Fayetteville observer. [volume] (Fayetteville, Tenn.) 1850-1966, 1874-01-22
HIS LUCKY NUMBER.

have been, an unlucky number
for me. Yet / didn't know it;
both were painted in black let
ters on a white oval. Twenty
one-twenty-nine. Not much
difference you see-21, 29-very
like indeed; and yet because |
chose the number without a
flourish and long leg,I am here
to-day, and have had a long and
happy life. l should bave been
the occupant ola suicides grave
ever so many years ago had ]
chosen twenty-nine.'
q really can't understand, .
said'I. "Was it a lottery or a
draft, a conscription, or what:
Was it a game-was it?"
1T was the number on adoor,
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 to be compared
with me.
'Im not ashamed of it, She
was a worthy object. Not only
because she was beautiful, but
she was good and amiable, and
such singer. She sang sopra-
no in the church choir. And
I've heard strangers whisper to
each other, Is there really an
angel up there?' When she
sang her part alone, clear and
sweet and flute-like her voice
was. Pve never heard It's equal.
"Well, | loved her, and
thought she liked me; but !
wasn't sure. ] courted her q
good while, but she was as shy
as amy bird, and | couldn't sat
isfy 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 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 a great willow tree. and
took her hand in mine, and said
"'Jessie, | love you better
than my life-will you marry
me?'
'I waited for an answer.
"She gave none.
"'Jessie,' | said, won't yor
speak to me?'
.Then she did speak:
"'No-oh, dear, no!
II 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 tc
visit an aunt in New York; but
l did not even say goodbye al
the door. | bowed; that was
all. Then when she was out of
sight, and stood | alone in the
village street, 1 felt desperate
enough to kill myself.
"What had | done to have sc
cold a refusal? Why should
she scom me so? Oh, dear, no
/ I grew furious as l repeated TIT
words.
yet, it stung me all the same
4 tossed from side to side of m,
bed all night, and thought
could endure it no longer. Blu
I would not pain and disgrac
my respectable relatives by com
hitting suicide in the plac
wherein they dwelt and. wer
we'll known and thought Of
would go to New York-eve
then a very large city-anc
seeking some hotel, register a
assumed name, and, retiring q
night with a bottle of laudanII
and a brace of pistols, awak
no more, and so be rid OF m
misery. l arranged my affair
to the best of my ability, an
received an imaginary iette
from a friend in New \ 1orK' II
questing my presence on a MAJ
ter of business. / burdene
myself with no unnecessary lug
gage. What did 'an unknow
Suicide want of another Goa
and a change of linen? :.
II kissed my mother and si'
: fer. and startled my grandmotf
or by an embrace, and starte
III on what I mentally called m
lat Journey, with a determine
spirit.