Censure is the usual potion of those who loudly demand a reward for their own labors, however meritorious. Yet it sometimes happens that he who struggles for the good of others, demanding that they receive that which is due them, is greeted with garlands of roses. We are challenging Fate, we are going to take up the cause of others, tho our own be remotely intertwined, and whether our potion be censure or roses we shall not complain.
   Ever since the first CORNHUSKER was published there has been one man selected by the students to collect material and publish an annual book to serve as a souvenir to the student and an advertisement to the University. It is not a publication due to the wish of the editors, but rather it is due to the demand of the University. The men who have filled this position, whatever be their motive in seeking it, have found that it absorbed practically their entire time, sapped their energy, and confined their activity. They have all left their position with considerable dissatisfaction and some bitterness, disgusted with the theorizing of professors who have decreed that the office should offer no compensation but the absurd and empty vanity of a title and the imaginary solace of illusory honor. The hallucination that fancied honor can heal the wounds of battle has long been relegated to the nursery, and has only been resurrected by the distinguished dreamers on the Publication Board. We are men of honor, and we desire the respect of our fellow men; but we can not convince ourselves that absorption of time, demoralized scholarship, and shattered health are compensated for by any honor, however great. There must be, we believe, some other reward if Faculty and students hope to persuade the men who are capable along these lines to undertake the task.
   It is well known that Nebraska students are not the sons of wealthy families, and that consequently many of them are anxious to work their way thru college. These men can not afford to give their time to a school activity which offers them no return, when they may go downtown and obtain a good salary for the same expenditure of time and energy. The position of business manager of the CORNHUSKER offers a reward that satisfies the need of such students; but the editorship remains a barren field. Why this distinction is made is more than one of practical mind can conceive. Both of these positions are clearly of a business nature, neither is literary, neither is compensated for by privileges. There is as much honor attached to the managership as to the editorship. and yet the former is rewarded with shiny dollars. What grounds appear upon which to base this favoritism? What argument will justify this unjust discrimination? What can there be to prevent the editor from forming the utmost contempt for a controlling body which makes no effort to render justice and rightly administer the interests under their direction? Do credit hours reward the editor? Partly perhaps, but only in small measure. Try rewarding the manager with credit hours and see how quickly you will have to beg some one to take the job. And yet equally they involve matters of business.
   The Publication Board says to the editor: We know that the book will take thirty hours a week, but six hours credit ought to satisfy you. We know it is an awful task, but you ought to be glad to get the job because the students will think you 're smart.
   Now, Mr. Infuriated Reader, let us tell you why we say this here. We believe that the editor of the CORNHUSKER ought to be paid a definite salary. We believe that he ought to be able to reward those who give their time to his aid with credit hours, and, believing this, we have finally despaired of ever moving the body which controls these matters to any action. We realize that we will be condemned for doing this, but we do it for the sake of the principle, and are willing to suffer the consequences. Will some one see in this tirade an earnest desire to do a good thing, and will that person aid in securing the relief asked for? If so we are content. Henceforth and forever, we bury the hatchet.
D. B. V.