Betsy Gaskins (Dimicrat), Wife of Jobe Gaskins (Republican) / Or, Uncle Tom's Cabin Up to Date

by W. I. Hood

Betsy Gaskins (Dimicrat).

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CHAPTER I.
JOBE SETS AND STUDIES.

MISTUR EDITURE:—My name is Betsy Gaskins. I was born a Dimicrat. My father was a Dimicrat and my mother dident dare to be anything else—out loud.

Our family, thus, was of one mind, perlitically, until Jobe Gaskins begin to come to see me.

I was a young woman of nineteen summers, as the poit would say.

Jobe he was a Republican and “didn’t keer who knowed it.”

My folks opposed Jobe on perlitical grounds.

Jobe he opposed my folks on the same grounds, but hankered arter me, though he knode I was a “Dimicrat dide in the wool.”

And I must say I hankered arter Jobe, though I knode he was a rank Republican. On that one pint we agreed: we both hankered.

Well, the time come when Jobe and me decided to lay aside our perlitical feelins and git married.

This our folks opposed, but we “slid out” one day, and the preacher united the two old parties, as far as Jobe and me was concerned, though I was still a Dimicrat, and Jobe he was still a Republican.

Like the two great perlitical parties at Washington, when they want to make a law to suit Wall Street, Jobe and me decided to pull together on the question of gittin married.

We have lived together for nigh onto thirty-five years, and durin all that time Jobe has let me be a Dimicrat, and Ive let him be a Republican. It has never caused any family disturbance nor never will, so long as I be a Dimicrat and let Jobe be a Republican.

We have no children livin. Our little Jane was taken from us just arter her seventh birthday. Since then we have been left alone together, jist as we was before little Jane was born. It is awful lonesome, and as we grow older, lonesomer it gits. Sometimes, when I git my work all done and have nothin to okepy my mind, I git that lonesome, I hardly know what to do. Of late years I read a great deal to pass away the time.

Jobe he hardly ever reads any, not because he cant,—Jobe is a good reader,—but it seems the poor man works so hard, and has so much to trouble him, that he would jist rather set and study than to read.

When he gits his day’s work done and his feedin, and waterin, and choppin of wood, he jist seems to enjoy settin and studyin.

I hardly ever disturb him when he is at it. I jist set and read or set and knit, as the case may be, and let Jobe set and study.

I did git him started to readin a couple of years back. I had signed for a paper that said a good deal about the Alliance and the Grange and sich, and Jobe he read it every week, and got so interested that he would talk on the things he read about to me and to the neighbors. He got nearly over his settin and studyin and seemed in better spirits so long as he kept a readin of that paper. But one day a feller, who was a Republican canderdate for a county office, came to our house for dinner (they allers make it here about dinner-time, them canderdate fellers do).

“We both hankered.”

Well, arter dinner, Jobe and that feller went into the front room, and the feller gin Jobe a segar (a regular five-center, Jobe said), and then they set and smoked, smoked and talked, talked about the prospect of their party carryin the county, the feller doin all the talkin, until at last Jobe told him that he “had been readin some of the principles of the People’s party and liked em purty well.”

The feller reared back, opened his eyes, looked at Jobe from head to foot, and then indignant like says, says he to Jobe:

“I am astonished!—astonished to think that Jobe Gaskins, one of the most intelligent, most prominent and influential Republicans in this township, should read sich trash, much less indorse it.”

And from that day to this Jobe Gaskins, my dear husband, has quit his readin and gone back to his settin and studyin.

His party principles was teched. The argament of that canderdate feller was unanswerable; it sunk deep into Jobe’s boozim, and from the time that that feller thanked Jobe for his dinner and hoss feed, and invited Jobe and me both to come into his office and see him, if he was elected, to this writin, I have not had the pleasure of talkin with my husband as before.

“I did git him started to readin.”

That feller robbed me of all the bliss I enjoyed of havin my pardner in life to talk with of evenins. And all I got for bein thus robbed, and for the dinner and hoss feed he et, was a invitation to see him okepy the high position of county officer—as though that would pay for vittles or satisfy an achin void, caused by him a turnin Jobe from his readin to his settin and studyin. What good would it do me to see him okepyin a county office and drawin of a big salary? Yes, drawin of a big salary that poor Jobe has to work his lites out of him to help pay. All that there canderdate feller cares for Jobe remainin to be a Republican is so that he, and sich fellers like him, will continer to vote for him and his likes, and pay the high taxes out of which they git their big salaries. What do they care for poor old Jobe Gaskins, whether he be a Republican or a Dimicrat or a Populist or one of them wild Anacrists, if it were not that he had a vote and they want to keep him in line? What keer they what papers he reads, or how quick he changes his polerticks, if they dident want to git office and draw a big salary?

“That canderdate feller.”

Say anything to Jobe about this and he will flare up and tell you he “doesent intend to lose the respect of all the leadin men in the county by changing his perlitical views.”

He dont stop to ask hisself, “Who is the leadin men?” He dont stop to ask hisself how much taxes and interest and sich he contributes to make them the leadin men. Contributes it to support them and their families in style sich as becomes leadin people.

Yes, to support their families, I said, so that their wives and their girls can wear fine silks and satins, while I must git along with a brown caliker or gray cambric dress at best.

Jobe and his likes earns the money by the sweat of their brows, and them canderdate fellers and their likes spends it in high livin and makin theirselves leadin citizens. And then they are astonished to hear of one of their regular voters a readin anything that says that sich men as Jobe Gaskins and his wife Betsy, if you please, are jist as respectable, jist as leadin citizens, as any county officer or polertician and their wives. Yes, it astonishes them to hear of his readin a paper that says that the farmers have jist as intelligent, honest and patriotic people among them as the leadin citizens have. Now I read sich “trash,” as the canderdate feller calls it, and I dont keer who knows it, though Ime a Dimicrat. But as it is gittin late and milkin time is here, I will close, promisin you more anon, as it were.

BETSY GASKINS (Dimicrat),

Wife of

Jobe Gaskins (Republican).

CHAPTER II
AN ARGUMENT ON THE MONEY QUESTION.

THE anon is here. Last Tuesday evenin, arter I had milked and swept and washed up the supper dishes and done many other things I have to do day in and day out, year in and year out, arter Jobe had done his waterin and feedin and choppin of wood, we both found ourselves settin before the fire, me a knittin, him a settin and studyin.

Says I to him, all of a suddent, loud and quick like:

“Jobe, what yer studyin bout?”

You ort a seen him jump. He was skeert. I spoke so suddent and quick.

He hemmed and hawed a minit or so, got up and turned around, sat down, spit in the fire, crossed his legs, and says, says he:

“Well, Betsy, Ile tell you what I was a studyin about. I was jist a studyin about the mortgage and the interest and the fust of Aprile. Aprile, Betsy, is nearly here, and where is the money a comin from to pay the interest and sich?”

I saw he was troubled; but all I could say was: “Well, indeed, Jobe, I dont know.”

And I dont.

It seemed, now, as I had Jobe started, waked up as it were, he wanted to talk, and I was willin that he should, even though it wasent a very pleasant thing to talk about.

“Me a knittin, him a settin and studyin.”

Says he: “Betsy, I sometimes think we will never git our farm paid for. It seems to be a gittin harder and harder every year to make payments. It has took all we raised to meet the interest for the last four years; we haint been able to pay anything on the mortgage; and this spring I dont know where we will git the money to pay even the interest. It takes twice as much wheat, or anything else, nearly, to git the money to pay the interest with as it use to, and crops haint any better. Besides, Betsy, if I was to sell the farm to-day, it wouldent bring much above the $2,100 we owe on it. When I bought it for $3,800, fourteen years ago, I thought it cheap enough, and it was if times hadent got so hard and things we raise so cheap. Jist to think, we have paid $1,700 on the first cost, and $2,100 in interest besides, and if we had to sell it to pay the mortgage we would not have a dollar left. Congressman Richer could foreclose at any time; he could have done so for the last three years—ever since I failed to make the payments on the mortgage.”

“Well, Jobe,” says I, “it is bad enough, to say the least.”

“Yes, Betsy,” says he, “if we cant meet the interest, Banker Jones tells me, we will be sold out.”

I was silent.

Jobe continered: “I tell you, Betsy, these times, six per cent. interest is hard to pay. It seems that, no matter how cheap a farmer has to sell what he raises, interest dont get any cheaper.”

Thinks I, “Now is my time to speak.”

“Jobe,” says I, slow and deliberate, lookin him square in the eyes, “Jobe Gaskins, haint you a American citizen? Haint you jist as good a citizen as a banker? Haint you jist as honest? Haint you jist as hard-workin? Haint you got as much rights in these here United States?”

Jobe was silent, but lookin straight at me, starin.

Continerin, says I: “I was a readin in my paper, the other day, that the banker borrowed money from this here government for one per cent. The very money he loans you and your likes at six and seven and eight per cent. he gits from this here government for one per cent. You, Jobe Gaskins, ort to have jist as good right to borrow money from this here government of yourn and his as he has, if you give good security and will pay it back, and God knows you would, as honest as you are. Jist to think, Jobe, if you could have borrowed the money from the government to have paid Congressman Richer for his farm fourteen years ago, when we bought it, at only one per cent. interest, and only paid back to the government, at the post-office, or some other place appointed, the same as you have paid Congressman Richer in payments and interest, we to-day would have our farm nearly paid for and be out of debt, and you wouldent be a settin and studyin about the mortgage and interest and the fust of Aprile. Or even if you could borrow the money to-day from the government at two per cent., you could git the $2,100, pay it off, and next year only have to raise $42 interest instead of $126. Dont you see it would be easier for you to pay? And you could pay a little on the mortgage every year, as hard as times are?”

While I was a sayin all this Jobe was a lookin at me, a starin, turnin on his seat, spittin in the fire, crossin fust one leg, then another, waitin for me to stop. I seen he was teched; so, when I had done, I sot back in my cheer, and begin to knit, and waited for what was a comin. He begun slowly, but warmed up as he proceeded. Says he:

“Betsy, I have lived with you for nigh onto thirty-five years; we have allers lived in peace, though you was a Dimicrat and I was a Republican; we have had our sorrows and our hardships, and now, arter all these years of peace, am I to pass the last days of my life with a pardner who is allers talkin like them blamed Populists? You know, Betsy Gaskins, that I am a Republican and expect to die one. I believe that all the laws made by the Republicans are just laws. If they made laws to lend the banker money at one per cent. it must stand, and I will try to bear my burden, though I have to pay six per cent. interest or more, if need be, for the same money. Betsy, you must stop readin them papers. I never look into one; they jist start a feller to thinkin, and the fust thing he knows he dont believe a thing he has been a believin all his life. It ruins a feller’s perlitical principles. If a feller is a Republican, he should be one and never read anything to cause him to think. Them Populists, Betsy, is jist made up of a lot of storekeepers and farmers, and men who work in shops and mills and coal-banks and sich places. They dont know anything about makin laws, or money or bizness. Our law-makers, Betsy, should be lawyers and bankers and rich business men and sich.”

Well, I jist saw it was no use argyin with him, but I thought I would have the last word, as I allers do, and says I:

“Well, Jobe Gaskins, if you ignorant farmers haint fit to make the laws to fix the taxes you pay; if you farmers haint fit to make the laws to govern yourselves; if you farmers haint fit to transact the bizness in which you should be most interested, I think you ort to begin to prepare yourselves until you are fit, by readin what hasent been done for you that ort to have been done, and what has been done agin you that hadent ort to been done.”

“‘Talkin like them blame Populists’.”

At that, bein ready, I skipped into the bed-room and in a twinkle was in bed with the kivers drawed up over my head. If Jobe said any more I heard it not. In a few minits I was asleep, where I must soon be agin.

CHAPTER III.
JOBE SLEEPS IN THE SPARE BED. THE DREAM.

THAT nite arter I had got into bed and kivered up my head, I went to sleep and waked not until broad daylite. Imagine my surprise, when I waked, to find that durin all that long nite I had been the sole okepant of that bed. The piller on which Jobe, my dear husband, had slept for over thirty-four years had not been teched that nite, and, for the fust time in thirty-five years next corn-huskin, Betsy Gaskins had slept alone. I felt skeert. I felt as though some awful calamity had or would occur to me.

With a heavy heart I ariz and put on my skirts, all the time feelin as if I was about to choke. Everything was silent and still about the house. Could it be possible that my dear Jobe had dide or been kidnapped, or what? I hurried into the room—no Jobe there. I went into the kitchen—no Jobe there. I hastened to the spare bed-room. The door was closed. I stopped. I rubbed my hands together, studyin what to do, all a trimblin. Certainly the dead and lifeless corpse of my dear husband was in there cold in death, drivin to it of course by the cruel words of his lovin wife. There I stood stock still, not knowin what to do. I must have stood there some three or four minits until I came to myself. All at onct I says, says I, out loud: “Betsy Gaskins, what are you about? Haint you allers been looked upon as a woman of good jedgement and feerless in the face of disaster?” At that I marched up to the door and flung it open.

“I waked not until broad daylite.”

Now what do you suppose I found? Jobe was not there, but that spare bed had been okepied that very nite. Then it was that I realized that the two old parties, as it were, had been divided—divided for one nite on the money question. Yes, Jobe Gaskins and his wife Betsy, a Dimicrat and Republican, had slept beneath the same roof and in seperate beds.

While I stood there, contemplatin what next to do and where Jobe might be, I heered him come onto the back porch. I met him with a smile as he come into the kitchen.

Says I: “Why, Jobe, where have you been?”

“Feedin—feedin, of course,” says he; “where do you suppose Ive been?” lookin at the floor and walkin apast me.

Arter reflection thinks I, “’Tis best to say nothin to him about the split in the two old parties until a future date.” So I jist went about it and prepared the mornin meal, thinkin all the time of a dream I had that nite, some time between bed-time and daylite, while I lay there all alone, while the pardner of my life okepied the spare bed.

“Feedin,—feedin, of course,” says he.

Well, while Jobe was partakin of his mornin repast, I saw all the time that he wanted to say something. I never said a word durin the whole meal, neither did Jobe. We jist set and eat—eat in silence.

“‘Do you promis?’ says I, girlish like.”

When Jobe was done he pushed back and tipped his cheer agin the wall. I knode he was a goin to speak. He cleared his throat like, and says, says he:

“Betsy, I dont want you to say any more to me about what you read in the newspapers. I am willin to listen to anything else under the sun, but dont let me hear any more about them Populist ideas. I want to talk sense to you, and you to talk sense to me. Now what I want to know, Betsy, is, how are we to raise the money to pay the interest by the fust of Aprile?”

Says I: “Land a goodness, Jobe, how do I know? Goodness knows I am willin to do all I kin to help you raise it. I had a dream last nite; if that dream was true I might tell you how to raise it.”

I stopped.

“Well,” says he, arter studyin a minit, “what was your dream?”

Lookin at him kind a girlish like, says I:

“Jobe, I wont tell you what it was unless you make me two promises.”

Jobe actually smiled. Says he:

“Go ahead; what are your promises?”

“I sot down, ... lookin him square in the face.”

“Well,” says I, smilin, “the fust promis is that you sleep in the same bed I do to-nite.”

At that I laffed out loud. Jobe he did, too. Then says I:

“The second promis is that you will listen without commentin until I tell it all.”

Jobe he studied.

“Do you promis?” says I, girlish like.

“Yes, I promis,” says he; “go ahead.”

“You promis to sleep in the same bed you have for these nigh onto thirty-five years?”

“Yes, yes,” says he, lookin half guilty.

“And you will listen?” says I.

“Yes, yes, Ile listen,” says he.

So, arter clearin away the dishes and scrapin off the crumbs for the chickens, and puttin some dish water to bile, I sot down on the other side of the table from Jobe, lookin him square in the face. Says I:

“Well, Jobe, we was talkin of the mortgage and the interest last nite when I went to bed, and I suppose that had something to do with me havin the dream, and for that reason I dont suppose there is anything in the dream.”

“Spose not,” says he, lookin oneasy like.

Bill Bowers.

“Well, Jobe,” says I, “I dreamed that Congressman Richer had demanded his money, and you had to raise the whole amount of the mortgage or lose our home. I thought you and me went down to town and went to every bank to try to borrow the money with which to pay the mortgage. I thought every place we went we was told that they was not makin any loans now, that there was a money panic and they had decided not to make any more loans for some time. I thought we could see great piles of money inside the wire fence that seperated us from the bankers, you know.” At this he nodded. “And I thought you said, jist as plain as I ever heard you say anything:

“‘Why, haint you got plenty of money?’

“‘Yes, yes, we have plenty of money, but we are not loaning any at this time,’[^[A]] says each banker, jist as though they had all agreed to say the same thing.

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[A]. In July and August, 1893, during one of the severest money panics ever experienced in the United States, many of the banks not only refused to lend money on choice security or to discount commercial paper, but in many instances would not permit persons to draw out the money they had deposited with them. Business was paralyzed. Thousands of persons were ruined, losing the accumulations of a lifetime by being unable to raise money as usual to meet obligations falling due. Factories were closed for lack of funds to pay employes, and thousands of American citizens were thrown out of employment. The consequent suffering among the poorer classes throughout the nation was indescribable. And during all this time the banks of the country held the money of the people and refused to pay it out even to those to whom it belonged. Hence the question: Can not a better system of financiering be devised than our present banking system? Would it not be better to permit the people to deposit their money with our county treasurers?

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“So I thought we traveled and traveled and coaxed and coaxed, and we couldent git a cent, as it were.

“Finally I thought we was agoin along the street, both feelin sad and discouraged, when jist in front of Spring Bros. & Holsworth’s big dry goods store who should we meet but Bill Bowers of Sandyville.

“‘Hello, Gaskins,’ says he.

“That was the fust we had seen of him. Our minds was so troubled.

“We stopped, and arter inquirin about the folks, and the stock, and the meetin that is goin on at Center Valley school-house, he asked:

“‘What are you doin in town?’

“And I thought you up and told him about havin to pay the mortgage; and of our havin been to every bank; and of our havin been told the same tale by each banker, and then you said, ‘I guess, Bill, we will have to lose our farm.’

“When he up and says, says he:

“‘Why, Gaskins, haint you heerd it?’

“‘Heerd what?’ says you.

“‘Why, haint you heerd of the new law?’ says he. ‘Why, Congress passed the law yisterday. I was jist over to the court-house and they showed me the telegram.’

“‘Why, what law do you mean, Bill?’ says you.

“Then you and Bill sot down on a box and I leaned agin the house, and says Bill:

“‘Why, yisterday, Jobe, they passed a law in Congress authorizing the Secretary of the Treasury to, at once, have engraved and printed full legal-tender paper money to the amount of ten dollars per capita of the population of the United States, and that money is to be set apart only to be loaned to counties on county bonds, and the counties are to git it at one per cent. interest. Then the county treasurers are to lend the money only on first mortgage real estate security to the farmers and business men and mechanics, at only two per cent. interest, and when the man that borrows it pays it back, or any part of it, the amount of his payments shall be credited on his mortgage, and as fast as it accumulates in the county treasurer’s office he shall forward it to Washington and git it credited on the county bond they hold. The one per cent. the government gits is to pay for makin the money and keepin the books at Washington. The other one per cent. that the borrowers pay is to go toward payin the county treasurer’s salary and clerk hire. This money, Jobe, is as good as gold, because the government agrees to take it for postage stamps and internal revenue and duties on imports and sich. All you have to do, Jobe, is to go over there to that grand old court-house, give your mortgage to the people of the county, and git your money; and after this you will only have to pay two per cent. interest instead of six or seven, and you kin save your farm.’

“Well, Jobe, I thought you and me and Bill Bowers all went over there, and sure enough, what Bill told us was true. The county treasurer told us that he would put our application on file, and as soon as they could git the money out and here, possibly in thirty days, we could come in and git ninety per cent. of the value of our farm if we needed that much.

“And while we was standin there a talkin to Treasurer Hochstetter, I heard George Welty explainin to Ed. Walters ‘how nice it was for a person to be able to give a mortgage to the people of the county for money to pay for a home, and then the county goin that person’s security and gittin the money from all the people of the United States,’ and explainin that there would always be jist enough money to do bizness on and no more, since the county would only borrow from the government when some citizen of the county had use for the money and was willin to give good security and pay two per cent. for it. And, Jobe, I thought you looked happier than you have for ten years.”

“Well, Bet——”

“Hold on, Jobe,” says I. “Well, I thought you and me and Bill Bowers started up street, and when we were passin Jones’s bank he called us in.

“Says he: ‘Mr. Gaskins, I guess we can accommodate you with that little matter you was speakin about this morn——”

“‘I dont want it now,’ says you.

“‘No,’ says I.

“‘Ide think not,’ says Bill Bowers.

“‘Well, but hold—hold on,’ says Jones. ‘I—I—we—we will let you have that amount at four per cent.’

“‘Oh, no,’ says you.

“‘Well, how will three strike you?’ says Jones.

“‘I dont want it at all,’ says you.

“‘Come on,’ says I, and we went on up street. When we passed the First National Bank, out comes one of the clerks a hollerin, ‘Mr. Gaskins! Mr. Gaskins!’ We stopped. He came a runnin up and says: ‘Come in now and our people will accommodate you,’ takin hold of your arm and startin back with you. I thought I jist took a hold of your other arm and says, says I: ‘Jobe Gaskins, where yer goin? We dont want any bank money in sich a panic as this. So come on and lets git out of this panic.’

“Well, every last bank we had been to that mornin was a peckin, and a hollerin, and a beckenin to us that evenin, until we like to a never got out of town and away from them. They jist seemed bound to lend you that money whether you wanted it or not. Something had created a panic among them—a panic to git to lend you money. Maybe they had heard of the new law. I dont know.”

Durin most of the tellin of my dream Jobe he was leanin his face in his hands, his elbows on the table, eyes wide open, listenin as he never did before.

When I finished, says he:

“Betsy, that will save us. What a grand country this is!” And he got up and walked across the floor. Comin back and lookin, anxious like, at me, says he: “Betsy, which party did Bill say passed that law—the Dimicrats or the Republicans? It is grand! grand! It will save us.” As he spoke he looked full of joy and happiness. Answerin, says I:

“I think I heard John Denison say it was the Popul——”

I never got to finish that word. His fist came down on the table like a thousand of bricks. He jumped back into the middle of the floor, cracked his fists together, stamped his foot, and says in a loud voice: “I wont! I wont! I wont do it. It can go fust. Bill Bowers is a dum fool. I wont! I wont!”

Says I: “Why, Jobe, what on airth is the matter? What ails you? What yer talkin about anyhow? You wont do what?”

Answerin, says he, bringin his fists together agin:

“I wont borrow any money from any scheme them tarnal Populists has made into a law. Ile—Ile pay ten per cent. interest fust. Ile not lend my approval to any law they have made.”

“Why, sakes alive, Jobe,” says I, “they haint made any law. That was jist a dream I had. What ails you, anyhow?”

At that he stepped back a step or two, lookin at me vicious like. Movin his head up and down in short jerks, says he:

“Betsy, you must stop it. Stop it at once. Its got you crazy—so crazy you are dreamin about it. You must stop that readin or Ile have you sent to a lunatic asylum.”

He went out at the door then, but just as he got out, in time for him to hear it, I hollered:

“Its you and your likes that ort to be sent to a lunatic asylum for not seein a thing that you have to turn your back on to keep from seein.”

This ended the second “discussion of the financial situation,” as they say down at Washington. The two old parties—Jobe and me—are still divided; but I have one promis he has yet to fulfill.

CHAPTER IV.
“THE COMERS.”

BILL BOWERS has got me into trouble. The Thursday arter I had my dream about the money bizness, who should ride up to our gate and hitch but Bill Bowers? I had not seen him for nigh onto two years, except in that dream, until he rid up to that gate post.

No sooner did I lay eyes on him than I thought of our meetin him that day in town, right there by Spring Brothers’ big store, and of his tellin us of the money plan, and of his goin with us to the county treasurer, and of us a learnin from the county treasurer that in a few days he would become the people’s banker and would lend money to the people on good security. While he was gittin off and hitchin, I remembered of his walkin with us up apast all the banks; I remembered of them refusin to lend us any money in the mornin; of them a peckin and a beckenin, a hollerin and a runnin arter us, wantin to lend us their money, in the evenin, arter we, and they too, had heerd of the new law Congress had made the day before—a law that turned a panic where we had to beg for money, and not git it, to a panic where they begged to lend us money and we wouldent borrow it.

Yes, sir, that there dream all come back to me as plain as day, Bill Bowers and all, jist as soon as I laid eyes on him.

So it was no more than nateral for me to tell him about it. Jobe not bein at home, I had to do the entertainin. As soon as he got in and got settled, I says:

“‘Ide vote the Dimicrat ticket at the
very next township election.’”

“Bill Bowers, I am glad to see you. I must tell you my dream. Bring your cheer up to the fire.”

Then I jist up and told him that whole dream, and he swollered every word of it without chawin, as it were.

When I had finished he says, says he:

“Betsy Gaskins, if that ere dream was only enacted into a law, what a blessin it would be to the creatures of this world! Betsy, though I am one of the stanchest Republicans in Sandyville, if this here Dimicratic Congress would make sich a law, Ide vote the Dimicrat ticket at the very next township election. Betsy, how in the world did you come to dream sich a dream?”

Now, how do I know how I come to dream any particular dream? I went to bed and went to sleep, jist as I had done for nigh onto thirty-five years, exceptin, of course, Jobe slept in the spare bed and me alone. But would I tell Bill Bowers of that split in the two old parties, as it were, and have him tell all over creation that Jobe Gaskins and his wife Betsy had quit sleepin together? No. Ide die fust. So I jist says:

“Well, Bill, indeed I dont know how I come to dream it.”

And I dont.

Well, my tellin of Bill Bowers that ere dream is causin me no ends of trouble. Ime jist worried and hounded about by this and that one, to have me tell em about that dream, until I hardly git time to breathe.

Bill Bowers he jist went, and from the time he left our house until now he has been a tellin of my dream to every one he meets. And it seems he is a keepin a tellin it, the way people has been flockin here and keep a flockin. Jake Cribbs, and Joe Born, and Curt Hill, and Bill Loyd, and Jim Rankin and Mag his wife, and the Minnings, and the Bateses, and the Hances, and goodness only knows who all has been here to know more about my dream! And how I come to have it; and what Ime a goin to do about it; and why I dont git it published; and why I dont send it to Congress; and why I dont do this and do that!

And some of em say they have it goin that the law is made—that Bill Bowers told Tom Osborne, and Tom Osborne told Doc Hendershot, and Doc Hendershot told Lucy Joss, and Lucy Joss told somebody else, that Betsy Gaskins said there was sich a law passed, and they come from fur and near to know what paper I read it in? or how I heerd it? or if Ime certain I had it? &c. &c., and a thousand and one other things, until Ime sick and tired of it.

Last night they even waked me up at the dead hour of midnite—Ellic Shank and Lew Zimmerman and Dan Hochstetter did—to hear me tell em more about it. And Jobe he’s nearly destracted. The poor man is jist run as hard as I be, though he had nothin to do with dreamin of that dream, onless his not a sleepin with me that nite caused it.

“They waked me up at the dead hour of midnite.”

What to do to git rid of all this questionin and answerin, this comin and a goin, I dont know. If they would go to readin, and thinkin, and a reasonin with themselves, they might have some dreams of their own—yes, have dreams with their eyes open. If these very people, men and women, who are worryin the life out of me, would go to readin of papers whose mouths haint shut by the public printin they git or hope to git; if they would go to readin papers that haint got some polertician’s hand around their throat—I say if these very people would read papers whose editures haint afraid to speak the truth when they see it; haint afraid to condem the wrong wherever they find it—I say, if they would read sich papers and sich books, they would dream dreams they never dreamed of dreamin before. I think they would begin to see that the Dimicrat pays the same rate of tax as the Republican pays, and vicey versy.

They would see that, no matter what is the polerticks of the office-holder, the voter has to pay the taxes out of which the feller draws a salary.

They would see that by reducin or increasin salaries their taxes are made high or low, as the case may be.

When they begin to see these things, I think they will begin to see that so far as they are concerned it dont make any difference to them which ticket they vote; that the feller most interested in their vote is the canderdate feller who is wantin to draw the salary.

Does a feller have to go to sleep to dream that holdin office is the best payin bizness in the country?

Does a feller have to go to sleep to dream that the salaries of all officeholders are too high, and that the foreigner dont pay the taxes out of which these salaries are paid?

Does a feller have to go to sleep to dream that all public expense ort to be cut down and kept cut down?

These are some of the dreams that the dreamless people would dream if they would go to readin of papers and books that Jobe and his likes would have me sent to the lunatic asylum for readin. (Here is another comer. I must quit.)

CHAPTER V.
JOBE MUST RAISE $2,100.

MY heart is heavy. Poor Jobe is nearly destracted. Our home is in jeopardy. Congressman Richer must have his money. He must have it by Aprile fust. Poor feller, he too is in bad straits; his gittin defeated last fall upset his calkerlations.

And jist to think, Jobe voted agin him; helped to defeat him, as it were. But Mistur Richer holds no spite agin Jobe for that. He was a Dimicrat, and he knew Jobe was a strait Republican.

Such things will happen to any feller runnin for office; somebody has to be defeated. They all cant hold office. I wish he had been elected agin, and so does Jobe. Jobe wishes it, though he is a Republican and voted agin him.

Poor Mistur Richer, he is in desperate strates. He is hard up. If he had been elected agin he wouldent a been that way.

It makes my head swim to think about what his disappointments are and may be.

Here is his letter to Jobe. It is so kind and nice. And jist to think of what a big man it is from, and the place. Jobe likes to read the headin:

House of Representatives,

Washington, D. C., Feb. 23, 1895.

J. Gaskins, Esq.:

Dear Sir and Friend—Owing to circumstances over which I now have no control, I am compelled to call on you to pay the $2,100 with interest due me on mortgage, not later than April 1st of the current year.

No doubt, Mr. Gaskins, this will take you unawares, and most probably unprepared. Were it not for the political reverses with which I met last fall, I would not be compelled to do what, I assure you, is a very unpleasant thing to me, i. e., call on you for this money at this time.

No doubt you will think that on the $5,000 a year salary I have drawn for two years, now nearly past, and the other sources of revenue that have become the perquisites belonging to a Congressman’s office, I ought to be able to get along without, in this way, inconveniencing you.

Had I been re-elected last fall I would have been in such circumstances. But when I call your attention to the fact that the nomination two years ago cost me $2,500 spot cash; that I have only been able to dispose of a very few post-offices at anything like paying prices; that, it being my first term, my services were not sought to any paying extent by those seeking “profitable” legislation, as well as the high rents and expenses in maintaining the dignity of myself and family, I am satisfied you will realize not only my great disappointment, but the loss, financially, I suffer as a consequence of my late defeat.

True, I have bought something like $20,000 worth of real estate in this city, but I still owe nearly $5,000 on it. I bought it expecting to be re-elected; so you will see the necessity of my calling in the money I now have outstanding in order to meet the deferred payments on my real estate venture.

I may be able to dispose of one and possibly two more post-offices between now and March 4th, but as they are small offices it is not likely that I will get more than $300 to $500 each for them, and as the friends of my successor are using every effort to postpone these appointments until after March 4th, you can see that I may even lose the profit on these appointments, since, as you are aware, all such revenue goes to my successor after that date.

The fact is, friend Gaskins, I have not been able to clear over $15,000 in the two years I have served as your Congressman, while some of the older members (those better known and more sought for by the liberal rich who come here to secure legislation favorable to their interests) make as high as a million a year.

With kind regards to Betsy, and hoping you will not put me to the necessity of foreclosing the mortgage I hold against you, I am

Yours truly,

D. M. J. Richer, M. C.

“That very sheet of paper.”

Now, jist to think, that letter, that very sheet of paper, come right from the great capital of these here United States; right from where all the great and leadin men of the country sit and make laws, and sell post-offices and sich—yes, this very sheet of paper has been writ on, handled and folded by a live and livin Congressman. The beautiful red tongue of a real Congressman licked that invelope, and his fingers sealed it up and put it in that great marble post-office there; then it traveled across them high mountains, over the big rivers and through the great cities to Jobe Gaskins, a common, everyday farmer, of Tuskaroras County, Ohio.

Congressman Richer.

Yes, that letter was writ by fingers that have fingered $5,000 salary money in only twelve months, and the Lord only knows how much post-office money—but lots—as it must a been, though they dident sell high enough to suit him.

Five thousand dollars from Noo Years to Noo Years! More than Jobe Gaskins has cleared since he become the lawful husband of his dear wife Betsy!

And jist to think, all them $5,000 paid by taxes. Paid by Jobe and his likes.

Poor Mr. Richer, how he must pant and sweat to airn that much money in twelve months—as much as Jobe could airn in twenty years if he could airn $250 every year. Jist to think how Jobe works and sweats, and walks stiff and plans and studies, and don’t airn $250 a year.

I expect there wasent a dry thread in all of Mr. Richer’s clothes.

I expect that even his pants was wet through every day of that whole year.

What big washins poor Mrs. Richer must a had.

Jobe he jist couldent stand sich sweatin, day in and day out.

It would take a whole barrel of soft soap to keep his clothes clean.

Five thousand dollars!

Five thousand dollars a year!!

Four hundred and sixteen dollars a month!!!

Seventeen dollars a day for every workin day in the year!

Seventeen dollars!

Enough to buy me twenty-four caliker dresses a day!

“Jobe works and sweats.”

One every hour!!

Seven thousand four hundred and eighty-eight caliker dresses in a year!!!

How in the world could I git them all made?

I spect poor Mrs. Richer has to so day and nite.

And jist to think, all of them 7,488 dresses for one man’s wife!

All paid for by taxes.

Now I wonder, if them Congressmen dident have to work so hard, and could get along on less pay—I wonder if the tax-payer’s wife wouldent have a dress or two more, even if Mrs. Richer and her likes had to get along on a dress or two less? The Lord knows she could spare them out of all them 7,488 dresses.

Well, the idea okepyin my mind most now is: “Where can Jobe git the money to pay all that $2,100, when he haint got even one post-office to sell?”

CHAPTER VI.
BETTY, THE DRIVIN ANIMAL.

EVER since we got that letter from Congressman Richer, demandin his $2,100 by the fust of Aprile, Jobe has been scourin the country fur and near tryin to borrow the money, and, poor man, he is worse destracted than ever. Things haint like they use to be. Nobody seems to have any money to lend. He finds lots of people a huntin money, but nobody a findin any. He has been to Sandyville, and Mineral Pint, and Zoar, and way up in Stark County as fur as New Berlin, and nary the man has he found with $2,100 to lend on good security.

What to do Jobe dont know, nor neither do I.

Jobe says he will write to Mr. Richer and git him to wait a little longer, until times pick up a little.

“But,” says I, “Jobe, when will times pick up?”

And the poor man, lookin at me sadder than he has since he become my dear husband, says, says he:

“Betsy, the Lord only knows—I dont.”

And I think Jobe is right.

Well, we—that is Jobe and me, the two old parties—have decided that the interest will have to be paid whether the $2,100 is or not. So Jobe has been a rakin and a scrapin to raise what he could, and I have been a rakin and a scrapin to raise what I could.

We sold Betty the other day, the only drivin animal we had; sold her for only $42.

As the stranger went a leadin her away Jobe and me both sot down and cried. We both loved Betty. We had raised her from a colt. She was a purty colt, and so lovin like, Jobe he named her for me. We had intended to always keep her, and since our little Jane was taken from us we jist loved Betty as if she was a child. And, poor Betty, I know she loved us. When the stranger started to lead her away she jist looked back at Jobe and me, so pleadin like, as much as to say: “Dont let him take me away from you!”

“Jobe and me both sot down and cried.”

When I seen that look my heart come up in my throat, and I jist couldent hold in any longer. I busted out a cryin, and so did poor Jobe. We both sot there and cried and looked at our poor Betty as fur as we could see her, and she kept a lookin back at us, nickerin—tryin to speak the best she could.

Ever since she has been gone my heart keeps a comin up in my throat, and tears keeps comin in my eyes every time I think of her. I know it is foolish and no use, but I cant help it.

I know the interest has to be paid if it takes everything we have, but I cant help cryin when I think poor Betty is gone from us forever—yes, gone for interest.

Well, with the $42 for Betty and twenty-six bushels of wheat and twenty-eight bushels of corn and $14 worth of sheep, and the only brood sow we had, and 96 cents’ worth of old iron, Jobe has been able to raise $92.34, arter payin Banker Jones the discount for cashin the notes he took for the sheep and the sow, and Jobe says he cant think of another thing to sell. I jist up and says, says I:

“Jobe, its awful. Poor Betty gone for interest; our wheat gone; nearly all our corn; our sheep gone; our brood sow; and what will we have to show for it when the interest is paid? Nothin. We will owe jist as much on the mortgage as before. But Jobe, dear,” says I, “I will help you all I can to raise the balance. I will spare you a dozen hens, though layin time is just here. And there is my carpet rags, that I wanted to git made into a new carpet for the spare room; we might sell them for something. And I have them two new quilts I made last fall a year. I can spare them by patchin up the old ones to last a year or so longer. I see, too, Jobe, that feathers are a good price, considerin the times; we could sell all the feathers we have in our pillers, if you think you could sleep on straw pillers awhile, until times git better. If you say so, Jobe, Ile gether all these things up and we will take them to town and sell them for what we can git. The Lord knows, Jobe, I am willin to do all I can to help you raise the interest money.”

As I looked at him I saw big tears rollin down his wrinkled cheek.

Whether he was thinkin of poor Betty, or me a sellin the pillers, or what, I dont know. He said nothin, but turned aside and walked out toward the barn. I saw him usin his hankercher as he went.

Now, though I be crazy on what I read in them noosepapers, though I be so crazy that I dream about it, I would like to ask you if my dream about the new money plan, and the county treasurer, and borrowing money at two per cent., though that dream, Bill Bowers and all, come from the mind of a crazy woman, sleepin alone—I say, wouldent it be a godsend to Jobe and his likes if he could go to the county treasurer this spring and if, by givin the same kind of a mortgage he gave Congressman Richer, he could git the money to pay Mr. Richer off at only two per cent.? Next year our interest would only be a little over $40.

And, oh, how that lump comes up in my throat when I think that if we had had sich a law this Aprile we need not have sold poor Betty.

Would it not be better to have a State law authorizin our county treasurer to receive deposits, and loan money at a low interest, even if we had to take tax off from money to do it, than to have people sellin the things they love, doin without the things they ort to have, and losin their homes? Who would sich a law hurt? Congressman Richer and his likes would git their money if they wanted it, and Jobe and his likes would be able to pay two per cent. interest and some on the mortgage every year. And jist to think, if interest was less, the difference in interest alone would pay off all the mortgages in this county in a few years.

Then people would live in homes of their own, in homes with no mortgages on them.

Everybody would be out of debt and happy. But Ime talkin crazy agin and will have to stop until Jobe and me gits back from town.

CHAPTER VII.
THEY DRIVE OLD TOM.

JOBE and me have been to town and we are back alive, thank goodness. There is no place like home—if it is mortgaged.

Last Tuesday mornin, bright and airly, Jobe and me got up and got ready to go to town to raise some more interest money.

I wore that blue cambric dress that Simon Kinsey’s wife got me for helpin her make apple butter last fall three years ago, and the lace cap mother knit and gave me the year John Sherman fust begin to borrow greenback money on bonds and burn it up, and that black straw hat Mrs. Vest Hummel traded me for that half dozen of dominic hens the spring she was married.

While I was a standin before the lookin glass gittin ready Jobe come in, as men allers do, and says, says he:

“Betsy, are you ever goin to git ready?”

Then he begin to comment on my clothes. Says he:

“I hope you haint a goin to wear that cap? Why, its out of fashion ten years ago. Haint you got a dress with bigger sleeves in? Why dont you borrow a hat more becomin you?”

I stood it as long as I could, then I jist up and says, says I:

“Jobe Gaskins, my mother wore a cap, and she made this one with her own fingers, and, fashion or no fashion, I expect to wear it when and where I please. If my dress sleeves haint big enough to suit you, you quit votin the ticket that is causin us farmers to spend five dollars for interest and taxes to one for women’s clothes. If my hat is out of date, sir, you begin to inquire why I haint able to buy a new one, and see if you cant have sense enough to vote for a better system of laws, instid of votin for a lot of office-seekin canderdates who belong to your party for the salary they are a gittin or expect to git. Yes, see if you cant have sense enough to vote for a party that will make laws for the farmer as well as for the banker.”

“Started for town bright and airly.”

You ort a seen him tuck tail and sneak.

The idea of a man, with the sense Jobe Gaskins has, wantin his wife to put on airs, when he knows it takes all she can rake and scrape to help pay interest and taxes to the leadin citizens so they and their wives can put em on!

Well, we loaded in our truck—that is, our chickens and our quilts and our feathers and sich, and started for town bright and airly.

We hitched old Tom, the only boss we have since we sold Betty, to the spring wagon.

Tom haint purty, and, bein stringhalted in his right hind leg and lame in his left fore foot, I couldent help thinkin of poor Betty as we proceeded toward town. Betty would trot along as though she enjoyed takin us. Tom he limped and jerked along as though he would like anything else.

We finally got there, and from the time we struck the superbs of the town till we hitched in front of Urfer’s store people were a snickerin, and a titterin, and a pintin at us.

Women would come to the winders and scream out a kind of a holler laf, and then two or three more would come, and they would laf and titter and holler until I was ashamed of them.

When we got up to the court-house square a lot of young upstarts, eighteen or nineteen years old, were standin on the corner by Miller’s drug-store, smokin paper segars, and they begin to holler at us and poor old crippled Tom, all sich nonsense as “Git on to that horse,” “See his gait,” “Where’d yer git that hat?” “Have you got any hay to sell?” “See her style!” “Oh, haint she a lolly?” etcetery.

I dont know who they were, but they were young men and big enough to have more sense and better manners; but I guess maybe their raisin was neglected and they couldent help it. They dident look like coal miners, or mill hands, or farmers, and I know they wasent sich. They all were well dressed and wore pinted yaller shoes. They couldent a been the sons of the leadin citizens, because one would think they would teach their offspring better sense. Maybe they were orphans, born without parents. I dont know.

Well, arter we got through the storm of insult and abuse that we had to suffer because we had to sell our drivin animal to git interest money, we begin to try to sell our stuff. Most of the stores was willin to trade goods for what we had, but none of em wanted to spare any money. We went from one store to another, Jobe a tellin them that he had to have money to meet interest, and that we were sellin our quilts and pillers to git it. Fust one and then another would buy somethin, jist to accommodate us, until we finally got our stuff all disposed of. We got $14.45 in cash, which, added to what Jobe had, made $106.79, lackin $19.21 of enough to pay Congressman Richer the $126 interest.

We was in Mathias & Dick’s store when we sold the last of our stuff, and steppin aside Jobe and me counted up how much we had and how much we lacked.

“Well, Betsy,” says Jobe, “where will we git the balance?”

I studied a minit. Then it come to me all at once.

“Why, Jobe,” says I, “lets go and accept that canderdate feller’s invitation to ‘come and see him arter he’s elected;’ he’s elected, and you voted fur him and fed him and his hoss when he was runnin. He will lend you the $19.21 you lack.”

“Maybe he will,” says Jobe; “lets go and see.”

And at that we started fur the court-house.

Jist as we got across the street onto them big stone flaggin in front of the court-house, we met that Republican feller with black mustache and curly like hair who is hankerin arter the county clerk’s office. Says he:

“Why, hello, Gaskins, howdy do?” all smilin and nearly shakin the arm off Jobe. “Well, Gaskins, weve got em out,” says he, “got em out! Every office in that grand old buildin is now okepied by one of our own fellers. I tell you, Gaskins, its a day we may well feel proud of,” hittin Jobe a lick on the shoulder.

“Well,” says Jobe, “I cant see as it makes much difference to me. Taxes are jist as high and interest money as hard to raise as it was when the Dimicrats were in. I cant see where us tax-payers has anything to be proud of; we dont git any of the salaries.”

“Jobe and me counted up how much
we had.”

“Why, Gaskins, what do you mean?” says he. “Dont you feel proud that the people of our own party, the Republicans, has at last routed the Demmies from the county offices?”

“No, I cant say as I do,” says Jobe; “fact is, I cant see much difference to me between a good Dimicrat and a good Republican or between a bad Dimicrat and a bad Republican, so long as both are willin to let bad laws remain and good ones go unmade, provided they git to draw a salary. Where is the difference?” says Jobe, with force.

“Gaskins!” says he, steppin back and lookin at Jobe from head to foot. “Gaskins, is it possible you are succumbin to pettycoat argament?” (lookin sideways at me).

I was teched.

I jist up and says, says I:

“Mister Canderdate, it would be a Lord’s blessin if him and more of his likes would listen to pettycoat argament instid of the argament of you office-seekin canderdates.” Says I: “Come on, Jobe,” takin hold of his arm and startin.

I looked back when I got a piece away, and I seed the feller had met Doc Tinker and was pintin at my clothes and smilin. I thought I heard Doc say:

“Yes, them are the marks of prosperity the administrations of the past thirty years have scattered over the country.”

That is what I thought he said. The feller went on across the street. I dident see him smile or pint any more.

Well, we went on to accept the invitation to see the feller okepy a county office.

We clumb up them high steps, went through them big doors, past several fine rooms, till we come to the sign of that office to which he was elected.

The door was shet.

Jobe knocked, and some one inside hollered, “Come in.”

They hadent manners enough to git up and open the door for us.

In we went. It was a nice place, nicer than my spare room, and so warm and pleasant. If I could git to live there day in and day out, without payin interest money or rent, Ide do all their writin for a good deal less than what I hear they git. It is so nice.

Well, when we got in we found two men and two women settin over next to the winder, a eatin oranges and laffin. Nobody was doin nothin.

I spect the county officer got up airly so as to do his work before his visitors would come.

They all was a talkin and a laffin and a shootin orange seeds at each other, and enjoyin theirselves high.

They stopt when we went in, and the feller what eat our dinner and hoss feed come up to the fence and asked what he could do for us, lookin round at the women.

The women they would look at me, then at one another, then whisper, then look out of the winder and laf.

Jobe, answerin the feller, says, says he:

“I want to borry $19.21 till arter oats harvest.”

Says the feller:

“Why, my dear man, I dont know you,” lookin round towards the women.

They smiled.

“Dont know me?” says Jobe. “Why, Ime Jobe Gaskins, the most prominent and influential Republican in our township. Jist afore election last fall you was at my house, when you was runnin. I voted for you.”

The feller studied a minit.

“That may all be, Mr. Gaskins,” says he, “but I saw so many people durin my campaign, and so many voted for me that if I was to lend each of them $19.21 I would have nothing left for myself. I can not accommodate you. You see I have company” (pintin to the women), “so you will have to excuse me” (turnin to leave us).

I jist up and says, says I:

“Hold on, Mister Officer! Dont be in a hurry. We are here by your invitation. We paid you for the privilege of visitin you—paid you, sir, in hoss feed and grub, besides payin by taxes to come here any time we see fit. We have come to stay all day; to visit with you. I have brought my knittin and am in no hurry. You ort a be decent enough to ask us over the fence and give us cheers to sit down on.”

You ort a seen them women. They looked distrest.

The officer looked tired.

The women begun to tuck their skirts close agin their legs. I suppose they wanted to keep my cambric dress from rubbin em.

But land a goodness! jist to torment em I said I was goin to stay. I knode they would have no more fun that arternoon if I stayed there. I knode I wouldent be welcome, and if Ide a had to stayed there Ide a wanted them women gone.

When that feller said he wouldent I knode it was no use of askin any more. What does he care for the hardships of old Jobe Gaskins and his wife Betsy?

So I jist up and says, says I:

“Dont worry, Jobe. Weve got along without any commodation from him; we can git along agin. Arter this when a office-seekin canderdate comes to our house and talks about your bein the ‘most intelligent, influential and prominent Republican in our township,’ and is ‘astonished that you ever read sich nonsense as Populist noosepapers, much less indorse them;’ that talks about the Dimicrats all bein rascals and the Populists all cranks; that feeds you on three-for-five segars and tells you they are regular five-centers, you have sense enough to charge him 25 cents for dinner and 15 cents for hoss feed.

“When votin day comes recollect that ‘self-preservation is the fust law of natur;’ that the officeholder draws the salary and you pay the taxes; that votin can bring you to distress or prosperity.

“Come on,” says I, and we left.

None of them was laffin. They seemed to be thinkin.

Jobe he was jist so disappinted at not gittin the money, and his perlitical loyalty was so shockt at the feller furgittin him, that he wouldent try to borry the interest money any more that day.

We jist got in our wagon and went up that alley by Urfer’s store till we got out of town. Nobody seen us.

Jobe is diggin a well for Bill Gerber, gittin 50 cents a day.

If they dont strike water too soon, and if it dont take too long, and if the fust of Aprile dont come too airly, we may be able to raise the balance of the interest money in time to keep from being foreclosed.

No letter from Congressman Richer yit.

I wish interest was two per cent., dream or no dream.

CHAPTER VIII.
ANOTHER LETTER FROM RICHER.

JOBE went to the election Monday and voted her strait. That nite I put another patch on his pants. Ive been a doin his patchin just arter election every year since 1873.

Jobe dont mind patches so long as the Republicans are in, but there is no end to his kickin if the Dimicrats are in.

I cant see what difference it makes; the patchin has to be done, and more of it, every year.

Tuesday Jobe went to town to pay his interest and hear how the election went. He had borrowed what he lacked of Bill Gerber and will work it out at diggin that well.

When he got to town he went strait to Jones’s bank and paid the $126 interest, then went to the post-office and got this letter:

OFFICE OF

BERIAR WILKINSON,

General Speculator and Political Wire-Puller.

D. M. J. Richer, Attorney.

Washington, D. C., Mar. 29, 1895.

J. Gaskins, Esq.:

Dear Sir—Your letter to hand. I must have the money. I have instructed my attorney to begin foreclosure proceedings at once, unless the $2,100 is paid by April 10th, 1895.

Yours truly.

D. M. J. Richer.

took Jobe’s breath. He forgot to ask who was elected. He hurried from the post-office to the bank, to git his interest money back, hopin he could save that much.

“That night I put another patch on his pants.”

When he got into the bank and explained to Mr. Jones that he had got that letter and that he wanted his interest money back, Banker Jones kind a smiled and said: “You should have gone to the post-office first, Mr. Gaskins. I cannot give you the money back now. That would not be bizness, Mr. Gaskins. It would not be bizness.”

Jobe he explained to him that the reason he did not go to the post-office fust was because he was anxious to git the interest paid, and that was the fust thing on his mind.

“Cant help it,” says the banker.

Jobe he begged and plead for the money. Told him of our sellin Betty, and our wheat, and corn, and sheep, and hog, and quilts, and feathers, and chickens, and of his borrowin part of it from Bill Gerber—told him how he had tried to borrow the money to pay it all and couldent find any one that had it to loan; he showed him how, if we were foreclosed, we would have nothin left at all.

Banker Jones told him it was too bad, but it couldent be helped; he couldent give Jobe any of the interest money back.

“Bizness is bizness,” says Banker Jones, “and I have to do bizness accordin to bizness rules.”

Jobe asked him to be merciful, and told him the Lord would bless him if he would show mercy to them a needin mercy.

“He explained to Mr. Jones.”

But Banker Jones said he was purty comfortable as it was, and when he needed any favors from the Lord he ginerally paid “spot cash” for em; in fact he had several blessins paid for in advance.

Then he told Jobe if he had any other bizness to attend to he had better go and attend to it, as he was bizzy.

Poor Jobe! He jist got out and come home. He says he dont recollect how he got home, he felt so dazed and queer. He has been droopin around all day. He looks distrest; and, poor man, I know he is. The Lord only knows what will become of us—I dont.

My heart has been a raisin up in my throat all day.

Every time I see anybody a comin up the road I feel faint like and skeert. I think its the sheriff a comin to notify us that we are foreclosed.

If Jobe had only heerd how the election went he might feel better. I wish the Republicans got in. I wish it, though Ime a Dimicrat. I wish it for Jobe’s sake. It might help him bear his trouble better.

Jist to think, if we had only $2,100 of all them $683,000,000 of greenbacks that John Sherman burned up when he was in office—yes, and put Jobe and his likes in bonds to git them to burn—I say if we had only $2,100 of all them millions, we could pay off our mortgage and Jobe would be happy.

If Sherman had burned less of that money, I wonder if Jobe and his likes wouldent have more?

Do the people in the poor-house have interest, and mortgages, and foreclosures, and taxes and sich to worry them?

I have to quit. My heart is heavy.

CHAPTER IX.
A FEW REASONS BY BETSY.

THE Republicans swept the platter. They elected every officer from township clerk down, and the sheriff has sent Jobe a notice to appear before the Common Pleas Court and show cause why he should not be foreclosed.

Jobe feels good over the election, but bad over the notice.

Now I think there are a good many reasons why we shouldent be foreclosed, and more reasons why we hadent ort to be. Its not our fault that we have to be.

First. We shouldent be because Jobe has voted the strait Republican ticket, rain or shine, for nigh onto thirty-five years. In this he has done his dooty—as he seen it.

Second. We have paid our taxes every year without ceasin, not even complainin when the law-makers drawed two years’ pay for one year’s work, nor when new officers were added and old ones given more wages. In this we done more than our dooty.

Third. We have given all we raised to Congressman Richer for interest, not even keepin enough out to take a trip to Urope or to buy me a new spring bonnet. In this we done all our health and opportunity enabled us to do.

Fourth. We have indorsed everything the polerticians and office-seekers done or said durin our united lives, even havin to change our minds as often as twice a year to do so. In this we have been foolish.

Fifth. When John Sherman was a burnin up that $623,428,000 of greenback money and givin the rich men of New York and Urope mortgages on our property to git the money to burn, I agreed it was fine sport, jist to please Jobe, and when Jobe said the national debt John was makin was a national blessin, I nodded my head to it, though I was a Dimicrat. I nodded to keep peace in the family.

I am now payin for them nods, payin for them in fifty-cent wheat and high interest.

Sixth. We have taken good care of the farm, and have jist as many acres as when we bought it from Mr. Richer and give him a mortgage for the balance due. We have paid him $1,700 of the purchase price and all we raised besides, and I think he ort to wait till land increases in price before foreclosin us.

We sent him down to Congress to make laws for us, and it was his dooty to make sich laws as would make it easier for Jobe and his likes to git a home and git it paid for. He dident do it. In this he dident do his dooty.[dooty.]

Now, suppose Mr. Richer, as our Congressman, had introduced a bill, and got it made into a law somethin like my dream was. He would have been sent back to Congress and a been a drawin $5,000 a year salary and disposin of post-offices and sich at payin prices, and wouldent need the money still due on the mortgage, or if he did need it to help him out on his real estate deals, under that new bill Jobe could borrow the money of the county at two per cent. and pay it, and besides could pay the interest easier and have more each year to pay on the mortgage.

You remember that my dream was that Congress had passed a law that hereafter, when more money was needed to do bizness with in any county, instead of the United States lendin it to the national banks at one per cent., and lettin the banks loan it to the people at eight or ten per cent., I dreamed that the law was that the same officers of the government should lend it to the county at one per cent., on county bonds as security, and that the county treasurer should lend it to the people of his county at two per cent., on sich security as the banks now take, and I drempt that Jobe and me and Bill Bowers went to the county treasurer to see about gittin the money to pay Congressman Richer the $2,100, and we found that sich a law was passed, and the county still lived. And I dreamed that the bankers was a peckin, and a beckenin, and a coaxin of people to borrow their money at the same rate of interest as the county treasurer loaned it. Now, had we ort to be foreclosed because no sich law was made? Had Congressman Richer ort a want to foreclose us when he dident try to git sich a law made? Had we ort to be foreclosed when Jobe has been a votin men into office to make laws that would make it easier for him to live and pay for his home, and they dident do it? Had we ort to be foreclosed because them men have made laws agin Jobe instead of fur him? Made laws to reduce the value of his farm and the price of his crops; made it harder for him to pay debt?

Had Mr. Richer even made a law permittin county treasurers to receive deposits of people who would ruther put their money in the county treasury than in banks, and allowed the county treasurer to loan it out in the name of the county at three or four per cent., givin all he received as interest, less what it cost to attend to it, to the fellers what deposited it, it would a helped us some. But he dident do it nor try to do it.

If we are foreclosed and our farm is sold by the sheriff, and Mr. Richer bids it in for $2,100 and gits the farm back, where is Jobe’s $1,700 cash paid on the principal and $2,212 interest money he has paid?

Who gits it? What has Jobe got for it? For who has Jobe and me been a workin for the last sixteen years? For who is this foreclosin law, with high interest, made? I hope we will be able to git our case at court put off till arter the fall election and corn huskin! Livin in this hope I must retire to bed. Jobe is asleep in his cheer. Every little bit there is a troubled look comes into his face, as though his dreams haint all pleasant.

CHAPTER X.
IS THERE A WOMAN IN THE BARN?

YOUD a dide to see the fun I had with Jobe day before yisterday. It was warm like, and I went out to the barn to see what Jobe was a doin. When I got up to the barn door I heerd Jobe a talkin. Peekin in through a crack, I seed Jobe settin on the half-bushel, lookin desperate and jist a layin it off with his hands, like as if he was argyin with some one. At times he come so near a swearin that he is in danger of gittin churched, if they find it out on him. Jist as I got my eye to that crack he brought his fist down on his knee with force, and says, says he:

“Ive been made a fool of and I know it. Ive marched up to the ballot-box for nigh onto thirty-five years and voted men into office that cared no more for Jobe Gaskins and his likes than they did for a good fox hound, and not as much. They said it was necessary to destroy the greenbacks, and I said, ‘Destroy them.’ They said, ‘We ort to demonitize silver,’ and I said, ‘Demonitize her.’ I seed that times was gittin harder, but they said way back in the seventies that the tariff ort to be higher, and the next year higher, and higher, and higher. And every time they said higher I hollered, and the higher they made it the louder I hollered, and kept a hollerin until to-day about all I have to show for my hollerin and votin is the holler, and there is dummed little of that left now.

“Peekin through a crack.”

“Here I am a old man. I have worked hard, year in and year out, and have been fool enough to vote a ticket that was enslavin me for thirty years or more. The wealth that I have produced by my hard work has been taken from me by the laws they have made, while the fellers I have voted for have got rich, and say that it is my fault if I am poor. Me and my likes had to be made poor in order that others might be made rich. Its no fault of mine. Ive tried to be honest and scorn dishonesty, and am to-day nearly without a home for bein sich and for votin the strait ticket and not askin what they was doin; while the fellers I have voted for looked on dishonesty as a honor, and have made laws by which the products of my labor has been taken from me and given to themselves and others no more honest. Ime dummed if I know what to do.

“If I leave the party the polerticians and officeseekers will call me a ‘sorehead’ and sich names; if I stay in I am doomed to distress.

“I wish the Republicans would make some of them Populist ideas into a law. Ide—Ide——”

Just then I opened the door all of a suddent, and says:

“Jobe, who air you talkin to?”

“Nobody, nobody,” says he, gittin up and steppin round, quick like.

“Jobe Gaskins,” says I, puttin my hands on my hips and throwin my head back. “Jobe Gaskins, dident I hear you a talkin?”

“No, you dident,” says he, mad like. “I haint spoke a word for hours.”

“Jist a layin it off with his hands.”

I stepped back a step or two, lookin Jobe square in the face. Says I:

“Jobe, I heerd you a talkin, and you needent deny it. If there is a woman in this barn I want to know it.”

At that Jobe got mad, and comin at me with his fist drawed, says he:

“Betsy Gaskins, do you dare accuse me with anything like that?” grittin his few teeth.

I had grabbed the pitchfork. Says I:

“Jobe, take care!”

He stopped, and I started to turn the hay upside down, sayin, “If there is a woman in here, Ile—Ile——”

Jobe he watched me a minit or two; then says he:

“Betsy, what the Harry is the matter with you? There haint any woman in here.”

And at that he sneaked out of the barn and went down in the sheep-shed.

Now, jist to think! There is Jobe Gaskins, a man of good sense, a man who sees that every law made by the Republican party since the war was a law agin him, and for people who make their livin off Jobe and his likes without workin. Yit, fool like, Jobe will keep a votin his party ticket, jist to please a lot of office-seekin canderdates and “hangers-on” that eek out a existence by doin the dirty jobs set up by the leadin polerticians and fellers who pay to git laws made agin Jobe and his likes.

Jobe ort to be ashamed to admit that he was talkin the talk I heerd him talkin.

But, poor Jobe, I suppose he will keep a votin for the hand that has smote him, and will keep a smotin him, till he is in his grave and beyond smotin.

Had the Republican party made laws for all the people, instid of for only the rich; had they made laws to make interest less and taxes lower; had they made laws to make it easier for people to borrow money when they needed it, instid of makin it scarce and hard to git—I say, if they had made sich laws, if they had been as foolish as my dream was, do you suppose Jobe and me would have to go to court next week to show cause why we hadent ort to be foreclosed?

CHAPTER XI.
“IN TOWN.”

WE are at court. The case is on. Poor Jobe, he is so worried and troubled and downhearted that he dont seem to enthuse when the officeseekin canderdates and polerticians are shakin of his hand and tellin him that “we got there, and are now ready for ’96,” &c., &c.

Jobe he jist takes it, and says: “Is that so?”

Not one of all them polerticians or canderdate fellers seems to know that one of their “old and respected citizens” is about to be foreclosed out of house and home. Not one of them seems to care if he does know. The leadinest idea in their minds is gittin office and enthusin over the election. But I notice some of them dident come near, but seem kinder cold toward Jobe. I spect they have heerd of the foreclosin and dont want to be seen in our company.

Well, we got to town this mornin and come strait to court. I jist felt as though the house would fall on me; I was so out of place.

But them lawyers and fellers what okepy that field over the fence from the common herd, they jist walked around and whispered, and tiptoed, and laffed, as though they was raised right there in that field all their useless lives. Some of them even had nice tables to put their feet on, and carpet and soft cheers and sich. Well, I spect the poor things were brought up tender like, and it would hurt them to git along with common things like taxpayers git along on.

“‘Mr. Court, Gaskins is here.’”

Well, arter a while the judge come, and the officer opened court.

Then the case of

“Richer, Plaintiff,

vs.

Gaskins, Defendant,”

was called.

I felt like as if Ide faint—gone like.

The judge asked if the parties to the case were in court and ready for trial.

The lawyer for Congressman Richer got up and said he was “there and ready.”

Then the court called for the “defendant, Gaskins.”

Poor Jobe he jist sot still and looked as white as a ghost. He never moved.

I hunched him, and told him to “git up and answer.”

He said he couldent; he was sick.

The court, kinder mad like, called for “Gaskins” agin, when I riz up and says:

“Mistur Court, Gaskins is here, and I am Betsy Gaskins, the lawful wife of Jobe Gaskins, the defendant.”

“Whose your lawyer?” says the court.

“We haint got any,” says I.

“Youd better git counsel,” says the court, “if you desire to contest this case.”

“Will counsel keep us from bein foreclosed?” says I.

The judge said the case would be decided on the law and evidence.

“Then,” says I, “what do we need of counsel? You have the law, and we will give you the evidence, and if the court please, if our side needs any pleadin, Ile do it myself.”

I hadent them words out of my mouth till up jumped Mr. Richer’s lawyer and says:

“I ’bject.”

The court said that I could not do the pleadin, as I was not a party to the case, nor had I a license to practice before the court.

I riz up agin.

“Mistur Judge,” says I, “what difference does it make who I am or what I am, so long as I treat the court with respect, and know as much, or nearly as much, about this case as any lawyer we could hire?

“If the case, Mistur Judge, is to be decided on the law and evidence, and not on the pleadin, why cant I do what pleadin we need, as well as some lawyer?”

I sot down.

The judge looked at me a minit over his specks.

“Well, Mrs. Gaskins,” says he, “if we allowed anybody and everybody to come into our courts and represent a neighbor or friend, half our lawyers would have nothin to do. The law prohibiting this privilege is made so as to afford our attorneys a livelihood. While it sometimes proves a hardship to litigants, it would be a greater hardship on our lawyers if they dident have sich a law in their favor. However, Mrs. Gaskins, as this is a case of small importance, if the bar is willing I will permit you to say what you desire in behalf of the defendant.”

Turnin[Turnin] to the lot of high-toned cattle over the fence from us, says he: “What do you say, gentlemen?”

“‘I ’bject.’”

They kind a hemmed and hawed and whispered together, and looked disgusted and disappinted and contemptible, and finally one of them says:

“We shant ’bject.”

And four or five of em got up and left, lookin like as if they had lost somethin.

Well, the judge invited us over into the field.

We went in, and I sot down by a table. The lawyer for Mr. Richer got up and stated his case. He said that he would prove that a number of years ago one Jobe Gaskins purchased from the Honorable D. M. J. Richer certain lands and tenements to the value of $3,800; that there has been but $1,700 paid on the amount; that there remains due and unpaid some $2,100, which is secured by mortgage. And he was there to pray for the foreclosure of said mortgage and sale of the premises to satisfy said claim.

He sot down.

I got up.

I says, says I: “Mistur Judge, this here case haint just exactly like that there lawyer said. We claim there haint no $2,100 still due Mr. Richer, although he has our notes and a mortgage for that amount. We claim that he has got nearly full value for all we got from him. We have paid him $1,700 of the principal and over $2,200 in interest. The land, for some cause, haint worth now as much as we paid for it, and we expect to prove that Jobe haint done anything to cause the land to fall in value. The land may now be worth $2,500, if we could find some one that had the money and wanted to buy land. If we are foreclosed and forced to sell it, it may not bring more than the $2,100 that he claims we owe him.

“Now, we want to be fair with Congressman Richer, Mistur Judge, and all we ask is that Mr. Richer and his likes what lends money be treated by the law and the courts the same as Jobe and his likes what owes money is treated.

“Now, as I said before, Mistur Judge, the farm is the same size as it was the day we bought it; the land is jist as good; the improvements are better. We have paid Mr. Richer his interest every year for sixteen years, and $1,700 besides.

“Now, Mistur Judge, wouldent it be fair for Mr. Richer to take the farm back and give us our $1,700? He would have jist what he had before we bought it, and he would have $2,212 interest money for the use of it, and we would have the $1,700 we have paid him over and above the interest.

“Or, if he dont want to do that, Mistur Judge, we will value the farm at $2,500, which is all or more than its worth to-day, and will pay him the difference between the $1,700 we already have paid and the $2,500, or $800, in cash.

“Now, Mistur Judge, this would be honest and fair, and he can take his choice, while if you foreclose us, and the farm at sheriff sale only brings $2,100, and Mr. Richer buys it in, he will have the farm he had at fust, our $1,700 principal and the $2,212 interest money we have paid him, or he will have the farm and $3,912 in money, and we in our old age will have nothin.”

When I was through the other lawyer got up and said sich argament was all bosh and contrary to law; that the court had too good sense to be governed by sich anachristic talk from a rattle-brained woman. At that, it bein noon, the court dismissed for dinner, without explainin why this was “a case of small importance.” It looks to me that its a purty tolerable important case to Jobe and me.

CHAPTER XII.
THE DECISION.

THAT day, when the judge and lawyers got back from dinner, and arter Jobe and me had eat our lunch in the jury-room, they opened court agin, and the judge, lookin at me tired like, says:

“Mrs. Gaskins, the court is now ready to proceed with the case.”

“So be we, Mistur Judge,” says I.

So Congressman Richer’s lawyer got out a lot of papers and notes, and, showin them to Jobe and me, asked us if we admitted signin of them.

“Certainly we do,” says I.

So he handed them to the judge, sayin that that was all the evidence he desired to produce, and as the notes had not been paid, as stipulated in the mortgage, he asked to have the mortgage foreclosed and the property sold, and judgment for costs rendered agin the defendant.

At that he sot down.

Jobe he looked distressed.

I felt kind a gone like.

But when the judge said that if we had any evidence to produce or objection to make why the mortgage should not be foreclosed, now was my time to make it, I jist gathered up courage and says, says I:

“Mistur Judge, we have some evidence to offer, and I want to say a few words.

“We never denied that we signed that mortgage and them notes; we never claimed we had paid all we did sign.

“‘I want to prove to you, Mistur Judge.’”

“Now, what I want to prove, Mistur Judge, is, that the reason we haint paid more of the notes was because times have been so hard, prices so low and money so scarce that we jist couldent pay any more than we have paid.

“I want to prove that we have paid every dollar we could pay, and that we have went naked and hungry, or nearly so, to pay what we have paid.

“I want to prove, Mistur Judge, that when we bought this farm, some sixteen years ago, times were better than now; that farmers could sell what they raised for more than now; and I want to prove that it has not been by any act of the farmers that times have been made harder and prices lower than then.

“I want to prove, Mistur Judge, that taxes haint got any less; that interest is jist as high as then; that it takes twice as many bushels of wheat for Jobe to pay his share of your wages, and the wages of the other officers in this buildin, as it did then. I want to prove that Jobe had to use wheat to pay you fellers that he could have used toward payin on them notes if prices had staid up or officers’ pay had been brought down.

“I want to show you that all you officeholders have helped to bring about this condition by your endorsin of men that made laws to destroy the greenback, to demonitize silver, encouragin high interest and money monopoly, and by your increasin of wages of officeholders or lettin them remain the same as they were when wheat was high.

“I want to prove, Mistur Judge, that Mr. Richer was one of the law-makers, that he voted agin silver, and did not try to do anything or to make any law to make money as plenty as it use to be.

“I want to show that Mr. Richer already has got all we have raised by our hard work for the last sixteen years, and, Mistur Judge, I think that instid of you sellin our farm to satisfy him, you ort to order him to give us back all the money we have paid him, except the interest, and let us give him back the property we got from him; we are willin to do this, and give him our improvements besides, if he will give us back our $1,700. This is all we ask, Mistur Judge.

“If you grant it we would have a few dollars to keep us in our old age, and Mr. Richer would have all we got from him and $2,212 interest money besides.

“If you foreclose us, as this high-toned lawyer asks you to do, we will have nothing left, and Mr. Richer will have as much as he had before and $3,912 of our hard-earned money besides, part of it, Mistur Judge, bein money I got from home when father died.”

The judge kind a looked at me pityin like, and says, says he:

“Mrs. Gaskins, your argament may be all right from your point of view; but it is not law, Mrs. Gaskins. It is not law. We must proceed according to law.”

“What is law?” says I. “Haint it justice?” pleadin like.

The judge studied a minit, cleared his throat a time or two, and then says he:

“It is supposed to be, Mrs. Gaskins. It is supposed to be. It should be justice; it should be. I appreciate the position of you two old people. I believe, as you say, that you have worked hard and saved that you might get your farm paid for and have a home in your old age. I believe you have done all you could do. Your argament has been well made.

“‘This is the law, whether it is justice or not.’”

“But the law—the law, Mrs. Gaskins, says that if these notes have not been paid according to the provision of the mortgage, it can be foreclosed.

“Even if you had paid all of the notes but one dollar, and had worked fifty years to pay them, and for some reason money had become scarce, and your farm under forced sale would not bring more than the one dollar, it would have to be sold, under the law, to satisfy that one dollar still due on it.

“To make it plainer to you, Mrs. Gaskins, suppose that all the money was demonitized or destroyed except gold or silver (no matter which), and suppose that one man had succeeded in getting possession of all the money, and you owed one dollar on a farm that had cost you $3,800, you would have to get that one dollar from the man who had it, and he could place his own estimate of value on it, and could, if he so desired, demand 120 acres of good farm land for one of his dollars, and, in case of forced sale under the law, all the property you have would have to be sacrificed to satisfy that one dollar. It would have to be done, even though that one man who had all the money cornered owned your mortgage and had made the law, or got it made, that destroyed all the other money. So this, Mrs. Gaskins, is the law, whether it is justice or not, and I, as the judge of this court, must be governed by the law as it is. All the testimony you have mentioned is not such as could be admitted before this court. Hence I shall render judgment as prayed for by the plaintiff, with costs of this action attached.”

“Jobe and me sot there dazed like.”

I wanted to say some more, but the judge told me the case was over, and that I need not say any more.

So Jobe and me sot there dazed like for a little while. Then the sheriff come to us and said the case was over and we had better go home. We got up and come home.

We have been over the dear old farm half a dozen times, so as to carry its memory in our minds to wherever we shall go. Oh! how queer I feel when I wonder where that will be.

Jobe is jist a mopin around with no life in him at all.

I haint heerd him holler for McKinley since we got back from court.

I wonder if Mr. McKinley, and Mark Hanna, and Henry Flagler, of the Standard Oil Trust, and Mr. Kohlsaat, and them other millionairs what has been down in Georgia schemin and plannin and arrangin to git Mr. McKinley elected to the president’s office, want to git him elected so as to make it easier for Jobe and his likes to pay for their homes.

I wonder if the laws they are wantin to git made, or keep from bein made, is to make themselves richer or to make the life of the fellers who vote the ticket they fix up easier.

Them millionair fellers seem to take a great interest in elections and things.

CHAPTER XIII.
JOBE CHEERS UP.

JOBE’S aunt Jane out in Indyana is dead. The poor, dear soul worked hard all her life, and now she is dead. She had been takin care of a rich inverlid for some twelve years, and got two dollars a week for all that time. By livin plain and not goin anywhere for all that time, she has saved $563, and she has left all her savins to Jobe, her only kin, the lawyers out there write us.

Aunt Jane.

We got a letter from them last week sayin she had died of a suddent, and left Jobe all she had, arter payin her buryin expenses.

Jobe has been more like hisself, ever since he heerd she was dead, than he has been for some time.

He now says that if he lives to vote for McKinley it will be the happiest moment of his life. I hope Jobe will live.

As soon as he got that letter he started out agin to try to borrow enough money to pay off Mr. Richer’s mortgage before foreclosin day. He found one banker at Canal Dover who said he would let him have $1,800 at seven per cent. interest, jist to commodate Jobe. Jobe is a goin to take it, which, with what he is to git as his dead aunt’s heir, will make the money Congressman Richer is wantin so bad, and a little besides.

Jobe went to town yisterday to try to stop the foreclosin bizness until our legicy money comes and we can git the other from the bank at Canal Dover.

“He would call him ‘Billy,’ in honor of the next president.”

They told him down to the court-house that they would try to “stave it off.”

Jobe said that when the report got out that he was about to git a legicy everybody wanted to shake hands with him and be friendly like.

Even them canderdate fellers, what acted kind a cold durin our foreclosin trial, come around smilin, Jobe said, and shook hands, and said that “they knode it would come around all right,” that “a man never loses anything by votin the strait ticket.” They told Jobe to “cheer up and git ready for the next election,” and all sich stuff. Jobe he come home declarin that the Republican party was the “grand old party” of the universe, he was so puffed up like.

Last night I actually heerd him whistlin one of them campaign tunes, while he was a feedin of the calf. When the calf got all the milk out of the bucket and looked up at Jobe lovin like, Jobe patted him on the head and told him he was a nice feller and looked so knowin, like McKinley, that he would call him “Billy,” in honor of the next president.

Jobe then started to the house a whistlin agin, when William came at him stiff-legged, and struck Jobe on them election patches I put on his pants, and knocked Jobe down on his hands and knees, and before Jobe could git up, William hit him agin, knockin him clear down. Jobe turned over on his back and begin to strike at McKinley with the bucket, sayin, “You dum rascal,” or somethin like that. He then clamered to his feet and took arter the calf, kickin as hard as he could kick. The second kick he missed the calf and fell. Then I hollered at him.

“Before Jobe could git up William hit him agin.”

He got up, put his hand on his hip and limped to the house. When he come in says he:

“Ile kill that dum calf if he ever acts that way agin. He like to a broke my hip.”

“Why, Jobe,” says I[says I], “dident I jist hear you namin him for the leadinest Republican of the State? Dont you know he was jist a givin you a practical lesson in polerticks? Dont be mad, Jobe,” says I, “youle be a lovin him tomorrow with all your heart.”

At that Jobe went into the room to git the bottle of salvation oil, mutterin somethin as he went about me not havin any sense.

Now, isent it a fact that the polerticians and officeholders have been actin like that bull calf toward Jobe and his likes for years?

Haint they been lookin into the face of the taxpayers pleasin like jist before every election? Haint they been buttin the life out of the people that feed them by increasin salaries, and makin taxes higher, and sellin out to rich trusts and sich, ever since the war?

Haint they made law on law agin the poor and for the rich?

Haint they issued bonds on top of bonds, to the rich people and on the poor?

Haint they raised salary arter salary of officeholders when the people never asked it?

Haint they brought us to a gold basis and made it hard for people to pay interest and mortgages?

Haint they made it easy for the money-lender to foreclose agin the borrower?

Haint they destroyed millions and millions of the people’s greenback money?

Haint they demonitized silver?

Haint they done everything agin the people and nothin for them?

And what has the people to show for all the money they have destroyed, and salaries they have increased, and mortgages they have foreclosed, and bad laws they have made, but hard times and debts, and people without homes, and cheap wheat, and low wages, and high interest, and big taxes, and foreclosin, and beggin, and the Lord only knows what all?

Yet Jobe and his likes will vote the strait ticket, and I suppose will keep a votin it until the bull calf knocks their brains out.

What has Jobe and his likes got to show for all the votin they have voted? What, I say!

If we can save our farm, and if we raise enough to pay the interest and taxes this year, and a little besides, I am a goin to git me a pair of them bloomers and go to workin and votin for more good laws and less polerticks; and the fust polertician that comes around our house talkin “party success” and “party principles” Ile kick clear into the middle of the big road—Ile do it if I split them bloomers from waistband to waistband in doin so.

CHAPTER XIV.
A NEW MORTGAGE.

WE was that bizzy last week, with gittin our legicy and payin of costs, and a borrowin of money, and a writin of papers, and a signin of our names, and a swearin to this, that and the other thing, that I dident git my bakin done, let alone do any writin.

The fust of last week we got our share of our legicy; the officers in Indyana got the balance.

Howsomever, what we did git come handy for a while anyhow.

I dont know what we would have done if Jobe’s poor, dear dead aunt hadent a died jist when she did.

Well, when what was left us, arter payin them Indyana fellers, come, Jobe and me hitched up old Tom and struck out for town to stop the foreclosin bizness.

We fust went to the bank at Canal Dover, and made arrangements to borrow $1,800 at seven per cent. Jobe he hung for six per cent., but when the banker explained to Jobe that we was now on a gold basis; that McKinley had come out for a strait gold basis platform; that he could lend all the money he could git at seven per cent. or more, and that all the leadin financiers and bankers, in fact all the leadin citizens, were in for a gold basis, Jobe he “saw it” and agreed to seven.

Comin home Jobe told me he would ruther pay seven per cent. than six, in order to support a “sound money basis;” that “nobody believed in small interest but them crazy Populists and their likes.”

“He would rather pay seven per cent. than six, in order to support a sound money basis.”

Well, arter we arranged for the money we went to the court-house, and from the time we got there till I got out I heerd nothin but “costs,” “costs,” “costs.” They had it all charged to Jobe. Not one cent was charged to Mr. Richer. There was the clerk’s costs, and the sheriff’s costs, and the auditor’s costs, and the judge’s costs, and supeena costs, and writ costs, and mileage costs, and the Lord only knows what all or who all had costs charged up agin Jobe. The very fellers Jobe had helped to elect had jist as big bills charged up as the law would allow, and some bigger, and nary one of them was willin to knock off a cent. We had to pay it or be foreclosed, and we had to take our legicy money to pay it with—the money that poor, dear, dead Aunt Jane had worked so hard to save.

Well, when we got the costs all paid, we then begin to draw up papers, and sign and acknowledge, and read and reread of papers, to git the money from the Canal Dover banker.

One feller told Jobe and the other fellers to go out of the room till he examined me seperate and apart, at which I became insulted and up and says, says I:

“‘Law or no law,’ says I.”

“No, you wont, sir; no man will examine me seperate and apart or any other way in the absence of Jobe Gaskins.”

“The law requires it,” says he.

“Law or no law,” says I, “Ile not submit. I have submitted to law instid of justice; Ive submitted to law instid of right; Ive submitted to law instid of humanity, but when it comes to submittin to law instid of decency, Betsy Gaskins demurs.”

But arter they explained that he jist wanted to read and explain the mortgage to me, I even submitted to law agin.

When they was all out, the feller read the mortgage to me, and asked me if the signin of it was my “free act and deed.” I told him it was so fur as I had to sign it to keep from bein foreclosed, but that I would not sign it as it then read.

“Whats wrong?” says he.

“The wrong,” says I, “is where it says that Jobe shall pay the ‘principal and interest in gold.’”

I explained to him that Jobe and me hadent had ten dollars in gold for years and years.

But he said it was only a form; that we was now on a gold basis, and the bank requires all their mortgages to read, “payable, principal and interest, in gold,” since we have come to a gold basis.

But I wouldent sign it, and the feller called Jobe and the other fellers in. Jobe he got mad at me and scolded and fretted around until I got ashamed of him, and I jist up and says, says I:

“Ile sign it, Mr. Gaskins, but you will find that payin seven per cent. interest and payin it in gold to keep your party in power is up-hill bizness.”

“‘Payin it in gold to keep your party in power is up-hill bizness.’”

So I signed it. But the Lord only knows where we will git the gold to pay even the interest with. We have to pay the interest every six months.

Ive lived on this farm for nigh onto seventeen years, and have never found a piece of gold as big as a pin-head. Maybe Jobe knows where it is. I dont, goodness knows.

Well, arter the signin was done there was some more charges and sich to pay for, and Jobe had it to pay. Then, arter requestin Jobe to look arter his party’s interests in our township, they bid us good-by, and Jobe and me come home.

CHAPTER XV.
JOBE, OUT OF TROUBLE, IS UNRULY AGAIN.

JOBE he is jist as contrary and stiff-necked as he ever was. He acts as though he had never went through what he has went through since last Noo Years. He is beginnin agin to act towards me as if I was his inferior; as though it wasent me who stuck up for him and fought his battles in time of trouble—yes, stood by him when all creation, office-seekin canderdates and all, had forsook him.

He now says the reason he did not pay off that other mortgage years ago was because it wasent made “payable in gold;” he says he believes in payin debts in “sound money,” and that he now feels sorry that he dident git gold and pay what he did pay on it; that he feels as though he has cheated Mr. Richer by payin him in greenbacks and silver and sich.

He says that he would ruther pay seven per cent. interest in gold than six per cent. interest in paper money or silver.

Then he gits up and swells out his boozum, and says:

“John Sherman is the greatest financier on airth. He has brought us to a gold basis quicker than any other livin man could a done it. He has taught old Cleveland all he knows about sound money.” And so forth and so forth.

He goes on in this way day in and day out until I am sick and tired of it. He even wants me to come out and be a Republican, when he knows I have been a Dimicrat for nigh onto thirty-five years.

When he is tellin the neighbors about how much better it is to pay debts in gold, and about us a givin a “gold mortgage” to the banker, he always calls it his mortgage and his doins. He never even mentions my name when speakin of the mortgage, when he knows as well as I do that both the old parties, as it were, made that gold mortgage, and that it is “our mortgage” and “our doins” that made it.

But that is the way with Jobe. As long as everything is goin along without trouble he wants all the glory; but as soon as trouble arises he tries to blame me for gittin him in it, and calls on me for help.

Now, as Betsy Gaskins, I am ashamed of that gold mortgage, and if I could have had my way I never would have signed it. Ide a dide fust. But as a Dimicrat I must approve it, to be in line with my party, and I think Jobe is mean that he dont speak of it as “our mortgage” and “our doins,” when he knows the highest paid Dimicrats in the land is jist as much in favor of “gold mortgages” as John Sherman or Mistur McKinley or any high-up Republicans are.

Haint Mistur Carlisle, who is drawin $8,000 a year (for work he ort a be a doin in the money department at Washington), spendin lots of time makin speeches for gold mortgages down in Kaintuckey?

Haint Carlisle a Dimicrat?

Dont Mistur Cleveland set up of nites and write letters favorin “gold mortgages,” and some nites like as not lets Mrs. Cleveland sleep all by herself?

What more has John Sherman done, or McKinley?

Jobe thinks because McKinley has spent all spring outside of Ohio, talkin “gold mortgages” and workin to git elected to the best payin office in the country, that he is intitled to all the credit for bringin about “gold mortgages.” Now, I dont believe it, though he was so bizzy at it that he had to have his salary as governor sent to him by mail for months.

“‘John Sherman is the greatest financier on airth.’”

Suppose my dream was true, and instid of us havin to give the banker a mortgage drawin seven per cent. interest (“interest and principal payable in gold”), that we, that is, Jobe and me, could have gone to the county treasurer of Tuscarawas County and a borrowed the same amount of paper and silver money (the same kind we got from the bank) at two per cent. interest, payable in any money of the government. Who would it a hurt?

Wouldent it a been better for Jobe and me? Wouldent we a had only $36 a year interest to pay to the county instid of $126 in gold to the bankers? Wouldent we a had more money to pay toward our home or to buy store goods with?

If we could spend $90 a year for store goods that we now have to pay as interest, wouldent that help the storekeepers a little?

Which would be the best for the storekeepers, for Jobe and his likes to have to pay high interest in gold, or low interest in any kind of good money?

There is another question I would like to ask you.

It is this: If the pay of the post-offices is big enough to pay a feller to buy them from Congressmen, and pay big money for them, haint it about time that the pay of such post-offices was cut down?

Why is a feller’s time what is glad to clear $300 or $400 a year doin anything else worth $1,500 or $2,000 for keepin the post-office?

Does it hurt their character so much? And why is it that all them fellers what sells post-offices, and most of them what buys em, favor a gold basis and gold mortgages and sich?

Are they afraid they will have to go back to their old jobs and less pay if they dont holler as the big fellers holler?

CHAPTER XVI.
JOBE IS SCARED.

JOBE he is in a critical condition. Day before yisterday, when Jake Stiffler brought our mail out from town—it consisted of the two noosepapers that we have took for years, that is, the Ohio Dimicrat and the Tuscarawas Advercate—I played a trick on Jobe that nearly cost him his life, and nearly made me a weepin and mournin widder.

For years and years we have took them two “stanch and substantial” noosepapers without ceasin. We have took them simply because one was a Dimicrat paper and the other a Republican. We have took them when payin for them kept me from gittin a new dress or Jobe a change of pants.

We have took them though durin all them years they have said the same things over and over agin, aginst each other and aginst the party they wasent, jist at the time, gittin any campaign money or county printin from.

The Dimicrat has allers called the Republicans rascals and sich, and the Advercate never fails to show how the Dimicrats are worse still.

Always, when the Advercate comes, Jobe he sets down and reads out loud all the abuse agin the Dimicrats; then, lookin over his specks at me, says:

“Now, Betsy, you see what kind of a party you belong to. You see now what kind of leaders youve got,” &c., &c.

Its a regular thing for Jobe to read the same things week arter week and then to criticise me and the Dimicrat party time arter time, until for years Ive been in the habit of goin in and settin down and a listenin to Jobe read the Advercate’s abuse of the Dimicrats, and a waitin for my regular weekly tongue-lashin. Ive done it jist for the good it seems to do Jobe.

“‘Now, Betsy, you see what kind of a party you belong to.’”

Sometimes to answer him I jist read from the Ohio Dimicrat the same things he has read from the Advercate—only where the Advercate says “the Dimicrat party,” the Dimicrat says “the Republican party.”

Then Jobe will flare up and say:

“The Ohio Dimicrat is a dum dirty sheet, and full of lies.”

He knows that I dont swear and wont say that about his Advercate, even if I know it is the same kind of a paper as the Ohio Dimicrat is, except in the name at the top of the fust page. Of course it gits its campaign money and public printin from the office-seekin canderdate fellers of the other party.

Now, when Jake brought them papers, I happened to pick up the Advercate (a thing I seldom do), and one of the fust things I read was a article a praisin Mr. Cleveland for workin to git a “gold basis” and “gold mortgages” and sich. I was so surprised to find a word of praise for a Dimicrat president in a Republican noosepaper that I looked twice at the headin to make sure it was the Advercate I had instid of the Dimicrat. Sure enough it was the Advercate, but I dont want you to blame Editure McIlvaine for sich a article appearin in his paper. He couldent help it. It was in that part of his paper that he dont print. It was in the patent part what is printed in Cleveland—the part, you know, which them fellers down east, the fellers what gits rich by havin on this gold basis bizness, pays to have in all papers, Dimicrat, Republican, Methodist, Prisbyterian or any other kind except them howlin Populist papers. Them Populists seem to be so sot agin that “gold basis,” and a “contractin of the money to make it scarce and hard to git,” that they wont put anything a favorin the “gold basis” in their papers for love or money. They are jist that mean.

So I dont want you to blame Mr. McIlvaine or any other feller for sich articles a bein in their papers. They cant help it. They jist have to do it or lose their rich money-lendin friends.

But the feelin I felt when I seed sich a article in a Republican noosepaper prompted me to do the thing that, as I said afore, nearly made me a weepin widder.

I jist thought Ide have some fun with Jobe.

So I went to work and cut the headin off from last week’s Tuscarawas Advercate and pasted it over the headin of this week’s Ohio Dimicrat. Then I cut the headin out of last week’s Ohio Dimicrat and pasted it on this week’s Advercate. I then folded the papers up nice like and laid them on the table in the settin-room, where I had laid them week arter week for near onto fifteen years.

“So I went to work and cut out the headin.”

Arter supper, when Jobe had his chores all done up, he says, as he come in from the barn:

“Betsy, has the mail come?”

A question that he has asked about that hour, on that same day of the week, fifty-two times a year for these many years. The mail alluded to meanin the Tuscarawas Advercate. I told Jobe, as usual, that it was in on the table. He took his specks down off the kitchen mantel, and, wipin them as he went on the corner of his coat tail, approached the table.

He sot down, rared back in his split-bottom rockin cheer, put his feet on another, then picked up the Ohio Dimicrat (with its name changed), and begin to read, as he expected, Editure McIlvaine’s slaughter of Dimocracy.

It started out with:

“There never was a more corrupt gang in control of any State government than the Republican boodlers at Columbus.”

Then:

“Every Republican officeholder in this county seems to exist for no other purpose than to suck the life-blood out of our hard-working tax-payers. We must turn the rascals out.”

“‘It is all over, Betsy,’ says he.”

And so on and so on, clear through the paper. Jobe he read a minit or so; then looked at the name of the paper; then read another item; looked at the top of his paper agin; took off his specks; rubbed them hard; put them on and read, or started to read, another item; laid the paper down; got up and went to the lookin glass; stuck out his tongue and shook his head in a troubled manner; then he felt his pulse, shook his head agin and fell over on the lounge that was near him. He groaned once or twice, then hollered, “Betsy, Betsy!” dyin like.

I went a hurryin in. There he laid as white as a ghost, and drawin short, quick breaths.

“Why, Jobe, dear,” says I, pleadin like, “what on airth is the matter?”

“It is all over, Betsy,” says he, “all over; Ime a goin to die. The end is near. Betsy, Ive tried to be a good husband, but at times I know Ive been a little cross and contrary. Betsy, I want to hear you say you forgive me before I go.”

“Why, Jobe,” says I, “what in the world is the matter?”

“Oh, Betsy,” says he, “the end is near. I know it is. Editure McIlvaine is changed, or my mind is shattered. My mind is so onbalanced that I can no longer read my paper and understand it, or the leopard has changed his spots. Betsy, its me. It must be me, for where my paper has been praisin, it is now abusin; and where it has been abusin, it is now praisin. Betsy, I want to die. I want to die a believin that its me and not the Advercate that has changed. You must do the best you can, Betsy; and if you marry agin arter Ime gone, remember my last wish is that you do not marry one of them wild Populists. Betsy, will you promis?” says he.

At that I began to laf out loud, as hard as I could laf.

“Oh my! oh my!” says Jobe. “Is my wife crazy or do my eyes deceive me agin?”

I took holt of him and jerked him off the lounge, sayin:

“Here! git up and have some sense. That is all the truth you read in your paper to-nite. The office-seekers of both parties are corrupt, and if the papers were honest they would say so. Neither of them dare tell how the people have been betrayed, and so they fill up their columns with abusin the party they dont happen to belong to.”

“That nite he slept in the barn.”

Then I explained what I had done, and he jumped to his feet and swore awfully. That nite he slept in the barn, and for the second time in her married life Betsy Gaskins slept alone. Jobe is still critical and sleepin in the barn.

CHAPTER XVII.
JOBE SLEEPS IN THE BARN.

IF Ide a knode that Ide a had to went through what Ive went through since I last writ, I would have been a old maid longin for some one to love, and some one to love me in return, instid of bein the tormented wife of Jobe Gaskins, Esquire, as I am to-day.

From the time Jobe come in from the barn, the next mornin arter nearly dyin over the Advercate’s change of abuse, to this hour, the two old parties has been on the outs; and instid of gittin better, things are gittin wuss.

The Lord only knows what it will lead to. I dont.

That mornin, about breakfast time, he come a bouncin into the house all of a suddent, while I was a puttin some corn cakes in the skillet, and, shakin his fist in my face, says, says he:

“Betsy Gaskins, you’ve got to take it back. Take it back or Ile—Ile smash you,” makin a motion towards me, and, with his hair all mussed up and full of hay-seed, he looked dangerful.

I jist drawed back the dipper what I was puttin batter in the skillet with, sayin:

“Jobe Gaskins, you make another move towards me, or attempt to strike me, and Ile knock you so cold youle never vote for another Republican office-seeker.”

I was a lookin at him all the time with the dipper drawed. He seen I meant jist what I said; so he walked over and sot down on the edge of the wood-box. Continerin, says I:

“‘Jobe Gaskins, you make another move!’”

“You are a purty-lookin feller, haint you? Thats as much sense as you and your likes has got. You would strike down the pardner of your life rather than listen to the truth about the rascality of the men who run your party.”

I had the dipper drawed all the time, and had stepped nearer to him.

“Betsy,” says he, pleadin like, “tell jist one dishonest thing a Republican officer ever done.”

Says I: “Now, Jobe, you are actin with sense. Where do you want me to begin, at the top among the big ones, or at the bottom among the little ones?”

“Begin at the bottom, Betsy, at the bottom,” says he.

“Well, Jobe,” says I, “you listen, and I will keep at the cakes or they will burn.”

Thinkin a minit, says I:

“Fust, there is the county commissioners.”

“Hold!” says Jobe, jumpin to his feet, “dont lets go into that commissioner bizness——”

I turned right square in front of him, and drawin the dipper, says I:

“Now, sir, you set down, and set there till I tell you to git up.”

Jobe sot down.

Says I agin:

“Fust, there is the county commissioners and the bridges——”

“Betsy——” says Jobe, conquered like.

“Jobe!” says I, and I looked a look at him that made him drop his head.

Then proceedin agin, says I:

“Fust, there is the county commissioners, the bridges and iron tubes.”

Jobe flipped his thumb and fingers, and held up his hand like they do in school.

Says I: “Whats you want?” cross like.

“Betsy, if you are a goin into that bridge bizness, with them iron tubes and all, I would like to have my say as well as you,” says he.

“That depends,” says I. “If you act with sense and dont git mad, you can have your say. If you flare up Ile silence you, sir.”

“Are you mad, Betsy?” says he, cowed like.

“No, Ime not mad. Ime in airnest,” says I, takin up the cakes and settin them on the table. Then I sot down in a chair in front of Jobe, still holdin the dipper. Says I:

“Now, Jobe, who is agent for a iron bridge company in this county but a Republican county commissioner?

“Who went over into a adjoining county and offered to sell a iron bridge for several dollars per foot less than he charged his own county for the same kind of a bridge? Who done this but a Republican county commissioner?

“Who let a contract for stone butments for one of the leadin bridges in this county, and then let them put in iron tubes instid of stone butments? Who done this but a Republican county commissioner?

“Who sold the Trenton bridge out in three sections at $999.99 a section, so as to evade the law that says all public contracts for $1,000 or more shall be advertised and sold to the lowest bidder? Who done this sellin but a Republican county commissioner?

“Who gits a commission on all the bridges the taxpayers are a payin for, but a Republican county commissioner?

“Who has tore down good bridges jist to git to sell a new bridge to this county, but a Republican county commissioner?

“Who is it but Republican county commissioners that dont care how high taxes are so they git their commission for sellin bridges?

“‘Are you mad, Betsy?’ says he.”

“Who but a Republican county commissioner refused to allow the expense necessary to collect the $65,000 back taxes, Beriar Wilk——?”

“Hold! Hold!” cried Jobe, jumpin to his feet. “Wilkins was a Dimicrat! Wilkins was a Dimicrat! A leadin Dimicrat, and you know it! And more, Betsy Gaskins, when you say that nobody was mixed up in that bridge bizness but a Republican county commissioner, you lie, and——”

I dident let him finish. I couldent. I was teched. I jist grabbed the mop-stick that was standin near, and struck at him with all my might as he went out at the door. I follered him clear to the fence, strikin at him as he went; and jist as he was crossin the fence I broke that mop-stick (that cost me thirteen cents) on them election patches.

So my heart is heavier than it has been since I become the lawful wife of Jobe Gaskins.

The idea of him a tellin me that I lie, this late in our lives! It is awful! It teched me to the quick! Well, Jobe Gaskins got no breakfast that day, and I was so worked up that I couldent eat much.

That nite Jobe slept in the barn agin, comin in some time between dark and daylite to get what vittles was cooked.

He stayed out around the barn for three days and nites, only comin in arter I had gone to bed, to git what he needed to eat. I dont know how long he would have kept it up if it hadent got cold Thursday arternoon and evenin. That evenin he froze out, and came up to the fence and hollered:

“Hello!”

I went to the door, and says:

“Hello, sir! What you want?”

“Betsy,” says he, “I would like for you to let me come in and lay by the cookin stove to-nite.”

Says I: “If you wasent so set in your ways and insultin, you could a been sleepin in your usual place, by my side, all these nites. Come in,” says I, “and keep your mouth shet, and all will be well.”

He come in, and I set him a good warm supper. He eat three bowlsful of corn mush, and drunk two big cups of hot coffee.

Now, I intend to git all the names and facts about that bridge bizness, and that Beriar Wilkins back tax bizness, and them commissioners, and Ile convince Jobe that all his high-toned Republican officeholders are arter is the chance to get rich off from the people’s money. Ile do it if it costs me a divorce suit to do it.

That nite Jobe went to bed fust. When I went in I found that he had got in with his head to the foot. He thought it would spite me, I spose. But it dident. I laffed and jist stood there and looked at him, and while I was a lookin I couldent help thinkin how much he represented his party on the money question. You know how they use to claim that they was the party what believed in lots of greenback money, and how they pinted with pride to the great amount of greenbacks they had given the people to do bizness with. Now they are turned end about, jist like Jobe. Now they claim they are for “gold only,” that “lots of greenbacks haint good for the people.” They are a sayin now agin silver and paper money jist what Vallandingham and his likes said about greenbacks. But then this is about the top fellers. So I wont discuss this any more until I git the facts about them bottom fellers—about the county commissioners and auditor and prosecutin attorney and Beriar Wilkins, and lots of sich things that is done and bein done all over this country. Ile git enough to drive Jobe clear under the bed, if I can hold him down to listen to it.

Jobe says he is a goin to git the facts agin the Dimicrats if he has to subscribe for every Republican noosepaper in the county. Now I dont think he need to go to all that expense, because so fur as I can see they are all alike and run for the same purpose—for the purpose of keepin the Republican voters in line.

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE SPITTOONS.

COULD you tell a feller where he could borrow a little money to pay taxes with? Here it is June, and taxes are due agin—bridge taxes and all—and Jobe lacks $22.69 of havin enough to pay his share.

Taxes seem to stay up better than anything else. They really seem to be on the rise.

I wonder if a feller could borrow that much money from them county commissioners? They git their pay when they sell a bridge to the taxpayers—cut-worms or no cut-worms.

Them commissioners ort a have a little spare change by them, when they git pay from the people of the county for buyin bridges and pay from the bridge companies for sellin bridges.

Ime a hearin a good deal about that bridge bizness. About them iron tubes that we paid the same for as stone butments would a cost, and that sellin out of the Trenton bridge in pieces privately, so that it would bring more “commission,” and of them contractors that come down here and got paid for not biddin on another job, and all them things, and Ime a layin low for Jobe so that the next time he lites into me Ile pulverize him.

He’s been quiet for a day or two. He’s been out a tryin to borrow tax money, workin on the “gold basis,” as it were.

He ginerally is quiet durin tryin times. He dont know what minit he may need my help.

This tax bizness is a deep question, and seems to be a gittin deeper. How does it come that a feller what has a farm, and owes for it, has to pay the same tax as he would if he had it all paid for?

Now, here is Jobe and me. We have this farm, that haint worth more nor $2,500; we owe $1,800 gold mortgage on it. So we own $700 of its worth, and the banker what holds the mortgage owns the balance. We have to pay $51.80 a year tax on it. That is, we pay $51.80 tax on $700 we own. Haint that over seven per cent. tax on all we are worth? Now, if the banker is permitted to deduct his debts from his tax list, and the storekeeper and manufacturer is allowed to deduct their debts from their tax list, why haint the law-makers what Jobe and his likes has been electin to office made laws to allow the farmer to deduct his debts from his tax list? Why haint they, I say? Haint a voter what farms for a livin jist as good a citizen, jist as much entitled to the benefit of laws as the fellers are what lends money for a livin, or what sells store goods, or gits rich by makin things to sell to the farmers and sich?

If we only had to pay taxes on what we have paid on this farm, on what we have over our debts, we wouldent have to borrow any tax money this June. If anybody but them crazy Populists would offer to make sich a law, I believe I could git Jobe to vote for it. But them Populists are pizen to Jobe.

He is so swelled up and elated over the county offices bein filled with Republican officeseekers instid of Dimicrats, that I dont suppose he will ever vote any other ticket, even if doin so would put him out of debt or bring down taxes and interest and sich.

The second nite arter the cold weather drove Jobe in from the haymow to the comfortable bed of his lawful wife, I had a experience Ile never forgit.

“Jobe was on his knees in the middle of the bed.”

We had gone to bed about the usual hour, and as neither was very sleepy we fell to talkin.

I had tried to avoid anything of a perlitical natur since that tryin mornin in the kitchen, and Jobe had got along with givin me a slur now and then.

Well, arter we had laid there some time we got onto the question of taxes, and I onthoughtedly said:

“Jobe, why couldent there be a law to make interest less and taxes lower?

“What good does it do you and your likes to vote the same party ticket year arter year, when you see they dont do anything to make things easier for you—when you know, or ort a know, that the men what runs your party only work for the money they can git out of the taxes you pay?

“What difference is it to you what party has the offices? Better laws is what you ort a look to.

“What satisfaction is it to you to have the Republicans in, anyhow?”

I hadent that last question out of my mouth until Jobe was up on his knees in the middle of the bed, layin it off with both hands. The moon shinin in through the winder made him look like a ghost, with his long gray whiskers and nothin on but his shirt.

“A strait, influential, leadin Republican officeholder.”

“Satisfaction! satisfaction!” says he, loud and quick. “Betsy Gaskins, for forty odd years Ive been goin to that air court-house and have had to pay my taxes to Dimicrats—copperheads, if you please, rebels!—and do you suppose its no satisfaction for me to go there now and see a Republican in every office? Betsy, it was the happiest day of my life when George Sharp told me that the last office in that air court-house was filled by a Republican. Even the janitor, Betsy, is a Republican. Yes, sir, the janitor is a prominent Republican. Satisfaction! Do you suppose it is no satisfaction for me to go into that court-house and see a influential Republican cleanin them big spittoons and a sweepin of that stone floor? Do you suppose that when I spit in one of them large vessels, or throw a chaw of terbacker in one of them, that it does not give me more satisfaction to know that that terbacker what has been in the mouth of Jobe Gaskins will be handled and wiped out of that spittoon by a prominent, influential Republican than if a copperhead Dimicrat was to do it? Satisfaction! Betsy, you women dont know what real perlitical satisfaction and enjoyment is—thats one reason you haint got sense enough to vote.

“Do you suppose that Ive been a votin the Republican ticket all these years for nothin? No, sir.

“If the Republicans hadent a turned out the Dimicrat what was janitor, and appinted a tried and true Republican in his place, I wouldent a gone to the next election. Jist to think of all them court-house offices bein filled by Republicans—janitor and all—is enough to make any true Republican farmer rejoice.”

Durin all this time I jist laid there and let him talk. Finally he laid down, and, thinkin I was asleep, he muttered a few things to himself and went to sleep too.

“Lots of fellows just like him.”

Poor Jobe! If I had a knode it would be sich great enjoyment to him and his likes to knock the Dimicrats out of that court-house, Ide a been in favor of it long ago. I would, though Ime a Dimicrat.

Jobe says you can find lots of fellers, jist like him, standin around the court-house nowdays, chawin terbacker and talkin polerticks, jist to git to spit in them big spittoons and to have the satisfaction of knowin that it will be cleaned out by a strait, influential, leadin Republican officeholder.

Well, all Ive got to say is to let them enjoy their satisfaction while they can, for that is about all they git for the taxes they pay and the vote they vote and have been a votin for years.

Ime glad they have spittoons in that court-house. If they hadent, what would Jobe and his likes git for votin the strait ticket? What would they git, I say?

Susan Swaller is a goin over into Harrison County next week to visit her aunt, and Ime a goin along.

While Ime over there Ime a goin to find out more about the county commissioners of our county offerin to sell that county a bridge for much less money than they charged this county for the same kind of a bridge. If what I hear is true, Ile give Jobe names and dates and prices that will make him stand clear up in bed next time, moonlite or no moonlite, shirt or no shirt.

CHAPTER XIX.
A BIG-HEADED MAN.

JOBE and me are livin under a flag of truce. I went down into the adjoinin county to find out which one of our county commissioners is the bridge agent, and by what I could hear it was Commissioner Westholt what was down there, but it seems they are all agents or kind a pardners in the “commission” bizness.

When I got home I up and told Jobe that it was one of the Republican commissioners—givin his name. Jobe he flew up and claimed he knew better; that Commissioner Westholt is a Dimicrat, for he had been inquirin too.

Jobe said that it was purty hard to find anything out about it, as all the court-house fellers thought it would be better not to let it git out.

Jobe says they told him that it wasent anything onusual for a county officer to make all he could while he had a chance, and as a difference[difference] of $400 or $500 on a bridge was only a little thing to each tax-payer, they hadent ort to know much about it, as they might git to talkin about it and hurt the party.

And Jobe says they told him on the quiet that the Dimicrat commissioner was the bridge agent now, but jist as soon as his time was out a Republican would come in, and a commissioner of his own party would git the job of lookin arter the bridge company’s interests in this county.

This seemed to satisfy Jobe, so he proposed to me that if I would say nothin more about it he wouldent until they can git a full board of Republicans in.

“Jobe he flew up.”

And as there seems to be some doubt as to which one is agent now, that Dimicrat or one of the Republicans, I agreed to postpone further argament on the subject until that pint was settled.

I would like to know which one is it now.

If it is the Republican, and not the Dimicrat, Jobe will ketch it. If it is the Dimicrat, and not a Republican, I expect Ile have to lay low.

But let it be Republican or Dimicrat, either or both, it seems to me that a man must have a big head for bizness that is able to be the buyer and seller of a thing at the same time. It seems to me he would git “mixed in the deal.”

As county commissioner he takes an oath to buy the things for the county as cheap as he can git them. As agent of the bridge company he would want to sell a bridge for as high price as possible, so that his commission would be big.

Wouldent you like to see him a argyin with himself, fust as buyer, then as salesman?

But then, Jobe says, “they work the office for all there is in it.”

Now, if Mistur Republican or Dimicrat, as the case may be, as county commissioner, gits his salary from the taxpayers, whether he buys a bridge at a high figger or a low figger, dont you suppose he lets himself, as bridge agent, work himself, as county commissioner, for a little bigger price for a bridge than he would let himself, as county commissioner, be worked for if somebody else was bridge agent, especially when the pay for sellin bridges depends on the price you sell them for?

I cant see what Jobe and his likes expect to git out of that way of runnin bizness.

But then there are the spittoons.

“It wasent anything onusual for a county officer to make all he could.”

CHAPTER XX.
“BONDS SELL WELL.”

JOBE haint got that tax money yit. Times seem awful hard. But Jobe says they jist seem that way; they haint hard at all. “Times are never hard under a gold basis,” Jobe says.

Jobe was a argyin last nite that “times is better than they was jist arter the war.”

“‘Hadent we all ort to be satisfied so long as bonds sells well?’”

Says he: “Hadent we all ort to be satisfied so long as bonds sells well?”

Now, I dont know. Maybe we had.

“‘Times are never hard under a gold basis,’ Jobe says.”

But Jobe and me have been a keepin house for nigh onto thirty-six years, and of all the crops we have raised to try to make a livin at, Ive never seen Jobe plant a single government bond at seed-time nor harvest one at harvest time; so whether government bonds bring high prices or low, good prices or bad, I cant see what benefit it is to Jobe and his likes so long as they haint got any to sell. And if government bonds are like bridge bonds, I think the lower they are, and the fewer of them that are sold, the better it will be for him and his likes.

I guess it is really so that them iron tubes under the Dover bridge cost the taxpayers of this county jist what stone butments would a cost.

I hear the contract was fust let for stone butments, and then the same contractors persuaded the county commissioners, “by word of mouth or otherwise,” to let them put in them little iron tubes, and was paid the same pay as if they had put in stone butments.

They dont do things that way down in Pennsylvania. My aunt Jane’s son Charles is a workin down there. He sent me a paper from his town, and here is the way they do it down in that State:

“Court Wouldn’t Release Them.

“Hollidaysburg, Pa., June 24.—The Blair County Court, this afternoon, declined to order the release from custody of County Commissioners John Hurd and James Funk on a writ of habeas corpus. The accused officials were required to furnish bail in three different prosecutions for malfeasance in office. The grand jury reported to court this afternoon that the two commissioners had unlawfully let two important bridge contracts to the Groton Bridge Company at a loss to the county of $1,490. The jury requested that the court interpose its power to prevent such loss.”

You notice that it would be dangerful for county commissioners to let a bridge contract, like the Trenton bridge, contrary to law, without advertisin, if they were down in that State.

Jobe hasent time to discuss this bridge question now, nor wont have till arter tax-borrowin time is over. He is bizzy.

CHAPTER XXI.
THE SERMON.

I GUESS Jobe and me are goners. Jobe is nearly broken-hearted, and I feel kind a faint like. We will have to go to hell. Our preacher says so.

Last Sunday Jobe wanted me to go to meetin. I said Ide go. So I jist put on that hat I got from Jane Summers, and the blue cambric dress I have wore now for some three years, and we hitched poor old crippled Tom to the spring wagon and we went.

We tied Tom under a shade tree jist outside of town and walked in.

They was singin when we got there. As we walked up the ile of that big Methodist church, crowded full of leadin men and women, they pinted and whispered and snickered at my straw hat and Jobe’s linen coat, with a muslin patch on the sleeve, till I was really ashamed of some of them. High-toned people do sometimes act so silly that its shockin.

Well, the preacher took a hard text to preach from.

It was about Jesus tellin a young feller “to go sell all he had and give it to the poor.”

I thought the preacher had his foot in it the minit he read that text.

But then he got out of it in a way that cast a gloom over Jobe and me. He went on to explain that Jesus dident mean what he said; that he was jist a jokin with the feller.

He said Jesus wanted to make a preacher out of the young man, and he told him that jist to try him; but when he told him to do that the young feller went off sorry and dident go to preachin.

“They whispered and snickered at my straw hat and Jobe’s linen coat.”

I jist thought if that was what Jesus intended to do and why he told him that, Jesus was a poor judge of timber to make a preacher out of.C

“He said the rich all belong to church.”

Then the preacher went on to show that the young feller Jesus failed to make a preacher out of was the only one he meant should give anything to the poor; that he dident mean anybody in that Methodist meetin-house; that they and everybody else could git all they could and keep all they can git; that the more they git and the less they give to the poor the surer they would be of gittin to heaven.

He said the rich all belong to church and were good; that that was the reason they were rich—because God loved them and prospered them; that God had made them his bankers, and they were his bankers.

Well, when he said all that I jist felt gone like.

I looked at Jobe, and he was as pale as a ghost. He was skeert.

We both felt that we were doomed to eternal torment, because the Lord knows he hasent prospered us.

We are old and poor. If riches is evidence that God favors the rich, and that they are good, and that He will take them to heaven because they are rich, to be poor is a sign that God does not favor the poor, and that they are bad and will go to hell.

We have worked hard, Jobe and me.

We have plowed and sowed and rept; we have labored in sunshine and in rain; we have paid interest on interest, taxes on taxes; we have caught bushels of pertater bugs and killed thousands of cut-worms, tryin to git rich and thus gain the favor of the church and reach the kingdom of heaven.

We have picked the lice from spring calves and buried many a sheep that died of the rot, tryin to gain the praises of the preachers and the world and git on equal footin, in the race for eternal bliss, with the fellers who live on interest and rent and taxes and dividends and sich, and in all our efforts we have failed. So now in our old age, with late frosts in the spring and airly frosts in the fall, with drouth when it ort to be wet, and wet when it ort to be dry, I can see no chance to gain the praises of the church and the necessary qualification for God’s favor this late in our lives.

Feelin this way, I can see nothin for us to do but to work day and nite to pay interest and taxes, so as to help the money-lenders, monopolists and officeholders git there.

Its bad, but I suppose it must be that way. The preacher knows.

Jobe has been buildin great hopes on havin it easier in the hereafter. His hopes are blasted. It looks now as though he would not have the pleasure of even votin the strait ticket in the great beyond.

Poor Jobe! Its a great disappintment to him.

But whats to be done?

He will jist have to submit. He cant help it.

CHAPTER XXII.
JOBE HELPING TO RAISE THE OFFICERS’ SALARIES.

JOBE has been a helpin Hen Minick cut wheat and harvest for a week past, and the poor man has big blisters in his hand and cracks and sores on his fingers that jist keep me busy a pickin and a salvin and a doctorin. And he is that stiff he can hardly walk.

He has been workin to git money to pay taxes with.

When he got done Hen told him he would have to wait till arter thrashin time for the $7.50 he owes him for helpin.

Jobe told him he would have to have it right away, as his taxes was past due, and if he dident pay them soon they would attach a penalty to them. Hen said he was sorry, but he dident have a dollar, nor haint had for weeks.

Jobe come home discouraged like.

How can he git it from Hen when Hen haint got it?

If Jobe sues him, Hen will git mad and git somebody else to do his harvestin next time.

Besides, Hen is honest and would pay if he had it. He is a good nabor and worth it, but Hen says times is hard and money scarce.

Harvesting.

“I was puttin salve on Jobe’s hands.”

When I was a puttin salve on Jobe’s hands last nite I jist thought:

“Here is the same hand that has been puttin tickets in the box for thirty years or more to help elect the law-makers who made laws to lend money to national bankers at one per cent.; laws to issue bonds to git the paper money of the country to burn; laws to demonitize silver; laws to make money scarce and times hard; laws to enable the rich to live off the poor. And here that hand is sore and full of cracks and pain—yes, the same hand that has helped to elect the county officers of this county—full of blisters and scabs, made so a workin to git money to help pay them officeholders their salaries—salaries of thousands of dollars a year—and they ready to add to that tax and sell our home in order to git them big salaries if Jobe dident pay his sheer.”

There is the probate judge, who gits $5,300 a year; and the county clerk, who gits $5,500; and the recorder, who gits $3,600; and the sheriff, who gits $3,900; and the treasurer, who gits $3,400; and the auditor, who gits $3,500; and the prosecutin attorney, who gits $1,600; and the county commissioners, who git $1,400 apiece. And they git it from Jobe and his likes, who dont make $500 a year, even when seasons are favorable and crops good. And they are gittin of them big salaries by the votes of Jobe and his likes, who has them to pay—yes, by the votes of the very fellers who are a blisterin their hands and a rubbin salve and a walkin stiff to pay them.

Now if them salaries were reduced to what them same men would be willin to work for at anything else—if them salaries were reduced to $600 for commissioners and $1,500 for probate judge, auditor and sich, I wonder if it wouldent take less blisters and briars and cracks and backaches to pay them to do the people’s work.

The hand that voted “the strait ticket.”

Any of them would be willin to do the same work for them figgers, if the people would git together and, instid of votin for officeseekers, vote for men who would make a law to only pay sich figgers for public work.

Is it any wonder they want to hold Jobe and his likes in line?

All Ive got to say is: If Jobe and his likes would rather have sore hands and stiff backs, if they would rather rub salve and pick briars than to quit votin the “strait ticket,” let them have them. Let them pick and rub.

This strait ticket bizness is increasin the demand for St. Jacob’s oil and Green Mountain salve and sich alarminly.

But as they are great on the “home market” scheme, I suppose they are satisfied, and I ort to be.

CHAPTER XXIII.
PLAN TO RELIEVE THE RICH OF AN EXPENSE.

ON the fust page of last Tuesday’s Plain Dealer there is a article that has caused me to have a great deal of thought.

It is about Captain Fred W. Lawrence of Company B, of the Standin Army of Ohio, a writin to the coal operators, and railroad officers, and monopolists, and bankers, and rich speculators of Cleveland, askin them to give somethin toward supportin said army.

He says he wants to git “good men in the militia—men who can be depended on to do their duty in case of labor trouble.”

Now, Fred dont want any common scrubs in his company. He needs money to hire the kind of men he wants—“men who will do their duty in case of labor trouble.”

Now what is the “duty” of sich men?

What does Fred want them to do to the “laborin people”?

Haint it the “duty” of good men belongin to a army, like Fred, to shoot?

Judge Hutchins and Judge Blandin and some of the other polerticians say Fred hadent ort to a writ that letter, or, if he wanted to write it, he hadent ort to a writ it in that way, because now it is out what the militia is for.

The militia is to shoot laborin men with.

They are afraid some of the laborin people will begin to ask themselves what they are votin the strait ticket for.

“Some good men in case of labor trouble.”

Fred says he jist copied that letter from the ones his predecessors in office have been sendin out to these rich people for years.

Now what is botherin me is how to save them coal operators, and railroad owners, and monopolists, and rich stockholders in monopolies, from havin to pay toward sich things as “keepin up the militia.”

They are leadin citizens and own the coal fields, and railroads, and banks, and trusts, and sich. They are rich, and everything should be done to make it easy for them to git along in the world without trouble.

If there were no laborin men there wouldent be any need of “keepin up the militia.”

So if the militia is to be used only to quiet the people who labor, the best thing I know of is to get rid of the laborin people.

They seem to be a kind of unwelcome creatures in this world anyhow.

If we can get rid of them this will be a fine country. The rich can live in peace and the militia fellers can go to doin somethin useful.

Now there is several good ways to git rid of the people who work for a livin.

The best and surest way is to kill them, and now is the time to do it, when land is cheap. The buryin wont cost so much now as it would if we had more money and land was higher.

But I dont believe in shootin.

They ort to be killed in some nice, quiet way, in a way that wont cripple them up as militia shootin might.

I hate to see crippled poor people; it makes me feel sorry for them.

The thing to do is to git a great lot of them together in a bunch, then do it quick and sure.

The best way I know of is to offer a great feast of bread and “real cow butter,” with three or four side dishes, and invite all to come and feast their fill.

Then when they are all at a great feast, eatin and enjoyin theirselves, like the rich people do, have an electric arrangement fixed so the current could be turned on the whole crowd at once, and in twelve seconds they would all be stone dead.

They would die with a smile on their faces, jist like as if they had allus sot at the table of plenty and enjoyed theirselves. The big Methodist church in town would be a good place to have the feast and do the killin.

Then arter the current was turned off all we would have to do would be to load their dead bodies in wagons and haul them off and bury them in some cheap piece of ground and let the militia disband.

Dont you see, in that way we would dispose of the old and young alike—the little children as well as the grown up men and women. I know some of the little children are pretty. Some even have nice yaller, curly hair, big blue eyes and red cheeks, and love one another. Ive heern of them clingin to the necks of their fathers and mothers with love, even when hungry. But we will have to kill the little things, or they will grow up to annoy the rich, jist as their fathers and mothers annoy them now.

Of course, I know drownin is a easy death, and pizenin and all sich, but them are old-fashioned ways. Some of them might escape if we undertook to do it them ways.

This electricity bizness is a grand thing, and is sure death if worked right.

Of course, other counties could do it whichever way they think best, but here in Tuscarawas County, with the big Methodist church and all and plenty of laborin people, electricity is the thing to use.

“Some of the little children are pretty.”

We might have two or three killins in this county. Fust we could give a feast to all the rollin mill men and rail workers; then to all the coal miners; then to all the carpenters, and stone masons, and day laborers, and sich, and by not lettin any escape, one kind wouldent git onto what was bein done until we had them enclosed and the current turned on.

Ive been a talkin to Jobe about it, and he says that jist whatever the Republican party says he’ll agree to; but he declares he dont want to go to town on the day of the killin.

I dont know why he doesent want to go. It may be he is afraid he will git inside, or it may be he doesent want to look upon the faces of those dead poor people, whose toil has created all the wealth the rich people own who now wants them killed.

Now, Mistur Editure, if you will talk this scheme up among the rich people of the nation, and especially of Ohio, I think you can git them to see that it would be much cheaper than their payin each year to keep a standin army, and it would be more kind to the laborin people than to shoot them through the head when they are hungry, or make them cry with pain by cripplin them all up with big, heavy Winchester bullets.

Besides, think of the moanin and grief and heartaches and tears it would save the wives and children if they are killed at the same time their husbands and fathers are.

Shootin down men folks allers makes someone cry, and I hate to hear it even if it is poor women and little poor children.

And shootin seems to be sich a slow way of gittin rid of them.

Why, down in New York they use electricity to kill murderers with. They wouldent think of standin off and shootin even murderers down there. They use electricity because it is quicker and surer death, and more refined, and I know that the people of Ohio who labor for a livin haint any worse or deservin of more cruel treatment than murderers are in New York.

Hopin the rich will be merciful to the poor as long as they let them live on their land and in their country, I am yours for electricity and agin the militia.

CHAPTER XXIV.
THEM PROMISES.

JOBE took what hay he could spare to town yisterday and sold it to Billot, the miller. He dident git any money. He took Billot’s note, due ten days before our semi-annual interest falls due on our mortgage.

Jobe says he would rather have Billot’s note than the money. He says it haint in style to pay cash durin a gold basis.

“Jobe took what hay he could spare.”

Our hay crop wasent nothin to brag on this year. We got $19 worth of hay off from five acres of medder, and a little doodle for old Tom.

Now, I haint a goin to complain any more till arter fall election, but when Jobe come home and told me that $19 was all he got for his hay, and that what he did git would have to go for interest, I jist thought that it would not be so hard to give what you raise to somebody else if you got anything to show for it when you did give.

But arter we sell our hay and thirty bushels of wheat that Billot said he would take at 60 cents a bushel, and the Lord only knows what else, to pay that $63 interest in October, we will still owe jist as much as we did before.

“They are kept so busy legislatin.”

Now, if my dream had been true, and we had borrowed that $1,800 from the county treasurer at only two per cent., instid of the banker at seven per cent., our semi-annual interest would a bin only $18 instid of $63.

With $63, then, we could have paid the $18 interest to the county and $45 on the mortgage—and that would be encouragin.

I wonder when the Dimicratic, or Republican party either, or both, will begin to do somethin to make it easy for people to buy homes, and pay for them, by makin it easy for people to borrow money when they need it, by reducin interest and taxes and sich.

Every election since Jobe and me was married, fust one party and then the other has been promisin to do somethin to help the people git along in the world, but I declare to goodness I have nearly got discouraged waitin for them to do it.

They seem to be so forgetful arter election. I guess they are kept so busy legislatin and makin laws to help the rich that they jist dont have time to do anything for the poor.

By the time the law-makers git all the laws that the railroad-owners and street-car companies and bridge companies and bankers and bondholders and monopolists and other milionairs want, they haint got any time to look arter the farmers and mechanics and merchants and mill-hands and coal miners and sich; so they jist let the people’s bizness go, until the next election, to make promises on. And as the voters seem willin to wait, jist so they git to vote the strait ticket, I guess I will have to do so too.

CHAPTER XXV.
JOBE EXCITED OVER A NOMINATION.

THIS mornin while I was settin a churnin and thinkin, thinkin how high the monopoly men and the money-lenders and the officeholders live, and how low the farmers and mechanics and day laborers live, and wonderin why some live high and some low, Jobe come a stormin in at the kitchen door, so suddint like that it skeert me.

Says he: “Betsy, give me my overhalls, quick, and put up that churnin and come out and help me build a higher fence around the medder.”

And while he was a sayin it he was a jerkin skirts and pettycoats and sich like down from the nails in the wall onto the floor, a huntin them overhalls.

“Why, Jobe,” says I, “what on airth is the matter? What do you want more fence around the medder for?”

“To save the grass, Betsy, to save the grass,” says he. “What would you suppose Ide want more fence around the medder for? Hurry up, quit that churnin and git me them overhalls, or he will have half the grass stomped out before we git a rail up.”

I stopped churnin, and, lookin him strait in the face, says I:

“Jobe Gaskins, are you crazy? What are you talkin about anyhow?”

“A huntin them overhalls.”

“What am I talkin about?” says he. “What am I talkin about? Betsy, Ime talkin about Coxey—Coxey! Theyve went and nominated him for governor, and he’ll stomp all the grass out of the State of Ohio if the fences haint built higher and stronger.

“You can see now what them Populists are a bringin us to.

“You can see now what you git for readin them Populist books and papers.

“You git to carry rails, and set stakes, and put on riders, and——”

I had sot down and went to churnin.

When Jobe heerd the sound of that dasher he stopped huntin for them overhalls, and, turnin to me with fire in his eyes, says, says he:

“Haint you a goin to help build that fence?”

I stopped churnin, and, turnin round facin him, with my hands on my knees, says I:

“I had sot down and went to churnin.”

“Jobe Gaskins, if you and your likes would begin to build up your common sense and good judgment with sich ideas as Coxey’s ‘county bonds without interest,’ and Coxey’s plan of makin roads and givin work to idle men like yourself—I say, if you and your likes would build up your common sense with some sich ideas instid of votin the strait ticket with your eyes shet, you wouldent have to lose so much time in the future a borrowin interest money and workin to pay taxes. Yes, if you and your likes had been a votin for some sich ideas for years past instid of votin for a lot of office-seekin canderdates (who never had a idea), you wouldent be $1,800 in debt to-day; you wouldent be a sellin wheat for sixty cents a bushel and wool for fifteen cents a pound; you wouldent be a givin all you raise every year for interest and taxes.

“So my advice to you, Jobe Gaskins, is for you and your likes to open gaps in your wall of prejudice and let Coxey and his ideas in, instid of buildin higher fences around your medders to keep him out.

“Yes, put up a notice invitin Mr. Coxey to come in and plant his ideas all over your field, and tromp them in if need be.

“Do this, and I think when you go to vote hereafter you will see crops a growin you haint seen before.”

Jobe had been sidelin toward the door while I was speakin, and, reachin it, he went out a mutterin somethin about dyin before he would change; that he wouldent let Coxey into his medder if it would cause enough hay to grow next year to pay off the $1,800 mortgage that’s on our farm.

I went on a finishin my churnin so as to have the butter to trade for some groceries when the huckster comes around. It was lovely butter. I was tempted to use some of it for dinner, but dident dare, for fear I wouldent have enough left to git what we actually need.

CHAPTER XXVI.
THE BLOOMERS.

I MADE me a pair of Dimicratic bloomers day before yisterday, and Jobe he is mad. Ive been a waitin to make me a pair all summer, but put off doin so till arter the Dimicratic State convention. As soon as I heerd from that convention I sot to work and made them.

I made one leg and the waist out of a pair of Jobe’s old black pants, and the other leg I made out of a sheet.

The black leg is to represent the polerticians and schemers what wants a “gold basis,” and the white leg is for the Dimicratic voters what wants silver for money jist like we use to have years ago when times were good.

I made the black leg and waist for the right side, because it seems that the fellers what it stands for is the strongest, and the white leg is for the “left” side.

When I was a soin that white leg to the black leg, every now and then a stitch would break out of the white leg, jist as though that white leg dident want to be hitched onto that “black leg” side, and I jist thought it would be a wonder if the white leg side of them bloomers dident split clear off from the “black leg” side before election day.

But by a good deal of whippin and stitchin I got them together and put them on to go out and pick pertater bugs.

“The Dimicratic bloomers.”

Jobe he was away, and I was as busy as I could be knockin bugs into an old tomato can, bent over like, when Jobe come up to the gate and hollered:

“Hello, mistur!”

I stopped and turned towards him and says, says I:

“I thank you, Jobe Gaskins; Ime no ‘mistur.’”

Well, you ort a seen the look on that man’s face.

He turned pale, opened his eyes skeert like, stepped back and says:

“Why, Betsy, what air you out here for with your clothes off?”

That made me mad. Says I:

“Mistur Gaskins, I thank you for none of your insults. If you had any sense you would know that I am dressed in the latest fashion.”

Then I explained to him that bloomers were all the go, and that I had made mine arter the style of my party—arter the Dimicratic State platform of Ohio and the Dimicratic county platform of Tuscarawas County—one gold, the other silver. Says I:

“Dont you see, Jobe, in this garb we ketch em a comin and we ketch em a goin.”

Says he: “Betsy, do you intend to wear them things all fall?”

“I do,” says I.

“Hello, mistur!”

He studied a minit. Then, lookin at me determined like, says he:

“‘We ketch em a comin an we ketch em a goin.’”

“You needent look for me home to-nite.”

And off he started.

As he went he kept lookin, fust back at me, then down at his pants.

Whether or not he was a thinkin that his pants with their patches represented the platform of his “dear old Republican party” I cant say. But I jist thought: “If they dont represent his party platform, they are a good standin advertisement of the greenbacks that have been burnt, and the bonds that have been issued, and silver that has been demonitized by them within the last thirty years.”

Jobe is gone, the Lord only knows where, but Ive made up my mind to truly represent the divided principles of Dimocracy as it now stands, if doin so elects Coxey the next governor of Ohio and makes me a grass widder for life. Feelin that way, I am yours in bloomers.

CHAPTER XXVII.
“THEM POPULISTS.”

IME in trouble. Them Dimicratic bloomers seem bound to split asunder, or worse. Some days there is only a stitch or two breaks out; other days they rip half the length of my arm.

Every time I think of the high interest we are payin and have been a payin for these many years, of the number of times we have changed officers from Dimicrats to Republicans, then from Republicans to Dimicrats, back and forth, time and agin, without any change except for the worse—every time that I think in all these years not one Dimicrat or Republican officeseeker or polertician has riz up in Congress and demanded that the law that permits interest and foreclosin and sich be abolished, a stitch or two lets go. Yes, neither Dimicrat or Republican has ever proposed to abolish interest or in any way make it easier for the hard-workin poor people to git homes and pay for them. And the more I think of what they did do that they oughtent a done, and what they haint done that they ort a done, the more I wonder that there are enough men left of either of them, or, for that matter, of both, to hold a county convention.

But then I spose its because they are born that way.

But talkin of my gold and silver bloomers, nothin seems to strain them so much or make as long rips in them as a listenin to them Populists explainin Coxey’s “Good Roads Bill” and them bonds what wont draw any interest. When I see in my mind people a needin work and a gittin it—when I can see how under that law Jobe wouldent have to spend time a borrowin tax-money, but could work for it, them bloomers keep a gittin more obstreperous all the time.

The other nite at our school-house they jist kept a rippin and a rippin as speaker arter speaker went on a showin us what we haint got that we ort to have; showin us how we had been a throwin our votes away for these thirty years or more; showin us how that votin for officeseekers and polerticians and votin for good laws and good government was two different things; showin us that while Jobe and his likes has been a doin the votin, the officeseekers and polerticians has been a makin the laws that takes from us in taxes and interest what we raise, and that it seems that we are willin to submit just so long as they will let us keep on a votin for them.

I tell you its a goin to take a good deal of Brice’s senatorial soin thread to hold these bloomers together until election day; and arter election, sooner or later, I know they will split. That white leg side hates the black leg side worse nor pisen, and here and there all over the white leg I notice strange-lookin spots the same color as the clothes them Populists wear. And the spots are a growin and I fear there will be no bloomer bizness when them spots are big enough to rule that leg.

If it ever happens that all the people who have suffered from the hard times that bad laws have brought them go to flockin together, and votin for common, decent people to make our laws, there will be a weepin and a wailin among the high-toned rulin class. The people will quit bein led around with a ring in their nose by the polerticians and officeseekers jist like Dave Syke’s Durham bull. But so long as one Dimicratic convention declares for gold and the other for silver, I suppose Ile have to try to hold my bloomers together.

Well, Jobe he come back last Saturday. He had been gone for two weeks. When I seen him a comin up the lane, I jist felt like I use to when I was a girl. He dident say a word about my bloomers, but seemed pleased like to see me. Before he got up to the porch he says: “Hello, Betsy!” and when he got to me he shook hands and kissed me (the fust time for nigh onto twenty years)—yes, sir, kissed me, and me in bloomers—Dimicratic bloomers!—and him a Republican. Somehow it seems the Republicans do like us Dimicrats better than they use to. Maybe its because we all hate them Populists so.

“I seen him a comin up the lane.”

Well, arter Jobe had come in and got his supper and I got my work done up, we went into the front room and sot down; sot down to have a talk—to court like. I had to begin the talkin. Says I:

“Jobe, where have you been for so long?”

“Well, Betsy,” says he, “Ive been around over the country learnin all I could about them Populists. Do you know, Betsy, that them Populists are jist made up of a lot of farmers, and school teachers, and doctors, and store-keepers, and railroad hands, and mill-workers, and coal-miners, and carpenters, and stonemasons, and day laborers and sich? Do you know that the lawyers, and judges, and officeholders, and bondholders, and polerticians, and monopolists, and bankers, and railroad officials, and coal operators, and in fact nearly all the fust, high-toned and leadin citizens of our country—all them that dont work for a livin—them what are smart enough to live without workin—all sich, they dont belong to them at all.”

Says I: “Is that so?”

“Yes,” says he, “it is. And now, Betsy, what do them Populists expect to do? Do they expect to elect farmers, and school teachers, and merchants, and mechanics, and men what work for a livin, as officers?

“Do they expect to have men what haint got any more sense than to work for a livin to make our laws?

“Do you think farmers have sense enough to know what laws farmers need?

“Do you suppose school teachers has sense enough to know anything about schools?

“Does merchants know anything about the store-keepin bizness?

“Do you suppose mechanics and mill-men and miners know anything about laborin? No. These men what do all these things dont know anything about the things they do.

“We want lawyers, and bankers, and railroad owners, and monopolists, and speculators, and bondholders, and mine-owners and sich as our law-makers. These are the fellers what know all about farmin and teachin, and sellin goods, and diggin coal, and buildin houses, and workin mills, and makin things. Yes, Betsy, the fellers what do them things haint got sense enough to know anything about the things they do. Its the fellers what dont do them that knows all about them.

“The fust time for nigh onto twenty years.”

“Now, Betsy, this bein the case, if you are a goin to wear bloomers, I want you to color that white leg black and work for the strait ticket, so, if the Dimicrats git in, we will have the same kind of men to make our laws as we would have if the Republicans git in. We must unite agin them Populists, Betsy, or the fust thing we know they will be a gittin in and passin them laws what Coxey is wantin passed, and then people what work for a livin will go to askin $1.50 a day—and a gittin it. I repeat it, Betsy, we must unite.”

I was silent.

Jobe, continerin, says:

“Betsy, think over this and lets us two old parties hereafter live in peace and unite our efforts in keepin things jist as they are, and not go to complainin of hard times of our own makin.”

It bein late, and not wishin to git into a argament with Jobe so soon arter his return to my boozum, I retired in silence, but I cant jist say that I swaller all of Jobe’s logic without peelin.

I think I shall defer the colorin of that white leg for a few days, until we have discussed the subject further, and until I have obtained the full consent of the white leg side to the colorin act, remainin for the time ondecidedly yourn.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
TROUBLE WITH BILLOT.

THERE may be hopes of my bloomers survivin the election, but I tell you it takes stitchin and soin to do it. That State platform ort a been like the county platform, or else the county platform like the State. Then my bloomers would a been all alike—both legs made of the same kind of stuff—and wouldent a needed this whippin and stitchin and soin.

Jobe is in a fix agin.

Our interest falls due the 20th of October, and you remember it is payable in gold.

“Billot jist laffed at him.”

Well, what do you think? Jobe sold his hay and wheat to Billot, the miller, and took Billot’s note for $37.60, and yisterday, when Jobe went to git his money, Billot counted him out paper money for the amount.

Jobe told him that he wanted gold.

Billot jist laffed at him, and told Jobe that paper money was legal tender in sich bizness as this.

“Jobe he got mad and called Billot a Populist.”

Jobe told him that we was on a “gold basis,” and that he had to have gold to pay Banker Vinting his interest.

Billot said he had nothin to do with Jobe’s interest or Banker Vinting; that Jobe could take that paper money or nothin.

Jobe he got mad and called Billot a crank and a Populist and all sich terrible names.

Then Billot ordered Jobe out of the mill, and Jobe went off and sued Billot for $37.60 in gold.

Jobe says he’ll teach Billot that gold is the money of this country. He says that Billot thinks that jist because he is a old farmer that he haint good enough to pay gold to.

Do you think Jobe will git the gold from Billot?

I will have to go to the trial next Monday and help Jobe inforce the law agin Billot.

Jobe is a full-blooded American citizen and has voted the strait ticket since he was twenty-one, and Billot will learn by the time he gits done with that lawsuit that this gold basis bizness is for the low-toned people as well as the high-toned people.

The idea of paper money bein money!

CHAPTER XXIX.
“INFORCIN THE LAW AGIN BILLOT.”

WHEN we got to the trial, on Monday, we found our witnesses and the witnesses and lawyers of Billot a talkin, and a laffin, and a whisperin together. They seemed to have some deep subject which Dimicrats and Republicans were both in earnest about.

So I told Jobe to git around among them and listen, and see if they wasent layin some plan to gain the lawsuit for Billot.

Soon arter Jobe he come in a smilin and said:

“They haint a talkin about the lawsuit at all; they are jist talkin together how to beat them Populists at the election next month.”

Jobe seemed tickled. He said them lawyers and editors are smart fellers, and when they git out among them ignorant farmers and laborin class they’d soon settle all that Populist argament.

“There wont be any change in this country,” says he, “as long as them editors and lawyers can help it.”

He said they were goin at it purty soon, and from what he could hear it dident make any difference to these leadin fellers who beats, jist so them Populists dont git in.

Says I to Jobe:

“Lawyers a talkin and a laffin.”

“They had better git at it, for if them Populists elects a farmer for representative, a farmer for treasurer, a farmer for commissioner, a coal miner for sheriff, and a mechanic for infirmary director, and they all make good officers, the chance of them lawyers and town polerticians holdin all the offices herearter will be slim.”

“Why, sich people was never made to hold office,” says Jobe.

The squire come in at that time and stopped the argament between Jobe and me.

The case was begun.

The fust witness for our side was Sam Moore, editure of the Times. I questioned him.

Question. “What is your bizness, Mr. Moore?”

Answer. “Editure and polertician,” says he.

Q. “Do you believe in the free coinage of silver?”

A. “If we can git it inside the Dimicratic party, I do. If we cannot, I do not.”

Q. “Mr. Moore, is a treasury certificate issued by the United States treasury money?”

A. “Well, now, Betsy, I—I—that is, I am not prepared to answer that question at this time. Cal Bri——”

“Hold! hold!” cried Lawyer Jim Patrick, jumpin to his feet. (Patrick is Billot’s lawyer.) Gittin red in the face and pintin his finger at Sam, says he:

“Moore, we dont want Cal Brice’s name mentioned durin this camp—cam—or, or lawsuit, I mean. You know as well as I do that he can never git back to the Senate if we let the people know that he is after the office.” Then, turnin to the squire, says he:

“I object to the gentleman answerin the question.”

I argued that all we wanted was to git at the truth; that we was intitled to the truth, if gittin it defeated Mr. Brice or any other canderdate for office.

But Jim he out-talked me, and the squire ruled that “the less said about Cal in open meetin the better for his chances.” As much as to say that sometimes things could be done better by suppressin the truth than by tellin it.

I perceeded:

Q. “Mr. Moore, how long has it been since you quit advocatin the issue of ‘good old-fashioned greenback paper money’? How long has it been since you said time arter time in your noosepaper that ‘the greenback was the best money we have ever had’?”

A. “Well, Betsy, I haint advocated paper money for nigh onto a year. Not since we decided that we wanted Cal Bri——”

“Hold, hold!” shouted Jim Patrick agin. Says he, jumpin to his feet:

“Moore, what do you mean? Dont you know you are injurin our cause? Dont you know that if it gits out that Cal is a canderdate he will be defeated? Dont you know if he is defeated none of us will git an office? Sam, I want you to bring his name in this matter no more.”

That made Sam mad. He riz up and says, says he:

“Mr. Patrick, I want you to understand that I am under oath now, and not a editin a free silver paper in the interest of a gold-bug canderdate, nor am I under the control of the Dimicratic Executive Committee while I am on this stand.”

“‘Mr. Moore, how long has it been since you quit advocatin the use of good old-fashioned greenbacks?’”

Sam was gittin madder every minit.

So I riz to my feet and says:

“Hear, hear, gentlemen, dont lets drag family affairs into this suit agin Billot.”

I saw they was likely to give away the secrets of my party.

Seein that Mr. Moore was excited, and, if pressed, was liable to swear agin us instid of for us, I excused him.

Then Jim took him.

Q. “Mr. Moore, what is money?”

A. “Money is anything the law says is legal tender for debts.”

Q. “Mr. Moore, are not United States treasury notes legal tender? and then are they not money?”

Sam begin to color up agin. Answerin, says he:

“Well, now, look here, Jim, you know what shape our party is in—that all the big fellers are for a gold basis—and you know, too, that there is no chance for any of us to git appinted to office if we dont come out for gold. You know I edit one of the leadin papers; and you know it takes a great effort to hold the party together. Now, Jim, dont you think you had better not make me answer that question—under oath? Or if you want me to answer it, dont you think you ort to git this case abjourned till after election day?”

Jim studied a minit, looked wise like, and says:

“Mr. Moore, youre excused.”

Sam got down and went out, mutterin as he went somethin about it bein “hard, these times, for a truthful man to be a Dimicrat.”

My next witness was Buckannan.

Q. “Buck, what is your bizness?”

A. “Lawyer—Dimicratic lawyer and polertician.”

Q. “Buck, what is money?”

A. “Gold—gold is money.”

Q. “Who makes money, Buck?”

A. “God—God makes money.”

That was all I wanted. Thats the kind of swearin I wanted to inforce the law agin Billot. So I turned Buck over to Patrick.

Jim he looked Buck in the face a minit. Buck he dropped his eyes shamed like.

Then Jim perceeded:

Q. “Buck, what is your bizness and polertics?”

A. “Ime a lawyer—a Dimicratic lawyer and polertician.”

Q. “Buck, did you ever study the money question?”

A. “No, sir; never did; never want to; never will. I know enough. Ime a Dimicrat—a Dimicratic lawyer—and that suits me.”

Q. “Buck, dont you know that anything that the law says is legal tender for debts is money? and dare you swear here under oath that a paper bill issued by the United States treasury is not money?”

Buck colored up and looked hurt like. Says he:

“Patrick, you know the condition our party is in, and you know that our names would be Dennis if Cal——”

“Hold, hold!” cried Jim, jumpin to his feet—and, pintin his forefinger strait at Buck, vicious like, says he:

“Here, Buck, dont you know that Brice has instructed us to mention his name as little as possible. Now, I want you to answer this question without any reference to Cal or anybody else: Is paper money money?”

Poor Buck, he filled up, and, trimbling like, says:

“It is, Patrick—it is.”

And great big tears rolled down his manly cheek and dropped on the lapel of his Prince Albert coat.

The squire asked him what was the matter.

“‘Lawyer—Dimicratic lawyer and polertician.’”

He said he was ruined; that he had been tellin everybody that “nothin was money but gold,” and now if it got out that he swore in the case of Gaskins agin Billot that paper money is money, nobody would believe him hereafter. And, poor man, he cried like a child.

Well, as I had examined what I considered my strongest witnesses, and they dident swear as they talked to the voters, but jist to the contrary, I concluded to end the case and let the squire decide it. I argued that nothin was money but gold, showed how all the noosepapers said so, and how all the lawyers and polerticians said so (except when on oath). I showed how Jobe had delivered good wheat and hay to Billot and took his note for it, how Billot offered Jobe jist common paper money when the note was due; showed how Jobe demanded gold money and nothin else, because gold was the recognized money of the world, and closed by askin the court to give us judgment agin Billot, payable in gold, and to make Billot pay the costs. I sot down.

Jim Patrick got up and said they had no testimony to offer except Jobe Gaskins’ own statement that Billot had offered to pay him with paper money, and now he tendered to the court the same money Billot had offered to Gaskins, and asked for judgment agin Gaskins for the costs.

The squire took the money, counted it and stuck it in his pocket, then hemmed and hawed a minit and said that Billot had made a full legal tender of the amount due Gaskins, as in his court paper money allers had been good and he hoped it allers would be. He then said:

“My judgment is in favor of the defendant Billot, with the costs of this case charged to the plaintiff Gaskins.”

It nearly took my breath.

The costs was $18.60, all told.

The squire said that paper money made by the United States was real money, and if a man offered to pay a debt with it, and the man he offered it to refused it and tried to make him pay gold, he would have to pay the cost for tryin it.

Instid of us inforcin the law agin Billot, it looks to me that we have had the law inforced agin us.

Jobe says that Squire Reed is a anacrist and ort to be hung.

CHAPTER XXX.
BETSY DISCUSSES “FIAT” MONEY.

LAST Sunday, arter I got my dinner dishes washed up and the kitchen swept, I went out in the front yard where Jobe was. I found him a settin at the foot of the big apple tree, sound asleep.

He had took the noosepaper with him and sot down there to read why it is better to borrow money from Urope than to make it ourselves, and had went to sleep over it. Besides he had been out all the nite before to a big Republican rally and had carried a banner sayin:

GIVE US MONEY

GOOD IN UROPE.

And the poor man had to tramp three or four miles through the mud to git to do it; so I suppose he was tired—tuckered out, as it were.

Well, I looked at him a minit a sittin there with his head throwed back agin that apple tree, his legs stretched out, his boots a shinin with the fresh lard he had rubbed on them jist afore dinner, and his honest old face turned up toward me, and I says to myself, says I: “There sets one of God’s noblemen, injoyin the sleep of innercence.” And then I thought if I could only git him and his likes to understand that they are a part of this government, and that the government belongs to them and not to those only who are rich and high-toned—I say, I jist thought that if I could only git them to see that they had rights that ort to be respected and the power to inforce them rights, what a different country this might be.

“He carried a banner.”

Thinking this and feelin the importance of my duty, I decided to begin to edicate him then and there.

He has a habit of gittin up and leavin me when I begin to talk to him on things; so I made up my mind that I would fix him this time so he couldent git away, and would give him some plain talk on the money question.

I got the rope I use as a clothes line, and, slippin up behind him, I wound it around and around him and the tree from his waist to his neck. He never flinched. Then I got the check lines from the barn, and, fastenin them to his feet, I tied one to one gate post and one to the other, and with the hitchin strap I tied his hands behind him. Then I got a straw and tickled his nose.

You ort a seen him try to jump; but he couldent move.

He opened his eyes and says to me, skeert like:

“Betsy, what does all this mean?”

I think he was afraid I was a goin to kill him, but, answerin, says I:

“It means, Mr. Gaskins, that I propose to discuss the money question here without interference and without my audience a leavin before I git done, as is its usual custom.”

Says he: “Betsy, wont you let me loose?”

“Not till I git done,” says I.

Says he: “Why, I cant sit here and listen to you for an hour?”

“You cant?” says I. “But you will. You can spend all nite, and nite arter nite, a listenin to argaments in favor of continerin the laws that makes prices low and interest and taxes high—laws that keeps you poor and the polerticians rich—but you think you cant spend a hour listenin to a argament for a law that would make it easier for you to live; that would give you better prices and lower interest.”

Then, puttin my hands on my hips and lookin, lovin like, down at him, says I:

“Jobe, dear, I guess you will listen this time, and you wont leave till the speaker dismisses, will you?”

Says he, half laffin, half cryin:

“It looks that way, Betsy.”

So I went and got me a chair, brought it out and sot down in front of him. When I got seated says he:

“Betsy, is it Dimicrat or Republican argament that you want me to listen to?”

Says I: “It is neither, Jobe. It is neither. It is female—female argament, based on common sense and bed-rock experience. It is the argament of a lovin wife to a errin husband. The argament of one who knows there is somethin wrong and has tried to find somethin better than what we have got. Are you ready?” says I.

Jobe tried to nod his head, but couldent. He looked real interestin.

“Perceed with the argament,” says he.

So, leanin up strait in my chair and foldin my arms across my boozum, I perceeded. Says I:

“Jobe, what is money?”

“Money?” says he. “Why, money is—is—is—why, Betsy, money is jist money.”

Says I: “Is that all the answer you can give?”

“I guess so,” says he.

Then a thought seemed to strike him, and, lookin up sudden like, says he:

“Why, money is gold—thats what money is.”

I looked at him a full minit. Then says I:

“Jobe Gaskins, if money is gold, how much money have you seen since you was a baby? If money is gold, how much have you handled since you become the husband of Betsy Gaskins?”

“Why—why,” says he, “I haint handled much gold, but I have——”

“Hold on,” says I. “Then you haint seen much money, or else somethin is money besides gold—haint that so?”

“Yes, I guess there is some money besides gold,” says he.

“Then you agree that paper money is money, do you?”

“Yes, I reckon it is,” says he.

“Well, then,” says I, “we will perceed with the argament.”

Jobe looked worried. If it hadent a been for them ropes and straps, about this time Jobe would a had bizness somewhere else. It seems that some men get very bizzy about the time one is ready to show them how they can help themselves. But, havin full confidence in that clothes line, I went on.

“Money,” says I, “is somethin made by one’s government that we git when we dispose of somethin we have. If you sell somethin direct to the government and the government gives you money for it, it is the same as a receipt from the people that they have received from you somethin of so much value—and it at the same time is an order on all the people for them to give you whatever you want of equal value. The officers that make the money and do the bizness is merely the agents of a big company of people known as the United States, and each man, be he rich or poor, is a member of the firm. Instid of havin our money (that is these receipts) signed by every member of the company, which would require a very large piece of paper, we have a stamp, and say to our agents or officers for them to put that stamp on our money and we will stand by it. The placin of that stamp on a piece of paper by the right officers is the same as if all the twelve million men had signed it, and the women too.

“I got a straw and tickled his nose.”

“So, if you sell the government say $10 worth of oats to feed our army mules on, or if you do $10 worth of work a keepin books or a holdin office or a bankin up the Mississippi River, and you git a $10 bill for it—that bill, or your havin of that bill, says that you as a individual have delivered to all the balance of the seventy million people—to the company, if you please—$10 worth of value, and hold their paper for it. Now, if, arter you git that $10 from all the people, you go to Alick Smith and buy his Chester White brood sow and give him the $10 for her, your claim aginst all the people has passed from you to him—he has the receipt for the value you delivered the government and you have his sow. And, bein a good citizen, he takes the paper $10, because the value you gave the government was in part for him, and the $10 is an order to him as one of the twelve million or more pardners. And you bein one of the twelve million, you are one of the firm also, and stand ready to accept that same $10 for anything you may have to sell that Alick Smith might want.”

Jobe seemed to be a gittin interested.

“Then,” says I, “we will say that Alick would go to town and buy two gallons of John Schwab’s rye whiskey. John takes the bill for the same reason that Alick did. Well, John bein a licker dealer, we—that is, all the people—charge him $25 a year for sellin rye whiskey and sich. So John sends that same $10 to the revenue collector at Cleveland for his revenue tax. The revenue collector sends it to the treasury at Washington, where it was made, and where it fust come from. Haint it been redeemed? Haint that money? John Schwab paid for the work you done, or for the oats the government mules eat, and paid for it with the receipt you got for the oats or the work.

“Now, suppose nothin was money but gold, and the government couldent issue sich receipts or orders, or whatever you want to call them, and suppose the government dident have any gold—so then you couldent sell your oats, nor you couldent git the work to do on the river bank, and you wouldent git any money. If you couldent git the money you couldent buy Alick’s sow; if Alick couldent sell his sow he couldent buy Schwab’s whiskey; if Schwab couldent sell his whiskey he couldent pay revenue tax, and when people cant pay revenue tax the government gits hard up and has to borrow money.

“Now, Jobe,” says I, “honest injun, which do you think would be the best: to make what money this firm of the United States needs or to keep on a goin deeper and deeper in debt a borrowin money?

“Speak out,” says I. “Haint that good money?”

Jobe studied a minit.

“Y-a-s,” says he, “but haint that fiat money?”

“Yes, sir,” says I, “that is fiat money, and fiat money is the only honest, true money we can have. Any other kind is a deceit and a fraud.”

Jobe twisted and would have got away if he hadent a been tied. As he couldent git away he snorted out:

“What good would that money be in Urope?”

“The very best that could be made, so far as you and your likes are concerned,” says I.

“Whats its basis? Whats its basis?” says he, “a hundred cent gold dollars or fifty cent silver dollars?”

“Neither,” says I. “And as long as we have so many grains of gold or so many grains of silver or so many grains of both as a basis, you and your likes will be a payin high interest with low-priced grain.”

“What!” says he, “no standard! How are you to tell what your dollar is worth?”

“We will have a standard, Jobe, and the best standard in the world, and the dollar will always be worth one hundred cents, and each cent will be worth ten mills.”

Jobe looked puzzled, but inquirin like.

“Now, Jobe,” says I, “dont you know that the law that says that the dollar shall be of the value of so many grains of silver or so many grains of gold is what makes everything you raise low in price? Rich people can make the gold or silver scarce and dear, and that makes every dollar, either paper or metal, dear also, and the dearer the dollars the more of your grain or the more of your work it takes to git them.

“Now, what ort to be done is this: Make a law callin in all the gold and silver money, and redeem it in paper money, dollar for dollar, the same kind of money I spoke about a while ago; give them only six months to turn it in, and therearter let neither gold nor silver be money or a legal tender. And if any of them Wall Street gold sharks want to hang on to their gold money let em hang, and they will find that they will have to sell it for old metal. Arter the government gits it redeemed let us sell it to the jewelers and spoonmakers to make watches and spoons out of.

“And instid of the law a sayin that each dollar shall be of the value of so many grains of useless metal, let it say that ‘The Dollar shall be of the value of sixty pounds of wheat in the Chicago market.’[^[B]]

---

[B]. Note.—This may strike the ordinary reader as a strange proposition. Some of those who have studied the philosophy of money may differ from Betsy and claim that the unit of value should be a day’s labor. There are various good reasons, however, which make Betsy’s suggestion appear not only plausible, but expedient and logical.

By making a bushel of wheat the unit of value we could establish not only the value of the dollar, but also the price of wheat, and of nearly all other commodities. As a rule a bushel of wheat is worth two bushels of corn, three bushels of oats, four pounds of wool, ten pounds of cotton, etc. This price ratio of wheat to other commodities varies very little. Prices of other things rise and fall with the price of wheat.

Betsy’s plan would raise the price of wheat and of all other farm products, and, consequently, would make farming more remunerative. By making farming more profitable it would start more people farming, and thus relieve the overcrowded labor markets of the great cities. The farmers, obtaining better prices for their products, would be able to consume more of the products of the factory. The increased demand for factory products would give work to the unemployed and raise wages in all the industries. Under these conditions, with our money system on a proper basis, and with trusts and monopolies obliterated, as they soon would be, we would need no labor unions to maintain the wage scale. Labor would no longer crouch at the feet of its creature, Wealth, and strikes would be a thing of the barbarous past. On the other hand, the workingman of the city cannot prosper so long as the farmer is not prosperous.

Again, if one day’s labor will produce two and one-half or three bushels of wheat, and each bushel is of the value of one dollar, then a day’s labor will be worth $2.50 or $3.00. Then will wages begin to go up, more help will be employed, more products will be consumed, and soon “surplus labor” and “overproduction” will be heard of only in the reminiscences with which we as grandparents will entertain the curious of the next generation.

It is a remarkable coincidence that at the time this chapter is being put into type (May, 1897) news comes over the wires that the Russian minister at Washington has submitted a proposition that the governments of the United States and Russia jointly fix the price of wheat.—Ed.

---

“Now, Jobe,” says I, “if the law said that the dollar should be of the value of sixty pounds of wheat in the Chicago market, what would be the value of a dollar?”

Jobe studied a minit and then looked up sudden like, as

if something had broke loose in his mind, and says he:

“Why, it would be of the value of sixty pounds of wheat.”

“Well, then,” says I, “what would be the value of sixty pounds of wheat in Chicago?”

“Why—why,” says he, “it would be worth a dollar.”

“What would be the price of wheat west of Chicago?” says I.

“A leetle less than a dollar,” says he.

“What would be the price of wheat east of Chicago?” says I.

“Why, a leetle more than a dollar,” says he.

“You are a good scholar,” says I. “You are a larnin.”

He tried to git loose agin, but failed.

“But—but,” says he, “what good would sich money be in Urope? Would that money be good anywhere in the world?”

“There you go agin,” says I. “I haint got to Urope yit. We’ll go to Urope purty soon.”

“Yes, but that would be fiat money,” says he.

“Yes, sir, it would,” says I, “and the sooner you and your likes git up to that word ‘fiat,’ and touch your nose to it and smell of it—the sooner you pick it up and look at it and examine it, the sooner you will find that instid of bein a curse it will be a blessin to you.”

“Fiat money is money made by you and the balance of the people that makes this government. You make it by puttin your great stamp on it, and each one of you what are fit to be citizens stand ready to defend it and uphold it with your lives if need be. It is made by you havin printed and stamped on money paper the followin:

“‘This is one dollar, a full legal tender for all debts, public and private, receivable for all taxes, duties and customs; and any money-lender, bondholder or other citizen of these United States who attempts to dishonor or discredit this bill shall be deemed a traitor, and if found guilty of such attempt shall be hanged by the neck until dead.’”

“Dont you think that would be a little seveer, Betsy?” says Jobe.

“Seveerness of that kind—seveerness for them what are bound to rule this country for their own benefit or ruin it—is what we need, and the sooner we git it, and the more of it that we git, the better,” says I.

So, perceedin with the argament, says I:

“Now, Jobe, we’ll go to Urope.”

“Well, hold on,” says Jobe, “lemme loose fust.”

“Not till we git through Urope,” says I, determined like.

“Well, shove off, then,” says he.

I did so by sayin:

“Jobe, would it skeer you if I was to tell you that the money what is good anywhere in the world is the very money that we as a people dont want?”

I put my elbows on my knees and leaned over and looked him square in the eyes to note the effect of my question.

He looked at me, starin like, for a whole minit.

Says I: “How does it strike you, Jobe?”

Says he: “Betsy, have you been a drinkin?”

“Yes, sir,” says I, “Ive been a drinkin—a drinkin in the sad, hard experience of the last thirty years—a drinkin the dregs of poverty, hardship and trouble caused by low prices and high interest—caused by havin money so good anywhere else in the world that the only way we can git it back when once it gits away is to borrow it back, and put ourselves in bonds to do it. And, Jobe, when I say that the ‘money thats good anywhere in the world’ is the very money that we as a nation dont want to use, I am a talkin sober, hard sense. We want money that will come back to us and buy our wheat and corn and oats and sich, instid of goin to Roosia and Germany and France and India and buyin their stuff. What we want is money that is the best for America, whether it is good for any other part of the world or not.

“As it is now, Jobe, when we pay the $300,000,000 a year interest to Urope, or when our high-toned people buy their Uropean clothes and sich and give our gold and silver for them, them Urope fellers takes that gold and silver and go to Roosia and Germany and France and India and other countries and buy what wheat and flour and oats and corn and meat and cotton and cattle and wool and manufactured goods they need, while our wheat and our cotton and our wool and sich lays in the warehouses along our seashores a waitin a market. And while it lays there a waitin a market our farmers are gittin lower prices and our workinmen lower wages, or goin idle, which is worse.

“Now, if we paid that interest with money that was not good in Roosia and Germany and France; if our rich people had to pay for their fine stuff with common everyday paper money, each dollar of which was of the value of sixty pounds of wheat—money that couldent be melted up and made into Roosian money or French money or Dutch money or Indian money—if them Urope fellers would have to send the money they git from us back here to git its value in breadstuffs or grub or clothes or somethin our workinmen make, dont you think our warehouses would be emptied? And when our warehouses are emptied wouldent it require work to fill them agin? And haint honest work what our people need and ort to have?

“So, Jobe, you can see that if them three hundred million interest money was made out of paper and sent to Urope to pay that interest; if the money spent there by our rich people and all was good greenback paper money, redeemable in wheat and flour and corn and oats and cotton and manufactured goods of all kinds made, raised and produced in the United States, and they had to send it back here to git its value, instid of sendin to Roosia and them other countries to buy their stuff, and them warehouses would be emptied, you would find more demand for the wheat you raise to fill them agin, you would find prices a raisin and times a gittin better.”

Jobe was a thinkin hard.

Says I: “Jobe, can you see the cat?”

Jobe was silent. The wheels in his head was a beginnin to turn and he was a listenin to their moosic. Finally says he:

“Why, Betsy, if each of them dollars was worth sixty pounds of wheat at Chicago and sixty pounds of wheat was worth a dollar, what would our leadin men what make a livin and git rich a speculatin in wheat do? They couldent force it up nor force it down. What would they do?” says he.

Says I: “They would be like lots of fellers who haint leadin citizens are to-day—they would be a huntin a job, and would have to ingage in some honest okepation.”

“Well, Betsy,” says Jobe, “is that Populist argament?”

“No, Jobe,” says I, “it haint Populist argament; it is the argament of a plain, old-fashioned female woman—the one that thinks more of you than all the polerticians piled in one pile—and I hope you will think on it.”

“Well, Betsy,” says he, “if it haint Populist it seems to me that it is worth thinkin about.”

So, havin for one time held Jobe down to a finish and got him to thinkin, I unloosed the rope and straps, kissed him out loud on the cheek and let him up.

He riz up, stretched out his legs and arms, gapped a time or two and says:

“Betsy, Ime glad you tied me down.”

Then he went out to do up the evenin chores.

Now, if I could only keep Jobe away from them office-seekers and polerticians; if I could only keep him a thinkin, I would have some hopes; but as it is, no tellin how soon the good lesson of his wife may be overcome by a smooth-tongued canderdate.

CHAPTER XXXI.
JOBE BLOWS A FISH-HORN.

JOBE has been so busy tryin to git Mr. Bushnell, the millionair, elected governor, that he forgot about his interest bein due at the bank. He stayed to town the nite of the election till the chickens were crowin for daylite.

It was nearly mornin when I heerd the patriotic sounds of the fish-horn.

I got up and looked out of the winder, and there was Jobe a comin up the lane, with his breadbasket stuck out and his head throwed back, blowin that fish-horn as though his life depended on it, and every now and then he would stop, take off his hat and holler for Bushnell, jist as loud as he could holler.

Well, he come in and acted the fool worse nor a drunk man, till he nearly wore my patience out.

He said the gold basis bizness had succeeded and now one dollar was jist as good as another, and asked me if I wasent ashamed that I was a Dimicrat, and all sich fool questions.

Well, he got to bed at last and went to sleep, and in the mornin dident want to git up; so I jist let him lay.

“It was nearly mornin when I heerd the patriotic sounds of the fish-horn.”

About 9 o’clock a feller rid up to our gate and hitched, come to the door and asked if this is where Mr. Gaskins lives. Says I:

“It is where Jobe Gaskins lives.”

He handed me a paper and told me to give it to Mr. Gaskins.

I took it in and waked Jobe up and got him his “specks.”

“He looked kind a pale.”

He unfolded the paper and read it over to hisself. I saw he was worked up. Says I:

“What is it, Jobe—an appintment from Bushnell?”

He looked kind a pale. Says he:

“No, Betsy, its a summons to court in the case of Vinting, the banker, agin Gaskins; he has begun foreclosin proceedins agin us, Betsy.”

I looked at him a minit. He dident look up.

Says I: “The official returns are comin in quite airly, haint they?”

I then went back to the door, and the court officer was gone.

Poor Jobe got up in a little bit, lookin worried.

When he come out in the kitchen I handed him his fish-horn and says, says I:

“Give us a tune, Jobe.”

He dident offer to toot a toot. He jist looked hurt.

Well, from that day to this he has been tryin to raise the money to pay Vinting, the banker, his interest. After payin all them costs in the Billot lawsuit there was very little left out of that wheat and hay money, sich as it was.

He sold our cow, and nearly all our pertaters, and then sold old Tom, our only hoss, and borrowed $5.50 from Widder Baker, when she got her penshun money, and took that $63 down to Banker Vinting and handed it to him at his bank. Vinting pushed it back to Jobe and says, says he:

“This is not accordin to contract. The contract, Mr. Gaskins, says you must pay the interest in gold. I must have gold. Gold—Mr. Gaskins.”

Jobe told him he “had no gold, that this money was all good, legal tender government money, and he would have to take it.”

Banker Vinting told him, “Gold or nothin.”

“‘Give us a tune, Jobe.’”

Jobe went around to all the stores in town and to all his friends and tried to git gold for the paper money, and not one of them had a dollar in gold to help him out with. Everybody said they “hadent seen any gold for a long time;” that “paper money was good enough for them; that they was glad to git even it, these times.”

So Jobe come home, and he haint got that gold yit, and the Lord only knows when and where he can git it. I dont.

Jobe he is nearly distracted.

Now, if the law makes Jobe take Billot’s paper money for wheat, I dont see why the same law wont make the banker take the same paper money for interest, especially when a feller cant git any other kind. If the banker wont take Jobe’s paper money, all I know is for him to go on with his lawsuit to foreclose us—until the court makes him take it.

We cant do anything else. It jist seems the world is full of trouble and sich.

“‘This is not accordin to contract.’”

CHAPTER XXXII.
AT COURT AGAIN.

THE lawsuit to foreclose us out of our home is bein tried to-day. We borrowed Ike Hill’s gray mare and driv to town airly, and found the lawyers hangin around like buzzards waitin for the arrival of a dead beast.

They begin to meet us and shake hands from the time we hitched in front of Urfer’s big dry-goods store until we got clear inside the fence that surrounds the judge’s seat and divides the high-toned cattle from the low-toned breed. They all wanted to know if we had “ingaged counsel.”

When I told them that our family had counsel of its own blood, in the person of myself, Betsy Gaskins, wife of Jobe Gaskins, the defendant, they would kind a sneer and walk off. They looked hurt like, jist as a feller does when he loses a ten-dollar bill.

These lawyers seem kind a anxious that the people who are bein foreclosed should have “counsel,” but I could never see where “havin counsel” changes the foreclosin act any.

Well, we got inside the lawyers’ field, the officer opened court and the judge called the case of “Vinting, plaintiff, vs. Gaskins, defendant, for money only.” Says he:

“Are the parties to the case ready for trial?”

Jim Patrick, the lawyer, nodded his head and says, “Ready,” without even takin his feet off the table.

I dident have my feet on the table. But when the judge looked our way I nodded and says, “Ready.”

I hadent that word out of my mouth till Lawyer Porter riz to his feet, and, addressin the court, says:

“We hitched in front of Urfer’s big dry goods store.”

“If your honor please, on behalf of the ‘bar’ of this county, I object to Mrs. Betsy Gaskins a practicin law before this court.

“I object for three reasons: First, because she is a woman; second, because she has not been admitted to practice in this court; third, because it interferes with the legitimate profits of the legal fraternity of this county.

“If your honor please, as you well know, the lawyers of this county have no other source of income than from the parties to the cases brought to this court, and if women and persons who have not been admitted to the bar are permitted to practice in this court, our bizness will be ruined, and some of us, at least, will have to go to workin for a livin; therefore I object to permittin this woman to farther participate in this case, and in doin so I voice the sentiment of every member of this bar.”

I riz up.

“‘Ready.’”

The judge looked at me, steady like, over his specks, as if he was a goin to tell me to set down. Says I:

“Mistur Court, may I speak?”

He looked around at the bar. Several heads went east and west. The judge thought a minit and says:

“You may speak.”

Perceedin, says I: “Mistur Court, I am the lawful wife of Jobe Gaskins, the man you are asked to foreclose and turn out of the home he has tried hard to hold. We are old people. We are poor. Times are hard and money is scarce, and, bein called here without our choosin, we came without money to pay anything toward the support of the ‘bar’ the lawyer spoke about.

“All we ask, Mistur Court, is to be heard. We want to save our old home if we can do so. All I ask is, if there is any speakin that can be done to persuade you that we hadent ort to be turned out, that you let me do that speakin, because I feel that I can tell you what we would suffer, and why we hadent ort to be turned out, as honestly and as earnestly as any lawyer could who was talkin for only a few dollars pay.

“God knows, Mistur Court, that what I shall say to you will not be prompted by a few dollars, but by the love I have for the roof that has sheltered us, for the fire that has warmed us, and those things about the place that has caused a lump to come up in my throat whenever I think we may soon have to leave them forever, or when I wonder where we would go if you say, Mistur Court, that we must be foreclosed.

“I know I am a woman—a old woman. I haint a regular lawyer, but I ask to do the speakin in this case, because we haint the money to pay any of these regular lawyers to do it, and God knows we have always tried to pay for everything we have ever got or had done for us.”

I sot down.

The judge set a studyin; finally says he:

“Mr. Sheriff, adjourn court until 1:30 o’clock p.m.”

And that is where the lawsuit is at this hour. I am waitin to see if I will be allowed to speak. Yours at court.

CHAPTER XXXIII.
JUDGMENT RENDERED.

THE lawsuit is over. The decidin is done, and we are foreclosed. My heart has been so heavy and Ive been so troubled that I jist couldent set down and write a letter with any sense to it till to-day.

You dont know how bad it makes a body feel to know the place you have looked on and loved as home is a gittin away from you—slippin from under you, as it were. Everything seems to change. Jobe, poor man, he jist sets and studies.

Well, that day at court, arter dinner, the judge come in, took his seat, ordered court opened, and says, lookin at me:

“Mrs. Gaskins, I have decided to let you argy this case.”

At that all them lawyers except Jim Patrick, the one doin the foreclosin, got up and left the house.

When everything was ready Jim he got up and handed in the mortgage and the notes, and stated that he would prove by those papers that last Aprile Jobe and Betsy Gaskins executed notes and a mortgage to Mr. Vinting, the banker, for the sum of $1,800, with interest at seven per cent., payable semi-annually “in gold;” that a few days after the interest fell due Jobe Gaskins tendered to Banker Vinting $63 in paper money as said six months’ interest, and refused or neglected then or at any other time to tender gold in payment of the interest as the contract provided, and upon this evidence he would ask the court to foreclose the mortgage and sell the premises to satisfy the claims of his client.

“‘I am a banker, sir, a banker.’”

He then called Banker Vinting to the stand and had him hold up his hand and swear.

Then he examined him as follers:

Question. “Mr. Vinting, what is your bizness?”

Answer. “I am a banker, sir, a banker.”

Q. “Did Jobe Gaskins, the defendant here, tender you the interest due on this mortgage as the mortgage provides?”

A. “No, sir, he did not. He offered paper money—nothing but paper money—while the mortgage and notes call for gold.”

Q. “Is this interest still due and unpaid?”

A. “It is, sir. It is.”

“You may have the witness,” says Jim.

Then I examined the banker. He looked very witherin like at me, but I dident wither.

Q. “Mr. Vinting, what kind of money did you give for this mortgage and notes?”

A. “Paper money, paper money.”

Q. “Then why haint paper money good enough for interest on them?”

A. “The contract says ‘gold,’ Mrs. Gaskins—it calls for gold.”

Q. “Well, haint paper money as good as gold—now, since the election?”

“I ’bject,” says Jim, and then he got up and argyed that my question was leadin, &c., and the court decided that he needent answer it.

“We rest,” says Jim.

Then I got up and stated our case. Says I:

“Mr. Court, we will prove that Jobe Gaskins sold hay and corn to Billot, the miller, to git the money, or a part of it, to pay this interest, and took Billot’s note; that when the time come to pay it Billot offered to pay it in paper money; that Jobe refused to take it, jist as the banker refused; that Jobe sued Billot before Squire Reed for the amount ‘in gold;’ that Mr. Patrick, who is now the lawyer a tryin to foreclose us for not payin gold, was the lawyer agin us when we was a tryin to git the gold to pay with. We will prove that the law made Jobe take paper money or nothin, and made him pay the costs for tryin to collect gold. We will prove that Jobe took some of that money the law made him accept for wheat, and more jist like it, to the banker, and offered to pay his interest; that the banker refused, and on this testimony we ask you to render judgment agin Mr. Vinting, the banker, for costs, and make him take this $63 in paper money that I now tender in open court as payment of the six months’ interest due.”

At that I handed the $63 to the clerk. He took it and gave me a receipt for the amount.

Then I put Jobe on the stand and proved that he had taken the same money the law made him take for his wheat to the banker and offered it to him; that the banker refused to take anything but gold; that he had tried to git the gold, but couldent find anybody that had any gold, and that he had done all he could to raise the gold and couldent.

I then proved by Squire Reed that Jim Patrick was Billot’s lawyer, and had argued and proved by Sam Moore and Lawyer Buchanan and others that paper money was money and was a legal tender for debts, and that Jobe was beat in his lawsuit agin Billot and had to pay the costs and take paper money.

Then I “rested.”

Then Jim Patrick got up and made a short speech, statin that “gold was God’s money;” that He had hidden it away in the vaults of nature for the use of mankind as money. He showed how Banker Vinting was a Christian and one of our leadin citizens, and all he asked the court to do was to inforce his contract agin Jobe Gaskins. He showed how all the bankers and bondholders and other money-lenders was in favor of gold and gold contracts; then he showed that it was dishonest for Gaskins to attempt to pay that interest in any other kind of money than gold as stipulated in the contract.

“It is in fact repudiation,” says he, and he made sich a fine argament for gold and agin other money that I put on my specks to make sure it was Jim Patrick, the same Jim what argyed so loud and long for paper money and agin gold the other day, in our case agin Billot for wheat money.

His argament was so fine and patriotic that I felt half ashamed for askin the court to make Banker Vinting take the same kind of money for interest as the law made Jobe take for wheat.

“He made such a fine argament for gold and agin other money.”

Well, arter Jim got done I riz up and stated that we was aware that the interest was due and unpaid; that I knowed the contract called for gold. I told the court how I kicked agin signin the mortgage last Aprile, when it was made, jist for the reason that it called for gold. I showed how it was the banker’s doins, and not ourn, that it called for gold. I told the court how Jobe and the others laughed at me and called me an anacrist and all sich names for refusin to sign a gold mortgage. Then I told him about havin to raise the money then to pay Congressman Richer to keep from bein foreclosed at that time, and about my succumbin to their ridicule and signin at last, hopin agin hope that in some strange way we might raise the gold and save our home.

I told the judge that I dident believe “gold was God’s money;” that I dident think God would make a metal to be used to turn people out of home with; that if it was made for any sich purpose it must a been the “other feller’s” doins.

I showed how government officers, through the influence of the rich people, had called in the paper money and burned it up; how they had issued bonds agin Jobe and his likes to git it to burn. I showed how the same men had demonitized silver and brought us to a “gold basis,” all of which had reduced prices, made money scarce and hard to git, and kept up interest. I showed him how sich laws had throwed people out of homes and turned all their earnins over to the money-lenders and sich.

I showed him how we had paid $3,800 toward our farm, and how, if he dident make the banker take Jobe’s wheat money, we would be sold out, and, at the low price land is sellin for, we would have nothin left in our old age.

I begged him with tears in my eyes to make the banker take Jobe’s wheat money and give us one more chance to save our old home.

Then I sot down, and my eyes would water, no matter how often I would wipe them.

Well, the court cleared his throat a time or two and then said:

“It is a common occurrence for us judges in our official positions to do unpleasant things. I am sorry for the old people, but the law must uphold the sacred rights of contract. The contract calls for gold. I will therefore render judgment agin Gaskins, the defendant, for full amount of mortgage, accrued interest and costs of this case, and order the sheriff to sell the premises to satisfy the judgment.”

When them words was spoke I jist felt smothered. I felt so queer I hardly knowed where I was.

Jobe he jist sot there a starin, with a pleadin look on his face. We both sot there numb like till the officer come around and told us the case was over.

We kind a come to then and got up. Then I thought of the clerk havin that paper money, so I told Jobe to go and git it.

He went, and the clerk told him he couldent surrender the money till the case was settled; that that money was part of the court record, and the land might not sell for enough to pay the judgment and all costs.

So we come home and left our wheat money and hay money and cow money and the money for poor old Tom and all with the officers of the court.

Jobe, poor man, from the time he left that court-house till now he has jist moped around, sighin and moanin.

CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE LITTLE WHITE ROSE-BUSH.

WHEN Ike Miller brought Jobe’s paper, the Advercate, to us day before yisterday, the fust thing my eyes fell on was:

“SHERIFF’S SALE.—Isaac Vinting, plaintiff, vs. Jobe Gaskins, defendant.”

I tried to look away from it, but, all I could do, I couldent git my eyes off from them lines. I turned the paper over, but it jist seemed to me that I could see them words all over that paper.

I never had anything make me feel so queer in all my life. My head seemed to be goin round and round, and I couldent see anything but “Sheriff Sale”—“Vinting—Gaskins—Gaskins—Vinting—Sheriff Sale.”

“Sheriff Sale.” I had seen them same two words hundreds of times before, but they never looked like they did that day.

I was all alone at home, and I thought I would never live to see another livin bein—I felt so queer.

Well, I laid that paper down and went out in the yard. Arter a while I begin to feel better, though nothin seemed to look like it use to—nor dont to this day.

When I got out in the yard I could see the trees, and bushes, and fences, and the house, and the big road, and the little stream down over the bank; but they looked so queer. Though I had lived by and among them for years, they dident look like they did when I use to think they would be around me and near me when I should die. No, they now looked like somebody else’s trees and bushes and fence and road and sich.

Little Jane.

I felt as though I was not at my own home, but intrudin on other people’s property, “trespassin,” as them court-house lawyers calls it. That “sheriff sale” in that paper had changed the looks of things.

I went over to the little white rose-bush—the bush my little Jane planted the day she was four years old—the one she had watched and called hers till she was taken from me two years arter.

I thought, as I stood there by that little bush, planted by her little hands, that I could nearly see her little form a squattin down and her little dimpled fingers pattin the dirt around the roots of that little bush. I remembered how she plucked the first rose and come a runnin to me with it, sayin:

“Mamma, mamma, my bush raised this. How pritty!”

“I could nearly see her little dimpled fingers pattin the airth around the roots of that little bush.”

I thought how, every spring, Jobe would pull the weeds and leaves from around it, and how a many a time I saw him wipin his eyes as he stood by our baby’s rose-bush. And as I was thinkin this I thought that before long somebody else would own this ground and that bush, and we could not take care of it any more for our little girl that is gone. I wondered if anybody would stand there arter we are turned out and weep for the child that planted it. I wondered why it was that the law could tear people away from everything they love. I wondered why there couldent be some way fixed to make it easier for people to git homes and pay for them. I wondered why interest was never less than six per cent., and sometimes more. I wondered why people who paid interest had sich a hard way of gittin along, while the people who got interest got along so easy.

“‘Mamma, ... how pritty!’”

And as I stood there by our baby’s rose-bush I thought of all the interest Jobe has paid on this place, of the taxes he has paid year in and year out, and I got to figurin, and I found he had paid for the farm nearly twice over.

And then I thought of that dream I had nearly a year ago, when I dreamt that Jobe could borrow money of the county treasury at only two per cent. And I kept on a figurin, and I found that if interest had only been two per cent. since we bought this farm, the difference between the interest we have paid and what we would have had to pay at two per cent. would have let us out. We would have had our farm nearly paid for, and we could have stayed here and taken care of baby’s little rose-bush and carried the roses to her little grave each year as long as we lived.

But interest haint two per cent., and we must leave the little bush, leave the trees, leave the flowers, leave all and go. Oh! that nearly chokes me. Where shall we go? Who will take care of baby’s grave? I cant rite any more. I feel so queer.

CHAPTER XXXV.
JOBE TALKS OF THINGS THAT ARE GONE.

JOBE is down sick with “brain fever and nervous prostration.”

The doctor says it all come from his worryin over bein foreclosed.

Jobe jist lays and moans and talks to hisself. He is out of his head most of the time.

“Jobe jist lays and moans.”

Last nite he thought he had Betty, our drivin mare, back (the one we parted with last spring to git money to pay interest to Congressman Richer). He thought our little Jane was livin agin, and he was holdin her on Betty’s back, a lettin her ride.

“I have to chop all the wood.”

He jist kept a talkin fust one thing, then another, all nite.

I dident git to sleep any, and since he has been sick I have to chop all the wood and do the chores and wait on him till I am nearly wore out and not able to write.

I dont know what I will do if they foreclose us and put us out before Jobe gits able to go about.

It jist seems one trouble brings on another. If the law would make the banker (contract or no contract) take the same kind of money for interest as it makes Jobe take for wheat, Jobe wouldent be down with brain fever and sick from worryin.

I wonder why laws haint made as much in favor of hard-workin poor people as rich people who sets in offices and dont do any hard work.

I see Congress and Mr. Cleveland are a goin to issue more bonds on the people, and sell them at the post-offices to the popular people. Jobe and me cant invest.

CHAPTER XXXVI.
BILL BOWERS IS ON THE FENCE.

JOBE is able to be up. We have been foreclosed, and ex-Congressman Richer has the farm back.

We have a notice in writin to vacate these premises on or before the first day of March.

Jobe bein sick, neither of us was to town the day our old home was sold by the sheriff.

I felt bad all that day—felt jist like somethin awful was about to happen. Jobe seemed weaker and more restless than usual.

Bill Bowers rode by our place in the evenin, stopped at the gate and hollered.

I went to the door, hopin agin hope that maybe for some unknown reason the foreclosin hadent been done. But as soon as I laid eyes on Bill I knode our home was gone.

He hemmed and hawed and stammered, tryin to say somethin that was hard for him to say. Says I:

“Out with it, Bill; we are prepared for the wust.”

“Well, Betsy,” says he, “its gone. Congressman Richer bought it in, at jist what the mortgage and interest amounted to, and you people will have to pay the costs. Mr. Richer seemed pleased to get the old farm back agin.”

“‘Out with it, Bill; we are prepared for the wust.’”

“Yes, Bill,” says I. “I allow he was glad to git it back. He ort to be. He has some $3,800 of interest and principal we have paid him on the farm, before he forced us to borrow the money from Banker Vinting to pay him last spring. You see, Bill, we paid him $3,800 interest and principal up to last Aprile; then last Aprile we paid him $1,800 that we borrowed from the banker, and some $300 of Jobe’s legicy money from his dead aunt, makin in all some $5,900. Now he takes $1,863 of that money and buys it back, givin him the same farm we got from him and $4,000 nearly of money besides that Jobe has airned by hard knocks.”

“Well, Betsy,” says Bill, “it does look kind a tough.”

“Yes,” says I, “and it dont look any tougher than it is.”

“I spose not,” says Bill.

“No, Bill,” says I; “if the lawmakers only knew how hard it is to be sold out and turned out of your home, they would surely make laws to make money plentier and easier to git; they would surely reduce interest.”

“They ort to,” says Bill.

“Yes, Bill,” says I, “we have done all we could to hold the farm, and hoped to have a home to stay in in our old age.

“We have give all we raised to Congressman Richer in payments and interest and taxes and sich.

“We have done without many a thing we ort to a had tryin to keep our payments up, hopin that our old age might be spent here among our neighbors; but every year since we bought the farm times have got harder, prices lower and money scarcer.

“We have raised good crops, Jobe has worked hard, and now, arter all the years of hard work and good crops, we have $512 less than we had when we bought the farm seventeen years ago.

“They kept a tellin Jobe that it was ‘better to have less money and lower prices than to have more money and higher prices,’ and Jobe and his likes have kept a votin for the fellers that told him sich until to-day he is sick and sold out.

“He has done the votin and the other fellers has got the money. They held the bag, and Jobe and his likes poured in the grain.”

“Well, Betsy,” says Bill, studyin like, “Ive about made up my mind that none of us farmers have much to show for our past votin. It looks as though, while we have been workin hard nite and day, economizin and savin; while we have been a tryin to lay up somethin for ourselves in old age, and for our children; while we have been doin all this, and doin the votin, there has been a lot of schemers and rascals seekin office and gittin laws made to redeem one kind of money in another, and then cornerin the redeemin kind, and contractin and destroyin this kind and that, even issuin bonds on us to git it to burn, and doin everything so they would be able to take from us what we were a raisin and savin.”

“‘Ile tell you, Betsy. Ive made up my mind to try them Populists hereafter.’”

Then, leanin over on his horse, says he:

“Betsy, step up closer to the fence.”

I walked out to the fence.

Says he, whisperin like:

“Ile tell you, Betsy. Ive made up my mind to try them Populists hereafter. I see they have some purty smart men in the United States Senate. But for the life of you, Betsy, dont say anything to any one about my changin.”

I jist stepped back a step or two and looked at Bill Bowers for a whole minit. He looked at me. Then says I:

“Bill Bowers, I am surprised! I am surprised that you, a full-blooded American citizen, a grown-up man, a man who has made up his mind to do what he believes to be right, and then hasent the manhood to let the world know that you are independent, but are afraid that some officeseeker or polertician who lives off of you will turn up his nose at you! Bill Bowers, I thought you had more firmness in you than that. If the party you have been votin for has betrayed you, if the officeseekers you have helped to elect have used you as a tool, haint it your dooty as a man and a citizen to let it be known that you are a goin to quit the gang? Instid of bein afraid of them, you should make them afraid of you. Thats your dooty, Bill.”

“Well, Betsy,” says he, “I dont know but what youre right, but Ide ruther you wouldent say anything about it.”

Then, changin the subject, says he:

“Betsy, where do you think of goin to?”

“Where do I think of goin to?” says I. “The Lord only knows. I dont.”

At that Jobe hollered for me, and, biddin Bill “good day,” I come in.

Yourn, nearin the close.

CHAPTER XXXVII.
BETSY FAINTS. A VISION.

THE other day ex-Congressman Richer’s lawyer brought a man out to look at the farm. They driv into the gate, out through the bars back of the barn, across fust one field then another, the lawyer a pintin and layin it off, the feller a lookin and noddin his head.

Arter a while they come back and come up into the yard, the lawyer still a pintin, the feller still a lookin and noddin. I heerd the lawyer say:

“We want you to clear this all up. Clear away these bushes, and sow the yard down in lawn grass.”

As soon as I heerd that word “bushes,” I thought all of a suddint of poor “little Jane’s white rose-bush.”

I felt faint like—smothered—and a tear came a rollin down my cheek and dropped on the floor before I could git my apron to my eyes, and they kept a comin, no matter how hard I wiped.

When I use to read and hear of “sheriff sales” I dident take time to think what an awful thing it is to have the only place one knows on airth as “home” sold away from you. But now, when I know of what it is, I think of all the tears and sobs and heartaches and sich that has been a goin on around us, and we dident know anything about it.

Sometimes I find myself stoppin and standin still and lookin up in the sky and sayin:

“O Lord, is there no other way to do? Is there no way to save the women and children and hard-workin men from bein turned out of their homes, where they have lived and loved and been born?”

And every time I think I can hear a whisperin voice, jist a little piece away from me, a sayin:

“Yes, by reducin interest.”

And then in a minit or so it seems as though I hear a ringin in my ears, in words jist a little further away than the other, a sayin:

“It—will—be—done. It—will—be—done.”

If I only knew where we are to go to, and what Jobe can git to do, I might bear it easier. It seems as though an old man haint wanted to do work, and it seems every place is taken up.

Jobe has been out, ever since he has been able to go about, lookin for work and some place to move to.

Everybody seems to a heard of our bein foreclosed, and they dont seem to trust Jobe like they use to, though God knows he is as honest as he ever was.

Well, arter the lawyer had gone all around the place, givin his orders to the feller, he come up to the door and knocked. I opened the door and says:

“Come in.”

“No,” says he, “I jist wanted to know if you intended to git out by March the fust.”

Says I: “We will if we can find a place.”

“Well, you must git out whether you find a place or not,” says he, “as we want this gentleman to move in and commence spring work.”

“We will, Mistur Lawyer, if we can possibly find a place,” says I.

“Well, look here, Mrs. Gaskins,” says he, short like, “we dont want any ‘ifs’ about it. I notify you now, in the presence of this gentleman, that if you are not out by March the fust, I will see that the law puts you out. Now, take warnin.”

And at that he turned on his heel and walked off.

“‘O, Lord, is there no other way to do?’”

I am an old woman, and have had many hardships, but, Mistur Editure, in all my life I never had anything to strike my heart like them words did. It jist seemed like everything turned black before me, and I sunk down in the doorway and must a fell to sleep, for arter a while I woke up, or come to, as it were.

I had a dream while I lay there that I will never forgit.

I thought that a great, large man stood before me, and jist behind him stood two other good-sized fellers. The big man said to me, in a cruel, coarse voice: “Ive come to turn you out.” I thought I bursted out a cryin, and turned my eyes up toward the sky, as I had done before, and right there, a flyin through the air, come my dear little Jane, lookin jist as she did years ago before she died. I thought she throwed her little arms around my neck, and laid her little soft face agin my cheek, and says: “Dont cry, mamma. If no one else cares for you, I do,” jist as plain as I ever heerd her little voice in life.

I clasped my arms around her, and begin to feel a thrill of happiness as I once did, when the big sheriff stepped up and grabbed her by the neckband of her little dress, and, with a mighty jerk, threw her behind him, sayin: “Stop this sentimentalism. The law must have its way.”

I paid no attention to his cruel words, but jumped toward my little Jane, who laid there with the blood a runnin out of her little head jist above the left eye. Her eyes were open and starin, and, with a scream of agony, I cried: “Oh, my child! My child is dead!”

I was so shocked that it woke me up, and I found myself a layin there in the door, and, bein cold, I got up and went in, all a shakin.

From that day to this I can hardly think of anything but my little girl a comin through the air and throwin her baby arms around my neck.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE PARTING.

JOBE is gone. Last Monday morning bright and airly he started for Lorain to find work. He had hunted and hunted far and near, high and low, around here for work, but couldent find any. Some one told him there was lots of work at Lorain, and poor Jobe decided he would go there.

He only had $2.95. He said he would take the railroad to Medina and walk the rest of the way.

Ile never forgit the mornin he left.

We sot up late the nite before, talkin. We talked over our whole lives—about when we were fust married; about how different times were then and now; about the happiness we had then, and the plans we laid. Jobe was strong and healthy, and so was I. Money was plenty, and people were always lookin for somebody to work for them.

We talked of little Jane; of how we loved her, and how she used to love us. We talked of when she died, and how it nearly killed us; and then we both jist cried as though our hearts would break. We talked of how hard we had worked to try to git along in the world, and how our plans had failed.

Arter we had talked a good long while, and cried, and felt like cryin, Jobe he moved his chair over near to mine, and took my hand in his, and says:

“He drawed me over in his arms and kissed me.”

“Betsy, weve had our little differences. I know sometimes I have been tryin. Ive had so much to trouble me that at times I was peevish. But, Betsy, I want you to look over all my failins. You have been a good woman. You have done your dooty, and more than your dooty. It nearly breaks my heart to go so far away and leave you behind; but we have to give up the old farm, Betsy, we have to give up the old farm, and I must find some place to go to, and something to do. We must live, Betsy,—we—must—live,—and I must find something to do, to live. I hope to be able to find work, and have you to come to where I am before long.

“I surely can find something to do some place. I heerd Jonas Warner, that rich man in town, tell a feller the other day that anybody could find work that wanted to work. God knows, Betsy, I want to work, and if Mr. Warner is right, I surely can find somebody willin to give me something to do.”

We dident sleep much that nite. Jobe wanted to ketch the five o’clock train on the C., L. & W. Railroad, and was afraid of oversleepin hisself. He had to git up airly so as to git to town in time to ketch it.

“He was wipin his eyes and blowin his nose as he went towards town.”

That mornin I had his clothes done up in a neat bundle. I had washed and ironed all his clothes the day before, so he would have enough to do him till I could go to him.

He dident eat much breakfast. He said he “dident feel hungry.” When he got ready to start he come up to the winder where I was a standin, and, seem that I was choked up, my eyes full of tears, he drawed me over in his arms and kissed me; then, turnin, walked out of the door without sayin a word. The moon was a shinin bright, and I stood a lookin at him as far as I could see him. He was wipin his eyes and blowin his nose as he went towards town.

When he was gone from my view I still stood a lookin for some time, then sot down and cried, and kept a cryin every little bit all mornin. Everything seemed so lonesome like. Wherever I looked it seemed I could see poor Jobe a standin there lookin sad like.

He said he would rite as soon as he found work. I am lookin for a letter every day.

Poor Jobe! Little did he think, or me either, some thirty-six years ago, that in our old age we would be turned from our home by the law of our country. Little did we think that when we got old Jobe would have to go hundreds of miles from home, and out among strangers, a beggin for work to feed us by.

“Then sot down and cried, and kept a cryin every little bit all mornin.”

Jist to think of all the interest money and payments we have give Congressman Richer—some $3,800 all told. If interest had been less we would have had our home, and had it nearly paid for, and Jobe would not be gone out into the world to hunt work. If we had half or a quarter of that interest money we could buy us a little home to stay in the few remainin years of our lives.

But, then, interest must be kept up, and the law inforced, so as to enable Mr. Richer and his likes to live in style and assert the dignity of their citizenship. It has to be done, no matter if the hardworkin poor people are turned out of their homes and those that love each other are parted.

If Jesus was here and a makin laws, I wonder if he would have interest, and foreclosin, and turnin out, and all that?

CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE PREACHER AND THE SALOONKEEPER.

MY heart is so broke that I hardly know how to rite. This is March 3d, and yisterday arternoon they put me out.

I had about give up their comin, and was tryin to feel better, when all of a suddint I heerd a knock at the door. I opened it, and there stood three strange men.

Said the one who acted as leader: “Is this where the Gaskinses live?”

Says I: “One of them is stayin here, and the Lord only knows where the other one is.”

“I am a deputy sheriff,” says he, “and have orders to set you out.”

Says I: “Where is Mr. Richer?”

“In Washington,” says he.

“Where is his agent—his lawyer?” says I.

“In town,” says he.

“Well, dont they have to be here to put me out?” says I.

“No,” says he; “the law puts you out for them.”

“Well, Mistur,” says I, “couldent you let me stay a little longer? Jobe’s gone to hunt work and a place to move to. If you will let me stay, as soon as he finds it Ile go out without your botherin.”

“I cant do it, Mrs. Gaskins,” says he; “the law must be inforced. The law is no respecter of persons.”

Says I, pleadin like: “You see, I am a old woman, and not stout. Jobe is away, and I am here alone. If the law is no respecter of persons, why should it come here and put me out of a home that we have paid over $3,800 toward, jist to please the man that we have paid the money to?”

He shook his head.

“Where are you a goin to put me?” says I.

“I am goin to put you out,” says he; “out in the big road yonder, off these premises.”

Says I: “Mistur, please dont be so cruel as that. It would kill me to sleep out there all nite. Please let me stay a little longer—jist a little longer.”

“No use a talkin,” says he. “Ile have to do as the law says. Its not me a puttin you out, Mrs. Gaskins—its not me that is cruel. It is the law, the law, that is doin it.”

“Come on, men,” says he, speakin to the other fellers.

So they come right into the house, the house I had loved so well, walkin over the floor I have scrubbed on my hands and knees thousands of times, and begin to tear up my things and carry them out in the big road.

I jist felt so queer I could hardly breathe.

They tore down my stove and tore up my carpet, and carried out fust one thing, then another, and sot them down beside the road, till all I had was out there.

When they got it all out, the deputy come in and says:

“Why dont you go out there where your things are? You have no right here. You must git out, so I can lock up the house.”

Says I: “Mistur, is Congressman Richer a goin to move in to-nite?”

Says he, sneerin like: “Why, Lord no; Mr. Richer wouldent live in sich a house as this—he lives in Washington; he lives in a fine house.”

“Well, then, Mistur, let me stay in here till I hear from Jobe.”

“No,” says he, “you must git out.”

“They pulled me away from the winder.”

Says I, chokin like: “Mistur, I cant go.”

“Well, youve got to go,” says he. “Are you a goin?”

“I cant,” says I.

“Here, men,” says he, “take her out of here and out yonder, where she belongs.”

So one of them big men took hold of one arm, and the other hold of the other arm, and pulled me away from the winder where I was standin (the same one where I was standin the mornin Jobe left), and pulled me out of that dear old kitchen door and across the yard and out into the big road, where they had piled my things, and sot me down on a chair.

The sheriff had locked the house and follered them out.

When he came out he says, as though he wanted to be friendly: “Where do you think of goin to, Mrs. Gaskins?”

I looked at him to see if he was crazy or what, but I couldent speak, I was so full.

Says he: “Do you want the boys to put up your bed for you?”

I nodded my head.

They set my bed up and put two jints of pipe on my stove, and then got in their buggy and went to town. It was nearly sundown when they left me.

Soon arter they had gone Tom Osborne come a ridin by and brought me a letter.

As soon as he said “letter” my heart leapt. I knew it was from Jobe.

Tom said he was sorry to see me out here in the road, and the man really shed tears. He lives some eight miles from here, and wanted me to go home with him for the nite. But I jist couldent go. So he rode on.

Arter he was gone I got a lamp and sot down by the fire I had built in the stove, with some quilts around me, to read poor Jobe’s letter. And every word seemed to be another knife stuck in my heart.

Poor Jobe he is havin it hard too. I jist cried like my heart would break as I read what he writ. I send it to you to read. I want you to return it, as it is from the only person in the world that cares for me. Here it is—you can read it for yourself. You see it was writ at different times and places.

JOBE’S FIRST LETTER.

Elyria, O., Feb. 22, 1896.

To Betsy Gaskins.

My Dear Wife:—I have put off ritin to you thinkin I would be able to rite you somethin to make you happy, but to date I cant.

I got into Lorain the third day arter leavin you. I found a big iron works there and lots of men at work, but on the sides of the door to their office and at all the gates around the big fence they have signs stuck up, readin:

NO HELP WANTED HERE.

I went into their office, and asked them if they couldent give me something to do.

They said: “No, we have all the men we need.”

I told them how I wanted somethin to do at any price; of our bein foreclosed and havin to git out and all. They shook their head and said they “had to turn away hundreds of men every day,” and told me to “look around,” I “might find work somewhere else.”

So I left and went from one place to another, and everywhere I went I saw them signs and was told the same thing.

I found lots of men huntin work.

On nearly every street, and down along the river and over by the lake, were men a campin and a sleepin in railroad cars and outdoors; cookin by fires built along the banks and on the shore; “waitin,” they said, “till they could git a job.”

I got my supper with three fellers that nite that done their cookin that way. They seemed to be nice fellers. They was from different parts of the country.

“At all the gates around the big fence they had signs stuck up.”

That nite I got a bed for fifteen cents, and had forty-three cents left.

The next day I walked and walked and walked to find work, but couldent.

At nite I had twenty-four cents left. Not wantin to git clear out of money, I got into an empty box-car and slept the best I could. It was cold, and most of the nite I had to walk from one end of the car to the other, back and forth, to keep myself warm.

So this mornin I come down here to Elyria, and have been from one end of the town to the other tryin to find work; but nobody seems to want to hire me.

I find men stayin out around town here too. They say they have been all over the country, and cant find work anywhere. I dont know what I will do. Ile go over to Berea and see if I cant find somethin there. I will not send this letter till I git there.

Cleveland, O., Feb. 26, 1896.

Box-car 1406, Valley Railway.

“I asked him for something to eat.”

Betsy:—I am here. I will finish my letter. God only knows what it is to be out of work, out of money and out of home. I am not well. Ive had to sleep outdoors, in cars and barns and around lumber piles so much that I have a bad cold. I have not had anything to eat since yisterday mornin. This cold weather has nearly used me up. I got one day’s work cuttin ice, and got a dollar for it. That nite I got me a warm supper and slept in a bed.

I run out of money at Elyria, and come from there to Berea.

The first beggin I done was from the farmers on the way. I got one warm meal and a cold lunch. I was in Berea a whole day and nite without anything to eat, so I jist had to go to beggin agin. I went to the Methodist preacher’s house one of them real cold mornins. I knocked, and the preacher come to the door. I asked him for somethin to eat. He called to the hired girl and told her to hand me a lunch, and went in, shut the door, and sot down by the fire. I could see him a settin there a readin the Cleveland Leader, with his feet restin on a plush foot-stool, and while that girl was a gittin that lunch and I was a standin out there in the wind a lookin at that good big fire I thought I would freeze. My teeth shook.

When the girl brought that lunch I was so cold that I could hardly take it. It was two pieces of cold bread, with some cold beef shaved off and laid between.

I was hungry and tried to eat it; the bites seemed to stick in my throat, it was so dry and cold. What I did swallow seemed like chunks of ice in my stomach, and made me colder. I shook from head to foot. I couldent eat it, I was so cold. So I put what I couldent eat in my pocket, thinkin I would eat it when I got warmer.

I thought Ide die with cold. No matter how fast I walked, I dident get warm. I went on and on till I got down where the bizness houses were. I could smell coffee and warm meat a fryin. It jist seemed as though I had to go in and take some, but I knew I darent. It seemed to make me colder. Finally I saw a sign sayin:

FREE HOT SOUP.

When I got up to it a man opened the door, a sweepin. I stopped, told him I had no money and was cold, and asked him if I could go into his place and warm.

“Certainly,” says he, “go right in. Ile be in in a minit.”

I went in—yes, Betsy, went into a saloon, the fust time in my life. Dont blame me. I had to—I was so cold. The stove was red-hot. When the feller come in and saw how I was shakin, says he:

“Old man, this is pretty cold weather to be out.”

“Yes,” says I, shiverin.

He brought me a chair and told me to set down. Then he felt my hands and ears and says:

“Why, you are nearly froze.”

I told him about havin to stay out all nite, and about not havin anything warm for breakfast, the best I could, I shook so.

He went and got a big woolen cloth, held it to the stove till it got hot, and wrapped my ears up. Then he went and got a little glass full of liquor, and told me to drink it and it would warm me up. I told him I hadent any money, and had never drank a drop of liquor in my life.

“Well,” says he, “I know you have no money, and, if you had, a old man like you, in your condition, shouldent pay for it. If you dont wish to drink it I wont insist, but I thought it would warm you up.”

So he set the glass down on the counter and says:

“Ile make you a hot cup of coffee, and then I think you will feel better.”

When the saloonkeeper set the glass of whiskey down and went to gittin me some hot breakfast, I seemed to git colder inside as I got warmer outside. So, Betsy, I jist made up my mind that Ide drink that glass of whiskey if it killed me. And I did. Soon after I drank it I felt a warm feelin inside; and as I sot there it jist seemed as though I could feel myself a thawin out, with that big fire outside and that glass of whiskey inside. I sot there till the feller had my coffee and breakfast ready. It was the best coffee I ever tasted,—though, Betsy, I always loved the coffee you made,—and the fried eggs and the ham and the hot cakes jist seemed to melt in my mouth.

Well, arter I had my breakfast the saloonkeeper came around and sot down and asked me all about myself, and you too.

“‘Well, old man, sich things hadent ort to be.’”

And as I told all our trouble, about our foreclosin and sellin out, and my huntin work and not findin it, big tears would every now and then leave his big blue eyes and roll down his cheeks, and he kept a swallerin every little bit. When I had told him all, says he:

“Well, old man, sich things hadent ort to be.”

So, when I got ready to go, he shook my hand and wished me good luck in findin work; and when he took hold of my hand I felt somethin hard in his, and when he let go I had a silver dollar in mine. I handed it back to him, and told him I dident know as I could ever return it to him.

“No matter, pap,” says he, “keep it. If you are never able to return it, all right, and if you are able and never see me, ‘do unto some other human brother as I have done unto you,’ and the debt will be paid. Times are hard, and I have sich high taxes to pay that it makes money scarce with me, or I would give you more. I hate to see you go out in this cold; you are welcome to stay if you wish.”

But, Betsy, I was so anxious to find work and git a place for you that I couldent stay. So that day and nite I made it to here. This is a big town, but so far I have found no work.

Your lovin husband,

Jobe Gaskins.

When I got done readin that letter I was cryin out loud. Poor Jobe. I wonder where he was last nite.

Oh, how I love that man that took Jobe in and warmed him and fed him!

I love him though he is a saloonkeeper. I could throw my arms around his neck and cry on his shoulder with love for him and for his kindness toward Jobe.

Well, this mornin the world seems strange to me. Last nite arter I had gone to bed and could look up in the clear sky at the bright stars, it jist seemed to me, while I laid there in my bed beside the big road, that every star was a eye lookin down on me with pity. And, thinkin that they looked that way, I was not a bit afraid and went to sleep, and slept till daylite.

Hopin God will forgive them for makin and havin laws to put sich people as me out of home, I am

Your troubled and homeless

Betsy Gaskins.

CHAPTER XL.
“THEM ROOMS.” THE “DIRECTOR OF CHARITIES.”

THAT mornin arter I wrote you the last time—arter I had built me a fire in my stove and got my breakfast and washed up my dishes and made my bed—I sot down on a chair out there by the big road. I never felt so queer in all my life. Not a sound could be heard, except over on the hill near Jake Stiffler’s I could heer a cow a bawlin. It was awful lonesome. No one to speak to, nothin to look at, except my things piled up there beside the road.

I couldent help thinkin of poor Jobe—his beggin, and bein cold, and starvin, and sleepin in box-cars, and sich.

Well, arter I had sot there a while a thinkin, I felt so bad that I jist thought I would go up to the house and take a look at them rooms and the place we had so long loved as our home.

I felt afraid like to go, but I thought it might cheer me up to look into them rooms that I had cleaned and papered and swept—the rooms where Jobe and me had set in and slept; the rooms that had sheltered us in sickness and in health.

So I jist throwed a shawl over my head, and walked up the walk that I had walked up thousands of times.

There were the currant bushes, the lilac, the dead poppy stalks. And all the weeds and posies, that used to appear to wear a smile for me, now seemed to turn from me as if to say, “We haint yours any more. You have no bizness here now.”

“I slipped over and put my face agin the glass.”

And as I looked at them and felt that feelin, a lump would raise up in my throat, no matter how much I swallered and tried to keep it back.

Well, I walked on until I got up to the kitchen winder. When I got there it jist seemed that I couldent look in, but, knowin I had come there to see them rooms, half afraid like but determined, I slipped over and put my face agin the glass.

Everything was silent and still. There was my kitchen, all empty. Not a thing to be seen but that dear old kitchen—empty—no stove, no table, no chairs, no nothin. There was the winder where I stood cryin the mornin Jobe left. There by that winder I had set a combin my little Jane’s hair years ago, while she drew pictures on them same winderpanes with her little fingers. There were the nails Jobe had drove in the wall when we fust moved in; there was the same floor over which we had walked for years. Oh, how I longed to be a walkin over it agin! I was locked out—I couldent git in.

So I went from one winder to another, lookin in at them rooms. There was the same grate that had warmed us; there in that corner, evenin arter evenin, Jobe had set and studied; there in the other corner I had set and knit, or set and read. It seemed that I could see Jobe there now. Oh! how I would love to see him there. Poor Jobe! I wonder if he thinks of the evenins weve spent beside that fire together. There was our bed-room—empty, silent and still—no bed, no nothin. There in that room I had set, nite arter nite, with little Jane when she was sick; there she had throwed her little arms around my neck and put her fevered face agin mine the last time. From that room Ellen Jane Moore had carried her arter she was gone. It was empty now. I was locked out. I couldent go in.

Turnin from them rooms, I walked around the yard, lookin at the fence, the well, the coal-house, and the things that had been mine. Then, comin to the front yard, I come to the little white rose-bush; it seemed to look at me pleadin like. I started to go on, but I couldent. That rose-bush seemed to call me back. So I jist got me a sharp stick and dug it up, and took it down to where my things were and wrapped it up in a cloth.

When I got back to the big road, and was settin there wonderin what Ide do, how long Ide have to live there in the big road, where Ide go to and sich, Constable Bill Adams come a ridin by.

When he got up to me, says he:

“Why, Mrs. Gaskins, what are you a doin with all this stuff piled in the road?”

“Ime livin here,” says I.

“Well, youle have to git this stuff out of the road,” says he. “You darent obstruct the public highway. Its dangerous to have a pile of stuff like this in the big road; its liable to scare horses, and somebody might git hurt or killed. Its aginst the law, Mrs. Gaskins, its aginst the law, and you will have to move it.”

“The law put it here,” says I.

“No matter,” says he; “youle have to git out of here, or youle be arrested.”

“Where will I put it?”

“How do I know?” says he. “Youle have to look out for that yourself. Git it out of here, and that mighty quick, or you will git yourself into trouble.”

And he rode on towards town.

Well, as he rode away I sot down and begin to think. Here I was, a old woman, set out in the big road by the Law—put out of the house we had paid $3,800 towards; the house empty, and now comes the Law and orders me to even git away from where the Law had put me. What to do I dident know. I jist sot there a cryin and helpless, when I heerd wagons comin down the road. I looked up, and there come two wagons and four men down the hill.

They drove up and stopped, and there was Tom Osborne, and Charley McGlinchey, and that fat black-smith, and Jones the baker, all from Mineral Pint. They had come to move me.

Tom Osborne had went home the night before and told them about me bein put out in the big road, and they went together and got teams and come and moved me to town here.

They seemed to be nice, kind men, but talked like them Populists.

They dident talk much to me, but I heerd them talkin to each other, sayin: “Its a shame,” “a disgrace to civilization,” “wrong,” “wouldent be if the people could borrow money from the government like they do in Switzerland,” and all sich. They even said: “The time haint fur off when it can be done, and the likes of this wont be.” And then they said a good deal agin the money power and polerticians, and sich, until I was glad Jobe wasent there to flare up. I was glad he wasent there, though Ide give the world to know where he is, or to have him with me.

Well, they brought me to town and rented me this house here at 1412 West Front Street, and paid the rent for a month; then two of them drove off, and soon brought me a load of coal. While them two were gone for the coal the other two set up my stove, and fixed up my bed, and set things around in pretty good shape for men; then, wishin me good luck, and hopin Jobe would soon git work and I would git to go to him, they drove off. They all looked pityin like as they left.

I went to the post-office the next mornin to tell them I had changed my place of livin. I got this letter from Jobe. It jist seems there is no end of trouble for the people who are poor.

Poor Jobe, how my heart bleeds for him. Here is his letter. Read it for yourself:

JOBE’S SECOND LETTER.

Cleveland Work-house,

Cleveland, O., March 5, 1896.

To Betsy Gaskins.

My Dear Wife and Only Friend:—I am here in this prison—put here by the law. God only knows my feelins. I am not a criminal. Ive done no wrong. Betsy, don’t blame me. Pity me. I am a old man. I have worked hard. Ive been honest. Ive tried to do right. To-day I am in prison, wearin stripes. I was hungry. I had no money. I asked for bread. They arrested me.

It was day before yisterday. I had hunted for work all day. I had had nothin to eat for a whole day and nite. I was passin up Ontario Street, near Hull & Dutton’s big clothin store. I saw a well-dressed man, with a high silk hat on, with a hand full of paper money, talkin loud and offerin to bet $500 that McKinley would git the delegates from Allegheny County. There were several fellers standin there a listenin and talkin, and two policemen. I stepped up and asked the feller with the money if he could give me enough to git me a supper and bed. I was so hungry and nearly sick by sleepin outdoors.

The feller turned around and looked black at me. Then, turnin to the policemen, he ordered them to arrest me, sayin:

“Ime d—d if I dont intend to break up this beggin on the streets.”

The policemen took hold of me and jerked me out of the crowd and pulled me down Champlain Street hill to the city prison, and locked me in a iron cage.

I asked one of them who the big man was that ordered me arrested. He said it was “the Director of Charities, one of the leadin city officers.”

You may have read in the papers of him a havin a tramp arrested for askin him for somethin to buy bread with.

That tramp, Betsy, was me.

They say he gits $5,000 a year for bein “Director of Charities.”

Well, they tried me next mornin and found me guilty.

I am up for ten days. I cant find any work or a place for you till I git out.

They brought me out here in a wagon with a cage on it. They call it the “Black Mariar.” There was a lot of us in it. Betsy, pity me. Dont blame me.

Your lovin husband, Jobe Gaskins.

Mistur Editure, I cant comment. I feel so bad.

CHAPTER XLI.
A SORE HAND.

I AM sick. I have been sick since day before yisterday. I have a high fever. My head bothers me. I cant rite. Here is another letter I got from poor Jobe. Oh! how I wish he was here. I know he would care for me and watch over me and do for me while Ime sick. Read his letter and return it. They seem so near to me. I havent been able to be out of bed much to-day. If Jobe was only out of that dreadful place.

JOBE’S THIRD LETTER.

Cleveland Work-house,

Cleveland, O., March 9, 1896.

To Betsy Gaskins.

Dear Wife:—I got your letter yisterday. I cant tell you how I felt when I read of them a puttin you out.

Betsy, I little thought, the day you stood beside me and become my wife, that the time would come when you would have to sleep outdoors in the big road.

I felt then, Betsy, as though I was strong enough, and God knows I was willin, to provide a home for you as long as we both lived. Dont blame me, Betsy. Ive done the best I could. You know Ive worked hard, and we have lived savin, but by some unknown reason all I have aimed is gone. Mr. Richer has $3,800 of it. Ive done the best I could.

I have to work hard here in this place, but Ime not complainin, nor wouldent complain if I was gittin paid for what work I do, so that I could help you.

“I have to work hard in this place.”

Ime a wheelin coal to the furnace and a wheelin hot cinders away.

It keeps me bizzy.

There are lots of men in here. A great many for beggin—jist as I am. Betsy, dont let the neighbors know they have me locked up. I feel so disgraced.

I feel that if that “Director of Charities,” that had me arrested and put in here, had known that I had feelins; if he had known that I was a honest old man; if he had thought of the difference between a old man, hungry, away from home and out of money—I say, Betsy, if he had thought of the difference between sich a man as I was and a man drawin $5,000 a year as a leadin city officer, like hisself, I dont think he could have had the heart to have had me arrested and sent to prison.

Lots of the fellers in here seem to be honest, kind-hearted people, but poor and away from home. Not bein known to the officers, they are arrested and sent out here.

Betsy, I long to see you. When I git out I will come back. I cant find any work up here. Nobody seems to want to hire me.

My hand is sore. I can hardly use it. But then the feller what watches me work keeps me a goin. He dont allow me to stop a minit from the time they let me out of my cell in the mornin till they lock me in it agin at nite.

The way I come to hurt my hand was—I had a dream. Ive been a dreamin more or less for some time. Ime so tired and my bed is so hard. I suppose I dont sleep sound is why I dream so.

I dreamed I was in this work-house and there was more than a thousand other men in, and a comin in from ten to thirty a day—mostly for bein hungry and beggin.

Well, I thought one bright mornin one of the guards come through the buildin a hollerin and poundin on a big gong, and tellin all the fellers “to come into the big yard” that is in this place. He said that they had some good news for us. “Glad tidings of great joy,” says he.

I thought we all stopped work and went a hurryin to that big yard, and when I got there the yard was alive with people, men waitin to hear them “tidings.”

Well, when we all got into that yard two nice-lookin men climbed up on the platform that is in the middle and one of them says:

“Fellow-Citizens, Gentlemen and Brothers: We are delegated by the proper authority to declare unto you this beautiful morning a new law that has been made by our brothers, the law-makers at Washington. We solicit your undivided attention for a few moments.”

He then read:

“Be it resolved, by the Senate and House of Representatives, in Congress assembled: That the chief aim of human government should be to secure to each individual member of such government contentment and happiness; that this can be done only by securing to all the unrestricted opportunity to employ the means intended by the Creator for earning a livelihood—i. e., labor.

“Therefore be it enacted, That a fund of $500,000,000 be provided (by the issue of said sum in full legal-tender greenback notes, in denominations of one, two and five dollars) and set apart for the purpose of giving employment to such American citizens as may have no other employment, and who may go before any board of county commissioners in the United States and certify under oath that they are American citizens, are out of employment and desire to perform manual labor in the service of this government.

“Thereupon it shall be the duty of said county commissioners to assign to such citizens work in improving any of the public highways in said county, or in constructing and equipping any public utility in and for said county. The wages due each citizen for said services shall be paid to him, weekly, by the treasurer of the county in which the services are performed, on the warrant of the county auditor and order of the said commissioners. A monthly statement of the amounts so paid out shall be sent by the treasurer of the county to the Treasury Department at Washington, and thereupon the sum thereof shall be repaid from the fund aforesaid into the treasury of such county.

“On and after the passage of this act it shall be unlawful for any person to beg or ask alms in the United States except in cases of physical disability.”

Arter he had read this law says he:

“Gentlemen, we are aware that most of you are here because you are victims of the system that has heretofore prevailed—many for asking for bread when hungry, others for other offenses, which you may have been forced to commit in consequence of having no employment and being in want.

“Our county commissioners have assigned and set apart work, on the Shaker Hill road and Kinsman Street, sufficient to give employment to three thousand men for several months, and Governor Bushnell has, by proclamation, given their liberty to all inmates of the penal institutions of the State (except the penitentiary) who desire to avail themselves of the opportunity to work as provided by the law I have just read. You, gentlemen, are excused from making the oath mentioned.

“One nice little place that I thought I would rent as soon as I got my first week’s pay.”

“Now, all you who desire to work on these public improvements will form in line and pass out through the office, giving your correct names and addresses, as you now become once more respected American citizens. Form in line, two abreast, out on Woodland Avenue, facing east, and we will take pleasure in conducting you to the places of employment. There you will be supplied with the necessary tools, and arrangements will be made at different places where you can get accommodations until you receive your first pay for services. Your compensation will be $1.50 each per day.”

At that he stopped. Every man in that yard was in line. It seemed as though a cloud had rose up off from that crowd. Every one looked happy, cheerful.

Well, Betsy, we marched out into the open air onto Woodland Avenue, and each one gave his real name and address to the clerk as we passed out.

Then we all went out to the place where they were at work.

There they were—hundreds of them—a plowin, and a shovelin, and a haulin, a talkin and a laffin, a whistlin and a singin.

I looked at several houses as we were on our way out, and saw one nice little place that I thought I would rent as soon as I got my first week’s pay.

When the week was up I went, and sure enough it was empty. I hunted up the owner, and got it for $5 a month. I used $3 of the other four to pay my board.

I worked there three weeks, makin $27, and had sent for you. I was lookin for you on Saturday, and could hardly wait until you come. I felt young agin.

“I worked there three weeks.”

Well, when I got to my boardin place on Thursday night, I went in and up to my room, thinkin that in two more days you would be with me. When I opened the door, there you was a comin toward me with your arms stretched out. My heart leaped. I jumped towards you, throwin out my arms to embrace you, when——

I struck my hand agin the iron bed-post in my cell and nearly broke it. It woke me up. Everything was cold and dark. You was not there. I felt so queer that I sot up in bed, and I sot there a thinkin of that dream—thinkin of how glad I was to git work; thinkin of that law, and what a grand country this would be if sich was the law; thinkin of that little house with green winder-blinds; thinkin of you doin your cookin and sweepin, your dustin and cleanin in that little house; thinkin of me a makin $9 every week, and a countin the money out to you every Saturday night in new, crisp greenbacks; thinkin of all these things, and then thinkin of you a sleepin out there in the road, you a goin hungry and without shelter because I cant git any sich work; thinkin how happy we might be and how troubled we are. I jist had to cry. I had to, though Ime a man. I sot there on the side of that iron bed till I nearly froze; then I laid down and went to sleep and slept till half-past five, when the watchman came around to waken me up to go to wheelin coal and cinders for another twelve hours for nothin.

“Everything was cold and dark.”

I will git out a Monday, and will start back as soon as they let me out. Somethin tells me I ort to be there; and its no use me tryin to find work in this place or any other. They either have “all the help they need,” or else “dont want to hire a old man.”

Hopin this will find you well, and that some kind person has taken you in out of the big road, I am, Betsy,

Your lovin but discouraged husband,

Jobe Gaskins.

Mistur Editure, the more I think of that letter, the more I think of that poor old man a carin for me, and a dreamin about me, the worse it makes my head ache and the higher it makes my fever. If I had the money I would send for a doctor, but I haint got it; and if I had, I haint got anybody to go. I jist have to lay here. No fire, no one to look at, no one to talk to—jist lay here and look at the ceilin and think. Ile have to quit.

Hopin your folks are all well,

BETSY GASKINS (Dimicrat),

Wife of

Jobe Gaskins (Republican).

CHAPTER XLII.
HATTIE MOORE.

Tuscarawas County Poor-house,

Near New Philadelphia, O., March 15, 1896.

MR. EDITOR:—My name is Hattie Moore. My age is seventeen. My father was a soldier. My mother is a widow. I was betrayed by one of the leading city officials, and while he to-day is performing the duty and drawing the salary of an office of trust and honor, his child and I, its girl mother, are inmates of this poor-house.

I write to let you know about Betsy Gaskins. They brought her here yesterday. She is very sick. She is delirious and talks a great deal in her sleep, about somebody by the name of Jobe, and about their home and high interest, and $3,800, and being turned out, and all such things. Judging from the wrinkles on her face and the hard places in her hands, she must have been a hard-working old woman.

I pity her so much that every now and then I steal into the room where they put her. I stayed in there nearly all night last night, though I knew it was against the rules. But my baby slept well, and I hated to let the poor woman lie in that room all night sick and alone.

I just thought that if my old mother was sick and poor and taken to a place like this, I would love any girl who would be kind to her and pity her. I would love her even though she had been betrayed and was in the poor-house to get away from the taunts of a heartless world.

I asked the man who brought her here who she was and where she came from.

He diden’t seem to know much about her. He said that some people found her sick and delirious in a small house in the west end and notified the township trustees; that the trustees went to the prosecuting attorney and wanted to know what was best to be done with her and if the law would permit them to hire somebody to go to her house and take care of her. The prosecuting attorney asked if she had any money or property. The trustees told him that she had not; that she was very poor—had nothing.

“Send her to the poor-house,” says the prosecutor, “send her to the poor-house. The best thing to do with such people is to get rid of them.”

So, the expressman said, they came and got him, and they drove out and loaded her into his express wagon, and he brought her out here.

“Her name is Betsy Gaskins,” says he.

It was cold and stormy, and the poor old soul was in great pain all night.

A few minutes ago I went in, and she was breathing so weak that I put my hand in her bosom to see if her heart was beating, and I found this letter from “Jobe Gaskins.” It seems she is a married woman, and he has been away from home and is coming back. I send it to you, and, if you see him, tell him where he can find his wife.

Now, Mr. Editor, you had better send this old man’s letter back, so that if the old lady gets better she will have it. But I don’t know as she will ever be much better; she seems to be sinking.

Send the old man out as soon as he gets there.

From a friend to Betsy Gaskins,

Hattie Moore.

JOBE’S FOURTH LETTER.

Akron, O., March 12, 1896.

To Betsy Gaskins.

Dear Wife:—They let me out last Monday. I felt very strange when they opened them big doors and told me to go. When I got out onto the street I felt jist like a feller does when he is lost in a big woods. I dident know which way to start. But I wanted to git back to you. I saw a depot marked “Woodland Station,” and I went over there—went in and sot down. Pretty soon a passenger train come in headed south. Everybody got up to take it, and, I dont know why, but I went with the crowd and into the car. When the train got started, I thought of havin no ticket or money.

The conductor dident get around to me until we had passed Newburg.

I was lookin out at the big buildin where they keep crazy people, when he teched me on the shoulder and says, “Ticket.”

I told him I had no ticket nor money; that I was a old man; had been out tryin to find work and couldent; that my wife was sick and I was wantin to git back.

He said: “You cant ride on this train. Youle have to git off.”

I asked him if he couldent let me ride; that I would pay him some time if I ever got the money.

“No,” says he, “my instructions are to carry no one without a ticket or the money.”

I told him the people what owned the railroad was rich and wouldent care if he let a old man ride to Bayard.

“No,” says he, “you must git off at Bedford. Ime not permitted to carry you.”

Well, when they got to Bedford I jist sot still, thinkin he might forgit me. But when he come in I saw he was mad. He rang the bell, and the train stopped; then him and the brakesman come and took hold of me and dragged me out of that train, and when they got me out they give me a shove, jumped into the train, rang the bell and went.

“He teched me on the shoulder.”

They shoved me so hard that I fell down and struck my knee agin a big iron pin that laid beside the track, and hurt it so bad that I can hardly walk. Then I come on till I got to Hudson; then I got onto a freight train between two cars and rode to Cuyahoga Falls; there they arrested me for it and was a goin to send me to the work-house agin. But when I told them all they let me go if I would agree to git out of town in thirty minits. They went through all my pockets, to see if I had any money, before they told me that. I got out, and now I am walkin. I will git there as soon as I can. The soles are off my boots, and my feet are wet nearly all the time.

Hopin this will find you better,

I am your lovin husband,

Jobe Gaskins.

“I got onto a freight train.”

CHAPTER XLIII.
A FAMILY REUNION.

Tuscarawas County Poor-house,

Near New Philadelphia, O., March 25, 1896.

MR. EDITOR:—Your letter asking more about Betsy Gaskins received. I will tell you all I know. Whether Betsy Gaskins is living or dead I cannot say, and I never will know, though what I do know I never can forget.

The strange things I have seen since I last wrote you are mysteries that can only be guessed at; they cannot be solved.

Betsy had been growing worse every day till the night of that terrible storm. The rain and sleet and snow, the wind and hail, made it one of the most dismal nights I ever saw. The roaring in the woods on the hill back of the poor-house sounded like a storm on the ocean. In every direction cattle and sheep were bawling. It was so cold, and the noise, I suppose, kept them awake.

That night Betsy was worse. She had smothering spells that it seemed she would die in, and her suffering was terrible. I couldn’t leave her, though my baby was fretful and kept awake till after ten o’clock. I was with her almost all the time.

I had let the window down from the top to let in fresh air, as she seemed to need it. I had no light except what came in over the transom of the door from the hall.

It was about two o’clock that I was sitting there all alone. Betsy seemed to be getting worse very fast.

“Pushing back the hair of the sick woman, leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.”

The roaring of the storm, the bellowing of the cattle, the creaking of the window shutters and the moaning of that old woman made it sad and lonesome.

I was sitting there, thinking of what an awful thing it is to be poor and homeless and sick and friendless,—thinking of the wrong and misery, the cruelty and crime that is going on in the world against the weak and helpless,—when for some reason I looked toward the window, and there was the face of the most beautiful little girl I ever saw, looking in just over the sash. Her face seemed to shine, it was so bright. Her hair was the color of gold. I couldn’t speak.

That face (for the face and shoulders were all I could see) seemed to float in at that window, and for a minute stood still, like a humming-bird in the air, in the middle of that room, with its eyes steadily fixed on the old woman. Then it moved slowly and quietly downward and lit on the bed beside Betsy, and, pushing back the hair of the sick woman, leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. At that Betsy opened her eyes and clasped the little girl in her arms, saying:

“Oh, my child!”

The head said, “Mamma.”

They held each other there a minute or so, when Betsy all of a sudden threw her arms in the air, half rose up and screamed at the top of her voice:

“See! see! Look yonder! Your father’s burning! Go, child! Go!”

The little girl turned her head, and they both looked toward the west wall a second, as though they saw something terrible to behold. Then the child rose as quick as thought, and, like a flash, went out at the window, screaming in a tone that made the chills run over me, “Oh, my papa!”

Betsy fell back upon the bed, and seemed to be greatly troubled and in much pain.

I had set there possibly an hour, watching the sufferings of that poor woman, and thinking of that little girl, when all of a sudden I looked toward the window, and there again was the face of that little girl and the face of an old man. The little girl was pointing with her chubby finger toward the sick woman; the other arm she had around the old man. He was looking to where she was pointing, troubled like.

I can’t say I was scared. I just felt speechless.

When they had looked a little bit, both of them came in at that window—just floated in—and stood in mid-air.

Betsy was resting easier, and it seemed they didn’t wish to wake her.

“There lay Mrs. Gaskins.”

I could see more of the little girl than before. Both their faces were bright, and the lower down you looked the dimmer they got, till they became colorless. I thought I could see their feet, as clear as glass.

Well, after they had rested there in the air a few seconds the little girl took her arm from around the old man, and they both settled down beside the old woman, one on one side of the bed, the other on the other side, and they each stroked her hair back with their hands.

Pretty soon Betsy opened her eyes, and looked up, happy like, first at one, then at the other; then she stretched out her arms, and they both laid their faces down beside hers, one on one side and one on the other.

She seemed to rest easier then, only her breathing was slower and each time farther apart. Pretty soon I saw a mist or something gathering over her between the old man and the little girl. I watched it, and it kept growing brighter and brighter, till I could see the form of a woman; then I could see that it appeared alive and looked like Mrs. Gaskins, only happier. Mrs. Gaskins began to suffer now, and was getting her breath hard.

“There again was the face of that little girl and the face of an old man.”

Finally the old man and the little girl rose up, and each put an arm around this form. The form would first look at one, then the other. Then Mrs. Gaskins gave one long, hard gasp, and straightened out, and the form broke loose, and all three rose up in the air and floated to the middle of the room, stopped, turned, and all looked at the bed. Then they turned and gazed at me. I couldn’t move. They kissed each other and began to move slowly toward the window, each with an arm around another. As they went out through the window the little girl began to sing the prettiest song I ever heard, in a low, sweet tone.

When they were gone I got up and ran to the window. There they were, going up through the sky above the barn, the little girl singing at the top of her voice.

I stood there looking as long as I could see them. I heard that little girl still singing as they went out of sight over the hill back of the poor-house.

“In the morning there was found a white-haired man.”

I felt so weak that I don’t know how long I stood there, but finally I thought that I must run and tell the superintendent that Mrs. Gaskins had gone. With that thought in my mind I turned from the window, crossed the room, and was just opening the door, when I happened to look toward the bed. And there lay Mrs. Gaskins as she had lain all evening, only stiller.

I was scared. I could hardly believe it. I went to the bed. She was cold. She did not breathe. I rubbed my eyes and hands and face to try to bring myself to realize what it all meant. Then I went into my room and lay down beside my baby till morning.

I straightened out Betsy’s clothes the next morning before they put her in the box. While doing so, I found a little rose-bush, tied up neatly in a rag and pinned fast to her skirt.

This, Mr. Editor, is all I know of Betsy Gaskins.

Of Jobe Gaskins I know very little, unless it was he that came with the little girl.

In yesterday’s daily paper, however, I noticed this item:

“New Philadelphia, O., March 22, 1896.—Last night a supposed tramp entered the Canal Dover rolling-mill in an almost frozen condition and asked for shelter from the storm. In accordance with his instruction from the company, the night watchman ejected him. In the morning there was found a white-haired man, apparently sixty years of age, lying cold in death on the ash-heap. The initials ‘J. G.’ were marked on his shirt. His face was burned so that it scarcely looked like a human countenance. His feet and body were covered with ice and snow.

“The coroner’s jury, judging from the time the man was refused shelter in the mill and from the amount of snow on his feet and body, decided that he must have died between two and three o’clock the night before.”

Could this tramp, Mr. Editor, have been the old man who was trying to get back to his sick wife?

Hattie Moore.

P. S.—The rose-bush which I found pinned to poor Betsy’s skirt I have planted on her grave.

CHAPTER XLIV.
AFTER THE WOE, THEN COMES THE LAW.

BETSY GASKINS’ sad history and the terrible fate of poor Jobe—for he it was whose body was found on the cinder-pile—caused great excitement, not only in Tuscarawas County, but throughout Ohio, and even in many other sections of the country. One Chicago paper devoted a whole column to portraying the awfulness of turning an old man from a friendly shelter on such a cruel night as the one when Jobe Gaskins froze to death. Other papers in different parts of the Union expatiated on the hardships of the old couple from the time the hard hand of the law began to push them from their home until death took pity on them and removed them beyond the reach of man’s cruelty to man. The lesson of their humble lives was made the subject of sermons and of editorials everywhere.

By the time of the campaign of 1896, the people of the United States had become so wrought up that there seemed to be a spontaneous demand for the restoration of the conditions which prevailed when it was possible for Jobe Gaskins and his likes to pay off their debts. So universal was the demand that three parties nominated the same candidate for president. He made a brilliant campaign; but, owing to his being handicapped by a plutocratic, mortgage-holding, interest-taking running mate, he was defeated.

Out of the campaign and the knowledge gained by the people, however, much good resulted. In many States legislatures were elected that were above the corrupting influence of the money power. The people were awake to their needs, and many laws were enacted for the betterment of the conditions of the common people, particularly the poor and homeless.

Ohio, especially, was active in this direction. It seemed that nearly every member of the legislature had learned the story of Betsy and Jobe Gaskins, and had come to Columbus determined, if possible, to provide laws that would stay the hands of Ohio sheriffs from turning honest people out of the shelter they had erected by their own industry and economy, and to make it easier for people to pay for homes.

It was only the second day of the session when sixteen bills were presented in the House and four in the Senate, all designed to lessen the hardships of debtors and the burdens of the oppressed.

There seemed to be a unanimity of opinion that county treasurers should be authorized to receive money on deposit in order to protect the depositor from loss; that money so deposited should be exempt from taxation, and that legal interest should be reduced to four per cent. There was some diversity of opinion as to whether or not the treasurers should do a general banking business; all agreed, however, that money should be loaned out on first mortgage real estate security at not to exceed four per cent. interest. The bills were referred to a committee appointed for the purpose, and the following is the bill reported back by the committee, the chairman of which, Mr. L. W. Chambers, of Ashtabula County, became its champion:

THE BILL.

“Be it enacted by the General Assembly of the State of Ohio: That on and after the first Monday in April, A. D. 1898, any person so desiring may deposit money in any sum from one dollar ($1) up, with the treasurer of the county in which he resides, and receive therefor a certificate of deposit or a credit on a pass-book, and all such money may be withdrawn on demand unless otherwise stipulated in the certificate of deposit. The treasurer may require a notice of sixty days for the withdrawal of any sum exceeding one hundred dollars ($100).

“Sec. 2. The county treasurers of Ohio are hereby authorized to receive on deposit money from the citizens of their respective counties; keep the same separate from the other funds received by them; place the same in a special account, to be called the People’s Savings Fund; provide such extra clerk hire as may be necessary to attend to the business; lend the money of such fund on first mortgage real estate security to such citizens as may apply for same, at a rate of simple interest not to exceed four (4) per cent. per annum.

“All securities and title of property shall be certified to the treasurer by the auditor and recorder, and shall be appraised by a board of appraisers residing in the township where the property is situated.

“Not more than ninety (90) per cent. of the appraised value of any property shall be loaned thereon.

“The trustees of the respective townships of Ohio are hereby constituted a board of appraisers of the property on which loans may be asked in such township. For such appraisement, whether the loan is granted or not, the applicant shall pay said appraisers a fee of two dollars each. At least two of such appraisers shall go upon and assess the value of any such property.

“The borrower shall pay all incidental charges connected with any loan. The treasurer shall not receive more than one per cent. per annum on the money loaned, as his compensation for conducting and caring for said business; all interest received, less expense to said treasurer, shall be distributed pro rata to the depositors in accordance with the amount and time of deposit.

“A failure to pay interest for three years shall work a forfeiture of any loan made under the provisions of this act, and the property shall revert to the county without process of law further than order of court upon sworn statement of the treasurer as to such delinquency; and the mortgagee shall be permitted to occupy such premises for such a length of time as the payments made thereon shall amount to a yearly rental of four per cent. and taxes, after which the said property may be rented at not less than four per cent. and taxes, or sold at private sale at not less than appraised value.

“Any losses sustained by the depositors, through the defalcation or dishonesty of the county treasurer, or any other officer of a county, shall be paid by the county in full, and the said officer apprehended, his property, as well as any and all property transferred or assigned by him during his incumbency, shall be confiscated, and he shall be hanged by the neck until dead, without benefit of trial except to ascertain the certainty of such defalcation or dishonesty. In such cases there shall be no appeal, pardon or reprieve.”

No sooner was this law proposed than the telegraph wires were put in use to notify every banker in Ohio, as well as the principal bankers in Chicago, New York and other great centers.

Their hired agents were there. In two days the lobbies and corridors of the State-house at Columbus were crowded with well-dressed, well-fed, diamond-studded gentlemen from all parts of the country, crying out against such a law and picturing the direful results that would follow its passage.

Legislators were buttonholed, wined and dined, threatened, abused, coaxed, cajoled, persuaded and bribed for some five or six days. The newspapers of the country denounced the bill as “revolutionary,” “socialistic,” “destructive,” “ruinous,” and suggested that “the militia should be called out to drive the anarchistic law-makers not only from the State-house at Columbus, but out of the State of Ohio.” They bemoaned “the terrible disgrace that had already been brought upon the fair name of Ohio,” and claimed that “to uphold the honor and integrity of the State the bill must be overwhelmingly defeated.” Brilliant lawyers and leading business men were summoned to Columbus to oppose the bill and to tell the law-makers how bitterly the people were opposed to it.

All this time from ten to a hundred homes were being sold weekly by the sheriff of each county. Thousands were starving in Chicago, New York and other cities and towns, and all because during all their lives they had been paying directly or indirectly from six to ten per cent. interest to these same fat, well-dressed fellows who were now at Columbus trying to prevent legislation for the relief of the people.

For days it looked as though the bill would be defeated. Very few spoke in its favor, but one could hear criticism almost anywhere. Two days before it was to come up for third reading a thing happened, however, that gave it new life. Bill-posters in all parts of the city of Columbus filled the bill-boards and store windows with brilliant posters announcing that on the following night the famous actor James A. Herne and his company would play

“BETSY GASKINS (Dimicrat),

WIFE OF

JOBE GASKINS (Republican),”

at the Grand Opera-house, for the benefit of the poor of the city, and that the members of the General Assembly of the State of Ohio had been invited to attend free as the guests of Tom L. Johnson, of Cleveland. The large posters in the windows and on the bill-boards showed “Betsy Set Out in the Big Road,” “Jobe in Berea,” “The Cinder Pile,” and “Little Jane at the Family Reunion.”

Crowds gathered before the windows and about the bill-boards, studying the pictures. Strong men and brave women were seen to wipe away the tear of sorrow as they recalled and rehearsed the sad tale of Jobe and Betsy Gaskins.

In the afternoon word got out that the legislature had under consideration a bill that would make it easier for people to get homes. By morning of the next day it was the talk of the town.

The night of the show the large theater could not hold more than one-fourth of those who had come to see. The doors were closed at seven o’clock, and the performance began at once, word being sent to the disappointed crowd outside that Mr. Herne would give two shows that night, the doors to open for the second performance at nine o’clock, and, further, that seats would be free to all, only those paying who desired to contribute to the fund for the needy.

Immense enthusiasm, tears, and at times laughter, followed the players. As the hardships, trials and disappointments of poor old Betsy and innocent Jobe were made vivid and real by the actors, like conditions in the lives of fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters or friends came to the memory of nearly every one in the audience, and tears and sobs proved the interest with which the people were drinking in the great lesson that was passing before them. Finally, when the curtain fell on the last act, instead of the crowd rising and hastening to the exits, as crowds usually do, they sat for some moments as if spell-bound. Then individuals began to rise in their seats here and there, and, leaning over, to converse with their nearest neighbors in words and tones of consolation and hope, as though some great pall hung over them. Women were crying; the men looked earnest and thoughtful.

This was the condition of the audience when a great tumult was noticed in the front of the house; loud shouts of men filled the room, while above all others and on the shoulders of two brawny men there was lifted a middle-aged man, pale, nervous, yet seemingly calm. Every one seemed to be trying to reach his hand or touch his garments. He smiled. He was borne forward to the stage and placed upon it. At the same time two other men climbed on with him. When the larger of the two, who I afterward learned was the representative from Seneca County, vigorously pounded for order, the crowd settled back in their seats and quiet reigned. Then the big legislator said:

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have witnessed to-night one of the most wonderful plays ever presented to an intelligent public—wonderful in the fact that it is so true to life that nearly every one in the vast audience knows some near or dear one who is only Betsy or Jobe Gaskins under another name; wonderful in the fact that this proud nation of the United States, after an existence of over one hundred years, should have a system of laws that works such terrible hardships on her citizens, and then claim to be civilized or advanced; wonderful in the fact that these conditions exist on every hand, in every direction, and yet a nation of Christians has not risen up against them. But, good people, my heart swells with joy when I tell you that sitting by my side, carried here in the arms of admiration, is a man who has set out to relieve the people of Ohio from such slavery—who has introduced in the legislature a bill which will come up for a third reading to-morrow, and which will relieve the poor of many of such hardships as poor Betsy and Jobe Gaskins had to bear—a bill, if you please, that will make it easier for us and our children to buy and pay for a home.

“Fellow-citizens, I present to you the Hon. L. W. Chambers, of Ashtabula County, the chairman of the committee and champion of the bill I have just referred to.”

The audience arose en masse, climbed on seats, cheered, stamped and whistled, while Mr. Chambers, without a smile, but calmly and courteously, bowed and sat down.

Then the big legislator, after getting the crowd quiet again, said that the bill he referred to would enable any one with reasonable security to borrow money from the county treasury at not more than four per cent. interest, and that in his opinion the play they had just seen had in part offset the influence of the lobbying bankers who had been hanging around the Assembly hall like buzzards for nearly a week.

Mr. Herne then came out and requested the audience to disperse, stating that four thousand other people were waiting outside for a repetition of the play.

The audience left reluctantly. No sooner was the theater cleared than the second audience made a rush for admission. It was only a few moments until the house was filled again from pit to gallery.

The interest manifested was fully as great as that evoked by the first performance, and the acting again was superb. At 11:20 o’clock the curtain fell on the last act for the second time that night.

The next morning early people from all parts of the city could be seen traveling in the direction of the State-house, in street-cars, carriages, on bicycles and afoot. All seemed to be intent and anxious. Fully fifteen thousand people were on the State-house grounds by nine o’clock. They talked, whispered, argued and made speeches. The sole theme was Betsy Gaskins and the new law. The antiquated crank was there, claiming that it “can’t be done,” “better leave things as they are.” Every now and then a lobbying banker could be seen, slipping along, eyes cast downward, as though he felt his guilt.

When the session opened the galleries of the Assembly room were filled with people. The State-house was full. The gavel of the speaker fell. The chaplain offered prayer. He prayed that right might prevail; that the poor and heavy-laden might be unburdened; that the bribe-taker, together with the bribe-giver, might perish from the land; and, above all, he invoked the blessings of Divine Providence on the acts of that particular day.

After prayer silence reigned a while. It was broken when a tall, partly bald, large-faced, keen-eyed law-maker over in the northeast corner of the hall arose in his seat, took a general survey of the house and galleries, took a large roll of money from his pocket, and, waving it above his head, said in thunder tones:

“Behold! See that money!”

“Behold! See that money! There sit in this house fifty-three men who know where that money came from, and what it was given for. They know it because they each have received from the same hand like sums. They came here sworn to represent the people who elected them; they would sell them into slavery instead. They are bribe-takers, and have sold their votes and influence against the bill that comes up to-day. This hall for the last week has been surrounded by a horde of lobbying bankers and bankers’ lawyers, buying the manhood of men that the poor may continue to be oppressed.”

Then, turning and pointing toward a banker from Cincinnati who sat in the south gallery, he said:

“There is the man! I defy him to deny that he paid me the five hundred dollars I hold in my hand to vote and work against this bill!”

The banker was livid. All eyes were turned toward him. He sat looking straight at the legislator, who pictured the banker as a “thief,” a “murderer,” a “corrupter of justice,” a “despoiler of government,” and closed by waving his hand over the hall and exclaiming that such criminals had by their own acts put themselves beyond the pale of the law.

By this time the crowd had become furious. The Assembly arose as one man, many with rolls of money in their hands, and a cry went up that was awful to hear—a cry of lost manhood found.

There were repeated calls for order, but there was no order to be had. Well-dressed, sleek men could be seen hurriedly making their exit from all the doors of the State-house, and hastening at full speed in all directions. For more than an hour the tumult continued.

In the meantime some of the spectators had caught the Cincinnati briber and a lobbying lawyer from Findlay, and, securing a rope, tied them together, took them out on High Street, and made them run a gauntlet of some three hundred yards’ length through a maddened concourse of American citizens. Some had staves, straps, switches; others, lamp-black, flour, Venetian red, and whatever they could get to deface and besmirch the fine clothes, fair faces and dignified appearance of the two corrupters of the law. The pair trotted up and down that space until they became so fatigued and crestfallen that they fell prostrate and begged for mercy. They were permitted to go on sworn promises never again to come to Columbus to bribe or influence the people’s legislators.

After the tumult had subsided and when quiet had been restored at the State-house, some forty-eight members, seemingly under the influence of a stricken conscience, took from their pockets various sums of money and sent them up to the clerk as a contribution to the fund for the needy. In all there was $21,468. Many admitted that it was bribe money, and many others, while not openly admitting it, said so by their convicted looks. It was a solemn occasion. It seemed as though money and dishonor had been routed and the spirit of human justice reigned in that hall, touching each heart with unseen hand.

The bill that would make it “easier for the poor to live and secure homes” had come to life again. When the bill was read there was a murmur of general approval. Its champion made one of the most eloquent and pathetic speeches ever delivered in the State-house at Columbus. He showed how, at six per cent. interest, all the wealth of the nation may pass into the hands of the money-lenders every sixteen years, and leave of the annual increase only enough to support the great mass of the people with a meager living. He showed how the bankers had conspired together to rob the nation in time of peril; how they had robbed the business men, robbed the masses, robbed everybody by their contraction of the currency and their thieving, unjust laws. He said:

“We have had demonstrated here in this hall to-day the manner in which the bankers have looked after the interests of the country for the last thirty-five years. They know no god but money, and with money they have corrupted the world. They are of no service to either God or man, and yet they demand that both man and God bow before their will.”

He showed how hundreds of millions of dollars had been stolen from depositors in the banks of the United States by suspension and failure, the result of the most dishonest, the most unsafe system of banking known to the world. “The American banker laughs when asked for security; takes all the money he can get; breaks up at pleasure, and mocks the grief of the poor depositors.” Closing he said:

“Fellow-legislators, I appeal to you for the passage of this bill. I appeal to you in the name of common honesty; I appeal to you in the name of thousands of hard-working citizens who, desiring to save their earnings, now have no safe place to put them. I appeal to you in the name of the millions of husbands and fathers whose shoulders are stooped under the burdens of high interest and money contraction heaped upon them by this conspiring horde of money-mongers. Let our motto be: ‘Justice to mankind; equality before the law.’ And let human rights and human liberty be our ever-burning beacons of guidance.”

Then followed the member from Sandusky County. He took up the feature of the bill that favored the exemption from taxation of money deposited in the county treasury. He showed how a tax on money always fell on the borrower in the way of increased interest; how, if we take taxes from money and give the people a safe place to deposit, thousands of dollars, now kept out of circulation and hidden in the homes of the people, would come out and be used in the channels of trade to the benefit of all. He then appealed to the legislators to be men and patriots, and to spurn with contempt the influence of the lobbying money-lenders and corruptionists.

Many others spoke in favor of the bill, and only one or two offered any opposition. It was evident from the beginning that the opponents to the measure were routed, and when it came to a vote the bill passed with only fourteen votes in the negative.

When the result was announced the scene on the floor and in the galleries was one of joy beyond description. Liberty, long chained, had broken her bonds. Men grasped each other’s hands, and women wept with joy. They saw the dawn of the new day of liberty—freedom from debt.

The bill passed the Senate the same afternoon and became a law on the 18th day of March, 1898.

The news was telegraphed all over the world. The county treasurers of Ohio were instructed to begin on the first Monday of April to receive the people’s money on deposit and to loan the same to the people at four per cent.

In every county seat, in almost every town, post-office or store, around nearly every fireside, the new law was discussed. When the first Monday of April came scarcely a man could be found who did not thoroughly understand this “law for the common good of the common people.” As soon as the doors of the banks were opened, men began to draw out their money, carry it over to the county treasuries of the State, deposit it and depart for home. Others called at the county treasuries, signed mortgages bearing four per cent. interest, and borrowed money to pay off their mortgages, held by the banks, drawing seven or eight per cent. interest, returning home feeling a thrill of new life and new hope.

No sooner would one borrower pay off an old seven or eight per cent. mortgage at the banks than would some depositor withdraw the money, carry it to his county treasurer, deposit it, and another borrower would deposit a new four per cent. mortgage and pay off an old seven or eight per cent. mortgage at possibly the same bank.

This continued for nearly six months, by which time most of the loans on which the people had been paying seven or eight per cent. had been converted into four per cent. mortgages, payable to the various counties. Most of the bankers were honest and continued to take in money on old mortgages and pay it out to the depositors until their business was settled up in full.

In Tuscarawas County the aggregate of the mortgages held by the six banks was $1,048,692. On this amount the people saved by the new law an average of three and one-half per cent., or $37,703.22. This sum, instead of being paid to the bankers of the county each year, was saved by the borrowers, and, being applied on the principal, helped pay off the burdens of the people.

The first man in New Philadelphia to withdraw his deposit was Clem Waltz. He had $2,200 in the First National. He drew it out at 9:10 a. m., took it to the county treasurer, deposited it at 9:28 a. m.; and at 9:52 a. m. Seymour Grimes borrowed $1,600 of it on his River Bottom farm, and paid off a mortgage against him held by the same First National. About the same time Jacob Moore borrowed $500 on his house and lot on Eighth Street for the same purpose. So by 10 o’clock $2,100 of that $2,200 taken out by Waltz was back in the bank, and two hardworking, honest, industrious citizens were paying only four per cent. interest instead of seven or eight. And Clem Waltz had all of Tuscarawas County back of him as security for his $2,200, and would receive three per cent. interest on his money clear of taxes.

About 11 o’clock Robert Witt came into the county treasurer’s office with $2,000 of the same money that had been paid to the bank by Moore and Grimes, and by noon it was loaned out to other persons who would rather pay four per cent. interest than seven or eight. In the afternoon business was still brisker.

The first day there was $38,000 withdrawn from the various banks; deposited with the county treasurer; loaned to the same people that owed the banks; paid back into the banks; taken out and placed in the treasury, etc.

The first week loans to the amount of $356,828 were thus changed. Everybody seemed to be happy except a banker here and there. Many bankers, however, admitted that they were pleased to see the poor have more chance in life.

In six months’ time all the banks except the First National had closed up their business and quit. Business in all other lines has picked up. Two of the ex-bankers are clerks in the county treasurer’s office, while the others, being rich, have decided not to engage in any business for a while, feeling that it is due themselves and the community that they take a long-needed rest.

Betsy’s dream has, at least in part, come true. Jobe’s dream still remains to be realized. Millions of men are still out of work. But the people have been aroused. They are thinking hard, and soon they will act. They will act at the ballot-box, and by their votes they will declare that “the chief aim of human government should be to secure to each individual contentment and happiness, and that this can be done only by securing to all the unrestricted opportunity to labor.”

“Work for the unemployed” is the issue on which the people will fight and win the battle of the ballots.

There is much talk that a memorial be erected to Betsy Gaskins—not to perpetuate the memory of her hardships, but to ever keep the people in mind of the fact that every liberty or right we enjoy has cost much suffering, distress and woe, and, further, that every advance toward a perfect state of human society as taught by Jesus Christ has been in spite of selfish and ignorant wealth, and never by its aid.

Long may the spirit of human justice live, is the prayer of

The Editor.

BROTHERS ALL.

BROTHER of mine, if one should come,

Should come to your door to-day,

With the marks of the nails in His hands and the scars

Of the thorns on His brow, and say:

“Brother of mine, I stand in need;

I am He who was crucified;

Will you help me to-day in word and deed?

Will you stand to-day at my side?”

Brother of mine, I know that you

Would give Him this answer true:

“You died for me, and what can I do

But die, if I may, for you?”

Brother of mine, if one should come,

Should come to your door to-day,

With the scars of toil on his hands and the marks

Of the sweat on his brow, and say:

“Brother of mine, I stand in need;

I am being crucified;

I have sought for work from door to door;

I am everywhere denied.

“Brother of mine, I ask not alms;

I have asked no man to give;

I but ask for work to earn my bread;

I ask the right to live.”

Brother of mine, what would you say,

What would your answer be

To this lowly brother of Him who said:

“Even so unto me.”

Henry Benson.

Part II

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The world’s oppressor.

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