I’m going to Maddy-gascar, where I hear there’s openings.”

“Why, Tommy, what’s the matter?”

“She don’t keep the house picked up—not saying a word against her,”
answered Tommy. “These tintypes is mine, and she can have everything
else; but these is mine, and it was my money paid for them down to Coney
Island, me and her in them, and all I got in the world I care about, and
will you keep them for me till I can send for them from Maddy-gascar?”

“Why, of course I’ll do that, Tommy; but you know you’d never do such a
thing as leave Clara. That would be very wrong of you.”

“Oh, yes, indeed, ma’am, very wrong of me! Not saying one word against
her, she lies in bed all day and won’t so much as do any sweeping.
There’s never any cooking, and I’m tired to death of the delicatessens
and rather go to Maddy-gascar and eat spiders, me going in the spider-web
industry there. She don’t do no wash like you, Mrs. McGibney, but just
rinses out in cold water. She’s so lazy she washes dishes by rubbing
newspapers on them. That ain’t so bad as when she does wash them; she
washes clothes in the dish-pan and then washes dishes after them—not that
I’d say one word against her. So, will you mind the tintypes with her and
me in them, ma’am? They’re all I have to care about, ma’am.”

“Oh, now Tommy—” But how could one possibly argue with Tommy? With eyes
and forehead and elbows and knees, he would most emphatically agree with
everything said to him.

“Your wife is a very good woman.”

Of course she was! Best in the city! Best in the whole world! But would
Mrs. McGibney care for the tintypes?

“It’s very wrong of you, Tommy!”

Wrong? Shocking! Heartless! Wicked, shocking, heartless Tommy! Of course
he was, and he admitted every word of it; but would Mrs. McGibney take
care of the tintypes until he could send from “Maddy-gascar” for them?

Tommy left the tintypes on the mantelpiece, hoping he was disturbing
nothing by so doing; imploring Mrs. McGibney not to bother with them
if she thought they would take up too much room, begging her to throw
them in the ashes or burn them, or jump on them if they should be the
slightest annoyance to her; then he went away.

Back in five minutes. Well, after all, “Maddy-gascar” was pretty far away
and he had heard stories about the Esquimaux there, so he would take the
tintypes back with him; Clara might wonder where they were. Five minutes
later. Back again. Perhaps Mrs. McGibney had better not say anything to
anyone about the tintype matter. Bowing, bobbing, scraping.

Oh, not a word would Mrs. McGibney say! Rest assured of that! Indeed, she
had quite enough to do in attending to her own affairs. Mrs. McGibney
promised to say nothing, and like a busy little housewife with too much
to do to waste time gossiping, breathed not a word of it till McGibney
came in.

“It’s all Tommy’s fault!” said McGibney.

“I’m afraid Clara is a good deal to blame,” said Mrs. McGibney.

“Oh, yes, always stand up for the man, of course!”

“Oh, yes, take the woman’s part every time, won’t you?”

The next time the McGibneys saw Clara, there was no persuading her to go
home. She had no home.

“Because,” said Clara, “when we found there wasn’t no use in our trying
to get along together, we just broke up and gave away everything in the
rooms and went down the stairs and down the stoop together. We didn’t so
much as say good-bye nor nothing; he went up the street and I went down.”

“That’s right!” declared McGibney, “when two people can’t get along
together, it’s best for them to part, I say!”

“You say!” cried indignant Mrs. McGibney. And scornful Mrs. McGibney!

“Well, I’m entitled to speak, ain’t I?” grumbled McGibney.

“No!” firmly. “Leastwise, not when you talk like that.” She looked her
scorn and continued:

“No, Clara, there’s nobody dearer to any woman than her own husband.”
Looked at McGibney as if he were a pile of wash just toppled over into
the ash-pan. “Your husband will be with you when others are far away.”
Looked at him as if he were two piles of wash toppled over into three
ash-pans. “There ain’t any luck in any such advice as he’s giving you.
I know how I love my own dear husband, and you know you’re the same,
and you’ll find what the world is when you’re alone in it.” Glared her
indignation, scorn, contempt for McGibney, who mumbled, with an air of
sagacity, astonishing to himself:

“Ain’t wimmen the queer things, though!”

“I’ve flew the coop on him forever!” said Clara, with her broad, amiable,
unintelligent smile. “I got a little hall room for myself, and—me go back
to him? Oh, my! is that a step on the stairs? I wouldn’t wish it, not for
the world, for him to find me here! I never want to see the face of him
again!” Clara looked around for a place to hide; ran to the door of the
front room, and, with her hand on the knob, stood listening.

“’Tain’t him! It’s someone going upstairs,” she said, smiling her relief.
“I’ll never go back to him.”

A week later. Clara again. And Clara was out of breath.

“Oh, Mrs. McGibney, has the man come yet? I thought I saw him over on
Ninth Avenue, and I run clear around the block for fear he’d be after
me and track me here. I was just buying a bit of furniture and going to
start rooms for myself, when I get a few bits together. And is it too
much to ask you to store them for me till I get rooms, Mrs. McGibney?”

“We’re only too glad—” began Mrs. McGibney.

“Oh, on your life, don’t stir! It’s him! He mustn’t know where I am,
or he might try to get me back! I don’t never want to see him again!”
whispered Clara. “On your life, not giving no orders, don’t stir, or
he’ll know you’re in and see me here.”

There was a rap on the door.

“Oh, my! Look out—would he hear us?”

Out in the hall:

“McGibney! Anyone know where McGibney lives?”

“Oh!” breathed Clara, “that’s all right. It’s the furniture men.”

And two men from a Ninth Avenue furniture store came in with a bureau.
At least they set it in the hall, and turned to hasten down the stairs;
paused to do little better than that, and rolled the bureau half way into
the room; turned to run back to the store, but, in turning, thrust back
with their heels, and pushed the bureau quite into the room, which was
conscientious enough delivering of goods to suit anybody.

“I bought that!” said Clara, proudly. The bureau was rolled into the
front room, and she helped, her hands caressing more than pushing. There
was no back to the bureau. The varnish was worn off. Some one had broken
open the top drawer, splintering the wood on each side of the keyhole.

“It’s mine!” said Clara rapturously. “It took three days of hard
scrubbing on hands and knees, for me to buy that. It’ll be every bit
as good as new, with a few boards nailed on the back, and a little oil
rubbed over it.”

The bureau was rolled to a corner of the front room, but Clara could not
leave it, hovering over it, stooping and pulling out drawers, one by one,
gazing delightedly at the disgraceful old wreck.

“Yes!” said Clara. “The other day when I was scrubbing the restaurant
floor, there was customers looking at me, and they says, ‘Look at that
poor woman! Ain’t some got hard lots in life!’ They needn’t of pitied me!
I was earning that! Just a few boards and a little oil is all it needs,
and I’ll get as fine a home together as anybody’s got—what’s that?”

Clara ran to the kitchen to listen.

“I’m so afraid he’ll find me that I do be hearing sounds all the time!”
she said. “Ain’t that bureau something elegant? I’ll have my own bit of a
home and never see him again.” Then, as McGibney came out to the kitchen,
shutting the front-room door behind him, she asked;

“Ain’t that sounds of excitement in the street? Maybe there’s a fire!”
Clara ran to the front room and pretended to look out the window. She had
heard nothing; it was only a pretext to get back to the disgraceful old
wreck. On her own hands and knees she had earned it.

“Ain’t it nice!” said Clara, ecstatically. “I got my eye on a gilt-framed
mirror I’ll buy next week. It’s nice, ain’t it?”

Clara went away. Back in five minutes.

“I guess maybe I left my rolled-up apron in the front room.” Whether she
had or not, she stood looking at the bureau; turned to go; looked again;
moved it to get a better light on it; stepped toward the door; paused
and looked back.

“I bought that!”

And she went away, leaving McGibney standing in the front room. With an
expression of deep melancholy he stood looking at the clumsy, broken
bureau. He looked at his best furniture surrounding it—fragile, gilded
chairs, on a big rug better than any other rug in the neighborhood—a
sideboard with French plate glass in it; the very fine curtains. He was
a log-shaped man, and not remarkably æsthetic, but his eye was sorely
offended.

“Oh, well,” said the melancholy, log-shaped man, “if us poor folks
don’t help each other, who will?” And the eye of Mrs. McGibney was
equally offended; but Mrs. McGibney was not melancholy, for here was an
opportunity for her to bustle. Out with the sofa and around in front
of the bureau! The standing lamp placed where it would help to conceal
the bureau. To hide the bureau was quite a problem, but Mrs. McGibney
rejoiced in it. She bustled.

The next Saturday night Clara bought a wicker rocking-chair.
Fearful-looking old rocking-chair! Interstices of it filled with white
paint; all paint worn off wherever arms, legs, and backs had rested on it.

“It’s nice, ain’t it?” said Clara, dreamily, fondly.

McGibney sat straight, as if he had just dug through the oil-cloth and
feared reprimanding. Then he fell back limply.

“Yes, ve-ry,” he said, without enthusiasm.

“It’ll fill out your front room nice, while I’m waiting for it, won’t it?”

“Oh, ye-es; it’ll be ve-ry nice.”

“And so comfortable!” said Clara. She sat in the chair and clumsily
rocked it. “Try it, Mrs. McGibney! You ain’t got no idea how comfortable
it is. You sit in it, Mr. McGibney. Just lie back and push with your feet
and see what a comfort it is. My! I can just see myself in it, me with my
shoes off and resting after the day. Such comfort in it! I don’t guess I
ever made such a bargain before. But what do you think? That mirror I was
so set on was bought! That’s mean, ain’t it? I was awful provoked when
I heard it. Just the same, I got my eye on a stove that’s fine and well
worth the four dollars they ask for it. It’s all nickel in front, and
only one of the bricks broken, and can be fixed with five cents’ worth of
fire-clay. It’ll look nice in your front room, won’t it?”

“Ve-ry nice!” answered distressed McGibney.

Clara got up to go. Had to sink back and take another rock in the chair,
so comfortable after the day’s work, and one’s shoes off. It was indeed
worth scrubbing for! Up to go. Well, just one more rock—away back and
slowly down again, you know. And you, too, look again at it! My! but what
a bargain! And Clara bought it! On her own hands and knees she had earned
it. Before going away, Clara lingered at the door. Perhaps they would
laugh at her if she should take another rock, but she might look at the
chair for another moment.

“Ain’t this pretty oil-cloth you got!” Looking only at the chair.

“I must get a kitchen table like yours.” Looking only at her own
rocking-chair. She left McGibney staring gloomily, but saying, sturdily:

“Us poor folks must help each other!”

Mrs. McGibney bustled.

It was a different Clara when seen again. Her face was flushed; the
unintelligent but soft eyes were like eyes that could not see outward
things, as if they were engaged in the unusual occupation of looking
within at her own mind. Convince Clara that she had a grievance, and
thick, obstinate brooding replaced uncomplaining stolidity.

By force of habit, Clara’s slow, amiable smile flickered, but her eyes
were as if turned upon brooding within.

“Someone’s did that a-purpose!” said Clara, slowly, deliberately,
staring, seeming to see neither McGibney nor Mrs. McGibney. “Me that
thought I didn’t have a enemy in the world! Where would I get a enemy,
me always kind to everybody? I had my heart set on that stove that only
needed a little fire-clay. Someone’s bought it, just to annoy me. When
the mirror went, I didn’t think nothing of it, but the stove too, is to
annoy me. They won’t make nothing by that, and bad luck will come upon
them for it.”

“Why, Clara, it only happened that way,” reasoned Mrs. McGibney. “Nobody
would go and be as mean as that to you, specially as they’d have to spend
money.”

“It’s tricks done me!” declared sullen, dogged Clara. “Oh, there’s
somebody at the door. Maybe it’s him after me. Say I’m not here, Mrs.
McGibney! On your life, don’t let him find me! I got to work for my
living, anyway, and I’ll work for myself and not divide with no man.
Never—oh, I guess it’s the kitchen table!”

“A kitchen table, Clara?” demanded McGibney. “Did you say a kitchen
table?”

“Yes!” said Clara, brightening. “It’s nice! You can put it in the centre
of your front room and maybe have ornaments onto it. It’s a very nice
kitchen table.”

Door opened; a table thrust into the room; heels flying down the stairs.

“Don’t you think it’s nice?” Clara asked eagerly.

“Nice?” repeated honest McGibney. “Oh, is that the table?”

Scratched legs to it; two plain boards forming the top of it; heads of
nails sunk in the boards, and once filled with putty; putty fallen out.

Clara shook it to show that the legs were firm. She would varnish
it and cover it with a beautiful table cover she had seen in the
five-and-ten-cent store, though there was one just as good in the
three-and-nine-cent store.

“Next week,” said brightened Clara, “it’s going to be portcheers.
They’re chenille and grand for a doorway. No room ain’t complete without
portcheers.” She again shook the table to show how firm the legs were and
then went away.

McGibney and Mrs. McGibney stood out on the front stoop of the
rust-stained frame house, looking at the tailor, who was putting up a new
sign: “Pants pressed, ten cents. Full-dress suits cleaned and pressed,
one dollar.” McGibney thought of “full-dress” suits and looked down the
street, at rags and dirt and ashes. It was Saturday night and they were
going over to Ninth Avenue, to Paddy’s Market. Along came Clara, reaching
the stoop, starting up the stoop, half up the stoop before she saw the
McGibneys.

“Oh, is it you?” said Clara, with only the beginning of the slow, amiable
smile.

“The portcheers is gone!” she said, without excitement. “My heart was
set on them—the portcheers has gone. Would you say to me, now, that it
only happens that way, Mrs. McGibney? Is there somebody playing mean, low
tricks on me, or ain’t there? Does three times in succession just happen?
The portcheers was bought last Monday. Was that only accident? Oh, but
I came around to see would you lend me fifty cents? There’s a hat-rack
I want. It’s meant for a front hall, but the mirror in it is nice and
there’s a bit of marble to it, and it’ll look nice in my rooms, where,
to my longest day, no man’ll ever hang his hat on it, unless you, Mr.
McGibney, when you and Mrs. McGibney come and see me. I don’t like to ask
you for fifty cents, Mrs. McGibney, and you just going to do your bit of
marketing.”

“There’s fifty dollars in the bank that you can have any time you say so,
Clara!” exclaimed McGibney.

“We’d rather have you owing it than have it in the bank, Clara,” said
Mrs. McGibney, “because the bank might bust.”

Clara looked embarrassed. “Don’t you want to come look at the hat-rack?”
she asked. “It’ll set your front room off fine!” The McGibneys pinched
each other’s arms, as if saying, “Oh, Lord, preserve us!” All three went
down the street toward Ninth Avenue, Clara preferring one side of the
street; then, thinking the other side was darker, choosing the darker
side so that if they should meet “him” he might not recognize them.

Torches on wagons, wagonloads of oranges, twenty for twenty-five cents;
pairs of rabbits slung on headless barrels, plump rabbits hanging
outside, furry rags, shot to pieces, inside the barrels; piles of soup
greens and mounds of cabbages; cries of “Everything cheap! Only a few
more left!” Paddy’s Market! Then the second-hand furniture store, with
bed springs and pillows outside it; stoves with covers and legs in the
ovens; rolls of matting; everything second-hand, even crockery and
tea-kettles. Clara went into the store, Mrs. McGibney having paused to
dig a thumb-nail into potatoes to see whether they were frozen, McGibney
lingering with her, because he would have to carry the potatoes.

Clara came back to the sidewalk. Again her eyes were unseeing. “The
hat-rack,” said Clara, staring at nothing visible, “is sold. I ain’t been
gone from here ten minutes. It’s sold. Everything I got my heart on is
sold. I don’t know who’s doing it, but they’ll never have a day’s luck
for it.”

“But what could I do, lady?” The furniture man came cringing out to her.
“You know you didn’t leave no deposit. Would you like to look at some
mats for your front hall? You didn’t leave no deposit, so what could I
do? I got a very heavy, rich and elegant mat here for your front hall;
though the number of a house is onto it.”

“Look here, Jack,” said McGibney. “Who’s buying up all the things this
lady looks at? Is it any particular party?”

“Come to think of it, it is,” answered the furniture man. “He’s the gent
took the unfurnished rooms upstairs. ‘What’s he look like?’ Well, he bows
most polite every time my wife waits on him and I see his head was some
bald——”

“Wait for me!” said Clara. “Up on the next floor, you say? Just only wait
one minute for me, Mrs. McGibney, and I’ll only go to tell him what I
think of this latest meanness he’s playing me. Then I’ll be through with
him forever. This is the last trick he’ll play me!” And she went to the
stairs leading to the rooms over the store.

“It must be Tommy,” said McGibney.

“And I always took him for such a perfect little gentleman,” was Mrs.
McGibney’s comment.

“Just wait a minute!” Clara had said; but, after several minutes,
McGibney became uneasy.

“I’ll go up and see,” he said. “It maybe ain’t Tommy, and Clara may start
mixing it with some stranger that’s got as much right to the furniture as
her.”

But it was Tommy, for, as the McGibneys went up the stairs, Clara’s
words, plainly audible, told them so.

“Never!” they heard—“Was it my dying day, I’d never forgive you. It was
too cruel and I’ll never forget it.”

“Ain’t she the stubborn thing!” snapped Mrs. McGibney.

“Did I live to be as old as Mickthusalem, I’d not forgive you for it!
Oh, Tommy, how could you go up the street when I went down? To treat me
so! Don’t never mind nothing else; play me tricks and scold me and don’t
do right nor anywheres near right, but how could you do that? Oh, Tommy,
how could you go up the street when I went down? Me expecting your feet
after me every second, me looking back at the corner. You going up, and
me going down! Rob me of them portcheers I see you got there, and play me
tricks with that mirror, and do like you want to about all the hall-racks
in the world, but you never come to find me when I was hiding away! Have
the red portcheers and welcome to everything my heart was set on, but you
never come to me when I was hiding, and how could I tell you where I was
hiding away? Oh, I been so unhappy without you, Tommy; there’s nobody
got any sympathy for a deserted wife, but just a jeer at her and say,
‘No wonder he left, if you take one look at her big platter face’—but my
eyes is nice and my hair is lovely, I was always told. Take away the red
portcheers my heart was set on, Tommy, and I know you don’t love me,
but we belong to each other, just the same, but don’t—oh, if you ain’t
looking to break my heart—don’t never again go up a street when I’m going
down!”

The McGibneys saw them standing in the centre of the room, arms about
each other, hands patting each other’s shoulder-blades.

Tommy began to whimper. Arms mothered him. Steady tapping away on his
shoulder-blades. Then Tommy blubbered outright:

“Oh, Clara, I been missable! I been missable something fierce, living
alone! I ain’t ate nor slept, but been working straight along and got
a good job and doing pretty good, and so much as a day’s work you’ll
never have to do. No! not if it’s your longest day!” A bow and a bob
and a scrape, for he had discovered the McGibneys standing irresolute
in the hall. He continued to blubber and he continued to tap away at
shoulder-blades.

“But why didn’t you come to find me, Tommy, when I was hiding away? I
told the Finnigans and everybody, so you must of known where I was hiding
away!”

Clara would not have seen a hundred McGibneys. Clara was tapping most
mightily with both hands upon shoulder-blades.

“On account of the brass lamp!” blubbered Tommy. A bob and a bow and a
scrape! “I done fierce bad spending our savings that was for the brass
lamp, and I couldn’t go find you where you was hid till I had that here,
in this new home, for you to see, and be complete, and then you’d know
I was sorry and it would prove I was going to do right. But it wasn’t
tricks, Clara! Honest, it wasn’t tricks! Me standing on the other side
of the street, and looking in the store window at you, and no overcoat,
because I needed every cent to show I was going to do right. And you look
at the mirror. I say, ‘Clara likes that mirror. Then Clara must have
that!’ Me standing with my toes all pinched up, as my shoes is bad, and
you looking at them red portcheers. Then Clara must have red portcheers!
Me jumping up and down, like I’m froze, but standing there every Saturday
night to see what Clara likes and Clara’s going to have that!” Bobbing,
bowing, and scraping toward the hall, from Tommy; from Clara, rather a
look of resentment toward the hall.

A final tap on shoulder blades and: “Why, come in and see where we’re
going to start up again!”

“Ain’t it strange!” said calm, stolid Clara. “He found me, after all!”

And from all four of them, and all four meaning every word:

“In all the world, there ain’t nobody like your own! If it ain’t but big
enough to hold a trunk, there’s no place like your own!”

“And,” said supremely happy Tommy and Clara, “now we’ll celebrate!”

[Illustration: _Will It Keep Them Off?_

    _Carter, in New York American_]

_The Money Power_

“All things come to him that waits.” Fifteen or sixteen years ago, when
the Farmers’ Alliance was flourishing throughout the West and South, it
was a matter of common occurrence to hear some old horny-handed farmer,
on a Saturday at the county seat, disputing with his neighbor about
existing conditions. Almost invariably the Alliance man blamed the “money
power” for causing things to go criss-cross. Occasionally the country
merchant or small banker would butt into the discussion. “The money
power,” he would say, with infinite scorn, “Humph! Why, you poor fool,
there ain’t any such thing as ‘the money power.’ Might as well talk of
the agricultural power, or the mercantile power. There are rich bankers
and rich farmers and rich merchants—but that don’t make them a ‘power’ in
the sense you use that term.”

For a number of years the “money power” has been given a much needed rest
in the West and South. Most of the pioneers there have substituted the
term “plutocracy.” But in the East reformers are just now beginning to
sit up and take notice. One hears the term frequently. “Roosevelt,” said
Jacob Riis, in a recent interview in the _New York Herald_, “is fighting
the greatest tyrant of them all. Slavery affected only the South, but the
Money Power means the enslavement of all human beings and all homes.”
Many an old, long-whiskered farmer said the same thing just as well
fifteen years ago—and the _Herald_ called him an anarchist.

“The Senate,” says Ernest Crosby in the March _Cosmopolitan_, “is now the
agent of the Money Power—the representative of Wall Street.” Absolutely
true; and no one can doubt the sincerity of either Mr. Crosby or the
_Cosmopolitan_; but when the farmers of the West and South said the same
thing fifteen years ago, they were greeted with hoots and jeers from the
East. I don’t say that Messrs. Riis and Crosby joined in the hooting and
jeering; I am quite sure they did not; but they are accorded a respectful
hearing in making statements for the making of which thousands of
respectable men fifteen years ago were branded as anarchists, wild-eyed
fanatics, lunatics, and so forth.

The world _do move_.

                                                                 L. H. B.

_The Russian Apostle of Populism_

BY THOMAS C. HUTTON

Fifty years ago a grayheaded prisoner, neglected, gaunt, unbefriended,
died in the dungeons of Schlüsselburg, and today a thousand Russian
cities are ringing with the name of Mikal Bakunin, the apostle of
Populism, one of the many reformers who were stoned by a contemporary
public and sainted by its descendants.

Russia spurned the impassioned orator; Germany exiled him, after a few
months of toleration, and now his projects are discussed by millions who
seem determined to give them a fair trial.

“A pack of knout-serving flunkeys,” Bakunin called the German officials
who enforced the frontier-laws in the interest of the Czar, and soon
after a messenger in uniform served him with a copy of the Prussian
press-laws, and a hint at the expedience of making himself invisible.

His virulent tongue hurt him a good deal, and his popularity was somewhat
modified by his social radicalism; but the long neglect of his revenue
plan is one of the strangest facts in the literature of political
economy. One might as well reject Kepler’s solar hypothesis, because the
great astronomer got a little cloudy on the question of witchcraft.

And, after all, Bakunin only whispered his matrimonial theories, but
shouted his tax-protests before multitudes who ought to have known better
than to class them with his chimeras.

Briefly stated, his main reform plan is this: That governments ought to
earn their own revenues as they cast their own cannon and build their
own battleships.

“Look at your great Government stud-farm of Trakehnen,” said he, in a
speech on the old Breslau market-square. “Model stables, model granaries,
fine pastures, all more than self-supporting, monthly auctions of forage
and surplus horses. Oats are barreled in airy magazines, and, for greater
security, the granary warden breeds cats, and hires two boys to take care
of them.

“All lovely, so far. But now suppose those boys were to break in a
private cottage and snatch away a poor youngster’s kitten, on the
pretext that the Government might have need of it? At sight of a club,
the little lad would have to let his pet go, but could you blame him
for growling?—Why don’t you get oats of your own? And let my little
kitten alone?—And that is exactly what I am growling about when I see
tax-collectors confiscate a poor man’s last milch-cow or nanny-goat.”

The orator then described the estate of Prince Gorkas, a semi-independent
land-magnate near Tiflis, in the southern Caucasus. The Prince’s tenants
pay a moderate rent; freeholders keep his good will by buying his cattle
and coal. Free schools, fairly good, and no tax-collectors—a pattern of
what an empire ought to be on a large scale. Foreseeing the eventual
need of money for the purchase of a neighboring estate, the Prince had
a mountain-side planted with plum trees, to sell the dried fruit. His
engineers opened a mine of cannel-coal, and soon had a large market.
Their master hoarded and was thought capable of driving a sharp bargain,
but gossips would have risked the lunatic-asylum if they had spread a
report that Prince Gorkas had broken into the little crossroad store and
helped himself to a share of the old storekeeper’s savings.

Fruit plantations are also managed by the Shah of Persia, and mines of
vast values by the Russian Government. Prussia and Austria own extensive
timber forests and realize a handsome profit after paying reasonable
wages to thousands of wardens, rangers and woodcutters.

Saxony operates national mines and large national glass-works.

Do kings need ordnance? Let them hire foundries to cast it for them. Do
they need gunpowder? Hire chemists to mix it for them.

Do they need money? Why, let them hire business-men to earn it for them.
Not the faintest ghost of a doubt but it can be done.

A little more difficult than raising royal race-horses? Perhaps so. But
does that give His Majesty the right to race down a peddler and take his
money away from him? Now reflect, and do not let your verdict be biased
by the idea that might makes right, or that a long-established absurdity
becomes reasonable.

Why collect revenues by Government highway robbery, by Government hold-up
methods, by harpies in Government uniform, when the test of practical
experience proves that revenues can be raised by Government industries?

Would you bring the State in unfair competition with individuals?
“Don’t for one moment,” says Bakunin, “believe that lie of lazybones.
Secretaries of Finance find it easier to hire marauders than to hire
skilled mechanics, that’s all.”

Who is hurt by the great stockfarm at Trakehnen? It could be enlarged
twenty times, and still give private enterprise a chance to raise
prize-horses at a considerable profit. Who complains about Government
forestry? It gives bread to hundreds of thousands; it protects the
fountains of fertilizing streams; it prevents droughts, but does not
prevent individuals from conducting timber-plantations at a profit
exceeding that of grain farms.

The Belgian Government owns coal-mines, but private mine-owners will
continue to prosper till they exhaust the supply of the mineral. No
glass-worker has ever objected to the Government glass-works of Saxony.
They invite co-operation; the demand for artistic glass products exceeds
the supply.

If Government mines and factories, why not Government commerce, and,
above all, Government real estate transactions—Government landlordism
to an extent that will hurt no other landlord, and benefit millions of
tenants?

Found new communities on the plan of reserving a certain percentage of
building lots for state purposes, and lease those reservations for five
to ten years to the highest bidder. If the Government erects buildings,
let them be models of their kind—fire-proof storehouses, sanitary
tenements.

Government plantations ought to be drained till gnat-plagues are no more;
equipped with improved machinery, with airy cottages; a blessing to all
concerned, and yet an undoubted source of revenue, since experience
proves that wholesale farming operations are the most profitable.

One tobacco plantation of the French Government yields a yearly net
revenue of 2,000,000 francs, and the only objection is the nature of
the crop; national agriculture could raise profitable harvests without
catering to a stimulant habit. Government commission houses should import
Jamaica bananas, rather than Jamaica rum.

On the Bakunin plan, national revenue industries should, as a rule,
select their ground where the strain of competition is the least likely
to be felt. After that, objectors should be referred to a chronicle of
such alternatives as trust despotism.

“No governments,” he asks, “decline to dirty their hands delving for
boodle? Oh, ye prayerful pirates! Lineal descendants of the bushwhacker
princes who preferred clubs to spades! Below their dignity to cut wood,
but did cut purses and throats. Too highborn to clean out a pig-sty, but
did clean out peddlers and often whole caravans.

“And now the descendants of those beautiful buccaneers, too proud to
mine or farm, but not ashamed to fall upon a poor farmer’s homestead
and confiscate his last horse! Not too dignified to hold up a crippled
huckster and collar two-thirds of his hard earned pennies. Too sensitive
to work the windlass of a silvermine, but rough-handed enough to wring
silver from a consumptive shopkeeper. Our grandiose rulers, I should say,
are in small business when they break in to snatch a widow’s kettle and
cot-bed.

“Yet that’s done every day in the year. Statistics claim that somewhere
on earth a child is born every second. And at least every minute sees the
birth of a child that will have to die of hunger, because its mother’s
bread has been filched by tax-collectors.

“Have Governments a right to supply their needs at the expense of widows
and orphans, while thousands of able-bodied young men stand ready to earn
revenue for them?”

High tariff bullies, says the Russian reformer, are marine highway
robbers. At first sight, the burden of spoliation seems shifted to the
shoulders of foreigners, but, look closer, and you find natives obliged
to buy imports at extortion rates.

Passengers, waiting to be examined by custom-house officers, says
Bakunin, always remind him of travelers, lined up to be searched by
footpads.

“How commerce revives,” he says, “wherever those shackles are partly
removed! How would it flourish if they were altogether abolished?
Traffic that now obliges skippers to starve their sailors could be made
abundantly profitable.”

A hundred years before the birth of Henry George, a revenue system,
closely resembling the “Single Tax” plan, was recommended by the father
of Gabriel Mirabeau, and by the Roget School of French Communists.

“It _would_ relieve some classes of our wage-earners,” says Bakunin, “but
would burden others, and why harass them, if we can undoubtedly find ways
to get along without direct taxation?”

Why make land the scapegoat of a sin that might be avoided?

In 1849 the Russian Government got its clutches on the bold reformer,
and silenced him by the usual argument of despots. The voice that had
entranced mass-meetings in a hundred cities of southern and western
Europe was stifled in the catacombs of Schlüsselburg.

But Time, the All-Avenger, has made the martyr’s name a rallying cry of
East-European reformers, and America should honor the memory of Mikal
Bakunin as that of a hero and pioneer of reform—a man whose marvelous
gift of intuition had recognized all the ideals of Populism, all its
principles and promises, but who succumbed to the superhuman task of
effecting its progress under the handicap of a monarchical government.

_Naturally_

KNICKER—There goes a man who would rather fight than eat.

BOCKER—Soldier?

KNICKER—No, dyspeptic.

[Illustration: LUCIANNA’S KEEP

BY ELLIOT WALKER.]

“I’ve got twenty dollars for the rent an’ fifteen more for what’s likely
to come up,” observed Enos Matchett cheerfully, as he put down his
teacup. “There’s nothin’ to worry about this first of month, anyhow. Eh,
Martha?”

His wife fingered her napkin in a nervous way, usual to her when the
appalling call of their landlord was due, not to mention others who
fished from pockets soiled packages of rubber-banded slips to draw out
tentatively and none too expectantly those alarming accounts marked at
their tops with the discredited name of Enos Matchett.

Poor Martha. The “Oh! Yes. I’ll speak to my husband about it,” and the
hundred other subterfuges were growing gaunt with repetition. She had a
regular repertory of excuses to apply as conditions demanded. For a first
presentation a fixed and nonchalant smile and a “come ’round next month,”
caused quick riddance of the unwelcome. “Next month,” it was, “I declare,
I guess Mr. Matchett overlooked that little bill. Perhaps, you’d better
leave it so he’ll keep it in mind.”

From then on, rang the changes of high prices, hard times and
honest intentions until at last came the sharp, bullying threat of
the collection lawyer and the crawling process of paying by small
installments.

Sometimes she tore up the bills, sometimes they went into the fire,
never, until her last bridge had collapsed, did she worry Enos.

He worked, hopefully, from morning to night at odd jobs and occasional
bits of carpentry. A fortunate month might fatten their attenuated
exchequer to a bulge of sixty dollars, but the months were not all
fortunate and there was seldom a penny came in that remained over a
fortnight. To meet the rent was imperative. That had to be met. For the
rest—wits, hopes, and a somewhat shattered faith in the Lord’s providence.

However, when the Lord endowed average femininity with a high scorn of
bills and an abnormal intelligence in the evasion of payment much was
done for man.

Enos, undoubtedly, would have become as flighty and irresponsible as was
Lucianna, upstairs, had he been obliged to face the shafts which his
worried better half so successfully foiled to the last ditch.

Now, Martha gazed across the table at him, with the smile of one
temporarily relieved from anxiety.

“That’s good,” she answered. “It’s queer how we’ve kep’ along.”

“Ain’t it?” responded Mr. Matchett. “I was consid’rable pestered ten
days ago as to how we’d come out this month, but Miss Joslyn paid me,
an’ I had a week steady on Doctor Bullen’s fence. No one in particular
a-hurryin’ us jest now, I s’pose?”

“Don’t think of any special tormentor,” returned Martha, biting her thin
lips. Indeed, no obvious projection in the wall of torment occurred to
her at the moment. Their creditors were “lined up,” in equal aggression.
One was as bad as another.

Enos tugged at his gray mustache—a sparse adornment, getting white at the
ends.

“Guess we’ll blow a dollar on something for Lucianna then,” he ventured
generously.

“Guess not!” exclaimed Martha, with decision. “The child’s got
toys enough. Feedin’ her is more to the point. I never see such an
appetite. She’s happy. Let her alone and put your money where ’twill be
appreciated.”

Lucianna, now a child supposed to have attained twenty-five years, and a
very queer one at that, had employed most of her day in making faces at
such of the passers who did not meet her approval, and smiling at those
who did. These courtesies were accentuated by taps on the window panes.

The poor harmless creature could be allowed little liberty as she ran
away and sat on doorsteps, proclaiming herself a burglar of kittens.
Given a kitten, or stealing one, Lucianna would go home delighted.

The influx of kittens became too trying. Enos, a soft-hearted man, would
do no murder. Martha, steeled to crime through desperation, had disposed
of several, really unfit to exist, and found homes for more. Lucianna
forgot them over night. Therefore, it had lately become necessary to
confine her to her room, where she was allowed one kitten during the day.

This satisfied Lucianna completely. Besides, she possessed six dolls,
toys galore, and when these joys palled there was the window.

Whatever possessed the Matchetts to make a home for the unfortunate girl
was a mystery to their acquaintances, as she was no kin. Years before,
when life was younger and brighter, with Enos at a paying job, and
Martha ambitious for a servant yet unable to afford a regular domestic,
Lucianna, then a pretty child of about thirteen, had appeared and asked
for something to eat.

She was well grown and seemed strong, although exhausted by walking and
hunger.

Martha took her in, and an idea seized the good woman, after certain
questions had been put and answered.

It was their plain duty to keep this little stranger until somebody
claimed her, and in the event of no one turning up for the waif, why not
train her for service?

Lucianna was reticent about her past career. Enos thought she lied.
Martha said she was too young to remember. It seemed a case of no mother,
a father who had gone away leaving her with unkind people who did not
love her.

In corroboration of this last statement Lucianna exposed a plump arm
decorated with small bruises of various ages and colors.

“Pinches,” she explained, snuffling. This settled Enos, who went down
cellar and split more kindlings than he had ever done at one bout.

When he came up, perspiring and still glaring, Lucianna had been fed and
put to bed. Martha was washing the soiled socks, and singing thoughtfully.

“Seems nice to have a child in the house,” she remarked.

“We’ll keep her along,” returned Mr. Matchett. “Good little thing.”

“As gold,” affirmed his wife.

This was the advent of Lucianna. Beyond the fact of her surname being
Crowson, her clothes plain, her eyes blue, her light hair cut short, and
that she bore marks of abuse, the worthy couple knew nothing.

Neither did they go out of their way for information. Lucianna proved
affectionate, willing and useful, with a passion for cats.

In a year she had become almost as their own. Enos worshiped her. Martha
did, too, but made Lucianna work, as befitted her position as helper.

Another year and the girl developed peculiarities that worried them. She
eyed them shyly. She grimaced at Enos most impertinently when he trod on
her cat’s tail. Martha spanked her. Lucianna laughed.

A few months more and she became erratic, irresponsible and useless, but
always good natured. As Enos expressed it, “Lucianna had gone back to
bein’ a kid.”

Some money went for medical advice. There was but one opinion.
“Weak-minded. The patient might grow worse, but hardly probable if kindly
treated. With great care under expert treatment she might improve. Such
cases were outside the regular practice. Would recommend a sanitarium,
or an asylum. Of course, if they wished to have her remain at home, no
objection could be raised; but a burden—a burden.”

“We’ll keep her along,” announced Enos. “We’ve got hands and hearts yet,
hain’t we?”

“God forgive me for spankin’ her,” wept Martha. “The poor thing couldn’t
help her actions, an’ she never held it against me. Jest laughed, she
did, takin’ it all in good part.”

“She sha’n’t go to no asylum,” cried Mr. Matchett, rising to the
occasion. “Sanitariums an’ expert doctors ain’t for our pockets. She come
to us for carin’, growed to be our little girl, an’ by Josh! Lucianna
will be kep’ along.”

She was; and always reported to be “about the same.”

Ten years of it—ten long, trying, down-hill years, but neither Enos
Matchett nor his wife had ever wavered in loyalty or love to their
charge. Indeed, the worse things got, the more they thought of Lucianna.

Her daily airing (on the wiry arm of Martha), her whims, her playthings,
were all attended to, religiously.

If, as frequently happened, she made a bright remark, her devoted keepers
nodded sagely, saying, “She’s gettin’ better.”

As for the expense, whatever their thoughts in secret, both kept a
guarded silence. Only this evening had Martha for the first time
deprecated the failing of Enos to “blow a dollar for Lucianna.”

He stared at her, curiously, and grunted.

“Pooh!” said he, recklessly. “Got fifteen ahead.”

Martha’s tongue uncurbed at this unseemly boast. Her long nose twitched.

“Ahead!” she snorted. “You stay in my place tomorrow, Enos Matchett. You
mind the door for one mornin’ and see how much you’re _ahead_.”

“All right,” returned Enos, his placid features animating resentfully.
“I can spare the time till noon. No need of snappin’ at me as I see. No
sense in deprivin’ Lucianna of a little pleasure, neither. There’s nobody
pressin’ us hard—said so yourself. What’s a dollar, anyway?”

Alas! to the contempt of Mr. Matchett for the single dollar was due much
of their financial tribulation.

“I’m going up to visit with the girl,” he added. “_She_ won’t be snappy.”

This parting thrust rankled in Martha’s bosom, and the supper table was
cleared with rather unnecessary clatter. The improvident, easy-going Enos
always let her have her own way. He turned over his earnings to her more
careful hands, spending very little on himself, and trusted implicitly to
wifely wisdom in all household matters. A real quarrel between them had
never occurred.

Responsibility, shifted from his fat shoulders to her narrow ones, was
both agreeable and natural to Enos. His make-up was that of the man
who never “troubled trouble,” until cornered. Then he became actually
belligerent and invited war. Up to this rare point Mr. Matchett bluffed
good-humoredly.

When assailed by creditors on the street he was invariably in a hurry to
perform some important and paying job—a fictitious pleasantry.

“Can’t bother about that now,” he would grin. “Drop ’round to the house
an’ see Mis’ Matchett. She ’tends to the finances, an’ if she hasn’t
spent all I give her lately, you’ll get something.”

This ingenious disposition of duns was not meant to be unkind.

“Martha’ll fix him,” Enos would chuckle, trotting along. “She don’t mind.”

So the brunt fell on Martha, and it was patiently borne.

But nerves grow irritable under constant pricking until they are ready
to snap. Martha did mind. Of late she had felt like hiding whenever the
door-bell rang. It took a long breath, a determined effort, a clutch at
her quick beating heart for an appearance of unconcern, and her poor
brain quivered with apprehension at its dearth of successful excuses.

“Let him have a turn,” she muttered, wiping the dishes. “The rent
collector won’t be ’round ’till afternoon, but there’s a-plenty of others
likely to show up. His fifteen dollars will get melted fast enough. _I_
could sprinkle it right, but he don’t know how. The first feller will get
it all, an’ then——”

Martha paused to laugh, dismally. There was another side. How about
future calls from those turned down by Enos? He might lose his temper.
All the worse for her.

“I’m most hopin’ nobody’ll come,” she faltered. “I ain’t so sure of
gettin’ the best of this.”

However, the following morning saw her marching off smilingly, with
Lucianna in high feather at the prospect of a long stroll.

Enos regarded their departure with complacence, expecting an undisturbed
session. At the most, some small bill might be presented. He knew
just how he would pay it; carelessly, with a jaunty, indifferent air,
as if the amount was a trifle. This was his unvarying attitude of
settlement—when he settled.

With newspapers and a pipe, it would be quite a holiday. He established
himself comfortably, soon forgetting indebtedness in perusing the details
of late murders.

Shortly after nine o’clock came a ring of the bell—a feeble peal—Enos
went to the door.

The caller was a stranger to him,—a dapper, gentlemanly man whose
pleasant face bore an embarrassed expression.

“I—I wish to see Mrs. Matchett,” he began.

“Out for a walk,” said Enos, a bit pompously. “Any message? I’m Mr.
Matchett.”

“Well,” the man pursed his lips and hesitated. “I—I wanted to speak with
your wife about an account. Something of her own, you know—er—wearing
apparel. If I could get the money today it would be a great convenience.”

Enos laughed indulgently.

“Clothes, eh? You needn’t be modest about that. I don’t rec’lect her
havin’ any new ones for years, but it’s all right, I guess. I’m payin’
the bills. Trot it out an’ I’ll settle right now an’ glad to.”

The man looked relieved. “If it’s perfectly convenient?” he said.

“Perfectly,” puffed Enos. “I’ve got the stuff ready for any little thing
that may come up.”

He unfolded the paper and glanced at the total under a short list of
items. It was just thirty-five dollars.

Matchett gazed at the figures, too appalled to change countenance beyond
a drop of the jaw.

Slowly, he pulled out his precious roll, and counted the money into the
other’s hands.

“Receipt that bill!” he grunted.

“I’m ever so much obliged,” said the man glibly, his eyes on the paper as
he signed the long name of a well known dry goods house, “and I wish you
would explain to Mrs. Matchett.”

“I will,” returned Enos shortly.

“You see, we’ve sold out recently,” pursued his caller. “We are
collecting all old accounts. This, as you perceive, is very old. We have
never bothered Mrs. Matchett. I hated to come, really I did, but the
present conditions made it imperative. Before your wife purchased the
goods, she went to Mr. Morley—head of the old firm, you know, and told
him so honestly that she couldn’t tell when she would be able to pay, and
her reasons for buying, that it quite tickled the old gentleman. He came
to me—I have charge of the dress goods department—Parker is my name.

“Says he, ‘Parker, wait on this lady and I’ll speak to the bookkeeper
as to the bill.’ He gave orders to keep it back, so it’s never been
presented. Very unusual and unbusinesslike, of course, but Mr. Morley had
peculiarities. Pity he died. Our new head is a very different sort. Very
strict. So I felt it was my place to see Mrs. Matchett, as I sold her the
goods and she would remember. Ladies are apt to forget their little bills
if not reminded. I think your wife will remember.”

“I think so,” said Enos. “Well, the thing’s paid and that’s all.” His
voice was steady, but deeper than usual.

“That’s all. Yes, sir. Sorry to trouble you, and very many thanks. I’m
much relieved to find it was no inconvenience. So many people complain of
hard times. Good day.”

Mr. Parker skipped down the steps. Mr. Matchett locked the door.

He went to the most remote room in the house and sat for two hours in
a state of apathetic despair, broken only by short bursts of wrath.
Oh, Martha should long recollect this day! Several times the bell rang
insistently, but Enos paid no heed.

At last he settled on a plan of action and went wearily down to unlock
the door.

The two women came in, shortly before noon. In the sunshine and freedom,
Martha had cast care to the winds. Her eyes were bright. In her thin
cheeks played a faint color. Lucianna had behaved beautifully. Now, she
giggled at sight of Enos, and clamored for dinner.

“We’ll have some soon,” said Martha, stirring about. “Had a quiet
morning, husband?” mischievously.

“I ain’t seen a bill against me,” replied Mr. Matchett, calmly. “I’ve
set still till I’ll be glad to get into the air. Let’s eat, an’ I’ll be
startin’.”

The eye-brows of his wife lifted in wonder. After all, she was glad of
the news. It would have been too bad to have Enos upset.

He ate in silence while she chatted volubly of her outing, not remarking
his lack of attention.

“Through?” he asked, as Martha rolled her napkin and sat back.

“All through,” she smiled.

“Well, _I_ ain’t,” said the man, leaning forward, his eyes stern and
reproachful. “Nor you, neither. We’ve a bit of dessert to chew on,
Martha Matchett. I told you I hadn’t seen a bill against _me_. I’ve seen
one against you, an’ I’ve paid it! Yes, marm. Paid it! Here!” he thrust
the paper at her.

“Dear God!” moaned the woman, after a lightning glimpse. “It’s come on
to me at last. Oh! Enos, husband, don’t look so at me. It was for Cousin
Minna’s weddin’—four years ago;—I wanted to go. I didn’t have no dress,
nor fixin’s. You was away. I went to Mr. Morley’s store an’ had ’em
charged. He said I could pay when I had the money. I’ve never had it. The
dress I’ve never worn since. I—I hid it away till I could pay for it,
Enos—oh, dear, oh, dear.”

She sobbed, piteously, staring wildly at him through her tears.

“An’—you—paid—it,” came her horrified gasps. “Every—cent—we had.”

“You can attend to the rent, Martha,” the voice of Enos was unmoved as he
arose. “I’m goin’ to rake lawns.”

He went out without another word or look, leaving her weeping and rocking
to and fro.

From the outside he gazed at the house. It was a pretty cottage of a
cheap kind. They had lived there for three years, and Martha’s vines
had grown. Her flower bed, so carefully tended, how pretty it was! On
the opposite side of the road lay a great vacant lot—a pasture on the
city outskirts. Trees were there—and cows. In summer, children played
among the grasses. In winter, they coasted. It was just the place for
Lucianna—for Martha—for Enos, too.

“Got to leave it,” groaned the man. “No use talkin’. It’s pay or get
out. Plenty wants it—and old Craddock won’t wait again. Third time we’ll
have moved. Confound Minna’s weddin’ an’ a deceivin’ woman. If I’d known
it—oh! if I only had—but I said I’d pay an’ I did. Now, _let_ her do some
payin’.”

Lucianna tapped on the window and beamed at him. His answering smile was
a ghastly farce. Tears were on the round cheeks of Enos as he hurried
away. Last night he had been so confident and happy. He stumbled, walking
on.

No suspicious moisture showed on Martha’s cheeks, as she marched over her
doorsill twenty minutes later. Her tears had dried. A hard determination
glittered in the black eyes. Under her hastily arranged bonnet, Mrs.
Matchett’s face, strained and set, was tense with resolve.

Lucianna did not witness her departure, else there would have been
wailing and much pounding on the window. Fortunately the girl had fallen
asleep. Only on occasions of great moment was she left alone. This was
one of them.

Martha hastened along.

The old sign of “Morley, Cowperthwait, Rensellaer and Company” still
remained over the entrance of the great department store—but the kindly
old founder was gone.

Martha knew that—she had read of his death, and the passage of the
business into new hands. But that old bill wouldn’t be a worry. She had
a whole string of excuses and explanations for the lingering liquidation
of her debt in the case of the resurrection of this buried but haunting
ghost. Now, Enos had “gone and paid it,” to the ruin of them all.

Through the throng she pushed and elbowed. How changed everything was.
How busy and big. Martha had not entered that growing emporium since the
date of her reckless purchase.

For a second her heart failed at the enormity of her mission. Then she
clenched her teeth and grabbed a passing bundle boy by the shoulder.

“Say!” she exclaimed, hoarsely. “I want to see the head of the firm, the
man who is attendin’ to Mr. Morley’s work. Where is he?”

The startled lad pulled away, blinked and grinned.

“Guess not,” he retorted. “He’ll take yer skelp off. He won’t talk to
nobody this time o’ day.”

“It’s important, I tell you,” cried the woman, fiercely. “It’s a money
matter an’ I _will_ see him.”

“Gwan ter trouble, then!” said the boy, pointing a mischievous finger at
a closed door marked “No admittance.” “I’ll call de ambulance. He ain’t
no Mr. Morley. I see you come out a flyin’ in jest two seconds.”

But Martha was past him, her grasp on the knob, and the door closed
behind her as he stared.

“Here! Here!” ejaculated a stout, bald man, turning impatiently from his
desk with a twist of his revolving chair. “You’ve made a mistake, madam.
Go right out, please.”

“I won’t,” said Martha. “I’m here on important business—an’ I’ll state it
before I move one step. You’ve taken Mr. Morley’s place. You’re the head
of things, an’ I’ve come straight to you.”

A queer smile crossed the broad face. The man took out his watch. “I’ll
give you just one minute,” he said, coolly. “What’s the trouble. Talk
fast, now.”

Martha talked fast.

“I got thirty-five dollars worth of stuff here most four years ago,”
she began, excitedly. “Mr. Morley said I could pay when convenient. Now
you’ve sent to my house when I was out, an’ my husband paid it. I want
that money back.”

Her listener laughed outright.

“Why! Why!” he coughed. “My dear woman, you have a very accommodating
husband; that’s evident. Four years! What were you thinking of? Madam,
the account should never have run so long. You owed it. It’s been paid.
The transaction is closed. We cannot give you back the money. What a
ridiculous request!”

The woman drew in her breath, shudderingly.

“People must settle their obligations, you know,” pursued the man patting
his fat leg. “That is the rule of business. If _I_ owed you anything I
should pay it. If you owe me, you have to pay also. Such a demand as
yours is absurd. Can’t you see that?”

“I can see me an’ Enos turned out of our little home.” Martha’s voice
was stony. “The money for that bill of mine was every penny we had. The
rent’s got to be met before night. My husband’s an honest man—too honest
to have any credit. I can see him growin’ old an’ gray in some shanty. I
can see a poor half-witted girl cryin’ for the room she loves. These are
the things I can see. Yes, sir, that’s the worst of it. Lucianna won’t
understand——”

“Eh!” interrupted the merchant sharply. “Who?”

“Lucianna, sir. Not our own daughter, but most the same, poor thing.
We’ve been glad to have her, an’ make her a home, an’ never minded the
cost. She was so little when she came to us for shelter, smart an’ bright
as anybody with her blue eyes an’ yellow hair, winnin’ us like she was
our born baby. ’Twasn’t her fault she got queer. We wouldn’t put the
child where she’d be abused again, so we kep’ her. Now, to root her out
from comfort into the Lord knows what—I can’t bear to think of it. Me an’
Enos might get along somehow, but there’s Lucianna. I want that money
back!”

Martha’s tone became sharp as she remembered her errand. Tears had
blinded her eyes during the rapid explanation, quite forgetful for the
moment of all save the coming deprivations of her loved ones.

Now, she winked them away to glare at the man in the chair. His ruddy
face had gone to a dreadful whiteness. His hands were working. A strange
sound came from the thick throat before he stammered feebly:

“I—I—lost—a little girl. Her—this—one—do you know the last name?”

“I’ve most forgot—she’s had ours for so long.” Martha began to tremble.
“Let’s see? Yes. Say, it can’t be, your name is Crowson? That’s hers,
Lucianna Crowson.”

“My God!” the stout man sprang up. “It is! It is! Everything points to
her being the same. It must be so.”

He seized Martha’s hands with such vehemence that she recoiled with a
startled, backward step.

“Don’t act so crazy!” came her alarmed exclamation. “You let go an’ be
careful. The blood’s clean to the top of your head. Set down an’ behave.”

“Yes! Yes!” cried Crowson, releasing her, to pace the small room with a
broken laugh and a fierce curse. “Wait! I’ll be myself in a minute. She’s
my girl—I tell you. They wrote me she was dead—the people I left her
with—after the child was cured. I’m her father, my dear woman. Don’t mind
me, I’ll pull up directly. Wait!”

Martha shrank against the wall, as he laughed wildly and growled
imprecations.

Presently he steadied, tightening his muscles and breathing deep.

“I’m all right,” said he, huskily. “You must excuse this, Mrs.—Mrs.—”

“Matchett,” answered his caller. “Certainly! ’Tain’t no wonder you felt
shook up, if you’re really Lucianna’s father.”

“There is no doubt about it;” the man sat heavily in his chair. “Listen!
She was eleven years old when she fell off her pony and injured her head.
I was a comparatively poor man then, but I got the best surgeons. For
months my little one lay in a hospital. We had no settled home. My wife
died long before. Business called me away. When I returned Lucianna was
pronounced cured. At least it was deemed safe to place her with some
family where she would have every care, and no excitement. Should the
trouble recur, an operation would be necessary.

“I found a home for her. Matters were arranged. Again I went West.
Letters reached me regularly for many months. All seemed to be going
well, in fact so satisfactorily that I, immersed in the starting of
a business, ceased to worry. Yes, it must have been two years before
I stopped my remittances, although those crafty letters had grown
infrequent.

“I wrote the Harpinsons that I would be East soon and intended to take
the child back with me.

“Then I received the shocking news of her death. Diphtheria, they said,
and very sudden. A malignant case, and—well—the burial had been at night.
Everything was done as if she belonged to them. As soon as quarantine was
over they were going to move and would inform me of their location.”

Martha stood with her mouth open.

“Did they?” she hissed. “We must have had Lucianna for a good while
before those critters said she was dead.”

“Yes,” said Crowson, frowning. “They bled me as long as possible.
I received one more letter, postmarked Boston—a few details of no
importance, but I had no suspicions. Since then, my letters have come
back stamped, ‘no such party at address.’”

“But—” broke in Martha.

He held up an appealing hand.

“I know, I know,” he interrupted. “I should have gone on at once. Yet
what could be done? The quarantine—the detention from business—the added
grief. My child was gone. All was over. Nothing seemed left to me save
strenuous work and the making of money. I own three stores like this, the
result of losing Lucianna. Now I have found her, I’ll not work so hard.”

“She won’t know you from Adam,” said Martha, jealously.

“Perhaps—in—time,” replied Crowson, stroking his forehead. “Thank God!
I’ve the means to find out.”

“Have we got to give up Lucianna?” quavered the woman. “If—if it’s for
her good, I s’pose I could stand it, but what will Enos say? She won’t
want to go, neither.”

The man turned his head suddenly, and coughed.

“We will fix everything right,” he said, gently. “I’ll take no step
without your consent. Let’s see! To get back to business—” he smiled,
whimsically. “You mustn’t think a personal matter can influence our
regulations. That bill of yours must be settled.”

Martha jumped. In her excitement she had quite forgotten the landlord,
the house and the gravity of the Matchett situation.

Speechless, she drew herself up. Could this hard-headed man be so devoid
of humanity, after what had happened, as to refuse her assistance?

“Still,” he went on in his matter-of-fact tone, “I’ll give you a little
more time on it. Till next week, say. Here is the money, but say nothing
about it. Quite against rules, you know.”

He pulled out a wallet and handed her four bank notes, three tens and a
five.

“Thanks!” said Martha, counting them mechanically. “I s’pose you want
this;” she held out the receipted bill.

“Oh yes—I must have that.” He put it carefully in a pigeon-hole.

“I’m ever so much obliged,” murmured the woman, “an’ I’ll try to scrape
up something by next week. I s’pose you’ll be ’round to see Lucianna—an’
talk with Mr. Matchett.”

“Very soon.” Crowson’s mouth trembled at the corners. “How long have you
had Lucianna?”

“Twelve years come Saturday. Enos was sayin’ so night before last. We
call it her birthday, an’ most always give her something. Not this year,
though. Can’t afford it.”

The merchant figured on a pad. “Twelve. Six hundred and twenty-four,” he
whispered. Then aloud. “The Harpinsons charged me ten dollars a week for
Lucianna’s keep. It was none too much.”

“They skinned you,” said Martha, adjusting her bonnet. She felt dazed
and tired; quite bewildered at the prospect of losing Lucianna, uneasy
regarding Enos, yet thankful for the temporary financial respite.

“I’ve got to hurry home,” she announced. “There’s nothing more to say
except that I’ll do my best to settle my bill and I’m obliged to you. I’m
mighty glad for you, sir, but the thought of what we’re losing makes me
fairly sick. It ain’t right to say so, but I most wish I hadn’t come.”
She turned with a choke.

“One moment,” said Crowson. “I want your address. What is your full name,
Mrs. Matchett?”

“Martha.”

“Any middle name?”

“Hum! Lupkins,” returned Martha reluctantly. “We live at 462 Goodland
Avenue—used to be Squash Street. You’ll find us easy enough—good day.”

“One thing more. It will take only a minute. You have arranged your old
account. There’s another you seem to have overlooked.” He touched a
button on his desk.

“There ain’t another!” declared Martha, defiantly. “I don’t owe a cent
here besides this.”

The door opened quickly. A young man bustled in.

“Hinkley,” ordered Mr. Crowson, and his eyes twinkled, “draw a check at
once to the order of Martha L. Matchett for six thousand two hundred and
forty dollars.”

When Enos crawled into supper, he was a weary, conscience-smitten person.
His anger had dissipated. What should come he knew not, but Martha’s
feelings must be considered, first of all. He pictured her in the depths
of despair—forlorn, distracted, possibly “packing.”

An appetizing odor filled the house. Enos sniffed.

“Beefsteak an’ onions an’ coffee,” he commented, gratefully. “Jest my
likin’s. She wants to make up. Where did she get the meat?”

Drawing his chair to the table, Mr. Matchett gazed at his spouse with a
dismayed visage.

Surely there was something wrong here. The display of luxuries, Martha’s
unnaturally bright eyes, her compressed lips, the new black dress, her
air of superiority.

“What’s the matter?” said Martha. “Pitch in. I’ve got a nice supper an’
dressed up to show you how smart I can be under afflictions.”

Enos took a mouthful.

“I—I guess Craddock didn’t come for the rent,” he essayed. “Never knew
him to skip us before.”

“He come,” replied Martha, loftily.

“An’ you—” the man’s fork shook against his plate.

“Paid him, of course,” said Martha, airily. “You told me to attend to it.”

Her husband half rose from his seat. “You ain’t right, my dear,” he said,
soothingly—“what’s affected you?”

“Set down!” commanded the woman, laughing. “We’ve found a friend, an’ our
girl’s found a father. It’s all straight, Enos. In case you want a bit of
spendin’ money, I’ve endorsed this over to you.”

Mr. Matchett did sit down. His countenance underwent many changes as he
fingered the check. “Wh—what’s it for?” he stuttered.

“Lucianna’s keep,” said Martha.

On the pleasant days, when the roads are fine, an automobile stops before
the Matchett’s door. Presently it rolls slowly away. Martha sits very
erect by the side of a golden-haired companion, and an Angora kitten
nestles between them. There is a good deal of laughing and talking, and
sometimes passers stare, but no one in the big car minds. The stout man
in front with the chauffeur turns, smiling at the women.

“Pretty distressing for us all, the removal of that lesion,” he says,
“but she’s reading little books, now.”

And when Enos asks a question with his eyes, upon Martha’s return from
these trips, he gets the same old words: “She’s gettin’ better.”

_Who Pays the Taxes?_

BY WILLIAM H. TILTON

The residents of a small New Jersey village were recently called together
for the purpose of considering the advisability of incorporating the
village into a borough; and the Philadelphia newspapers reported that
an application for incorporation had been signed by a large number of
“taxpayers and citizens.” What is meant by this dividing of the people
into two distinct classes? This question becomes of more than passing
importance in view of the fact that the case cited is not an isolated
one. For instance, during the political campaign of 1905, in New York
City, a prominent newspaper spoke editorially of the candidacy of William
R. Hearst for Mayor on a municipal ownership platform as an “appeal to
the _untaxed_ and an attack upon the _taxpayers_.”

The Secretary of the National Reciprocity League, in an address at
Chicago, is reported to have said that “Municipal ownership and operation
of street railways had become a craze; that people who do _not pay_ taxes
are the most enthusiastic supporters of the craze, as those who _pay_
taxes are opposed to the idea.”

The late Charles T. Yerkes, in reference to the election of Judge Dunne
as Mayor of Chicago on a municipal ownership platform, said: “The city
will run heavily in debt. Will the poor man suffer? No; because the poor
man does not pay taxes. Men with property pay taxes; these will suffer.”
Mr. Yerkes did not say just what kind of _property_ was meant; but as
the returns of personal property in Chicago are said to be less today
than they were twenty years ago (although the city is three times as
large, with six times the wealth), it is evident that the owners of that
kind of property—stock-owners of that kind of property—stocks, bonds,
mortgages, paintings, jewelry, silver services, etc.—are not going to
suffer to any great extent if they can help it. Then it must be the real
estate owner, again, who is expected to do the suffering, because of the
increase of taxes, should there be any such increase.

Day after day we read in the newspapers communications in reference to
public questions which are signed “Taxpayer,” or “Property Owner,” as
if that fact should give more weight or influence to their opinions or
suggestions. Others go still further. A Pittsburg preacher in a recent
sermon denounced universal suffrage, saying, “Only property owners should
vote and all others should be disfranchised.” Numerous other instances
could be cited which tend to show a growing tendency to consider the real
estate owner as the only person who pays taxes.

Now the great majority of our people have probably not looked upon these
signs of the times with any apprehension as yet; but “great oaks from
little acorns grow,” and this increasing disregard for the rights of men,
as men, this creating of class distinctions with a tax-bill as a line
of demarcation, on the theory that one small class pays all the taxes
and is, therefore, entitled to rights and privileges that are denied to
others, is dangerous and contrary to all principles of Democracy.

Owing to the inherent defects of human nature, no doubt there will always
be those among us who will expect and demand more than they are entitled
to, but the average American is satisfied with a square deal. When
deprived of what he considers his just rights, however, he is, like most
other people, inclined to become indifferent to the rights of others.
Sooner or later he helps to swell the large army of the discontented; and
history teaches that discontent is not only the mother of progress, but
the mother of trouble. “On the contentment of the poor rests the safety
of the rich.”

It is not intended to discuss in this article the justice or injustice
of any particular tax, but simply to consider the question of taxes—how
they are paid and who pays them—in the hope that we may thereby the more
intelligently render unto Cæsar the things that are Cæsar’s.

Let us consider first the tax on real estate, one of the most important
illustrations of the so-called “direct” taxation which Mill has defined
as “that which is demanded from the very person who, it is intended or
desired, should pay it.” Now it is, of course, true that this tax is
levied against the property and the tax-bill is rendered in the name of
the nominal owner, who is, naturally, expected to pay it; but whence
comes the money with which he discharges this debt against his property?
If the premises are rented or leased, are not the taxes, insurance, cost
of repairs, interest on investment, etc., all added to the rental which
is asked of and paid by the tenant? There are leases drawn today which
contain a clause providing “that any increase in the taxes shall be
added to the rental.” And yet, during the late struggle in Philadelphia
over the attempted lease of the gas works to a private corporation for
seventy-five years, a gentleman appeared before the committee of councils
on behalf, as he said, of the taxpayers _and_ rent-payers.

During the passage of the mortgage bill through the 1905 session of
the New York Legislature, a member of the committee appointed by the
real-estate owners to oppose the measure said: “The result, should the
bill pass, will be for the real-estate owners to raise the rents. It is
the public who will have to bear the burden, not the real-estate owners.”
So we appear to have very relevant testimony to the effect that the man
who receives the tax-bill, the man “on whom the tax is levied and who
is expected to pay it” really acts as an agent, collecting the tax from
his tenant and passing it on to the authorities. Is the tenant then a
_taxpayer_ or a _citizen_? As more than eighty per cent. of the people
of the United States occupy rented houses, the sooner this question is
satisfactorily answered and each of us understands his own individual
responsibility, the better for all concerned.

Would not the rent-payer hesitate to cast his ballot for corrupt
municipal government—with its accompanying reckless and dishonest
expenditures of the public money—would he not hesitate to strike or riot,
if he knew that the expenses (the teamsters’ strike in Chicago, in 1905,
is said to have cost the city $100,000 a month for special policemen) and
losses would eventually have to be paid by increased taxes _added to his
rent_?

The United States Steel Company is said to have done much to eliminate
strikes at its different plants by selling a portion of the capital stock
of the company to its employes. Every man who owns even one share now
feels that he is a part of the organization, that its interests are his
interests, its losses his losses; and he is not inclined to do anything
that will injuriously affect himself. When property owners understand and
admit it, and rent-payers realize that they are a part of the municipal
corporation, of the state and of the republic, that the public interests
are their interests, the public losses their losses, that we must all
rise or fall together, a great deal will have been accomplished toward
the creation of better feeling and a consequent improvement in existing
conditions.

Adam Smith says of taxation that “the subjects of every state ought to
contribute toward the support of the Government as nearly as possible in
proportion to their respective abilities; that is, in proportion to the
revenue which they respectively enjoy under the protection of the states.”

Montesquieu defined taxation as “that portion of a person’s property
which one contributes to the state in return for protection in the
enjoyment of the balance.”

Both these eminent authorities look upon the payment of taxes as a duty
which the citizen owes to the state in return for something which he
receives from the state; but neither says in just what manner that duty
must be performed, and there are undoubtedly numerous ways in which the
obligation of the citizen may be discharged.

A very important phase of the tax question to be considered here (owing
to its being the source of almost the entire income of the United States
Government) is what is known as “indirect” taxation, or the tax on
commodities, processes, etc. This is more easily collected than a direct
tax, because the consumer hardly realizes that he is being taxed when
paying for articles which he may use his own discretion about purchasing;
but it bears most heavily upon the poor, as only articles in general use
will yield the necessary revenue.

For instance, the tariff on imports, for the fiscal year ending 1905,
produced more than $260,000,000. This enormous amount was, of course,
paid at the custom house by the importer of the goods, but it was then
added to the cost of the goods and finally paid by the consumer. This tax
is great or small, depending entirely upon the necessities or desires of
the people.

The higher the social and economic development of a people, the greater
will be the burden of this tariff tax; as what were once considered
luxuries eventually become necessaries of life, and a larger proportion
of income is consequently expended for food, wearing apparel, household
goods, etc. Under such circumstances, a man who is in receipt of a
fair-sized income (even though possessing little or no taxable property),
if he buys freely for the wants of himself and his family, may
contribute more toward the support of the Government than his wealthy
landlord, who buys sparingly, swears off his personal taxes, and collects
his real estate taxes from his tenants.

The internal revenue tax on spirits, fermented liquors and tobacco
produced in 1905 about $230,000,000, which, while also paid primarily by
the manufacturer or distiller, is then added to the cost of production
and included in the selling price, which is paid, of course, by the
consumer. Not only the man who smokes or drinks, but everyone who uses
spirits in the manufactures or arts, in patent medicines or drugstore
prescriptions (many of which contain large quantities of liquor), is
contributing a share of this tax. Oleomargarine produced during the same
period over $600,000, and playing cards about $425,000.

Another very important source of income, levied in times of emergency, as
during the war with Spain, is the stamp tax, which produces millions of
dollars. The man with a small bank account pays as much for a stamp when
issuing a check for one dollar, as does the man who issues a check for
$100,000 or more; and each pays the same when purchasing an article of
manufacture which is sold under a stamp.

Again, we should not overlook such items as license fees, financial,
mercantile and franchise taxes, which, while levied by the city, state or
national governments upon some particular person, firm or corporation,
are really added to the cost of production or operation and ultimately
paid by the general public. For instance, during the political campaign
of 1904 in New Jersey, when equal taxation of railroad property was the
burning issue, the Republican candidate for governor, in a speech at
Trenton, stated: “No matter how high the tax on railroad property is
made, the people who pay the freight rates and passenger fares will, in
the end, pay it.” As a railroad director, he undoubtedly knew whereof he
spoke. Like the salesman’s expense account—which included an overcoat,
although it didn’t show—the freight and passenger rates also include the
franchise taxes, which tend to increase the cost of everything we eat,
everything we wear, every article of use or adornment in the home, every
portion of the material required in building the house, which ultimately
has its effect on the rent the tenant must pay. In the light of these
facts it would seem that, instead of there being question as to “who pays
the taxes,” the problem is to discover the man who does not pay taxes in
some form.

Again, there are thousands of Americans who do not own one dollar’s
worth of real estate, and many of them very few household goods, but who
have a birthright in this free land by reason of descent from the heroes
who pledged their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor for the
liberties we now enjoy; who fought and bled and died for the principle
of equal rights, no taxation without representation, and who established
upon this continent a “government of the people, by the people, for the
people.”

And the men of ’61! Have they not as much right to a voice and vote in
the affairs of the nation as those who remained at home and laid the
foundations of a fortune during that critical period? Had the soldier
remained at home, perhaps he too might now be a heavy taxpayer, or
tax-dodger. But he answered the nation’s call in the hour of need, he
sacrificed his opportunities and offered his life upon the altar of
his country. And, if he escaped with his life, he returned home, after
years of privation, suffering and hardship, probably ruined in health or
crippled for life, compelled to make a new start. Has he not discharged
his obligation to his country?

Who are the men who would rob an American of his birthright, who insist
that none but property owners should vote or hold office while all
others—the payers of rents, of the tariff, of the internal revenue, of
franchise and stamp taxes, etc.—should be disfranchised? Can they show a
better title than the men, or their descendants, who do the work in time
of peace and the fighting in time of war, but who may not have been able
to secure any real property—honestly or otherwise?

The Constitution of the United States provides that no man shall be
deprived of his right to vote on account of race, color or previous
condition of servitude. What right have we to attempt to deprive any man
of that privilege because he does not own property and pay “direct” taxes?

Mettius Curtius said that “Rome’s best wealth was her patriotism.”
Yet that patriotism was deadened and destroyed by privilege and class
distinction, and Rome fell. Patriotism is unquestionably the best wealth
of any nation; but it cannot be aroused or fostered in a republic by
dividing the people into classes, the rulers and the ruled, on the basis
of ownership of property.

    Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
    Where wealth accumulates and men decay.

The success, progress and safety of this republic rests upon the
contentment of the _whole_ people, and that contentment depends upon
justice and fair dealing. And every citizen, “unless he goes naked,
eats grass, and lives in a hole in the ground,” is a taxpayer to a
greater or less extent, according to the benefits he derives. He has
the same interests in the national welfare; the same responsibilities;
is entitled to equal rights and privileges before the law; and when we
have fully realized the fact we will have established a higher standard
of citizenship, we will each have more respect for ourselves and for one
another, and a deeper, truer love and higher regard for our country and
its institutions.

[Illustration: _Their Joke on the President_

    _Davenport, in N. Y. Evening Mail_]

[Illustration: _Our Uncommon Carriers_

    _Bart, in Minneapolis Journal_]

[Illustration: _Sick ’em!_

    _Macauley, in N. Y. World_]

[Illustration: _Letters From The People_]

Our readers are requested to be as brief as possible in their welcome
letters to the MAGAZINE, as the great number of communications daily
received makes it impossible to publish all of them or even to use more
than extracts from many that are printed. Every effort, however, will
be made to give the people all possible space for a direct voice in the
MAGAZINE, and this Department is freely open to them.

    _J. D. Steele, Charleston, W. Va._

I have been a reader of your Magazine since its first issue, and while
I partly agree with Mr. George H. Steele, Rockham, S. D., that none of
us are perfect, I admire you for having the courage of your convictions,
and it would be impossible to estimate the good your publication has all
ready done.

As a remedy for the evils existing, as set forth by Mr. Bert H. Belford,
Widners, Ark., I would suggest that our poor, ignorant, down-trodden
farmers in the South get posted. There certainly is no reason for any
grown up man of the present generation not being able to read, and almost
every daily and weekly newspaper would put the most ignorant backwoodsman
in possession of the facts which Mr. Belford states the farmers are
ignorant of.

I believe I have never seen a letter from this state, but West Virginia
hasn’t waked up yet. She is always behind in everything except graft.

May you live long and continue the good work you have undertaken!

    _A. J. Jones, Parlier, Cal._

TOM WATSON’S MAGAZINE is one of the greatest educators of the age, stands
prominent in its class, is fearless, bold and decisive, is just what
the people want. Every Populist should read it and give it the widest
circulation possible.

Watson’s editorials are great and to the point. The Letters from the
People are very interesting. Would be pleased to hear from our workers
throughout the United States every month through the columns of TOM
WATSON’S MAGAZINE. In regard to the work in California, we are preparing
our petition for a place on the ballot, and will have a People’s Party
ticket in this State this coming election. Our slogan is: “The middle
of the road now and forever!” We take no part in any other party in
existence, or coming into existence. Let us profit by past experience.
The people here, regardless of party, are ready to accept our
principles. You may hear something drop in California in 1908. We have a
press ready to join us at once. Let us get busy at once. Brothers, the
fields are white for harvest.

    _G. S. Floyd._

The lucid manner in which you expose the evils of our banking system
should convince any one not blinded by ignorance or prejudice of the
evils lurking therein, even as at present conducted, but if they secure
the additional special privileges that they seek, what may we expect?

Brother Starkey of Nebraska who writes discouragingly in the December
number should take heed, as the worm has turned in Pennsylvania and Ohio,
and one may hope and believe that your efforts have helped to produce
that result.

I was in Kansas in the early seventies when the horde of bogus Greenback
editors, shipped out from New York and New England with rolls of Wall
Street money, bought up the Greenback press throughout the West,
pretending loyalty to the principles until secure in possession, when the
hireling traitors came out in their true colors and the Greenback press
vanished like mist before the noonday sun.

The President’s eulogy of the pension office is worth no more than his
certificate of character to Paul Morton. To judge from observation and
the star-chamber methods of that bureau one would conclude that it is
run primarily as a factor in politics, and that the only criterion
for the grade and tenure of a pension is the whim or discretion of
an irresponsible official. Evidently the system is rotten and needs
overhauling or revolutionizing. From the nature of the service it is
doubtless true that irregularities are inherent therein, but certainly
there is room for improvement.

Conventionality, a parent of aristocracy, is responsible for the
misfortune of Midshipman Meriweather; herein we see one of the evils of
militarism; the discipline they recommend so highly is the discipline of
an underling, and this is mainly why they desire it.

Hurrah for Hearst!

You give Henry George, Jr., a severe prod in the current number. The
single tax is sprung by the plutocrats when they wish to confuse and
demoralize the reform forces.

    _Nelson D. Stilwell, Yonkers, N. Y._

The non-appearance of the February number of your magazine caused me
genuine concern. I stand by you, every inch, in what you advocate and
teach, and wish the circle of your readers might be extended many fold. I
first had my attention called to the present evil condition of things by
reading Lloyd’s “Wealth vs. Commonwealth,” and that but paved the way for
further reading and investigation until my present condition of freedom
from the bondage of ignorance has been attained.

I have observed the trend of things for ten years last past and confess
that instead of improvement and reform, I see a steady progress towards
further enslavement. What will be the end of it all? I am beginning to
doubt the maintenance of society and law and order if the entrenched
forces attempt to maintain their control. God forbid that our country
should be baptized again with blood. But upon the heads of these “fools
and blind” men be it, who cannot see the handwriting on the wall.

Your articles on finance and money interest me and absorb all my
attention and edify me very much. Your Magazine has a purpose back of it,
and no one will give a more ready acquiescence than the writer.

To be a reformer is to align oneself with the noblemen of bygone days
whose hearts throbbed for the people. No greater example could be found
than Christ, whose kingdom is called “the times of Reformation.”

Permit me to bid you God-speed.

    _Horace C. Keefe, Wallula, Kan._

I have somewhere said “this is the decade of the three Toms”—Tom Watson,
Tom Johnson, and Tom Lawson. They are each or all likely to leave lasting
footprints on the century, and I’m anxious that my Tom’s shall not be the
least. I say “my” because Tom Watson stands for all that the country—if
not the world—must come to, to have peace and answer the daily Christian
pleadings—that “Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven”; to be His
will it must embody all that the doctrine of brotherly love contemplates;
that is ideal, that is Populism. The other Toms stand for that part of
the whole they contemplate or are willing to concede from a more or
less selfish standpoint. Your Magazine is startlingly convincing in its
arguments and facts—but, my dear fellow, it lacks that dignity that a
Presidential candidate for a great principle should command. I know your
excuse will be that your appeal to the masses must be in such style—DON’T
DO IT.

It is the aggressive intelligent few that shapes the destinies of
countries, and that will be so with ours; if the reverse were true, why
does not the labor class have 50 or more, the farmers 100 or more, the
socialists a like number of members in Congress? Such a result would show
intelligence and a hope that something would result. Cut out such queries
as—Why the negro maids? Deductions and conclusions are debatable but not
style. The writer is one of the martyrs for the cause and has been your
ardent admirer and well wisher. There is no question as to the ultimate
outcome—though you and I may not be permitted to enter in.

    _W. E. Arrant, Alto, Tex._

I read and will say that your Magazine is interesting and entertaining
in many respects, and I admire your ability and style in showing up the
evilness and corruption of this age, which no doubt is doing good in the
way of educating the readers thereof on the main cause of the present
economical and industrial conditions that now confronts the whole people
and oppresses the poor that labor and toil that they may share a small
portion of their labor: while the rich revel in riches and the poor live
in poverty.

I have been a student for several years, studying the economic
conditions, the causes and effects of present conditions. The more I read
and learn of the causes and effects, the more I wonder how and why the
masses of the people have been so completely deceived so long.

I have been a Populist for several years. Was discouraged and disgusted
with the fusion act in 1896, and since that time I began to read and
study the Socialist doctrine to find out what they had to offer as a
remedy for the whole people. Through this search for knowledge I found
that the Populist Party was only a reform measure dealing with the
effects and only a national movement, while the Socialist Party is
international, and goes to the root of the cause of the unjust system of
exploitation, and means the emancipation and freedom of the whole human
family—a plan and system by which one can not rob another by a plan of
legalized system of robbery. It means a system to be established upon
earth by which one can live for all and all for one. It means that we
shall establish a righteous system by which one nation shall not have its
hands at another’s throat for pelf. It means a system by which it will be
possible for all Christians to live a pure Christian life and practice
the Golden Rule in fact and truth.

I realize the error of having more than one party representing the
interest and prosperity of the whole laboring and working people;
therefore, judging between the two, the Populist and the Socialist,
have cast my lot with the Socialists, and expect to make the fight for
justice and emancipation for wage slavery in the Socialist Party.

I appreciate your position and hope that you will accomplish much good
with your valuable Magazine in the way of educating the people. I fail to
see how you can ever expect to help to finally free the laboring people
from economic bondage of slavery, without joining the Socialist Party.
You have asked the people to give their ideas as to what they think about
the existing conditions. I have given my views as I see them. I can
realize no permanent hopes for relief outside of the Socialist and the
co-operative commonwealth.

    _Harry Partington, City._

I took the publication since the first number and today I have in the
house only the December copy, as I want to get everybody to read them
that will and thereby have persuaded several to buy them, and you can
depend on me to continue to do so, and will try and get others to do so.
I look at it that I am in the city and can get it at the news-dealers
with more certainty than as a yearly subscriber.

What I think of TOM WATSON’S MAGAZINE can never be told. I would like
it semi-monthly, but I know I shall have to wait possibly some time
before that comes. Dear sir, believe me, I am a very sincere believer
and practicer of his doctrine and have been since the Democratic party
undertook to carry the 16 to 1 doctrine under the auspices of W. J. B. of
Nebraska. Sorry Billy failed then and 1904.

Hurrah for W. R. Hearst, but the money power is too strong yet. But
hammer at them and teach us to be steadfast.

    _David Meiselas, Brooklyn, N. Y._

I have at last determined to congratulate you upon the success you have
made with your Magazine. It is, beyond any doubt, good work. In reality
I can hardly think to write all the praise the editorials are worth. I
enjoy them as I would some classic by Shakespeare, or some scientific
work by Darwin. The more I read them, the more I like them. They are
digestible; and talk about brain food—it is the best.

Yes, Thomas E. Watson should be well considered as a champion for the
cause of the people. Either he is a second Hearst or Hearst is a second
Watson. They are so much alike in their fights for the people you can
hardly tell which is which.

Over here in New York we are having a grand time, viz:

Murphy telling things about McClellan and vice versa. The big insurance
grafters howling for more. Mr. Ivins telling things about the “reform
grafter,” Mr. District Attorney, etc., etc.

Abraham Lincoln said we should have a “government of the people, by the
people and for the people.” I must say we are living up to it, in New
York—nit. We are having “a government of McCarren, by McClellan and for
Murphy.” Great government, is it not?

If this is not the age of wonder, I don’t know what. But, Mr. Watson,
keep up your steady work; don’t forget the Hon. Platt and Depew, the
former our Chinese advocate and president of the largest express company;
the latter the champion lobbyist of them all. Don’t forget our generous
Senator Knox (with his generous rate bill). There are many more whom you
should prey upon.

    _G. White, Enloe, Tex._

Yes “I will help”; it is one of the very, very few papers and magazines
that I can heartily indorse from the old Liberty Bell to the last sheet
of its reading matter; the gags and brakes that are applied to other
editors, or a great majority, at least, disqualify them as editors.

The things that we most need to know are suppressed and the reading
public are kept in the background on the most vital questions of the day.
There is a mighty storm gathering in this once glorious republic; its
muttering thunders can be distinctly heard. The glaring, forked tongues
of wrath can be plainly seen over the tops of the distant hills that
hedge in our eighty million people.

The old ship on which we have sailed thus far is out of repair; the pilot
asleep, or cares nothing for the safety of his passengers; the captain
has bought most of the crew; the breakers are just ahead.

I know not how my fellow-countrymen may feel over the affair, but for
your humble Texas farmer it’s a sad picture. The light that once burned
so bright not only lit up North America from Alalch Mountain to the
Rockies, but crossed both oceans and gave to the world an object lesson
of what a free people could do.

The same light guided Prescott at Bunker Hill. It was the never-setting
star at Valley Forge that led Washington to the gate of glory at
Yorktown. Is it true that the territory bequeathed to us (“and it was
paid in blood”) is to be betrayed into the hands of the enemy for the
small pittance of thirty pieces of silver? Is the money-bag of America
to rule or ruin? Or will those who think and yet have a chance to act
demand a settlement? TOM WATSON’S MAGAZINE is one that is asking for a
settlement. May the day soon come.

    _N. M. Hollingsworth, Terry, Miss._

I see that you contemplate enlarging and improving the Magazine. I can
see the place for enlarging, but not improving in the subject matter,
except by enlarging and perhaps improving the material, etc. It is as
good as human agency can make it. I only wish it could be read by every
man, woman, boy and girl in the land. It is such an educator as we need,
and it is being read by a great number.

I was at our county cotton-grower’s meeting last Saturday and was
delighted to find so many reading your splendid Magazine. I secured a
subscriber and have promise of several more which I will forward in a day
or two. I have seen your letter to the _Atlanta Journal_ in which there
is enough exposure of Clark Howell’s perfidy, etc., to consign him to the
garbage heap.

If you think it worth while in the Educational Department of the next
number of your Magazine, tell us what effect bucket shops and trade
exchanges have on the price of such produce as are dealt in.

Wishing you and your Magazine all the good that can come to a mortal and
a great publication, I remain your devoted friend and admirer.

    _S. T. Z. Champion, Sterrett, Pa._

I am a constant worker and reader of this great reform movement and have
been for the past twelve years, and have voted the ticket straight till
they got me to straddle W. J. B. one time and I got such a fall I fear I
will never live to get over it. I am getting old. I am one of Robert E.
Lee’s old web-foot boys and stacked my old Enfield rifle at Appomattox
Court House on the 9th of April, 1865. It looks like a miracle to see the
fingers pushing a pen that pulled the trigger 40 years ago, and yet when
I think of the blood that was shed for this great nation’s freedom and to
see it being stolen away from us by those money knaves it makes me feel
like I am just 16 years old. I have nine boys, all Populists. Oh, how I
want us to live to get at least one more vote for that grand and noble
boy, Thomas E. Watson, for our next President. Don’t you all feel me
rejoicing over New York’s election, but I fear they will not let Hearst
have his seat as mayor of New York. I have just read Watson’s answer to
Hoke Smith’s letter. It is a grand reply.

You can count on me when the last roll is called. I’ll be there. Yours
for reform.

    _W. H Thomas, Fairhaven, Mo._

After spending 25 years in the thickest of the fray I could hardly go
back to the “wallowing in the mire.” No, my brother, I never say die, but
am still pegging away. Yes, I am a Populist. I am a rampant Socialist
and I think that most of my old comrades have followed my example and I
can see no reason why all Populists should not do the same. You know,
my brother, that the Socialists are growing as no other party ever grew
and they are bound to become a dominant factor in politics in the near
future. It is evolution. Reforms do not go backward. The Populists have
done a grand work, but Socialism is inevitable and I would rejoice to
see all old Populists get aboard the band wagon. You are doing a noble
work and to show you that I appreciate it I am going to send you a dollar
for the magazine and 50 cents for that fountain pen, although I can
illy afford it, as I am 65 years old and dependent on my labor for the
support of my family.

Don’t Teddy, the Trust-buster, make you tired? I think he is the biggest
fraud that ever sat in the Presidential chair.

Wishing you long life and abundant success, I am with you till the battle
is won.

    _James A. Logsden, Moline, Ill._

I have read with great interest the editorial, “Tolstoi and the Land,”
in the October number of TOM WATSON’S MAGAZINE, and while I cannot agree
with you in the position you take upon the land question, I accredit you
with sincerity and honesty of purpose. In common with many others of us,
you are giving of your time, energy and substance, to bring remedial
justice and economic truth to human society.

Being fair-minded and in earnest pursuit of economic truth and equity,
you will, I am sure, accept honest criticisms of your opinions.

In the outset you propound three questions, which are as follows:

    “Is it true that the real grievance of the masses is that the
    land has been taken away from them?”

    “Will no reform bring them relief until the land has been given
    back to them?”

    “Will universal happiness be the result of putting an end to
    private ownership of land?”

To negate these questions you call upon history to bear witness:

    “As a guide to our footsteps the past must always be to some
    extent our light, our guide.”

With this I am heartily in accord. It has been rightly said:

    “History keeps the grass green upon the graves of former
    civilizations, and stands as a beacon light to future ones. It
    is the ever-living Janus, peering both into the past and into
    the future.”

But history does not prove, as you assert, that civilization exists as a
result of private ownership of land. These are your words:

In passing upon this and statements appearing in subsequent paragraphs, I
think I shall have fully answered your three previous questions. When it
“became a matter of _self-interest_ for some _individual_ to improve the
land” was it because of his ownership or of his _security of possession_?
When you admit that “as long as each individual felt that his parcel of
land might go out of his possession at the next regular division there
was no incentive to improvement,” you have admitted the latter. “Not
until the individual became assured that the _benefit of his labor_ would
accrue to himself did the waste become a farm and the hovel a house.”
What was his assurance—private ownership or security of possession? That
it was not private ownership is proven by the tenant system in vogue
in every civilized country in the world. Obviously it is not private
ownership that impelled the landless tenant to go upon land owned by
others, clear away the forest and “make the land a farm.” Then what is
his assurance? Security of possession—the knowledge that he will be left
unmolested to enjoy the “product of his labor.” This tenant enjoys his
security of possession because of the _tribute_ he has been compelled to
pay to the owner to leave him unmolested in his possession and enjoyment.
Could he not be as secure in his possession if the land were owned and
the exaction made by all the people?

Therefore, “if the history of the world shows anything at all, it shows
_this_,” that civilization has developed and progress has gone forward,
not by reason of private ownership of land, but in spite of it.

    “If, what is manifestly impossible,” says Mr. George, “a fair
    distribution of land were made among the whole population,
    giving each his equal share, and laws enacted which would
    impose a barrier to the tendency to concentration by forbidding
    the holding by any one of more than a fixed amount, what would
    become of the increase of population?”

Your assertion that there would be no improvement under such a condition
as you mention is self-evident. But this, instead of being an argument
against the Henry George philosophy, is, in fact, an argument in its
favor.

What Mr. George _does_ propose I shall endeavor to make clear in
subsequent paragraphs when I touch upon your hypothesis regarding the
primitive tribesmen.

Before passing to this, however, I desire to direct your attention to
your observation that “the right of each citizen to hold as his own began
with the laborer who claimed the product of his labor.” The convincing
power of this statement is lacking, because you have failed to prove
to us that without private ownership of land man can not “claim the
products of his labor.” As a matter of fact, you can not furnish such
proof because it is manifestly untrue. Before the savage, wandering in
the primeval forest, ever dreamed of laying claim to any parcel of the
soil as his own, did he not so lay claim to the fish and game he took?
Did he not so lay claim to the fruits and berries he gathered? Did not
the tribesman who followed his flocks and herds over the plains so lay
claim to them as the product of his labor? Without ever a thought of
the private ownership of the soil, he had produced them as truly as
the stockman of today produces the cattle he sends to market, and he
valiantly disputed the right of any person to any share of them. Most
truly he who labors is entitled to labor’s product, but to say that in
order to claim such product it is necessary to privately own land is to
fly into the face of obvious fact. How many of the wage earners of today
are land owners? How much is added to the wages of those few who are,
by reason of this fact? You yourself raised the point that it is not
necessary to own land in order to fleece the public, laborer, land-owner
and all out of their earnings. If this be true how do you harmonize it
with your former claim that it was private ownership of land that first
made it possible for the laborer to claim and retain the product of his
labor.

I come now to the case of the “score of tribesmen” of whom you speak.
While the score were fishing, hunting, drinking or gambling, the one
cleared the wild land, fenced out the rest and claimed it as _his land_.
But, in fact, did this make it his land? By virtue of what did it become
his land? You doubtless had this question in mind when you attempted to
answer it in the following:

    “Having put his labor into the land, having changed it from a
    waste into a farm, it was the most natural thing in the world
    that he should claim it as his own. Why shouldn’t he? _He_ made
    it a farm.”

What was his ultimate purpose in putting his labor into the farm? Was it
not the products which his labor, applied to the land, would bring forth?
You say “he made it a farm.” He found it a farm awaiting his efforts.
You will agree that he was entitled only to the result of his own labor.
In fact, this is the truth for which you are contending. What were the
results of his labor, the farm or the products? Manifestly the latter.
These he enjoyed. Upon what possible ground, then, could he go still
further and claim also the soil as belonging to himself and his heirs
forever?

Moreover, you will concede that before this tribesman determined to
abandon the spear and the rod and become a farmer, this piece of ground
could have been taken by any of the other twenty men; in other words it
was common. It must be further conceded that in casting about to find
a suitable location for his farm, he chose the site which offered the
best natural advantages relative to fuel, water, fertility of soil, and
proximity to the tribal bartering place. At this point let us carry your
illustration still further and assume that all or part of the other
twenty tribesmen decided to become farmers also.

In the same manner as their forerunner, they look about for the best
location, and the one offering the best advantages. But it is taken, and
the others must take second, third or fourth place, according to who gets
located first. But these men have equal rights. Why should some of them
enjoy the exclusive ownership and possession of those sites which give
them natural advantages over the others? Manifestly, they should not. But
how can they equalize these advantages? Just to the extent that farmer
number one holds advantage over farmer number twenty-one—just to that
extent should number one compensate the little community as a whole for
the privilege which he enjoys. And so with all the others. A community
is forming, with its _natural_ demand for revenue for _common purposes_.
Here is the _natural revenue_. Here lies the fundamental principle which
political economists call the Law of Rent. Here reposes the very essence
of the law of compensation. Here also is found the basis principle of
economic justice, which, traced to its last analysis, as civilization
advances, is capable of developing the highest expression of human
society. Here is the answer to your question,

    “Will universal happiness be the result of putting an end to
    private ownership of land?”

It was not “just that the twenty idle tribesmen should take away from the
one industrious tribesman that which his labor had created.” Neither was
it just that he should rob the other twenty when they came to exercise
their equal right to the use of the land, as he manifestly would if he
were left to the exclusive use of the soil, or the best portion thereof,
without compensating those he has excluded.

Let him retain possession of the farm and his products under these
conditions, and you have, not private ownership of land, but common
ownership.

Another point that you have obviously overlooked, and one that goes to
the heart of the social problem, is the element of land monopoly. Your
tribesman was not satisfied with selecting the best land, and fencing
so much thereof as he could till by his own exertion, but he fenced in
vast areas that he could not use, and also claimed that as “his own.”
By so doing he not only enjoyed the fruits of his own labor, but forced
the other twenty to share their products with him as a tribute for using
that part of “his land” which he himself could not, or did not, care to
use. You may say that they had equal opportunities with him to get first
choice. Even if this were granted, it makes no difference in principle.
The fact still remains that he has the power to wring unwilling tribute
from them. Only one could have the best, and though his contemporaries
may have been justly punished for their lack of foresight—which I do not
admit—there is yet another side to the question. What is the status of
future generations in relation to this proposition? Are they guilty of
sleeping upon their rights when all the land has been taken before they
were born, or are they born into conditions which they have had no voice
in making?

If your lonely tribesman, for whose welfare you manifest such
solicitation, had been content with the amount of land he could utilize
to good advantage, had he been willing to contribute his just share to
the common expense, and had he been sufficiently just to recognize and
respect the equal rights of his compeers, the common would yet have
remained after all had been supplied. What was true of the primitive
state is true today in our highly organized society. Shifting conditions
make no changes in universal principles.

“Society” (did not) “as a matter of self-preservation admit the principle
of private ownership of land.” It admitted it because it did not know a
better plan—because it did not know the Laws of Rent and of Compensation.

You deny that “great estates were the ruin of Italy.” “Before a few could
buy up all the land there must have been some great cause at work, some
advantage which the few held at the expense of the many.” “What was that
advantage?” you ask. No better answer can be given to this query than
to refer you back to your own illustration of the farmer tribesman. Did
he buy the land? You say he “fenced it in and claimed it as his own.”
In like manner did all land pass into private control, each individual
claiming far more than he could use. After all the land of Italy had been
“claimed” and enclosed, or that of any given community thereof, the power
that these land _claimers_ held over subsequent comers is obvious. The
only asset of the individual without material wealth is his labor, which
is only one—the active—factor in production. Under circumstances such as
the foregoing, he is debarred from the passive factor—land—and can apply
his labor to it only by paying tribute to those who have _claimed_ it.

In the circle of the human family, those endowed with keen, unerring
foresight are comparatively few. It cannot be gainsaid that those few,
knowing that land is fixed in quantity—which cannot be expanded as
population increases, and as demand for it increases—saw in the early
periods, as they see today, what a powerful advantage they could wield
over their fellows by “fencing in” all the available land—by fencing out,
not only the cattle, as you put it, but also their fellow-men. Is it
not plain that this was the source of the power of which you complain?
Was it not this that furnished the advantage you name? Can you not see
the stream of unearned tribute wrung from the hands of honest labor
constantly flowing into the coffers of these land owners? And seeing it,
can you then maintain that great estates were not the ruin of Italy?

What made the “ruling class of Rome, that had concentrated into their
own hands all the tremendous powers of the State?” What gave them the
power to “fix the taxes” and enact the “infernal laws” which you rightly
contend ought to have been repealed? “Ah!” you say,“they _controlled
the money_.” By what power did they come to control the money? Was it
by a power inherent within themselves, or was it not the power which
they derived from the corner which they held upon the _natural revenue_
which they diverted from the public treasury into their own coffers, thus
making it necessary to provide for the common expense by unjust taxes
upon the products of labor?

“They controlled the money.” But what is money? Is it the means or the
end? Is it not merely a labor-saving invention to facilitate trade? Is it
not money only by common consent? Is it not merely a commodity converted
for convenience into a medium of exchange? You make the point that by
controlling the money, they controlled commodities. But if they had not
controlled the land, which is the source of all commodities—even the
money itself—how could they have controlled the money?

Can you not see that men divorced from the toil and permitted to produce
only on the terms of some other person are forced into the labor market,
to vie with each other in a competition that grows keener and more
vicious as a population increases?

You say that “the power to fix taxes is the power to confiscate.” The
very opposite is true. The power to confiscate is the power to tax.
Give that power to one class and what more does it want? Let that class
confiscate land values, which you agree are naturally common property,
and you give it the power to rob its victim, not merely to the “limit
of their capacity to pay,” but to literal starvation, if they choose
to carry the principle of private ownership of land to its logical
conclusion. For certainly to recognize the right to private property in
land is to recognize the owner’s right to do with _his land_ what he
pleases. To recognize this is to recognize the land-owner’s right to deny
to the landless either the use of _his land_, or any of its products,
on any terms whatsoever. Thus, in carrying the principle of private
ownership of land to its logical conclusion, and recognizing it as a just
principle, is to sanction literal murder. Can a system that has this for
its ultimate, be other than a vicious system, even though it may never
be carried to that extent? It is by means of this vicious system that
human sufferings are augmented by a thousand fold and the sum of human
happiness is correspondingly diminished.

Do not the foregoing facts prove to you that your statement that “_usury_
is the vulture that has gorged itself upon the vitals of nations since
the dawn of time,” is economically untrue? Is it not clear that usury is
only an effect of a deeper-seated cause inherent in land monopoly?

As proof that the universal condition of inequality is _not_ inherent
in land monopoly, you say that the Rothschilds and other “kings of high
finance” do not “buy up vast domains that they may be served by a lot of
tenants.” But when touching upon this phase of the question, you should
always bear in mind that all land is not farm land. The power of the
coal barons to exploit does not arise so much from the fact that they
own large tracts of land, as from the fact that it bears large deposits
of coal. Nor does their power to exploit affect merely the miners of
coal. Coal is a public necessity, and the ownership by these barons of a
comparatively small area of land places them in a position to place—by
reason of unreasonable prices—a tax upon every user of coal.

What is the basis of the railroad’s power for unrestrained exploitation?
Unquestionably it arises from its exclusive franchises, inherent in its
rights of way.

Mr. J. Pierpont Morgan and others of his class do not derive their
unearned revenues from their power to tax. But whence this taxing
power which affects every user of their several products?—Monopoly
of franchises, monopoly of mineral resources, such as mines,
quarries, etc.? What is the source of the Standard Oil monopoly?—Its
ownership of oil land or enough thereof to force independent owners
to sell on the company’s terms, and its consequent power to force
railroad discriminations in its favor? Where did the beef trust and
other industrial corporations derive their monopoly power? Railroad
rebates—“the big pistol”—railroads with their monopoly franchises. And
the railroad monopoly and these other breeds will be extinct in an
instant. End land monopoly and make railroad franchises common property
and the railroad monopoly will be at an end. Had not the Amalgamated
Copper Co. controlled the majority of the copper-bearing lands of the
world, “The Story of Amalgamated” would never have been told.

Referring again to the railroads, was it not largely the great land
grants donated to them by our Government that were the beginning of
their power? These grants operated in two ways to the advantage of the
railroads. First, they greatly increased the wealth of the railroads,
and, second, they diminished the power of the people by diminishing the
area of land open to settlement.

“Land is plentiful and it is cheap. The country is dotted with abandoned
farms that can be had _almost_ for the asking.” You say “almost for the
asking.” This implies that he who takes these farms must pay something
to him who has “abandoned” them. Why _almost_? Why not take them, as in
the case of the primitive tribesman, without asking? You state that they
have been abandoned because the owner could not make a decent living upon
them. Then why make the condition of the next owner more hopeless by
levying tribute against him for the use of a worthless farm?

Make land common property, safe-guard the interests of all by assuring to
each land-holder perpetual use, providing he pay his equitable share into
the common treasury—which in each case would be the increment of value.
Then “_abolish all other forms of taxation_.” This will secure every one
in the enjoyment of his labor’s product, will abolish monopoly and the
individual or corporate taking power, vicious tariffs, and all. This is
all you have demanded.

Your demand is a just one, but—as I trust you may be brought to see—your
remedy is superficial and cannot be made effective. You must dig in
deeper soil, else your laudable efforts are vain. The abrogation of
offensive legislative enactments and the enactment of other statutes
dealing with effects will avail nothing. Nothing save the rooting out of
the mother of evils can possibly accomplish the end for which you are so
courageously and manfully striving.

Your work is a noble one, and its power for good is measured only by the
number of people whom you can reach. I admonish you to give the land
question thorough and painstaking investigation. I trust you will bear
with me for what may seem excessive frankness. But you are not looking
for bouquets, but simple, unembossed truth. When I say to you that in my
opinion you have not familiarized yourself with the philosophy you are
attempting to refute, you will accept this criticism in the broad view of
public interest.

I have gone into greater detail in my comments upon your editorial than
I expected to go in the outset, but it has seemed advisable, in order to
get a clear view of all the points raised by you. However, I trust I have
not gone beyond the limit of the space that may be available.

    A VETERAN REFORMER HITS THE TARIFF HARD

    E. S. Gilbert is close to ninety years old but uncommonly
    well preserved, having been interested in every Presidential
    campaign since he was a boy of sixteen, and has acquired a
    vast fund of political knowledge, of which he still has a firm
    grasp. He has seen and remembers nearly every President from
    Andy Jackson down—nineteen of them—and talks interestingly.
    He says as he sees things now the political situation is
    just as it was in the early fifties. Then two minor parties
    were dying, and the leading party—the Democratic—was
    undergoing disintegration. Today, as he sees it, Democracy and
    Populism are dying, and the Republican party is undergoing
    disintegration. The Republican Party sprang up in the fifties,
    and he looks for a new, strong party to come out of the present
    chaos in a few years. Following is a thoughtful article, from
    Mr. Gilbert’s pen, which recently appeared in the _Lincoln
    Independent_:

Editor Independent: Here are a few figures for men who think.

In the year 1901 there was manufactured in the United States thirteen
billions of dollars’ worth of goods. Authority, Secretary Shaw.

The average rate of duties upon imported merchandise is 52 per cent.
Authority, Walter Wellman.

Now, fifty-two per cent of thirteen billions of dollars is
$6,770,000,000, which the present tariff of duties authorizes the
manufacturers to collect of the American people each year, if they can.
It actually enables them to collect a large portion of it—but not all.
The probabilities are they collect about two-thirds. They collect nothing
for goods exported.

There is honest competition on some classes of goods, such as flour and
the cheaper cotton fabrics, and perhaps some others, that prevents them
from collecting it of the people. So, in order to be fair, we will cut
this sum in halves.

We then have the sum of $3,385,000,000, which is considerably less
than is probably collected. In order not only to be fair, but to be
absolutely safe, we will cut off the $385,000,000, and we have the sum
of three billions of dollars—three thousand millions—collected by the
manufacturers and paid by the people as the result of the Dingley tariff
bill.

Bear in mind, that this is over and above what is collected in duties
for the support of government. Bear in mind, this money is paid to the
manufacturers, the capitalist and not to the laborers. Bear in mind that
if this three billions of dollars were divided among the employees of the
manufacturers, it would give to them something less than six millions of
laborers a little over $500 apiece. Bear in mind, that this would pay the
entire labor bill of all the manufacturers of the United States.

Then ask yourselves: Is this state of things the result of the
intelligence or genius of the people? Or is it the result of
misinformation or stultification?

                                                            E. S. GILBER.

    _W. F. Short, Eurekaton, Tenn._

I am well pleased with the Magazine and think it is superior to any
other magazine that I ever read. It is just what I expected our brave
and noble Tom to get up. Yes, the Magazine is all right. The language
is beautiful, forcible and courteous. I was a subscriber from the first
issue and have sent in my renewal for this year. I have more confidence
in Tom Watson than in any man who has tried to right the wrongs of the
people. I believe him to be so conscientious that he would not sacrifice
principles for any office in the gift of the people, and I do wish we had
one thousand men like our true and honest Tom to battle for justice and
rights of the people. I stand for the principles advocated by Jefferson,
Jackson and Lincoln.

I can make but one suggestion for the Magazine, and that is to place it
in a better wrapper, so it will not be lost in the mail.

    _R. Brown, Buck Knob, Ark._

I am no writer and no scholar, but I write a few lines to you in order to
congratulate you on your Magazine. I think it the best magazine on earth
and the _Missouri World_ the best paper and the most patient publishers
on earth. I could not have the patience to publish a paper and send it
out among so many prejudiced block-headed farmers and laborers and get
so little return for my labor. I live in the mountains of Arkansas and I
have been lashing with my tongue and knocking at these old Mossbacks with
T. E. WATSON MAGAZINES and the _Missouri World_ for one or two years.
Some of them won’t read a reform paper when it is given to them, but I
give T. E. WATSON’S MAGAZINE and the _Missouri World_ to them all the
same. On some of them the moss I see is loosening. I am going to try to
organize a club in our township shortly. I am for government ownership of
all the railroads, coal mines, oil fields and all manufactures that take
a company to run and government money, and no one man to own more than
one hundred and sixty acres of land and not that unless he lives on and
cultivates the same. I will fight for all this and more as long as I live
and have a dollar that my family can get along without.

I am nearly sixty-four years old and have eight sons, all of whom will
vote the Populist ticket and all be old enough in 1908 to vote, and will
vote the Populist ticket.

    _Stephen Lewis, Martin’s Ferry, O._

Your article in the January issue of your Magazine in regard to the
high-handed methods of the U. S. _Steal_ trust in obtaining property
from defenceless people has been read with much interest, and I approve
of your bold and fearless manner in attacking unlawful corporations and
lawless promoters.

That part in your article on the _Steal_ trust where you raise the point
as to whether the men who demolished the widow’s home were union men or
not was noted in particular and I venture the opinion that they were not,
because Pittsburg, with all its much vaunted prosperity is and has been
recognized by union workmen as the cradle from which that disreputable
class of workmen known as _scabs_ have come. Pittsburg harbors more scabs
than any other city in the country, regardless of size. The man who made
the _Steal_ trust possible operated his mills at Homestead with scabs
at the sacrifice of human life and forced a lower scale of wages upon
the men with the state militia. Yet this man is regarded by a great many
so-called respectable people as a philanthropist because he is erecting
monuments to himself in the form of libraries in different parts of the
country.

    _M. G. Carlton, Zolfo, Fla._

I appreciate the Magazine and feel that it is one of the best. I am a
Populist and took great pleasure in casting my vote for you at the last
election, knowing at the time that the chances for success were bad. Yet
I cast the vote with as great pride and satisfaction as if I had known
you would be elected. I know how to sympathize with a defeated candidate
as I myself ran on the Populist ticket for Representative against the
noted Zuba King—the wealthiest man in De Soto County and one connected
with one or more of the best banks of the country, and got beaten, of
course, but I was not whipped but beaten by the money crowd and I believe
as strongly in the principles of the Populist Party as I ever did. I am
just the same today.

    _W. Scott Samuel, Pawhuska, Okla._

Thinking that TOM WATSON’S MAGAZINE might like to hear from a locality
where politics “rules the court, the camp, the grove,” I relate this
little incident. A few weeks ago, when the town sites of the Osage
reservation were to be opened for sale and an auctioneer appointed to
sell the lots, the news was published that a certain man, Amos Ewing,
had received the appointment of auctioneer. Now, the reputation of this
man, Ewing, is a stench in the nostrils of every honest man in Oklahoma.
From petty defalcations to embezzlement of trust funds, which he was
forced to disgorge, comes the reputation of the versatile and oleaginous
Amos. And so, when it was known that our great “square deal” bear hunter
had through his secretary named Amos for this promotion of trust and
emolument, it was not long before the mails were loaded with protests