When I wrote my advertisements I did not stint myself for space.  An advertisement that tells no reason why the reader should buy from the advertiser is, in my opinion, a poor advertisement.  Therefore, I told my story in full to the readers of the Sunday paper, although it cost me six cents a word to do it.  Here is a sample of my advertising: 

I send young, milk-fed chickens, ready for the cook, direct to you from the farm.  These chickens are fattened in wire-bottomed, sanitary coops, thus insuring absolute cleanliness, on a ration of meal, middlings and milk.  The chicken you get from me is fresh; it is killed AFTER your order is received; is dressed, drawn, cooled out for 24 hours in dry air, wrapped in waxed paper and delivered to you on the morning of the third day after your order is mailed; it is fat, tender and sweet.  The ordinary chicken that is fattened on unspeakable filth in the farmer’s barnyard, and finds its way to your table via the huckster-shipper-commission-man-retailer route cannot compare with one of mine.  Send me your check—­no stamps—­for $1.15 and I will send you a five-pound—­live-weight—­roasting chicken for a sample.  If it does not please you I’ll give your money back.  Add 62 cents to that check and I’ll mail you in a separate box a two-pound package of the most delicious fresh-ground sausage meat you ever ate.  Made from the selected meats of young hogs only; not highly seasoned.  These sausage cakes make a breakfast fit for a President.  Money back if you don’t like them.

    A. L. SARRAN.

Notice that I told why the reader should buy one of my chickens rather than a chicken of whose antecedents he knew nothing.  That it paid to spend six cents a word to tell him so is proved by the fact that this particular advertisement brought me, in four days, twenty-three orders, each accompanied by a check.  I repeated my advertisements in Sunday issues, stopping only when I had as many customers as I could take care of.

Getting a customer and keeping him are two different propositions.  A customer’s first order is sent because of the representation made in the advertisement that he read.  His second and his subsequent orders depend upon how you satisfy him and continue to satisfy him.

My rule is to select, weigh, dress, draw, handle, wrap and box the chicken with the same scrupulous care that I would exercise if the customer were actually present and watching me.

I have another rule:  The customer is always right.  If he complains I satisfy him, immediately and cheerfully.  It is better to lose a chicken than to lose a customer.

I am now about to make a statement with which many of my readers will not agree.  It is more than true; it is so important that the success of a mail-order business in dressed chickens depends upon a realization of it.  It is this:  A majority of farmers and their wives do not know what constitutes a fat chicken.