The new North-west. [volume] (Deer Lodge, Mont.) 1869-1897, 1886-07-09
" WHEN THE SEA GIVES UP ITS DEAD. +"

Launching Story on the Sea of Litera-
ture.
Perhaps shall know thee and greet thee again
When the sea gives up Its dead"
Many years ego, when the ambitious blood
of youth coursed madiy through my veins, I
wrote magazine article 1t was weird tale
OF love and intrigue, evolved from brain
which had learned its cunning in the staving
of OF various females engaged in the boarding
house business. The manuscript completed
borrowed three-cent stamp and for
warded it to well-known down town pub
fishing house. Two days later the precious
document was returned with printed circu-
lar which gave ME to understand that the
editor had been almost moved to tears when
ne realized that the article in question was
not suitabls for his columns.
Awlli now draw the somber pail Of despair
over the next seven months, during which
epoch believe sent my MS. to every pub
hsh1ng house in the country. At the end of
that period | still possessed the story / was
Young however. and when I thought of
as early struggles it gave ME courage
aud spurred me to further effort.
so one day went down town to a large pub
ilshng house and personally tackled long
haired man, who came forward i'll respon e to
my pathetic appeal for an interview with
eeditor. Noticed that he was somewhat
cordla at the time, which perhaps accounts
lor the fact that after slit NJ right down
ana reading my article he paraiyzsi me b.
announcing that he would ac .ep5 it
"lts worth about S1O," qaoth he, "such
sum TO b3 plld you upon its publication"
w hen will that be.' asked timidiy
lie lifted up his mild gray eye and gazed
long and earnestly into the gathering twl-
light shadows.
Call around in about three months" he
said, briefly, "and will tell you"
With this injunct on departed, intending
to appear again at the time specified
Then [ once again sought the aforesaid
puo'i hing house. TIE lons-haired gentle.
man, who was now also cordial again greete
me-
"Ah," said he, ayou have come at last
Let ms see, the number of yonr manuscript
is %, 793"
TWENTY-FIVE thousand, seven hundred and
ninety-three" | repeated, in horro-; "when
do you think | will get the boodle.'
"Wel, said the long haired gentleman
olandly, you might give another call in
about five years, an then we shall-shall---
see about the matter"
Sadly | departed, and when six years
later appeared at the publishing house L
irqu red, as usual, for the long haired gem
tleman. A strange young man came for
ward
why, my dear sir" he said, "Mr Jinkins
Is dead. He was murdered here in this Office.
two summers ago, by Cactus Billy, the bard
of Dakota. Billy came down here with some
verses de society and wanted spot cash.
Poor Jinkins said it was against the rules.
You can guess the erest-argument-pisto
fire ment-blood-massacre"
I nod 1a,,
the shock of this intelligence / ventured to
inquire about my own article
at is now No. g, 9,357," said the young man.
soothingly, land I have no doubt but that it
will be published some time during the next
four years.
Time rolled on went into the soft soap
business, made some money, married a
charming girl, and now I am a grand
father. And only the day before yesterday
/ went down to that self-same publishing
house to find out how stood. That Young
man-Jinkins' successor-has hair as white
as my own. He tells me that my manuscript
is now No. 5, Az
SO this evening, seated in my own cozy
basement, 1 think over the fate of the little
story launched ON the sea of literature
when life was very young to me.
All, precious manuscript-ambitious little
manuscript No. 5442i when
shall see you in prints When shall reap
the reward Of my many years of patience
alias $10a pause for reply.
Then, like the strains Of angelic music, the
voice of my favorite golden n-haired daughter
Is waited down the dumb waiter to me
from the parlor above She is singing some
old-time melody "a delightful change from
"The Mikado'1, and as the harmonious chords
grow fainter and fainter I catch lingering
couplet which beats on my heart like a wave
from the dark ocean of futurity:
Perhaps shall know thee and greet thee again
When the sea gives up Its dead"
Walter s. Murphy in The Judge.