The progressive farmer. [volume] (Winston, N.C.) 1886-1904, 1890-07-01
Copyright, 1890, by Edgar y. Nye.l

II IL 4OOA4 W1Gu SOIuS Oii0 IEIEu GQS
door by throwing his whole ,eing against
it, then rafting the knob, then afterwards
inserting a pa S key. For some time my
own key on the inside of the lock pre-
vented the other from entering, but finally
it tottered and fell to the floor. Then
the bolt moved and door the opened. A
tall girl, with a porous Jersey and a hoarse
football, entereo the room.
My richly capariSoned robe de mutt lay
across the foot Of the bed. She caught
it firmly by the sleeve and flung it into
the wardrobe. I said, bon ,ur, Nine.
O'Selle." She did not reply.
Catching a pillow by the corner she
shucked 1t d~exterously on the floor.
Then she nlnoly yanhed the case off the
other, and afterwards skinned off the
sheets. When | would resume my writ
ing she would pause in Ler duties and
look at me %furtively. When | looked up
again she would resume her havoc.
She was rather plain; not the kind of
plain that often goes along with great
mental power, but the kind thai you
might expect in a hippopotamus that had
no early advantages except a hare lip.
She seemed to think it odd that l should
be in my room writing at that hour Of
the day, while there was a baseball game
going on. Sac did cot understand that I
was a literateur.
Finally I could bear the restraint no
longer; so politely raising my hat, which
had been on the bureau all this time, |
asked:
do [ address the chambermaid ?"
You do" said she, shyly, as she threw
the mattress across the foot5oard, knock
ing the prehistoric dust out of it in a
beautiful c, I'D.
Would you mind telling me whether
you are perfectly happy? ?" I exclaimed.
ooh, no, 1 am not happy a little bit"
she murmured.
"And do you love your calling?
mo, l DO not love my calling. Why
should 1 love my calling? I love to
mingle with the glad throng. I was
born on Coney Island, where it was one
round Of pleasure all the live long sum-
mer day. My father was an artist. He
had an atelier on the beach, where he
took tin types ia a group Like all ar
tits he was improvident. His tastes
were far in advance of his income. But
he loved my mother truly and when not
working at his art he would often turn
the wringer for her."
"And you were happy then 2"
"Ah, yes. So happy !! 50 happy! l
partook of my fathers artistic taste, but
physically I resemble my mother. She
cared nothing for art, but could catch a
barrel Of pork by the chimes and throw it
into a wagon ali by her lone selt."
And what makes you unhappy now2'
THE hungry waves ate into the beach
cen as the lhuoarb pie is eat into by the
laughing boy The red flag of the auc-
tioneer arose on the Du John tower Of
the big hotel. The kodak knocked the
talents out of my pale, artist father and
he took to drink. Rum entered his mouth
and foolishly stole away hi brains, re-
turning them with thanks, however, on
the following day."
"And this business is not cOngenial to
you ?"
"NO, it is not. | pant for the smell o.
the salt sea. In me dreams [ hear the
glad voices Of Coney Island recall those
happy times when the beautiful south
beach on Staten Island had not robbed
US Of our bread and drawn away the
merry throng. | also loved a fragile
young street car driver on the Broadway
line. He was a lala. He was all excel
lent horseman, and with the reins in his
strong hands he did not fear the most
fiery steed. I do not think he knew
what fear was. I've seen a team cut up
real mean with Hiram, but he never
blancheG. But one day as he was going
home from COney Island, whittier he had
went to breathe a few vows into my ear,
a policeman that weighed over 200 pounds,
and who had not dubbed any one for so
long that the other police chaffed him and
poked fun at him, decoye Hiram into an
alley and beat out quite a large quantity
Of his brains. from the loss Of which he
never fully recovered"
"Wha did you do then p
Il had to 90 out to service, as they
say in the English books. l spsnt one
summer, at Heidelburg, training my voice
for chamberwork. Then | weot to Milan,
where 1 lie armed how to make up a bed
with accordean pleating across the top.
also learned how to give q bed an air Of
plumpness even when in a state Of col
lapse. Now [ can get a job any time
Yesterday I was offered a job in a new
play in New York. You know that al
good plays have a chambermaid in the
first act that comes in and claims to dust
the furniture, and also wonders where
the butler is. She generally wears &
solitary alum ring, and don't know how
to dust a chair no more than ~perditior
could refrain from scorching a feather. Sc
1 can take that place and also throw out
the villain at the close of the act, for
inherited me mothers gift of strength to,
gether with me fathers love of art
"And so you would leave this profes
sion which you now adorn?"
Yes, I am tired OF waiting on my
interiors and making up beds for disagree.
able people, in whom I take no interest
to muss again"
She then gathered up her traps anc
started for the door, but before she die
so, she told me in a few welI-choser
words, taken from the best freside story
paper, mingled with Coney Island idioms
!, how she yearned to be shet of the thrall
dom of hotel life and to once more b.