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Wrestling With Editors

Wrestling With Editors image Wrestling With Editors image
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I stand before the editor; he takes thi .manuscript, unwraps it, is reading it. Íjlancing it it, skimming through th ast few pages, turuing over the rest hands t back to me. "It is r&ther leogthy, I hardly thinl we could find room for such an article.' Hebows; takes up another manuscripi from his desk. I creep down the steps, with a heart so heavy I think it must have turned U stone. It is drizzling rain. The afternooL has become balcful. I don't care if I gel soaking wet, and my best dress and hat are just ruined. I won't catch up mj skirts. Let them tako care of theruselves, I made them short enough. ] don't try to keep my heels out of tht mud, but tramp over the crossing with desperate flat-footcdness. It has been looked at, called nothing but lengthy (] detest that word) and rcturnod to me. I clutch detcrrninately at the remnanl of courage, gather it up, hold it tight, and start for the next newspaper office. I go slowly up the steps, fairly drag m)"slf tip, wishing they would reach to eternity, and there was no such place as editorial rooms at the end. All too soon I stand before the closed door. It is too much. The spirit is strong but the flcsh is weak. I turn on my heels, go nimblydown again, and lean against the banister with a sick heart. I think I will give it up. The roll in my hand stands on end anú stares me in the face. Oh, deur! I don't know, though, why I ihould foei so rneek, have such a hangdog air. They do, every last ono o them, publish traen and plenty of stupidly told things. I seize my manuscript, or it seizes me. We mount the steps, open the door. Another one of those lightish-brown mustached, pretty young men steps toward me. I look at him sharply. I was in that state of fierceness that, I do believe, if I had found the gfaadow of a smile lurking in his face I should have boxedhim, but he stood before me quite grave. "I brought this piece for the paper." "Is it a story?" I feel a spasm of a laugh in my throat. "No, sir." "The managing editor, I guess, is the person you wish to see." At thig another gentleman steps forward. My balance has been slipping away from me. What avails a frantie grab? I fall into a state of topsy-turviness, head over heelness. The words that I had made ready stick to my lips, and I can only put the manuscript into his hands quite dumbly. He shows me an inner room, points to a chair, seats himself at a desk and begins to read. - My eyes fail on a waste-basket by his desk. "Oh, you open-mouthed, greedy, hope-devouring, insatiable thing!" and I shake my rist at it. It gapes at me insolently and looks expectantlj, like a dog waiting for a bone, at the paper in the editor's hands. "I will circumvent }-ou vet, you see," and I was so exasperated that had I been near enough I should have upset it. "I see this has literary merit. I start, start almost out of my skin, as I liear the words. Ho merely remarks it and goes on reading. The revulsión from desuair to soniethinr like hone is so sudden and sharp. I feel my faco twist up, and the tears spring to my syes, followed by a hurried anxiet}' to get thom out of sight without being seen. I havo just made my handkerchief as small as possible, and was lipping it upto my oyes, when - "This is something that wifl interest the ladies." Up looks the editor; my hands drop, my head jerks forward, down splash the two tears shamefully into my lap. But his glance goes over my head, as if ho expected it to fall on the face of a taller person, but it did not matter, the top of the hat would do. I was seized with the absurdity of it, and coughed to drown a giggle. He turns over the pages, glances here and there. Oh, for some power to direct his gaze! If it would only fail oa that, on that, and not on some hookedtogether part. What does that impatient pucker in his eyebrow mean? He turns to the end. I closo my flst tight, and fetch my breath slow. He has turned back to the beginning. Tho pucker is something out. Hope rises rampant, I dart a triumphant look at the waste-basket. "It is rather long; such long articles rather repel readers than attract theru. We have hardly room for it." Hope faÜ3 flect. ïhe waste-basket irins maliciously, and smacks its lips. But he did not sap lengthy, making one feel that one bas been long-winded, verboso, sprawling. I catch at one toppling hope. He reads a little more and then says, laying it aside on tho table: "I think I willtake this for theSatur4ay supplement, but cali again, I have no time to read it all now. I came within an ace of flying at him and kissing him, but got decorously out nto the hall some way; and then I clapped my paims sharply together, while painless tears ran over my cheeks. Hope, ambition, joy grew absurdly wild, It is raining quite hard in the streets. [ spread my handkerchicf over my liat, jatch up my skirts carefully, keep my beels well out of the mud, make myself as small as possible, and hug the narrow shelter of the inner sidewalk. I am again anxions about my clothes and see üne weather to come and the homeliness of bedraggled, rumpled skirts, and a sulky, weather-beaten bat on a clean, sniiling day. So I got into print. And who knows, 1 thought in the pride pf my heart that iay, as I dodged the rain and feit so unoommonly gay and puffed up, but that in course of time I will have that august body, editors, at my feet; for hand in hand, with strong, faithful industry, roitii nero-v wnrked to the bone, what


Ann Arbor Courier
Old News