Chapter II: Part 2

Under these circumstances, when it is a question of 3½ cent cotton or 25 cent cotton, I do not hesitate to say that the solid influence of the South should be felt for having our country act promptly and vigorously, to use every proper means to restore the balance of the world on the side of peace, and to bring about the ending of the present war and the restoration of Manchuria to the commerce of the world.

It only remains for us to refer summarily to the factors of supply. It is practically certain that the South will continue to produce the bulk of the world’s cotton. During the Civil War, when cotton was over $1.00 a pound, persistent efforts were made all over the world to develop cotton growing, but in vain. The Gulf Stream on one side, and a vast continent on the other, produce climatic conditions for cotton culture not duplicated anywhere else in the world. We may expect some increase in the output of Egypt on account of developing irrigation, and possibly a temporary increase in the output of India, and other secondary sources due to the recent high price, but the present depression will tend to check this movement. Therefore, the South may be expected to continue to produce over 80 per cent of the world’s supply so that the question of supply lies in our own hands.

The two factors in determining the supply are the seasons and the acreage. While the general law of the average holds, history shows that the temperate zone is liable to wide fluctuations in seasons, which it is impossible to foresee. The recourse to offset the unhappy consequences of wide fluctuations is a reservoir or fly-wheel, into which the fat years can pour their supplies for making up the deficit of the lean years. The uncertainty of cotton demand, hinging upon war or peace, is now added to the uncertainty of the cotton season. Recourse to storage is therefore absolutely necessary, and a wide system of warehouse storage should be created. I will not endeavor to go into the details of such a system, but venture to suggest that it should be organized on bedrock principles, and operate on the securest lines, so that a warehouse certificate would be absolutely safe and universally negotiable. Lessons could probably be learned from the systems in use in pig iron storage, where the market is also subject to wide fluctuations. The American Pig Iron Storage Warehouse Co. would probably be the best pattern.

The factors of acreage should be carefully investigated before any radical action is taken.

I know it is best for a farmer to have a diversified crop as it is best for a city to have diversified industries, and it is wise for a farmer, like a nation, to produce the necessities required for home consumption. The present fearful depression will doubtless have a partial benefit in this direction, but I fear too much importance is now being given to this question. While I would urge the farmers to diversify their crops, I would hesitate to recommend a sweeping reduction in the world’s production. In fact, as an economic principle, there can be no such thing as over production at this stage of the world’s progress, particularly in the great world’s staples, like those of food and clothing. For generations to come mankind, on the whole, will go hungry and half naked. The true principle is not to try to reduce the product but to provide for a general increasing buying capacity and particularly for the case of the undeveloped peoples of the earth, by increasing their opportunities to work for the world’s market, and to make the wages necessary to purchase the products. If we could only be sure that peace is to prevail, so that the market of China would be restored, and could go on increasing, I would not hesitate to urge against any reduction in acreage. On the contrary, I would urge a steady increase, for no matter how great the increase, the supply would never keep up with the growth of demand. As conditions now stand, however, I believe conservative action is advisable—action that would lean rather toward the side of preparation to store up for future use the surplus, if war should come, than to materially reduce the acreage, and my advice to the individual farmer is to become independent and diversify his crop, and then plant his usual acreage in cotton.

It may be pointed out that one effective way to offset the losses from low-priced cotton is for the South to invest more and more in cotton mills, that benefit from these prices, and the logic of the situation would have cotton growers invest their available capital and saving in cotton manufacture. The true aim of the South should be not only to produce the cotton, but the clothing for the world. And every country in the South should have cotton mill industries organized with local capital and should develop and educate its labor for the high grades as well as coarse.

Summing up, the general conclusions and recommendations are as follows:

1. The cotton growers should have a wide, permanent organization with a general convention once a year.

2. A standing committee composed of, say, two members for each cotton growing state, should be appointed to investigate and report each year upon the existing and prospective conditions of supply of cotton.

3. A similar committee should be appointed to investigate and report each year upon the existing and prospective conditions of the demand for cotton.

4. There should be established a comprehensive and carefully organized storage warehouse system.

5. The great agents for increasing the price of cotton are _peace_, prosperity and civilization.

6. The arch-enemy of the cotton growers is _war_. The permanent cause of cotton must look to the peoples beyond the sea, especially China. The fate of China hangs upon peace or war—peace or war depends upon America—America’s influence depends upon her navy.

THE MASTER-HAND.

BY GARNET NOEL WILEY

Sometimes at half-mast, all my hours
A drooping banner seem to lie
In listless folds, along the calm,
Still blue of boundless stagnancy.
Grieving, I think, because somewhat
Within my soul is near to die.

Enow the master-hand of Love
Plucks at my banner’s guiding string,
Until it flutters in the breeze,
And pulses like a living thing.
Joyous, I think, because somewhat
Within my soul hath need to sing.

THE BOY IN GRAY.

By Will N. Harben, Author of “Abner Daniel.”

One day in midsummer I went to visit the old plantation of the Lansdale family. The moment I entered the cooling shade of the tall trees on the lawn something seemed to tell me that I was on a spot hallowed by human suffering and misfortune.

The house had two stories and an L. There was a long veranda in front, the roof of which was supported by large white columns. My interest in the place was due to the fact that prior to the Civil War it had been the rendezvous of the aristocracy for miles around it. The wide halls and spacious rooms had once rung with gay laughter, sweet music and the tripping of feet in merry dances.

Behind the uninhabited dwelling the shrubbery had grown into a riotous tangle. Choice rose bushes had been dwarfed and choked to barrenness by an army of interlopers—Jamestown weeds, hollyhocks and giant sunflowers. Only here and there might be seen a pale-leaved geranium or a dandelion in the edges of the gravel walks, now almost completely overgrown. Here, bent to the earth, lay a decayed lattice, pulled down by a fragrant jasmine; in another place stood the rotten remains of what had once been a graceful summerhouse.

As I wended my way further from the old mansion the silence and shade seemed to thicken and blend into the pervading melancholy. When about two hundred yards from the house, I suddenly came upon a log cabin almost hidden from view behind a close growth of gnarled and twisted apple trees. In the door sat an old negro man. His face was pinched and wrinkled and his eyes, peeping through their brown slits, looked like blue beads. With his old bell-shaped hat on his knee, he glanced up in surprise, and, rising quickly he hobbled towards me, bowing politely.

“Who dis heer?” he asked, as he shaded his eyes with his hand and peered up at me. “It seems like I don’t know you, but you may know who I is. Most white folks knows me, dough, thank de Lawd! I carn’t see you good, suh; my sight is failin’ me powerful fast.”

“I’m a stranger in this part of the South,” I told him. “I have heard so much about the Lansdale family that I wanted to see their old home; that’s all. I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Lawdamussy, bless you, no, suh!” he replied quickly. “You is welcome to roam ’round all you want. Ef ’twuz des in de ol’ time, suh, my young marster, er my ol’ marster, would done met you down de carriage drive an’ ’scort’ you in an’ took yo’ hat an’ pass roun’ de wine an’ cigars, but” (a long sigh escaped his lips, and he shook his head sadly), “but dat time done gone, suh—dat time done gone.”

“Tell me something about your master’s family,” I said, taking a chair near his own at the cabin door. “I have heard that Mr. Lansdale’s only son was killed during the war when he was hardly more than a child.”

“Dat so, suh,” the old man answered in a tender tone, as he sat down in his chair and leaned it back against the wall. “Dat was Marse Eddie. He wasn’t fifteen year old when he ’listed. It all come o’ him actually itchin’ ter be a soldier from his cradle up. Long ’fo’ de war was ever start up, when he wasn’t ten year old he had soldierin’ in his head, an’ nobody couldn’t stop ’im. His maw say he wouldn’t study his school books lessen dey tell ’bout wars an’ bloodshed. Away back den Marse Eddie’s soldierin’ was de chief talk ’mongst de slaves.

“He wasn’t fifteen year old when he ’listed.”
]

“He didn’t keer fur hosses, ur fishin’, ur huntin’ like other boys, but ef you des mention soldierin’ he would pick up his ears an’ open his eyes. He used to had his army, an’ what you reckon dat army was made out’n, suh? Nothin’, ’cept ten ur ’leven pickaninnies in deir shut-tails an’ bare laigs. But, suh, dey would march round dis plantation tell dey raidy to drap in deir tracks to please dat boy. An’ dey didn’t know no mo’ ’bout what a rail army was dan a blind kitten. But ’fore he got thoo wid um, Marse Eddie had um trained so dey will march straight in er breast-line, ur wheel round, double-quick step, an’ charge bayonets when he give de command des de same as reg’lar troups.

“Des as soon as he had his breakfust in de mawnin’ Marse Eddie ’ud tramp out’n de house wid his hat pinned up on one side an’ his pants stuck in his red-top boots an’ old Miss’ shawl flung acrost his shoulder to make ’im look like a general.

“He would al’ays find his army at de front do’ pushin’ an’ kickin’ one ’nother, all um tryin’ to be haid in de row. But when dey see ’im dey stand mighty quiet kase he done whacked deir laigs too often wid his stick sword. Den Marse Eddie ud stand on de veranda wid his maw ur Miss Grace long side o’ him while he call de roll. It uster sound mighty funny ’fo’ any of us know how it was gwine to end.

“James Lansdale! Heer! Thomas Lansdale! Heer! Abrum Lansdale! Heer! Tobe Lansdale! Heer! an’ so on dey all answered deir names. Old Marster listen to ’em one day while he was smokin’ on de veranda an’ low to ’im, he did—des jokin’: ’Son’, he say, smilin’ like he al’ays did, ’I do hope an’ pray you won’t have no diverses in battle, kase it would be too bad to had we-all’s kin-folks in Firginny read in de papers dat so many Lansdales is kilt in war. Seem like dey is a sight of um in yo’ army.’

“Young Marster didn’t say nothin’ but it sorter made ’im mad. He got raid in de face, an ordered de string o’ darkies to shoulder deir stick guns an’ march off todes de spring-house, whar he say he count on campin’ out an’ ’rangin’ ’bout buildin’ abridge cross de branch so dey kin git at de enemy prowlin’ round. Dat’s de way he carried on, an’ all de darkies in his crowd held deir haids so high dey wouldn’t speak to de niggers on de place j’inin’ we-all’s plantation, an’ dey got so triflin’ dat dey wasn’t fittin’ fur anything but fightin’ under Marse Eddie.

“Miss Grace cert’ney did keer mo fur her brother dan she did fur anything in de worl’, even de young mens dat come to see ’er. Anything Marse Eddie do is des right. She made ’im his newniform, an’ flags, an’ his raid sash, an’ gloried in ’im.

“He was off in Firginny at his uncle’s when de sho-nough war broke out. Old Marster had done made up his company in we-all’s settlement an’ was most raidy to go. De very same day dat de guns come dat dey was waitin’ on, who shall ride up on a hoss des reekin’ wid sweat but Marse Eddie. He lef’ de hoss in de front yard an’ run in de dinin’ room whar his maw an’ sister was. He kissed um mighty quick an’ strange like an’ den say, ‘Whar is father?’

“Old Miss an’ young Miss bofe turn pale an’ trembly, but dey ain’t say a word at fust. Den Marse Eddie say powerful impatient, ‘Grace, whar is father?’

“‘He’s down in de quarter,’ she say an’ den when de boy done lef’ de room most as quick as a skeerd rabbit kin jump, de two women look one ’nother in de face fer a long time powerful still an’ troubled. Den old Miss say, mighty husky in ’er throat:

“‘He must not go, Grace; I carn’t stand it; he’s too young—I carn’t stand dat!’

“De tears was comin’ in young Miss’ eyes an’ she left ’er maw an’ went an’ stood in de kitchen do’ to meet Marse Eddie an’ his paw as dey was comin’ up de garden walk, talkin’ low an’ arm in arm. Somehow young Marster looked like he was all at once as old an’ ’sponsible as his paw. When dey was bofe in de house, Miss Grace tuck ’er brurr by de arm an’ led ’im off to one side, an’ I heer ’er say:

“‘Brurr Eddie, father is goin’ off to fight de Yankees an’ me’n mother carn’t live by ourse’ves. You must stay wid us—one is enough to lose.’

“‘Oh, sister,’ Marse Eddie say, very impatient. ‘Don’t talk nonsense at sech a serious moment. Father, did you say all yo’ men gwine be raidy in de mawnin’? We must not had no mistakes. I’m not tired. I believe I’ll git a fresh hoss an’ ride round mongst ’em.’

“Well, suh, dat was de end o’ de women folks tryin’ to ’fluence ’im. It seem to me dat he was every bit an’ grain as sensible as his pa. It look like Marster was too backward ’bout tryin’ to make ’im stay at home. De next day all marched off an’ dey tuck all de men slaves ’cep’ me. Dey lef’ me kase I was too lame to march an’ somebody had to stay at home.

“Den a whole year went by. Sometimes letters ud come an’ sometimes word ud reach us in one way an’ another. Den old Miss tuck down sick, an’ Miss Grace kept all de bad news from ’er ’bout de war. Den come a letter from Marse Eddie hisse’f. He writ dat he is a little wounded in de arm an’ dat he got a furlough to come home an’ will be wid us as soon as he kin git thoo de lines. But de time went by, day in, day out fur a week an’ no mo’ news ’cep’ old Marster writ dat de boy is done put out fur home some time back; so dar we is—old Marster say he ain’t in de war, an’ he ain’t got to we-all.

“While we-all in dis fix an’ worriment, de Yankee army des swoop down on us lake a swarm o’ grass-hoppers. Dar wasn’t a single Rebel ’cep’ women folks an’ me anywhars around. Den we know dat Marse Eddie is cut off fum us. While de Yankees is camped round us as thick as fleas, a old man come to us, he did, an’ said he’d met up wid Marse Eddie one day up in de mountains what you kin see over dar, an’ ’at he was mighty nigh starved to death an’ unable to git stuff to eat.

“Marse Eddie tol’ de man ’at he’d started home on his furlough but was tuck down sick at a house on de way, an’ when he got so he could travel an’ come nigh home de Yankees done s’round us so he earn’t git home nur back to his regiment nuther. So he was des obleeged to stay hidin’ out in de woods like a wild animal. Dis news got, to ol’ Miss, an’ it made her wuss an’ we ’lowed she gwine die sho’.

“One night I woke up kase I heerd somebody walkin’ on de porch, an’ when I went to de do’ dar is young Miss standin’ dar lookin’ to’ds de Yankee camp what you could see fum de’r fires dey kept burnin’ so we couldn’t slip up on um an’ throttle um in de’r sleep.

“‘Don’t tell mother, Ham’ she say; ‘po’ thing, she’s very sick, an’ we mustn’t ’sturb ’er. I carn’t sleep wid all dis on my mind. How do we know, Ham, but my po’ brother may be dis minute in gre’t danger? I must keep watch kase I know in reason he’ll try to pass thoo de lines some night to get to we-all’s, an’, Ham, somebody must be up to receive ’im an’ hide ’im less’n dey catch ’im an’ try to kill ’im.’

“She was alraidy a-cryin’, an’ I didn’t have de heart to tell ’er how dangersome it was to try to pass guards on picket duty, kase I had heerd ’bout one po’ feller gittin’ daylight let thoo ’im while he was tryin’ to do it on his all-fours.

“It was as still, suh, dat night as a graveyard. De wind wasn’t blowin’ ’nough to move a blade o’ wavy grass. An’ all of a sudden I heerd a sound way down de road like somebody’s feet—pit-pat, pit-pat, comin’ nigher an’ nigher. Den we heer somebody a-pantin’ mighty nigh out’n breath.

“Young Miss laid ’er han’ on ’er breast an’ breathed hard. De sound kept gittin’ closer an’ closer tell all at once somebody sprung over de fence into de yard. My Gawd, it was Marse Eddie, an’ no dead white pusson could look paler’n he did an’ so thin an’ raggety.

“‘Grace,’ he say, blowin hard, ‘is dis you? My Gawd, sister, dey is atter me. I started to slip thoo de lines an’ dey seed me an’ so I had to run fur my life. Do you heer um?’

“We all listen an’ sho ’nough we heerd de Yankees comin’ as fast as dey kin lick it. Young Miss carn’t speak; she des throwed ’er arms ’roun ’er brurr’s neck an’ tried to pull ’im in de house. But he say, ‘No, no; I mus’ run furder; dey gwine s’arch dis house fust place, kase we-all fur de Souf—good-bye!’ an’ ’fo’ Miss Grace could open ’er mouf he’s off thoo de woods an’ out o’ sight in de dark, dough he wasn’t runnin’ out’n a slow dog-trot kase he was too broke down. In a minute ’bout ten men jump de fence an’ come to us.

“‘Here he is!’ one of um say, an’ he stuck a pistol in my face fur de worl’ like he gwine blow my brains out. Dis was a sho ’nough s’prise to me, I tell you, fur it was a powerful good chance fur young Miss ter tell um, yes, I was de one, an’ git um to stop runnin’ after her brurr. I didn’t know what she was gwine to do ’bout it, but it didn’t suit me one bit. I never seed de line o’ pickets I’d try to run thoo, an’ my time hadn’t come to die nohow.

“But one of de men say, ‘No, it was a white man, an’ a reb to boot kase I seed his face an’ his newniform. Dis is des a’ ol’ nigger dat stays ’roun’ dis house.’ Den he up an’ ’dress young Miss. ‘Young lady,’ he ax ’er, ‘is a man pass heer des now?’

“Well, suh, I ’lowed she wouldn’t find ’er tongue, she was so bad put out, but she up an’ say: ‘No, suh, not sence I been standin’ here,’ an’ she say it as cool as ef she was des givin’ ’im a passin’ s’lute. But I reckon dat officer seed thoo ’er kase he said: ‘Some o’ you fellers run down dat way an’ fo’ of us will s’arch de house. Miss,’ he say to Miss Grace, ‘we all know you is fur de downfall o’ de republic, an’ you mus’ ’scuse me fur not takin’ yo’ word, but we is been fooled so many times by you women in de Souf dat we got to be partic’lar.’

“Wid dat, fo’ of um go thoo we-all’s house fum bottom to top an’ ol’ Miss was mighty nigh ’stracted. She riz bodily fum ’er bed an’ fronted um. It was a big wonder to me dat dem Yankees ain’t shot ’er daid in ’er tracks fur de way she belittled um.

“‘You dirty gang o’ raid-hand murderers an’ cut-th’oats,’ she say, ‘I hope an’ pray high heaven will fall down on you an’ crush you in everlastin’ punishment. You ain’t satisfied wid takin’ our sons an’ husbands fum us, but you must go an’ tromple our houses wid yo’ muddy feet an’ fo’ce yo’ ugly se’ves into de sick rooms o’ yo’ betters. Dat shows yo’ raisin’; no Southern gen’man ain’t gwine be so brutish.’

“‘Now, madam,’ de leader say as cool as a watermelon in a deep spring, ‘des keep on yo’ jacket. You ketch yo’ death wid cold, A sudden change fum a warm bed is a bad thing whar doctors is so scarce, anyhow. You better not ’cite yo’se’f—’twon’t do a speck o’ good, an’ in fact you ain’t lookin’ well. You act sorter s’picious. Ef dar is a spy in yo’ house we gwine have ’im fur our meat, an’ all yo’ rampageousness won’t stop us. Dough, I make bold to say, madam, dat we-all ud like to have you on we-all’s side. At close range dat tongue o’ yo’n ud beat a grape-gun all holler.’

“Ol’ Miss didn’t say anything back. She looked out’n ’er eyes, dough, like you seed a balkin’ mule ’fo’ now, mebby, when his laigs is been tied together to break ’im fum kickin’ an’ you stan’ hind ’im wid a whip an’ sorer tap ’im in de flank atter he found out he earn’t kick ’nough to skeer a hoss-fly off’n his back.

“Well, dey all go plumb thoo de house widout a speck ur luck, ’cep’ what dey come acrost in de cupboard. When dey et all dey want an’ is raidy to go, de head man say to ol’ Miss: ‘Madam,’ he say, lookin’ at me kinder ’chievous, ‘we got some work in de camp to be done an’ dis ol’ nigger mus’ go an’ tend to it. We’ll sen’ ’im back in de mawnin’ sho ef he gits thoo.’

“Dat ain’t de fust time I had to do odd jobs fur um, an’ I ain’t s’prised. I had to march back wid one lill swivelly white man dat I could a-mashed twixt my fingers like a skeeter, an’ I would a-tried it, too, ef he hadn’t kep’ a musket level’ on me de whole time. De other soldiers went on after Marse Eddie.

“He’s a spy,’ I heer um say, as dey went off, ’an’ he carn’t git away, nuther, kase he is s’rounded on all sides an’ day is breakin’.’

“By de time we got to de camp de sun was ’ginnin’ to rise an’ a kettle drummer was out wakin’ um all up wid his clatter. I had to he’p wash dishes at de officer’s tent, an’ all dat mawnin’ I heerd um axin’ one another is de spy done kotch. To’ds dinner de men all come back an’ wid um was po’ Marse Eddie. He was so weakly dey had to mos’ drap ’im along. Pon my word, I don’t b’lieve de boy know who had ’im; he looked so wild out o’ his raid eyes.

“Dey tuck ’im to a big tent an’ all de officers got in it and held a court martial—dat’s what dey called it. I couldn’t heer a word dat passed, but de Lawd know I seed Marse Eddie was in a bad fix, kase dey was makin’ sech a big to-do.

“Terrectly dey all come out de tent. De haid man ’mongst um give a order an’ ’bout ten men come up wid deir guns an’ formed a line o’ battle. Den dey marched Marse Eddie out wid his back to a tree. You know, suh, I kin ’member when young Miss an’ ’im used to go to dat selfsame sweetgum when dey was lill. He used to take his knife an’ gouge out de gum an’ put it twixt ’er white teeth an’ she’s say, ‘Quick, Brurr Eddie, give me some dat’s hard ’fo’ my teeth stick together—dis heer is too saft.’

“Den young Marster ud take some o’ de dry gum in his fingers, kase it wouldn’t lay on de knife-blade, an’ when he’d make ’er shet ’er eyes he’d drap it in ’er mouf. Yes, suh, I kin ’member dat as plain as ef ’twas yesterday.

“Well, when dey got de po’ droopy young man agin de tree, an’ yell at ’im to hold his haid up, all de big, strappin’ soldiers stand in front an’ de captain drilled um. All deir clothes looked so blue an’ deir buttons an shoulder straps flashed in de sun like a lookin’-glass in de light. Seem like I kin heer de same locust a-singin’ in de woods right now dat was singin’ den. De sky was blue, an’ wide open, des like Gawd Almighty done tore de clouds apart so Marse Eddie’s white soul could git away fum dat measly crowd o’ blood-thirsty cowards. I knowed I couldn’t do a thing to help ’im, an’ I tried to hold steady an’ take one las’ look at my young Marster, but I couldn’t see any plainer dan you kin thoo a frosty window. But when de captain say, ‘Raidy, take aim!’ I looked away. De guns all went off wid one crack, an’ when de smoke is ris’ a lill, I seed Marse Eddie settin’ on de groun’ agin de tree wid his haid down des fur de world like I seed ’im one day when he’d been watchin’ us cut wheat an’ got drowsy an’ fell asleep in de shade.

“Dey tuck ’im off to bury ’im, an’ I went back to work; but I couldn’t do it jestice, an’ kept drappin’ de dishes an’ pans, I was so outdone thinkin’ ’bout de folks at home. Den de captain pass me an’ say: ‘Look heer, what you snifflin’ ’bout? Did you know dis young man?’

“An’ when I told ’im yesser, dat captain got mighty serious in de face an’ yell out to de rest um, ‘Why didn’t you-all had dis man testify?’

“But nobody wouldn’t answer. Den de captain set down nigh me an’ I could see his hands was tremblin’ powerful. He talked low like he was sorter ashamed. An’ he ax me: ‘Who is de young man? Whar do he live?’

“I told ’im Marse Eddie was my young Marster an’ at he was s’rounded in de mountains when he was tryin’ to git home on his furlough, wid his so’ arm, an’ sick an’ hungry.

“Well, suh, I hain’t never had too much use fur Yankees, but dat one’s face cert’ney did look troubled.

“‘Gawd furgive us,’ he say, dat’s what he said, ‘and we-all thought he was lyin’ to git free;’ an’ he most stagger as he walked off. Den I heer ’im order um not to bury Marse Eddie yit but to wait. Dey fixed ’im as nice as dey kin on a litter an’ put a new gray blanket on ’im an’ send ’im off to we-all’s place, kase I reckon dey lowed dey had done all de damage dey kin an’ thought it would be a kindness to old Miss to bury ’er own child.

“After dey done gone, I heer de captain say: ‘Dis is a mistaken duty. I’d ruther myse’f lie on dat litter. Heaven is gwine to curse dis bloodshed, Lieutenant,’ he say to a spry young man. ‘Lieutenant, you know’ what we-all shot dat po’ boy fur? We shot ’im kase he come home wounded to see his fair-faced sister back on dat plantation, an’ his old bedridden mother. Lieutenant, let dat be a lesson to you. Dat letter in his pocket wasn’t no spy-letter. It was des to his pa back in de army of de Souf tellin’ ’im he was nigh his home. When he writ he was tryin’ to git thoo de lines it wasn’t to spy. Yo’ maw’s a-livin’, ain’t she, Lieutenant?’ De young man nodded his haid, an’ den de captain went on agi’n: ‘Well, des put yo’se’f in dis young man’s place an’ den you gwine see how yo’ maw ud feel to had you sent home dat away.’

“Wid all de ’sturbance, it seemed like dey done furget dat I ort to be at home wid my white folks at sech a’ awful time, an’ dey kep’ me till long atter dinner. Den who shall come right in de camp ’cep’ young Miss? I never in all my days seed sech a look as was in her face. Seemed like she was in ’er sleep, ur out’n ’er mind, ur suppin another. It looked like all de officers in de camp wanted to hide out, but de captain was man enough to face ’er an’ went right up to whar she was.

“‘I come to see de spot whar de young Confederate died dis mawnin’, if you please,’ she said, as cool as I ever seed young Miss in my life, dough ’er eyes was flashin’ like diamonds in de sun.

“‘Young lady,’ de captain say, mighty white in de face, ‘dis is a po’ time to ’spress regrets, but Gawd knows dis is a gre’t mistake. I’d ruther be daid myse’f. I pray Gawd to furgive us. We acted too quick. De evidence showed dat yo’ brother was a spy, an’ we never knowed no better till it was all over.’

“‘I did not come to discuss his death,’ young Miss said mighty haughty. ‘I des want to see de spot whar he fell. We-all is grateful fer his remains—sometimes it ain’t done, I believe.’

“‘Young Miss,’ I said to ’er, ‘come, le’s go back home; dey will let me go wid you.’

“Den she looked at me fur de fus time. ‘Was you heer, Ham?’ she say; ‘den you’ll do; you kin show me ’dout troublin’ dese gentlemen. Show me whar my brurr fell, an’ den I’ll go back to mother. I was des afraid de army would march off an’ I never would know de exact spot whar de outrage happened.’

“When she passed ’im she tuck out a copper piece an’ drap it in his hat.”
]

“Den I led ’er to’des de sweetgum an’ p’int it out. She des took one look at it, an’ den she put ’er han’ over ’er face an’ said in a awful low voice: ‘Le’s go quick, Ham,’ an’ I knowed she was afeerd she’d break down ’fo’ dem low-lived soldiers, an’ dat she’d druther be daid ’an to do it. All de way home she ain’t open ’er lips.

“Well, to close my tale, when old Marster come home after de war was over ol’ Miss was daid. It seems a long time ago. Young Miss an’ ’er pa went to Richmond to live, whar he had a lill property dat ’scaped de Yankee’s hands. She turned out to be a gre’t lady an’ had big men—governors an’ congressmen runnin’ atter her to git ’er to marry um. De funniest thing of all was de way dat Yankee captain did after de war was over; I heer some o’ my white folks say he writ two dozen letters to young Miss. He told ’er in um dat she was the onliest woman he ever laid eyes on dat completely tuck his heart and he say ’twas all kase she had so much pride and fine sperit. He begged ’er to let by-gones be by-gones an’ let ’im come down to Richmond an’ ’splain, but she didn’t so much as answer de letters an’ got so she sent um back to ’im dout openin’ um. Dey say he managed to meet ’er at a big dinner somebody give up in Richmond an’ was introduced to ’er. Of co’se, young Miss was too much of a lady to ’suit ’im when dey bofe visitin’ de same house, so she bowed to ’im an’ ’changed a few words, but she left de house an’ called her carriage. Dat’s what my white folks done tole me; I dunno, but it cert’ney was like young Miss. Dey say dat treatment didn’t faze dat captain, he was so dead bent on gittin’ ’er fur his wife; so one day, some time atter dat, he follered ’er to a big chu’ch in Richmond, whar she went to worship. Dey say it had high steps to it, an’ when she come out’n de do’ she seed ’im at de foot o’ de steps waitin’ fur ’er, wid his hat helt out in his hand. Well, suh, what you reckon young Miss did? She had her purse in ’er hand wid some small change in it, an’ when she passed ’im she tuck out a copper piece an’ drap it in his hat widout so much as lookin’ at ’im, des as ef he was a begger. Dey say dat settled ’im. He went off an’ never bothered ’er again.

“Did she marry? Yes, suh, she did, fer she had pickin’ choice o’ de whole country, Norf an’ Souf. She married a big rich man in Richmond, an’ she’s got some o’ de likeliest childern in de world. Her pa is dar doin’ well, too; dey send me money every now an’ den an’ wish me well. Dey is folks right, suh, an’ ef you ever run across um you’ll know I’m tellin’ you de trufe.”

SONG.

BY ROBERT LOVEMAN.

Drenched in the dew of tender tears,
A song doth blossom in my heart;
The trembling words are fraught with fears,
The melody is love’s sweet art.

O, to my lady, song, away!
Be thou my courier, true and fleet,
Mesh her in music all the day,
Then die in fragrance at her feet.

THE PEOPLE OF THE SOUTHERN MILLS.

A HOPEFUL SIDE TO LIFE IN THE FACTORY COMMUNITIES.

By Leonora Beck Ellis.

While the political economist knits his brows in perplexity over the immoderate increase of cotton mills in the Southern States, and the social reformer cries vehemently against their child labor and low adult wages, these problems are solving themselves by natural processes which man’s economics or sociological theories can neither hurry nor retard.

Cotton manufacturing has traversed the road to its base of supply, and can no more be severed from it again than the descending rivulet can turn and run up hill. Child labor is only a complicated error of new conditions, and will in due process fall to inevitable decay. The wage problem mutates everywhere, yet optimism assures us that it bears steadily towards solution.

But the mill people of the South are a new and picturesque labor class. Some glimpses of their homes and family life will, we believe, afford interest to the reader for entertainment as well as to the student of sociology.

* * * * *

There are points of distinct difference between the factory operatives of the South and those of any other section of our country or of Europe.

In the first place, there are no urban instincts in these Southern mill communities. Whatever virtues they lack at least they have not the vices of cities. The good and the evil in them are still such as belong to a strictly rural people. But no one must expect, after another decade and a half, to find the same thing true; for, with the passing of the present generation, this unique characteristic must of necessity be largely lost. Gregariousness of living is potent to efface such a mark even when deeply stamped.

It may be asked, What are the indications of this quality which, for want of a better name, is termed rusticity? The signs are many and easy to read. No observant person can miss the plain evidence even in his first day with the mill people. He walks past the cottages, row on row, and sees prince’s feather and bachelor’s button growing in the tiny yards, patchwork quilts sunning from the windows, and strings of red pepper festooned on the back porches. The boys are quite often chewing tobacco, but they are not smoking cigarettes. Often, alas! the girls dip snuff, but they do not lace in their waists, nor attempt handkerchief flirtations. The women are given to quiet, and a profound reserve usually marks their social intercourse. The festive gatherings in the entertainment halls on Saturday nights are either stiff parties or genuine country dances. The “barbecue” is common on a general holiday and the “all day singing” of a Sunday still remains the acme of enjoyment, affording the perfect blending of sociality and devotion.

A second quality differentiating our people from the Northern factory communities of to-day, is what may well be called their unmodified Americanism. Up to the present time there is an entire absence of the foreign element of population among them, and the effect of such absence is very marked. Not only do better manners prevail in this people sprung from our own soil, but better morals, greater social purity, less turbulence and lawlessness. Remember, that observance of law is easier, more natural, even to illiterate Americans, than to other nations, because Law has typified to them from childhood the majesty of right, not the tyranny of might.

MILLS 1, 2 AND 3, PELZER, S. C.
]

The finer respect for women which marks American manhood, extends also to these toilers. Except among their very lowest, motherhood inspires the regard it meets with in other social strata. And while in many of the mills the number of female employees exceeds that of males, yet in few of the better kind are there any mothers of young children at work.

These considerations lead at once to the questions, Where does such a class of labor come from? What are its antecedents?

The first is easily answered: The operatives have poured into the new factories, not from town or city, but from the country, direct from the cotton fields, we may say, to the mills. It was certainly not an anomalous movement when cotton was bringing 4¾ cents per pound. But as the staple moves back to its old prices, 10 and 12 cents, some reactionary phases must be looked for and provided against.

The antecedents of this class of labor deserve attention. A great majority of the operatives come from the agricultural class known as tenant farmers; that is, men who farm the land for others, paying as rent a considerable portion of each year’s crop. The tenant system was adopted in the South during the period of disorder and chaotic ruin following the Civil War, when our old system of labor was dissolved and no better base remained on which to build anew the fabric of agricultural life. Unfit as it is for a country of such institutions as ours, and the source in itself of very sore evils, the tenant system still had a necessary part in the last half century.

Many of the tenant farmers of the last generation had indeed “seen better days.” Not a few had been freeholders before the war, although usually of the little farms interspersed here and there among the great plantations of the aristocrats. Many others had been overseers, factors, agents of various sorts. A very small proportion came from the class of decayed gentlemen. The rest were made up from those strata usually lumped together in our designation, “crackers,” or, in the South Carolina term, “poor Buckra.”

HOMES FROM WHICH THE MILL PEOPLE COME.
]

Such are the antecedents of the mass of operatives in the new mills of the South. Bearing in mind this derivation, you will not find it difficult to account for many qualities, traits and habitudes that might otherwise appear anomalous. For example, their extravagance is a characteristic almost without parallel among other classes of toilers. But it is simple of explanation.

The transition from a dollarless past to a many-dollared present would render any class of untutored human beings extravagant. Through a long period of tenant farming, these people scarcely saw a piece of money from Christmas to Christmas. Each year’s supplies were either furnished by the owner of the land, or bought on credit at a nearby store, to be paid for when the cotton was picked. The harvest came, sometimes good, sometimes bad; but good or bad, it seemed uniformly to take it all to pay the merchant and the landlord. The tenant rarely enjoyed even the sorry pleasure of selling his cotton and paying the hard cash to these creditors; instead, he usually hauled the raw product of his toil directly to them, then turned apathetically away to begin his half-hearted preparations for another year’s crop. His wife and children shared his labors, sharing also his empty-handedness.

This went on through the dragging years of the South’s agricultural prostration, until the last decade came, with its mills and its industrial revolution, when the moneyless and landless ones drew into the new communities, to try bread-winning under unfamiliar conditions. The mothers and daughters had often worked on the farms, so they did not hesitate at the factory door, except when very young children claimed the care of the former. In most instances, indeed, the women’s fingers proved the readiest for the new occupation.

THE MOUNTAIN TOP CABIN
]

But neither women nor men acquired dexterity without a period of laborious effort, such as all workmen must struggle through when, possessed of only the inherited instincts of generations of bucolic ancestors, they set themselves to some form of mechanical labor. That period being done with, a certain amount of skill began to appear in all fairly intelligent operatives, and shortly they found themselves bringing home each Saturday night, or alternate Saturday night, according as pay day fell, an amount of money that to them seemed an amazing treasure-pile.

A TYPICAL MILL COTTAGE.
]

Cases such as the following are found in every prosperous factory community: The father, mother, and six or eight boys and girls, ranging from twelve to twenty odd years, are at work in one mill. Large families are the rule in this class, remember. Now, the adults, if fair weavers, easily average $22.99 apiece per month. The younger members of the family are probably spinners, and average about $14 each. This family, then, that in the old life of the farm thought themselves fortunate indeed to handle $100 in cash throughout a year, now bring home something like $175 every month!

Is it strange to you that extravagance seizes upon this metamorphosed household? If the sudden transition from pennilessness to plethoric pocket-books did not lead in itself straight to spendthrift living, the precedents of their neighbors would speedily teach the trait.

So the housewife loads the table with luxuries hitherto unknown; the pretty girl is tempted into all the caprices of dress that her little Vanity Fair may flaunt, while the father and brother can scarcely tell whither their dollars speed on such swift wings.

THE LYCEUM, PELZER, S. C.
]

Yet this wastefulness, too, is but a phase, destined to gradual elimination in the development of the process by which an agricultural people are converted into a manufacturing one. With all their illiteracy this class is not devoid of understanding; and when a certain bewilderment of these early years is past, it will be borne in upon them in countless ways, by their school privileges, their larger experience, their clearer views of the outside world, by their own innate manhood, indeed, that there are far other uses for hard-earned money than to be lavished on mere food, clothing and shelter. Many of them are already opening their eyes to the fact that for an abundance of things to eat and wear, they have bartered a certain independence and manliness which are fostered by agricultural pursuits, even the lowliest, and which breed sturdier virtues than mere factory dependents can hope to transmit to their children. Awakening perceptions such as these are leading to different results: to a rescinding of extravagance always; sometimes a return to the farm; occasionally to the laying aside of money or investing it in a home just outside the factory property. But in most cases I find a steadfast purpose growing,—to work straight on where they are for the present, and save every cent possible to educate the coming generation and set their feet in the path that leads to freedom. I have even found several young men and women putting aside money to go to school on when enough is saved, and many go to school and work through alternate half years.

But how can they save money? clamor those who have been studying the comparative wage-scale of Northern and Southern factories, without acquaintance with the actual conditions of the latter. By reasonable economy, is the answer in this case as others.

From $20 to $30 per month is paid good weavers throughout this section, while the average spinner draws from $10 to $16. These are regarded as good living wages in a country where the prices of necessaries range much lower than in the East or the West. Houses are to be heated only about four months in the year, and fuel is comparatively cheap, in many places less than $1.50 per cord for wood, while coal averages less than half the price it brings in Northern markets. Clothing in this warm climate costs far less than in a colder region. Farm and garden supplies are purchased for what seems to the Northern mind an absurdly low price, and dairy products are never high. Besides, in all the rural mill communities, which are now counted by the score to every one in a city, a garden patch always and often pasturage for one cow can be counted on with every cottage.

House rent is not a considerable item. The mill cottages rent by the month on the basis of 60 cents to $1 per room, and the houses range in size from three to eight rooms, four, however, being the rule. With few exceptions, these cottages are fairly comfortable, and built with due regard to sanitation. Outside of cities, each one has its ground space where the inmates may grow flowers and vegetables, thus fostering a form of local attachment that is by no means weak.

From this brief survey, it may be deduced that while the one-time tiller of the soil has surrendered something in becoming a factory operative, he has also come into new privileges and potentialities. When you strike your balance between gain and loss, do not overlook the weighty consideration of the school advantages and other educational facilities which such people have acquired by coming from sparse and remote settlements into their present community life.

* * * * *

During a recent cold snap the young and tender editor of this youthful publication accompanied the blizzard to a small Tennessee town. The office of the little hotel was full of commercial travelers trying to keep warm around a single grate. A half-frozen Italian organ grinder, with his monkey, entered, but was crowded away from the fire by the traveling men. He found a chair away back in the corner of the room and soon fell asleep. But suddenly he woke with a scream; the traveling men rushed to him and asked him what was the matter. He said he dreamed he was in hell and was freezing to death. “Freezing to death in hell! How is that?” asked one of the boys. “Well,” replied the Italian, “the drummers crowded around the fire so I couldn’t get to it.”—_Robert. L. Taylor._

THE MERRY LADY.

By Roger Pocock, Author of “A Frontiersman,” etc.

I.

The poplar groves were gemmed with diamond frost, and they stood in a fairy circle surrounding a glade of snow. Beyond lay all the immensity of the Canadian Plains, above rode the sun in a heaven of cloudless blue, but within the glade there was war. Jets of sharp flame flickered from all the groves, giving birth to clouds like pearls, which drifted on the serene air and made a bluish film of smoke above the waves of the snowdrift. Across the foot of the glade some sleighs were drawn up for defence, each giving shelter to a knot of men, though the woodwork shattered in splinters about their ears. Lying with carbines at rest underneath the sleighs, they watched for the smoke pearls in the woods, then sighting low to clear the combs of the snowdrifts, they fired steadily at hidden enemies. A shower of diamond dust would fall from some fairy tree while the marksman swore thoughtfully, and loaded to try again. So rifles blazed and crashed, so bullets whined or sang, but all this was merely a twittering as of summer birds amid that mighty silence of the plains, which filled the vault of heaven sun-high with peace.

Yesterday a village of retired buffalo-hunters, French-Indian half-breeds, sorely annoyed with the Canadian government, had set up a toy republic, and persuaded some Indian tribes to come out on the warpath. To-day a troop of the Northwest Mounted Police, assisted by a handful of volunteers, had come out from Fort Carlton to make enquiries—and been neatly ambushed. The party of the first part numbered three hundred and sixty-one and the party of the second part only ninety-six, as witnessed this Disagreement, dated near Duck Lake, in the District of Saskatchewan, in the Northwest Territory of Canada, this 26th day of March, 1885.

The trooper farthest to the left of the sleigh rampart was a man of giant girth and stature, with an ugly face. Officially he was Regimental Number 1107, Constable la Mancha, J., but his pet name was the Blackguard, presumably because of his manners and customs. When the fighting began he had been much alarmed, then displeased because a bullet whipped some fur from his buffalo overcoat, and in another minute full of cheerful fury, boiling hot with a frantic appetite for trouble. Moreover, the very moment he began pumping lead into the nearest clump of bushes a naked Indian was seen to leap into the air, and fall headlong. “My meat!” cried the Blackguard, and took a ferocious interest in getting more. A few minutes later he heard the man next him on the right utter a little grunt, and gave his hot carbine a rest while he looked round to see what was wrong. A gallant young Canadian, Corporal Buck McCannock, had been hit, and rolled over on his back beside la Mancha. The Blackguard felt rather sick, watching the red flush fade beneath the tan while the man’s strong features became wan and pinched.

“Say, Buck, old chap, can I help?” Buck’s eyes were closed, and he did not seem to hear. The sunlight glowed on the scarlet serge of his jacket, the glittering buttons, the bright accoutrements, as he lay with his buffalo coat spread wide upon the snow. Only his face was in shadow.

“Buck, old man!”

His eyes opened, his right hand moved out, his fingers plucking at la Mancha’s sleeve, then very slowly his left hand groped at the breast of his jacket, and drew out a paper until it caught between the buttons. La Mancha saw that Buck’s lips were moving now, and bending down he heard a broken whisper, “Take this—tell her—tell her—”