When one comes to the last group, a sense—almost of awe—is leavened by a decided sense of amusement. Julia Emory, Betty Gram, Anita Pollitzer, Mary Dubrow, Catherine Flanagan are all little girls. But in Suffrage work, they were active, insistent, and persistent in inverse ratio to their size. In ratification, that legislature was doomed on which any two of them descended.
What they accomplished! Once Alice Paul turned Anita Pollitzer loose on the entire State of Wyoming and Anita Pollitzer brought Wyoming into camp. It is impossible to do justice to all of them, to any of them. But as an example of how they worked, I am quoting from letters written by Anita Pollitzer describing various experiences in her work of organization. I use Miss Pollitzer’s letters, not because they are exceptional but because they are typical. Space will not permit me to do equal justice to any of the others. But perhaps some day all those marvelous narratives will be collected. Miss Pollitzer writes me as follows:
Wyoming
“Campaign against the party in power”—late October, 1918—snow on the ground and no friends in the State—traveled miles to get help of most influential woman, found her lying on the floor of a church with brass tacks and a hammer—She said she was “chairman of the committee on laying carpets in the church,” and that was all she could undertake.
Cheyenne wonderfully beautiful—plains—most exceptional place for campaign purposes—forty minutes between street cars—snow miles high and every woman demanding a separate visit. Influenza epidemic so bad that it was considered immoral for six women to meet in a parlor—only way was to campaign by dodgers and street signs—Got permission from owner of building to put a forty-foot purple, white, and gold sign, suspended it from the most prominent building—Town literally gathered in groups to see it—I got up next morning at seven and sign was down—I had “antagonized”—so I went to call on the Mayor and we toured the town, and rehung the sign on an even more important street, and I had double publicity, the Mayor taking full responsibility for the sign even inquiring if it would “run in the rain.”
Such fearful snow, could get no billboard men to put up my big paper signs outside of the cities, and I wanted them on cross-country roads. I met a woman delivering newspapers, explained our campaign and my difficulties, and she offered us her eighteen-year-old daughter and a box of stickers, and we tramped the automobile roads and papered the tree trunks—Posters.
This is my first National Woman’s Party trip. Wyoming a real adventure—South where I have always lived (Charleston, South Carolina) so utterly unlike—When I went out to mail my thousands of circular letters each night at two A.M. funny Filipino bell boys and other kinds would escort me and carry the thousands of circular letters to mail box. Local post-office really asked me to be “more considerate.”
South Carolina
Getting Senator Pollock’s vote seemed largely a question of getting the farmers of South Carolina. If Pollock (the Progressive) was to beat Senator Smith (the Reactionary) he must please the farm element.
So I journeyed out to Mayesville—arrived on hog-killing day—at the house of Dabs—impressive person, leading farmer of South Carolina. We ate all day, and sat around a glorious fire, and in the afternoon Mr. Dabs wrote a letter that he gave me to take to town to mail that helped more than we’ll ever know. In the letter Dabs spoke for the farmers, urged Pollock to declare for the Suffrage Amendment, and ended, “We farmers are doing little talking but a lot of thinking.”