise of a growing public relations industry, journalists sought to steel themselves against attempts at manipulation.29 Thus, over the 1920s, more codes of ethics were created and adopted by states like Missouri, Texas, South Dakota, Oregon and Washington, and also individual newspapers from the Brooklyn Eagle to the Seattle Times. 30
BOOM TO BUST
Like the increasingly ubiquitous Ford Model T's on country roads, the nation's economy was at risk of overheating in the 1920s. The country's binge of expansion may have nominally come to a halt with the supposed closing of the frontier in 1890, but at that point, the historian Barbara Cloud points out, six new states — Idaho and Wyoming (1890) Utah, (1896), Oklahoma (1907) and Arizona and New Mexico (1912) — had yet to join the Union, and optimism and opportunity seemed to abound. 31
In 1927, Editor and Publisher gushed about the new stability and maturity of the rural press:
If the achievements of the newspaper industry during the past 10 years were to be catalogued and rated, we believe that the growth of the country press, daily and weekly, would take first place on both counts. The old time country editor who lived off his job shop and the country printing and conducted his newspapers as a poverty-driven party hack is extinct. The country weekly and the rural daily are making regular advertisers of their local merchants and obtaining a growing volume of national business. Cash, rather than cordwood and vegetables, pay for subscriptions, but the old intimate touch with the reader is unbroken.
Karolevitz writes that "amid the roaring 20s many small newspapers — both weeklies and dailies — had attained solid footing in their communities, acquired better equipment... and even paid most of their bills."32
Yet at the same time, many towns and their papers were on the bubble of failure. As the rural journalism historian John Cameron Sim wrote in 1969, looking back at the early part of the century, "Evidently Mother Nature or her typographical equivalent has allowed, in the usual lavish fashion allowed for oysters or rabbits or dandelion seeds, many more newspapers to germinate than the environment could sustain. The story is the same with settlements; thousands are not even ‘ghost towns’ today — the only trace of many once-promising villages is to be found on old maps."33
In Virginia City, Nevada, Mark Twain's Territorial Enterprise went out of print in 1916, as the boom town's population dropped from a high of around 30,000 to a couple of thousand. From the historical remove of 1964, a historian at the University of Missouri "found names of more than 5,000 newspapers which had been published at one time or another in Missouri, and he was not sure he had discovered them all."34
How did so many papers flourish and survive for as long as they did? Many of them had help from out of town. Papers gave many of their pages over to syndicated material in order to reduce costs and compete with the big city dailies. Most of this material came from national companies that would send “readyprint” — newsprint pre-printed on one side with national articles, columns and advertisements — and “boiler plate,” segments of pre-filled printing plate that could be used to round out empty columns on a page. Invented during the Civil War, when military conscription left rural papers short-staffed, these shortcuts grew in popularity and by the 1880s a handful of companies supplied syndicated content to more than a third of the nation’s nearly 9,000 country weeklies.
This material continued to show up in country papers well into the 20th century in papers like White’s Emporia Gazette, prompting one rural sociologist to complain in 1927, “The net effect… was to diminish the very centrality of its community. Emporians could no longer gain the impression from reading their local newspaper that Emporia — or their own lives — mattered much in the scheme of things.”35 He went on to point out that many country papers “devoted less than one half their reading space to local news which was selected by the editor and put into type specifically for the local paper….” The refrain seemed to be that local papers like these were not so local anymore. The result was a void of media that could “assist the community in knowing itself.”36
But as much as readyprint, boilerplate and wire services may have diluted the local-ness of the country newspaper, they may also have helped leaner papers stave off ruin as the Great Depression and the Dust Bowl took hold in the 1930s. The searing experience of the "dirty thirties" led to the demise of countless rural papers, along with many banks, stores, and other businesses. Still, there is inspiration to be found in examples of thriftiness — as in the revival of the barter economy in towns like Belle Fourche, South Dakota, whose Bee offered subscriptions in exchange for bushels of wheat — and of community leadership like that shown by the editors of the Harper County Journal in Buffalo, Oklahoma, who successfully pushed for a community creamery that was credited with "having brought Harper County residents almost single-handedly through the Dust Bowl days."37
WORLD WAR II
If World War II brought revenue back to rural papers, thanks both to a revived economy and to the 1943 Bankhead Act's authorization of federal advertising in local media, it also cut at the heart of rural newsrooms. Young men left in huge numbers to enlist after the Pearl Harbor attack, but, more happily, pressrooms became more open to women, and special laws were enacted that would preserve papers suspended during the war, although a majority of those “stayed dead” after the war. 38
World War II was also a reminder of the community-building role of local papers, not only as small-town papers were eagerly read by homesick GIs across Europe and the Pacific, but also in the bleak homefront tableaus of Manzanar, Heart Mountain and other internment camps that would house over a hundred thousand Japanese-Americans, and which saw internee-run papers like the Manzanar Free Press and the Heart Mountain (Wyoming) Sentinel, subsidized by ads for the cooperative grocery. So, too, did the German-language press make a brief (if awkward) resurgence within the walls of POW camps around the country from 1943 to 1945.
While the war's end brought back some of the absent reporters, editors and composers — and led to the laying off of some 8,000 women temps — things were hardly the same. 39 The GI bill drew young men away to college and, increasingly, to the growing postwar suburbs.
If the 1700s and 1800s saw the constant redefinition of "western," perhaps the mid 20th century brought new meanings for "local" and "rural" newspapers. "As the appellation 'rural weekly' implies," wrote John Cameron Sim in 1969, "by far the largest number of community newspapers has been closely tied to rural America. But that situation has been changing dramatically in the last several decades."40
Sim goes on to quote the then-director of the Census bureau, Richard M. Scammon, who remarked in 1960, "Anybody who depends primarily on people for his business should be taking a good, hard look at what is happening in these areas that are depopulating... All these people have to bear in mind which way the population cat is going to jump."41
By the late 1960’s, the feline had leapt: according to the journalism historian Frank Luther Mott, weeklies in towns and cities all declined in number, but suburban weeklies and dailies surged, with the suburban communities growing four times faster than anywhere else.42
“Does all this add up to an excessively gloomy picture for the community weekly?” asks Sim, “Only for the weak weekly in a weak village....” He adds that, by dint of the expansion of metro areas, many “rural” places are quickly falling into the new, more attractive classification of “suburban.”43
Nonetheless, Sim compares the community newspaper — which he points out is often a family-run enterprise — with the family farm. "Both are subjects of prim declarations by congressmen, state legislators and many other ones like them in high places to the effect that their 'values must be preserved,' but forces which seem to be inexorable are working toward their reduction to a yet-to-be-defined minimum number." Indeed, by 1947, congress had commissioned a study to look at the decline of the small town press.
Yet it was precisely this point of generational change that some say came a high point for rural papers. "If you had to pick a golden age," says Al Cross, director of the Institute for Rural Journalism and Community Issues at the University of Kentucky, "it would probably be the late 40s and early 50s. Television wasn't all that common yet, and every town had a newspaper."44
As Frank Luther Mott writes, “though many small town weeklies perished in mergers or by discontinuance in the 1950s, as they had in previous decades back as far as the twenties, the over-all condition of this community press improved notably. Better mechanical plants, an increased use of pictures, more intelligent analysis of costs, more aggressive business policies and better trained staffs were notable among these papers.”45 One unlamented casualty of rural papers’ modernization was the end of readyprint in 1952, which was finally shut down by the Western Newspaper Union.
The postwar period produced a generation of editors and publishers who added their experiences to the historical record, literally “writing the book” on small-town journalism in much the same way that William Allen White had in the early part of the century. In 1974, Bruce M. Kennedy, editor and publisher of the Greybull, Wyoming Standard Tribune, shared his passion in the pages of the book Community Journalism:
Because the ink barrel is only a few feet away, the satisfaction in small town newspapering is especially strong. ... we must also be on occasion the society editor, mechanic, subscription taker, chief of complaint desk... the trade calls it "country trained."46
But the rural paper’s role in its community was changing profoundly in the post-war era, as people increasingly got their news from regional papers, radio and television, which, according to a 1967 Roper poll, had become the source of news for a majority of Americans.
Back in 1916, William Allen White wrote that “there can be no national newspaper, for before it reaches the nation its news is old and dull and as clammy as an old pancake. News does not keep.”47 So it would have been hard for him to imagine that in 1982, Al Neuharth and the Gannett Company would launch USA Today, a colorful nationwide newspaper distributed “via satellite” to printing hubs around the country. But what White might have appreciated was how much the growth of national media freed local papers to stick to local news, which has been their salvation since the advent of the Internet and lightning-speed delivery of information — to go, in the new parlance, “hyper-local.”
The persistence — even in 2011 — of over 7,500 community weeklies in the United States attests to a lingering need for local information at a level that the biggest purveyors cannot match. In that sense, perhaps John Cameron Sim was on to something when he envisioned a high-tech society to come:
We can be sure that newer methods of education and improved understanding of the process of cognition will make the person of the 21st century able to comprehend more in less time, and to retain it longer... still, a strong argument can be maintained for the view that this flood of information will tend to bend the individual back upon himself, to make him more selective in his reading and viewing, to concentrate his efforts on the problems that touch him most directly; in short, to make him a better customer for the community newspaper, whatever form it may take in the future.48
2 Sim, John Cameron. The Grass Roots Press: America's Community Newspapers. [1st ed.] (Ames: Iowa State University Press, 1969) p. 36
3 Barbara L. Cloud, The Coming Of the Frontier Press: How the West Was Really Won (Evanston, Ill: Northwestern University Press, 2008), p. 40
4 Tebbel, John William, The Compact History of the American Newspaper. New and rev. ed. (New York: Hawthorn Books, 1969)
5 Mott, Frank Luther, American Journalism: A History, 1690-1960. 3d ed. (New York: Macmillan, 1962) p. 282
6 Cloud, p. 58
7 Karolevitz, Robert F. Newspapering In the Old West: A Pictorial History of Journalism and Printing On the Frontier. [1st ed.] (Seattle: Superior Pub. Co, 1965), p. 122
8 Mott, p. 282
9 Cloud, p. 211
10 Ibid, p. 207
11 Ibid, p. 3
12 Ibid, p. 4
13 Mott, p. 286
14 Cloud, p. 13
15 Ibid, p. 11
16 Ibid, p. 4
17 Ibid, p. 16
18 Karolevitz, Newspapering In the Old West, p. 1
19 Tebbel, p. 160
20 Kielbowicz, Richard B. and Lawson, Linda "Protecting the Small-Town Press: Community, Social Policy and Postal Privileges, 1845-1970", The Canadian Review of American Studies (Spring 1988) pp 23-45
21 Ibid, p. 32
22 Bailey, L. H. The Country-Life Movement In the United States. (New York: Macmillan Co., 1911)
23 Kielbowicz and Lawson, p. 34
24 Griffith, p. 160
25 White, William Allen "The Country Newspaper" Harpers Magazine, May 1916, p. 891
26 Sloan, W. David, and Lisa Mullikin Parcell. American Journalism: History, Principles, Practices (Jefferson, N.C.: McFarland & Co., 2002)
27 Karolevitz, Newspapering In the Old West, p. 120
28 Ibid, p. 122
30 Keeler, p. 49
31 Cloud, p. 17
32 Karolevitz, p. 135
33 Sim, p. 37
34 Sim, p. 38
35 Kielbowicz and Lawson, p.28
36 Ibid, p. 28
37 Karolevitz, p. 136
38 Sim, p. 55
39 Davies, David R. The Postwar Decline of American Newspapers, 1945-1965. (Westport, Conn.: Praeger, 2006), p. 5
40 Sim, p. 50
42 Mott, p. 819
43 Sim, p. 86
44 Telephone interview, June 9, 2011
45 Mott, p. 821
46 Kennedy, Bruce M., Community Journalism: A Way of Life. [1st ed.] (Ames, Iowa State University Press, 1974), p. 3
47 Harpers, May 1916, p. 890
48 Sim, p. 17
Last modified Tue, 26 Jun, 2012 at 15:04