Читать книгу Now I Remember: Autobiography of an Amateur Naturalist - Thornton Waldo Burgess - Страница 20
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A Momentous Decision
Through the summer of 1895 I fought the malaria and by fall was fairly back on my feet. At that time I secured a job, but again it was mostly the hated bookkeeping. It was with a German commission merchant handling furs and dress trimmings. When I was not at work on the books my duties included checking samples and at times delivering goods at some of the big retail stores. It was all done for eight dollars per week, a dollar increase over my former reward for daily distress.
I still dreamed of getting into a publishing house of some kind. From early boyhood I had been an avid reader of newspaper stories. Now I began to think of trying for a job as cub reporter, or even as a printer’s devil in the composing room of a newspaper where there might ultimately be a chance to become a reporter. Then, just before Thanksgiving, out of a clear sky with no warning whatever, came opportunity. It was in the form of a special delivery letter from my mother in Springfield. I could not know at the time that it was to change my whole life, that opportunity was opening the door.
Living next to my aunt in Springfield, with whom Mother was staying, was the editor in chief of the Phelps Publishing Company. The office boy in the editorial rooms of that company had been discharged for dishonesty. If I came on at once I could have the job at the munificent sum of five dollars per week. That letter reached me the day before Thanksgiving. My employer had gone home and would not be back until the day after Thanksgiving. The letter asked that I report immediately on Saturday of that week if possible. This was Wednesday. My state of mind may best be shown by the letter I sent back special delivery to Mother that night. Here it is:
November 27, 1895—My dear Mother: Your special just received and I hardly know what to do or say. I don’t see how I can be there before Monday, for my employer has gone home and I shall not see him again until Friday morning and it will not be the right thing to leave him that night. Then, too, I have a number of things to attend to. Oh dear, it comes very, very hard to come to Springfield. But if it is for the best I won’t say one word.
Another thing, Mr. M. should see my handwriting before I come on there and throw up my job here. Don’t show him this, but some of my poorer work. Don’t see how I can come before Sunday. If my employer should make me an offer, which I don’t expect, what shall I do? I leave it all to you, my dear, and you must telegraph me as soon as you get this. I ought to get a suit and some other things before I come, for I can save money that way. I must confess that I am all broken up, for I had hoped to secure something here before I heard anything more from Springfield. Chance is “direction, which thou canst not see; all discord, harmony not understood; all partial evil, universal good.” That is my consolation now. I want to do what is for the best, but confess that I am at a complete loss. If I had received your letter an hour earlier I could have arranged to come to go to work Saturday. As it is I don’t see how I can. Telegraph me “come” or “don’t come” as the case may be. Then mail me special delivery at once and try and give me some idea of the duties as I am jumping in the dark just now.
Whatever is, is right they say.
Mayhap the saying’s true,
But when the is has double way
Which is is right to do?
Shall I give thanks tomorrow? If I do it will be on speculation. Have no invitation and shall spend it getting my things together in case I start for Springfield. God help me to do what is best. Love to all. In much perplexity....
I went to Springfield. I arrived late Sunday afternoon. It had been a hard decision to make. I had walked the streets late the night I got Mother’s reply. Was or was not opportunity knocking on the door? I didn’t want to leave Boston. I dreaded to start anew amid strangers and in a strange place. I confess that also there was a slight feeling of humiliation at the thought of being a mere office boy at my age—I was then in my twenty-second year. Of course this was silly. But when finally I wired acceptance the die was cast and I felt better.
That Sunday afternoon I was introduced to the editor at his home. He told me how to find the scene of my future endeavors. I was to be there at seven-thirty the following morning. The editorial rooms were on the second floor. I was to sweep these, dust the desks and chairs, sharpen the pencils of all the editors, empty the wastebaskets, then go to the nearby post office, get the mail and distribute it to the various desks. By the time these things were done there would be someone there to further instruct me in my duties. For the remainder of the day I would be at the beck and call of the several editors.
There was no doubt about it, I was on the lowest rung of the ladder—janitor and office boy. But I was on the ladder. That was the important thing. The composing room adjoined the editorial rooms. I had to pass through it frequently. Always I smelled printer’s ink and the smell was good. Much of my work was drudgery. Despite this I was happy. I was on my way and I knew it. I had no doubt whatever. I had found myself, and now I was finding a place for myself.
At that time the Phelps Company and the associated Orange Judd Company published Farm and Home, American Agriculturist, Orange Judd Farmer and New England Homestead, making them among the leaders in agricultural publications. The company also published an illustrated weekly newspaper called the Springfield Homestead. This was devoted to social news and activities with special articles of interest in Springfield and vicinity. Halftone illustrations were just coming into general use then and the Homestead was the only local paper using them. I was quick to see that on this paper opportunity awaited me. Somewhat diffidently I offered items of news I had picked up, incidents of interest I observed from time to time. I can still feel the thrill that was mine when I saw on the front page my first printed contribution. It was a small item, but it was mine! I was an incipient reporter! What a glorious feeling that was! As time went on I contributed more and more. I was now not only editorial office boy and janitor but also cub reporter.
That first winter I eked out my five dollar a week salary by taking care of the furnace at the editor’s home at night, taking up the ashes and so on. For this work I received a small but welcome sum. I was paying a dollar and a half a week for my room in a private home in that same neighborhood. This made the care of the furnace a comparatively easy matter. My meals I had downtown at a lunchroom, where I could get an egg sandwich and cup of coffee for breakfast for fifteen cents, and other meals in proportion. I walked the two miles each way between my rooming house and office. So I kept wholly within my income, but of course I was not buying any new clothes and few luxuries.
The Homestead’s photographer made use of the office boy to carry his big camera and equipment on various assignments. I began to do some of the stories to go with the photographs. So while still office boy, I became part-time reporter and was given a desk in the city room. That desk was a throne to me.
I began contributing verse and short articles to the household departments of the farm papers. Now and then a story for boys or for little children was accepted by the literary editor. It all went in on my office boy’s salary. That was all right. The pleasure of seeing my stuff in print was sufficient recompense. Then, too, it was recognition. Time went fast. There was a new office boy and I was getting ten dollars a week. I was up a rung on the ladder and on my way.
Meanwhile, my good grandfather was disappointed. The dear old man could see no financial future for me in my chosen line of work. I strongly suspect he felt that his help in giving me a term at the commercial school had been money wasted. As to probable financial returns in the future, I was under no illusions myself. However, I was confident I could earn enough to make a living for Mother and myself. And God be praised, I was doing what I wanted to do. Even in the prospect of hard work and long hours for small pay I had substituted happiness for unhappiness. Many times since I have thought of Grandfather and wished that he might have lived to see how good a business proposition even from a financial point of view the writing profession may be.
All this was long, long ago, but my feelings have in no way changed. I still love words for what I can do with them, and still hate figures with one exception—when I see them on incoming checks. It was not alone the monetary returns that held me to my chosen work. These were indeed small for a long time. I still wonder how Mother and I lived on fifteen dollars a week. But we did—and paid our bills.
There were other considerations and compensations. No longer was I blindly groping for the ladder. My feet were on the lower rungs, to be sure, but they were firmly planted there. I might not be able to climb very high, probably wouldn’t be, but the opportunity was there. What I could make of it was up to me. That in itself was compensation beyond price. For the first time I was finding happiness in my work. It was not that there was no drudgery in it. There was. Is there any work whatever entirely free from the disagreeable? I didn’t enjoy doing boy’s work when I was on the edge of manhood’s estate. But I found the happiness that results from having an objective to strive for.
Those were the days when the bicycle was the forerunner of the automobile. Everyone rode. Bicycle racing, amateur and professional, was a popular and major sport. Springfield had a famous half-mile track where each fall the final championship meet of the year was held. All through the summer men were in training there. I became sports editor of the Homestead, covering bicycle racing, the Eastern League ball games and other sports. I made weekly trips across the Connecticut River to gather news in the Boston & Albany railroad shops. A weekly column of news of the fraternal orders became my responsibility. When well-known local citizens died it fell to me to visit the house of mourning to solicit a photograph of the deceased and gather the facts for an obituary write-up. I didn’t like this. Especially I disliked being invited in to view the body of the departed one, and this was of frequent occurrence. But it was all part of the work.
Assignments for special articles and write-ups began to come my way. In short, I was a full-fledged reporter. I was even allowed from time to time a special column of my own. All this was on the weekly Springfield Homestead. At the same time I had become editor of the correspondence departments of the agricultural papers and a regular contributor of verse and stories to the household departments of these papers.
The first automobile in America, the Duryea, was being tested on Springfield streets. I interviewed one of the two Duryea brothers, the inventors. In time I had in the Homestead what I think was the first automobile column in a newspaper. The Phelps Company took over the then defunct Good Housekeeping magazine. My field broadened. I became a sort of editorial utility man on that magazine. My uncredited contributions were many and varied—serious verse and nonsense verse, special articles on all sorts of subjects, original short puzzle-stories for use amid the advertising pages. It was all wonderful training. The salary was still low, but in due course I had the title of managing editor, a recompense that was no strain on the treasury but was aimed to make me feel good. Of course it did.
