The Bloomfield times. [volume] (New Bloomfield, Pa.) 1867-187?, 1874-01-13
His Lucky Number.

bSLNVERY one has a lucky NUMBER"
IA said the old gentleman. "Mine
is twenty-one. Twenty-nine might have
been, would have been, an unlucky num-
Der for me. Yet didn't know it both
were painted in black letters on white
oval. Twenty-one = twenty-nine. Not
much difference, you see-21, 29-very
like indeed, and yet because 1 chose the
number without flourish and long leg,
am here to-day, and have had long and
happy life. / should have been the occu-
pant of a suicides grave ever so many
years ago had chosen twenty-nine."
" l really can't understand" said /.
"Was it a lottery or draft, a conscription
or whatP Was it game-was itP"
cit was the number on a door," said
the old gentleman. "Wait minute !;
I'll tell you all about it,"
was very much in love everybody is
at some time in his life. At twenty-five l
was desperate. Talk about Romeo! He
was nothing compared with me.
"I'm not ashamed of it. She was
worthy object. Not only because she was
beautiful, but she was good and amiable,
and such singer. She sang soprano in
the church choir. And I've heard stran-
gers whisper to each other, "is there really
an angel up there When she sang her
part alone, clear and sweet and fute-like
her voice was. I've never heard its equal
"Well, loved her, and, thought she
liked me; but wasn't sure. l 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 win or lose II ALL
81 agreed with him and one evening as
walked home from 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 none.
JESSIE said, "won't you speak to
me?"
Then she did speak:
"No-oh, dear, no ~
81 offered her my arm again, and took
her home without a 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
goodbye at the door. bowed that was
all. Then when she was out of sight, and
l stood alone in the village street, felt
desperate enough to kill myself
What had done to have so cold a re-,
fusal? Why should she scorn me so? Oh,
dear, no grew furious as repeated the
words.
Yet it stung me all the same. / tossed
from side to side of my bed all night, and
thought could endure it no longer. But !
would not pain and disgrace my respecta-
bic relatives by committing suicide in the
place wherein they dwelt and were we'll
known and thought of. l would 90 to
New York-even then very large city
and, seeking some hotel, register an as
sumed name, and, retiring at night with
bottle Of laudanum and brace of pistols,
awake no more, and 80 be rid Of my mis-
cry. I arranged my affairs to the best of
my ability, and received an imaginary let
ter from friend in New York, requesting
my presence on a matter OF business. /
burdened myself with no unnecessary lug
gage. What did an unknown suicide
want of another coat and change Of
linen?
~ kissed my mother and sister, and
startled my grandmother by an embrace,
and started upon what mentally called
my last journey, with determined spirit.
"There was certain hotel to which
many of the people of our village we're in
the habit of going. This / avoided.
Another, chosen at a hazard, seemed to be
better. Thither walked; determined TO
leave no trace Of my destination to those
who knew memo clew to my idontisy to
those who shall find me dead.
/ had no mark upon my clothing, no
card, paper or letter with me. had torn
the hatter's mark from my beaver. AS 1
ascended the hotel steps felt, so to speak,
like one going 10 his own funeral.