As I went over Collins Place --
   Where thunder of the Press pursues --
I passed a man whose eager face
   Framed fittingly a nose for news.
Tremendous tales of fleeting things
   Informed his mind.  He smelled of ink.
He knew the secret hearts of Kings,
   And what, tomorrow, men would think.

Hot urgent tales of all the earth,
   From frozen pole to Timbuctoo --
Strife, shipwreck, murder, death and birth --
   He knew about them all, he knew.
Yet, as he passed me, hasting by
   With tidings of a nation's fate,
He paused a little while to cry
            "Hey, what's the date?."

"Den"
Herald, 16 February 1929, p8