Jasper County Democrat, Volume 18, Number 70, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 1 December 1915 — THE MYTHICAL MANUSCRIPT [ARTICLE]

THE MYTHICAL MANUSCRIPT

Tale of Love, Deception and Literature.

I began my literary career’as an author and soon after became an editor. When a friend once asked me the difference between the two 1 replied, “The author is the person who sends things in, and the editor ts'the person who sends them back.” After finding that I could not make a living by scribbling 1 secured a position at a small salary to "pass" on what other people wrote. I supposed that my appointment qame on account of my literary taste, but my employer told me that I was wanted to get rid of persons whose manuscripts the concern didn't want without offending them, lie had noticed that I had a pleasant, plausible way with me aud had engaged me on that account. I was in this view of the case very successful. One morning a young girl called with a story, and I went into the anteroom to see her. We never admitted callers

into the sanctum, not that we were very busy, but because it was more impressive to make them think we were. We wished them to fancy dozens of intellectual looking readers poring over manuscripts limiting for something worthy of our magazine. I advanced with my usual smile to meet a girl whose smile was anything but usual. It wns unusually sweet She ha nd ed in e the man user Ip t of a stor y. apologized for its not being typewritten on the ground that inspiration did not come mingled with mechanical means, and she never worked with a typewriter. In my own heart—my author heart, not my editorial heart-1 felt the truth of her words. I was interested in her pretty face and thought it possible I might find a gem in her story. She secured my promise that 1 would read it myself, and 1 told her I would take it home for the purpose. A month i>assed. I had not only abandoned authorship, hut had directed my mother to clear my closet of my old “unavailable” manuscripts and burn them. One morning the girl with the pleasant smile called, and before going out to see her it suddenly occurred to me that 1 had taken her story home, and it was now doubtless a part of the oblivion of my own works. I gathered my wits and, putting on my smile —I made a special effort —rushed up to her with outstretched hands.

“I have, -been delighted with your story,” 1 said, “but have missed the last page, which you must have omitted to put In. Besides, some parts are almost illegible. Have you another copy?” 1 asked the question with a quaking heart and was paralyzed when she replied that she had given me tbe only copy in existence. Then she began to talk to me about the plot and the characters. Did .1 like Douglas Chichester, the hero? Was the climax properly handled? How about tbe love passages? She kept up a fire of questions, and I, having admitted that I had read her story, must needs give opinions on a work that I had never seen. While I was doing so I was trying to form some plan bv which to extricate myself from the perilous position. My very bread and butter was in ber keeping. I determined that I must win her kindliest feelings, and when confident that she thought too much of me to inform my employer of the injury 1 had doue her I would confess all. In order to see her more familiarly than was possible at the office, I asked her to come to my house hi a few days and I would tell her of some changes that I thought would add to the beauty of her otherwise beautiful story. She kept the appointment, and I, having instructed my mother after a short stay with us for propriety’s sake to leave us alone, had a whole evening with the girl to myself. I made numerous blunders in discussing situations and characters I knew nothing about, but congratulated myself that my masterly retreats from the entangling positions 1 fell into Were successful, a when she went away I told her there were chapters 1 must read over before making final recommendations. She thanked me again and again for my "kindness” and departed to come again that day week. I had how got enough knowledge of her plan and familiarity with her characters to talk about them" with tolerable accuracy. I observed a downcast look about her when her eyes met mine that encouraged me. I was hopeful that when the denouement to my own little story came she would suffer the wrong I had done her without at least reporting the matter at the office. Well, after basking in the sunshine of each other's smiles for some months, I, all the while keeping up my wily deception, made a discovery—that she was a dear, amiable creature, not very smart, but just the girl I would like to make a pet of for life. I determined to handle the love part—the “heart interest” is the professional term —of my story first, and if I was accepted the “complication” would work itself out in a delightful climax. My proposal was accepted, but mv confession seemed to pierce the poor girl to the heart. She assured me that she could forgive such an injury only to an accepted lover. The day of our wedding, when w*. were speeding along on a train, she startled me with a confession. She had seen me before I had ever seen her ana had determined to win me. The pasteboard box which was supposed to contain a story had been filled with waste paper. All it was Intended for was £... excuse to make my acquaintance.

Traveling That Way They Find Very Good for Their lUtsiness. The commercial traveler has always been the pioneer of civilization, He sets the pace for the rest of the world, and always discovers the practical use for the new thing. It is highly interesting to see that the drummers are discarding the train as a means of travel, and are making their trips in automobiles. In Spencer, Ind., a dozen drummers, who have country tastes, have built their homes. They represent wholesale 'houses in Indianapolis, St. Louis, Cincinnati and other cities. More than half of them own and travel in their own machines. "1 can make twice as many towns in a week by traveling in my car as I could by taking the trains,” one shoe salesman tells us. “I load my samples right in tire car and drive to the merchant’s door. If he has no place there for the display of goods we drive to the sample room. As soon as I clean up the town I crank up and start for the next point. There is no waiting for trains, no checking and weighing of baggage, no quarreling with draymen. It’s fine business.” This growing custom will stimulate the automobile trade, but it probably doesn’t please the poor railroads.—Farm Life.