Ponzi's Scheme by Mitchell Zuckoff

success.
    â€œEvery child who had given even one cent wanted to see his name in the paper, and was thrilled by the thought that he owned part of an elephant,” Grozier told a reporter. “Of course, it added thousands to the circulation of the
Post,
but it was a gain that was based not on appealing to the worst elements in human nature but to the best: to civic pride, to generosity, to interest in animals, to the affection of parents for their children. And so it helped us to win liking and affection.”
    Later, the
Post
announced a giveaway of a free car for the best human-interest story: A FORD A DAY GIVEN AWAY! the paper screamed. Thousands of suggestions poured in, and scores of Model T’s were delivered. The paper printed photos of women only from the neck down, then offered ten dollars in gold to any woman who could identify herself and prove it by wearing the same outfit to the
Post
offices. They came in droves, and thousands more grabbed the paper each day hoping to recognize their headless selves. Another time, Grozier hired a movie scout named Bijou Fernandez to search for girls who wanted to be in the movies. Fernandez would spot a pretty girl in a small town and a
Post
reporter would write a story that would be printed alongside the girl’s picture. Circulation shot up by ten thousand the first week, though actual movie offers were scarce. Tapping into the same vein, the paper ran a feature called “The Prettiest Women in History,” featuring luminaries including Cleopatra and Helen of Troy.
    Barely a day went by without some kind of promotion or gimmick. Once, Grozier announced that he was sending a reporter incognito to a certain part of the city. The paper would give one hundred dollars in cash to the first person who spoke these words to the reporter: “Good morning, have you read the
Post
today?” Suddenly those were the first words out of Bostonians’ mouths whenever they happened upon a stranger.
    Then there was the “primitive man” stunt. The
Post
sent a man named Joe Knowles into the Maine woods, naked and empty-handed, to live completely alone for sixty days. During the two-month adventure, the paper printed dispatches and drawings Knowles made with charcoal on birch bark and left at a prearranged drop point. When Knowles emerged from the woods, wearing deer skins and carrying the tools of a caveman, some 400,000 people crammed the length of Washington Street to greet him. The paper’s circulation doubled that year.
    When Grozier learned that letters addressed to Santa Claus were dumped in the dead-letter office, he began thinking about the unmet needs of the city’s poor children. He created the
Post
Santa Claus Fund to raise and distribute money and toys to Boston’s needy during the holidays. Grozier measured the fund’s success less by the number of newspapers it sold than by the number of toys it handed out. His soft spot for children showed just as clearly when the
Post
received letters about lost pets. “I see that this little girl has lost her dog,” he told a young editor one day. The editor knew what was coming next: “Do you think one of our men could find it for her?” A reporter was quickly dispatched.
    The most enduring promotion was Grozier’s 1909 brainstorm to honor the oldest man in every town in the
Post
’s circulation area. He imported hundreds of the finest ebony canes from Africa and fitted them with polished fourteen-karat-gold heads, on which was inscribed: “Presented by
The Boston Post
to the oldest citizen of,” followed by the name of the resident’s town. Below that, to make clear that the cane should pass to the next oldest man upon the holder’s death, were the words “To be transmitted.” Grozier wrote to selectmen throughout much of New England asking them to locate the deserving recipients and present the canes, then inform the
Post
of the selection, ideally