Milestone

When Walt Mason was 48 he had good reason to fear his fate. Small-town newsman with roving feet, he had drunk his way through many a sheet when he went to William Allen White, swore to work hard, not get tight. Pressing grindstone to his nose, he wrote a batch of rhyming prose. Walt Mason's doggerel, couched in slang, hit the syndicates with a bang; rich, respected, worth his salt grew reformed Booze-hoister Walt.

"Priest of horse-sense" to George Ade, he lived to see his fashion fade. But Walt achieved a modest pile before his stuff went out of style, retired to California's sun to rest until his time was done.

To old Walt Mason, wise and meek, as to all men, came Death last week.

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