A year rolled by, and again the members of the union assembled for their annual convention.
As they passed through Fourteenth Street on their way to the hall of meeting, a sad-eyed, despondent figure stood on the sidewalk and endeavored to sell them lead-pencils at their own price. A smile of triumph lit up the face of the Professional Humorist as he directed the attention of his fellow-members to the mournful, ill-clad wretch on the curb-stone. “I told you my scheme would work,” he said.
It was even so. Neither the kettledrums nor the commendations of the wiseacres of literature had had any effect on the Young Man of Talent, who had gone steadily on with his work, unspoiled by feminine flattery, and heedless of the praise or commendations of the critics.
It was only when these attempts upon his reputation and popularity had failed that the Professional Humorist threw himself into the breach with a paragraph--which was given instant and wide publicity by the rest of the Association--stating that the gifted young writer was _the Dickens of America_.
And then the Young Man of Talent tottered to his fall.
Early morn in the little parlor of a humble white cottage, where Susan Swallowtail sat waiting for her husband to return from the ball. It lacked but a few days of Christmas, and she had arisen with her little ones at five o’clock in order that William, her husband, might have a warm breakfast and a loving greeting on his return after his long night’s work.
Seated before the fire, with her sewing on her lap, Susan Swallowtail’s thoughts went back to the days when William, then on the threshold of his career as a Society reporter, had first won her young heart by his description of her costume at the ball of the “Ladies’ Daughters’ Association of the Ninth Ward.” She remembered how gallantly and tenderly he had wooed her through the columns of the four weekly and Sunday papers in which he conducted the “Fashion Chit-chat” columns, and then the tears filled her eyes as memory brought once more before her the terrible night when William came to the house and asked her father, the stern old house and sign painter, for his daughter’s hand.
“And yet,” said Susan to herself, “my life has not been altogether an unhappy one in spite of our poverty. William has a kind heart, and I am sure that if he had anything to wear besides his dress-suit and flannel dressing-gown he would often brighten my lot by taking me out somewhere in the daytime. Ah, if papa would only relent! But I fear he will never forgive me for my marriage.”