The progressive farmer. [volume] (Winston, N.C.) 1886-1904, 1895-06-04
AN LUCK.
BY WILLIAM h s. ATKINSON.

personal experience, I differ with these
gentlemen
once upon a time" I was in charge
OF d literary periodical of considerable
reputation, published in an eastern
Guy Furthermore, I was in love-
desperately in love with a most estim-
aOlo young lady. Unfortunately, the
young lady was not by any means des-
peraVely IN love with me, although she
Tolerated my addresses, and entertained
me pleasantly if not enthusiastically.
Wnat troubled me was that she just as
pleasantly and willingly entertained
and accompanied to various places of
amusement two or three other young
men.
Now l, john Huxley, did not propose
for any great length of time to be one
OF a crowd of Toms, Dicks and Harrys,
who were all valued at the same valua-
ton by Miss Edith Presley. felt that
my dignity as editor of the Compen-
dunn would hardly permit it, and I re-
solved to bring matters to a crisis.
So l went out n evening with the
express purpose of calling upon Miss
Presley, and asking her to send Messrs.
Tom, Dick and Harry to the right
about, and to accept in their place the
sole attentions and addresses of Mr..
John Huxley, bachelor and literary
me
reached Miss P~resley's house and
rang the bell. I was admitted to the
reception hall, where Icooled my heels
for a few moments, until the maid
again appeared with her young lady's
excuses and regrets.
miss Presley is very busy, sir, on
some important work which she cannot
well postpone. She is very sorry, but
hopes you will excuse her this evening.
She would very much like you to call
again on Friday evening"
Although by no means pleased, I told
the girl that I would certainly call on
Friday evening, and took my depart
ure. That was Monday. I must wait
for four whole whole days, which was
most aggravating to me in my then
anxious state of mind. -Four days of
suspense are worse than four months
of waiting when there is no serious
question remaining unanswered. re
solved to be revenged by putting my
self into a four days spell of decidedly
bad humor. I would take my revenge
put of somebody-the Office boy, my
stenographer, and above alp the proof
reader. My resolve took practical
effect the very next day, and I made
poor jerks Che proof reader) life a
misery to him for eight hours.
On Wednesday morning the Office
boy opened the door of my sanctum
and announced: "a lady to see you,
SIR"
My first impulse was to instruct the
Office boy to tell the lady to quietly
and quickly go to Timbuctoo, or Blazes,
or some equally remote and unpleas-
ant resort. But I did not; Ionly NUT
tered rather grumpily:
''Show her in"
When my visitor appeared, I cursed
my stars for permitting her admittance,
for she was an elderly LADY" with
spectacles and short side curls deco
rated profusely with small combs. She
carried a small roll (why will women
roll manuscript and cold shivers ran
down my back as I instinctively NUT
tered: "Spring Dead Years A
Blighted Past, etc."
Contrary to my own expectations,
however, I placed a chair for the lady,
and quite blandly said:
"Good morning, madam. Poetry,
I presumed"
mo-" she said, in a voice made mel
low by the summers of sixty years,
more or less. ''Itis a short essay upon
a question of the day, and I venture to
think it is fitted for the Compendium.
I merely ask you to give it a fair read
ing. I will not trespass on your time
but will call to morrow for your YER
dict"
With that she bowed herself out, and
although my desk was piled up with
aboutseventy-fv five unread manuscripts,
I was in that contrary humOr which
prompted me to read the roll there and
then.
It was a clever, very clever, racy
and witty discussion of a question of
political economy which had been ven
tilated in the pages of the Compendium.
It was the best article on the subject I
had vet read, and I knew it would
hiring additional subscribers to my