Wood County reporter. [volume] (Grand Rapids [i.e. Wisconsin Rapids], Wis.) 1857-1923, 1874-02-26
HIS LUCKY NUMBER-A FORTU-
NATE MISTAKE.

I ct l didn't know 1t; both were painted
in black letters on a white oval Twenty
one-twenty nine Not much difference,
you see-2f, 29-very like indeed; and
yet because I chose the number without
flourish and long leg, | am here to-
day, and have had long and happy life.
[ should have been the occupant of a sui
cide's grave ever SO many years ago had l
chosen twenty-nine."
II really can't understand" said /.
Was it lottery or draft, CONSUMPTION,
or what? Was it a game-was it?"
at was number on a door," said the
old gentleman. "Wait minute; I'll tell
you all about it.
81 was very much in love; everybody
is at some time in his life. AT twenty
five [ was desperate. Talk about Romeo !!
He was nothing compared with me.
"I'm not ashamed of it. She was a
worthy object. Not only because she was
beautiful, but she was good and amiable,
and such q singer. She sang soprano in
the church choir. And I've heard stran-
gers whisper to each other, is there real
~ an angel up there? When she sang
her part alone, clear and sweet and flute
like her voice was. I've never heard it's
equal
"Well, / loved her, and thought she
liked me, but | wasn't sure. | courted
her good while, but she was as shy as
any bird, and | couldn't satisfy myself as
to her feelings. So | made up my mind
to ask and know for certain. Some old
poet says:
He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small;
Who fears to put it to the touch,
And w,n or lose it all
Il agreed with him; and one evening
as | walked home from a little party
where we had met, with her on my arm,
| stopped under great willow tree, and
took her hand in mine and said:
Jessie, love you better than my life
will you marry me?
81 waited for an answer.
"She gave me none.
+" JESSIE said, won't you speak to
me?
'Then she did speak.
"'No-oh, dear, MOP
Il offered her my arm again, and took
her home without word. She did not
speak either. She had told me before
that she should start with the dawn to
visit an aunt in New York; but | did not
even say good-by at the door. I bowed,
that was all. Then when she was out of
sight, and | stood alone in the village
street, | felt desperate enough to kill
myself.
''What had I done to have so cold "a
refusal? Why should she scorn me so?
Oh, dear, no! | grew furious as l re-
peated the words.
'Yet it stung me all the same. |
tossed from side to side of my bed all
night and thought l could endure it
no longer. But would not pain and dis
grace my respectable relatives by com
hitting suicide in the place where they
dwelt and were we'll known and thought
of. | would go to New York-even then
very large city-and, seeking some
hotel, register an assumed name, and. re-
firing at night with q bottle of laudanum
and a brace of pistols, awake no more,
ana SO be rid of my misery. | arrange
my affairs to the best of my ability, and
received an imaginary letter from q
friend in New \ ork, requesting my pres
ence on a matter of business. ! burdened
myself with no unnecessary luggage.
What did an unknown suicide want of
another coat and a change of linen?
Il kissed my mother and sister, and
startled my grandmother by an embrace,
and started upon what | mentally called
my last journey, with adetermined spirit.
There was certain hotel to which
many of the people of our village were in
the habit of going. This l avoided
Another, chosen at a hazard, seemed to
be better Tkither | walked, determined
to leave no trace of my destination to
those who knew memo clue to nv iden-
tity 10 those who shall find me dead.
i had no mark upon my clothing, no
card, paper or letter with me. Ihad torn
the hatter's mark from my beaver. As
ascended the hotel steps felt, so to speak,
like one going to his own funeral.
a gripning waiter bowed before me.
A pert clerk lifted up his head and stared.
was an ordinary traveller to them-that
was evident.
= It was late in the evening. The place
wore an air of repose. Laughter and a
faint chink of glasses in an inner apart
ment told of some conviviality. One old
man read his newspaper before the fire.
Nothing else was astir
Il asked for a room. The clerk
nodded.
"'Do you care what foor?' he asked.
II shook my head
Number twenty-nine is empty he
said, and tossed key to the waiter, whom
followed at once.
1--WE reached the room bv two fIights
Ct stairs. Atthe door the waiter paused.
Thought he said twenty-nine,' he NUT.
tered. The key is twenty-one.'
"'Then open twenty-one with it." |
said; 4 don't care for the number of the
ROOM
Ono sir-to be sure, sir said the
waiter, and passed along few steps fur.
Their.
"'Twenty he said, and, unlocking
a door, pushed it open.
"'Shall bring you anything, SIR he
said
Il answered No. and he left me, hav
ing put the candle on my bureau.
"The hour had come. As | shut the
door, heavy sigh escaped me. Alas
that life had become so woful thing tc
me that / should desire to be rid of it.
an the dim light of my one candle,
paced the floor, aud thought bitterly Of
the girl L loved so dearly.
1t was in the days of curtalned beds
The bed in this room was hung with dark
chlntZ; so were the windows. Over the
bureau was looking-glass, with por
ualt OF lady in pulled sleeves and higf
como Gonlo' at the top, by way of ornament
lhere were four stuffed chairs, and {
brass shovel and tongs stood guard beside