The Story of the Woman's Party

by Inez Haynes Gillmore

The man at the other end was in Chicago. And the next train was due in six hours. Then on to a little town where I sat on a pile of baggage and waited until the Republican delegate arrived. “I hope,” he said, “that the Republicans will take the initiative and ask for a special session. Yes, you bet, I’ll waive my pay.”

Then a Democrat, who said he would fight a special session to a finish. “Knowing what it will mean to your Party if you do?” I asked. We went into it from the political viewpoint. Then he saw the end in sight. We carefully went over the thirty-six States. He rubbed his head and looked at the opposite wall (or it may have been the State of Maryland he was gazing at so intently). “You know,” he said finally, “I am an anti-Suffragist at heart, but at the same time I am no fool. The thing is here, and the point is, what is the best thing to do about it. I will not urge a special session, but I will not fight it.”

Then on Tuesday, Mrs. Donald Hooker, our Maryland Chairman, went over the poll with the Governor. Man by man, they considered the delegates and senators. Yes, this one was sure, that one was practically sure but wasn’t pledged and so we wouldn’t count him yet, another was hopeful, another was hopeless, and the then uncompleted poll stood fifty-nine to thirty-eight in the House and thirteen to eleven in the Senate. We looked expectantly at the Governor. “I need more time to consider,” was what he said.

“In the meantime,” said Mrs. Hooker to me as we went out, “we will complete the poll as fast as possible. A big majority will surely convince him that it must go through.”

So off to Southern Maryland and the counties around Washington. One legislator I found in Washington in a big, cool office, dressed in a Palm Beach suit and on the point of departing for a vacation. I looked at him and thought of canoes and bathing suits which had been shoved aside for me till after the special session. “I hope you will have a good time,” I told him. “Mine will come after you have voted ‘yes.’” He smiled happily and his reply made me smile happily too.

One man was in his wheat field. ‘Way into the country we went by automobile where no trains ran and no electric cars penetrated. We reached the town and inquired at the hardware store for our legislator: “Mr. F——? Oh, he don’t live here, he just has his mail sent here, he lives ’bout fo’teen mile round yonder.” “Fo’teen mile round yonder,” we finally found his home. “Well, you see it’s this way,” explained his wife. “He might’ve been home, but Mr. So-and-So is thrashing wheat and my husband went over to help him get it in before the storm.” We noticed clouds in the sky. We went on to the So-and-Sos’ farm. At the farmhouse, we all alighted. My companions immediately made for the chicken yard where they made friends with Mrs. So-and-So and helped her to feed the chickens. Afterward, they told us of the strong Suffrage speech the farmer’s wife had made to them, who being the mother of eight children—six girls and two boys—had come to the conclusion that nobody needed Suffrage more than the farmer’s wife. Two of the little girls took me out to the field, up a dusty white road we walked, climbed rail fences and—oh! how good! picked a few blackberries—and came at last to the thrashing field. “No,” said my man, “I can’t see that Suffrage is right, and I can’t therefore vote for it.” “Did you think the war was right?” I asked. “Oh! of course.” “And why did we go to war?” I asked. “To get democracy,” he answered. “Exactly,” I said. “And President Wilson said that democracy was ‘the right of all those who submit to authority to have a voice in their own government.’” “Now look here, Missie,” said my friend, “I believe women are superior beings to men, and if they were to vote, they’d have to be equals. Now look at this hay stack. You could no more pitch hay than——” “Will you lend me your fork?” I asked. I stuck in the form, gave it the peculiar little twist, then the little flop, squared my shoulder and up it went on the wagon. Three times. “Well, I’ll be jiggered,” laughed the legislator, “labor is scarce and now I’ll know where to look for help when I need it!” “Yes,” said I. “And we have come to you for help. We need your vote.”

On to the next, we climbed into the machine and sped away.

And so it runs. Sometimes, we strike an obstinate anti who will not even listen to what we have to say, even though I have traveled weary miles in trains and on foot to find him. Sometimes we have to put up at a funny little village hotel because an inconsiderate legislator has gone out of town for a day. Sometimes they are cordial, and offer all sorts of help. Sometimes the road lies through beautiful country, occasionally in hot, stuffy little towns. At fastest, it is slow work. Why do legislators live so far apart and in such inaccessible places? And generally so very far from anything to eat! Some evenings as it begins to grow dark, I am keenly aware that I have had nothing to eat since breakfast. But that is part of the game, and after all what does it matter when I can write to Headquarters before I fall into bed, “We can add the following names of legislators to the list of pledged, and all of them have offered to waive their pay.” So far only one has refused to waive pay.

So, with a big majority in both houses pledged to vote for the measure, there remains nothing but the calling of the special session. This, it is up to Governor Harrington to do at once.

And this, according to the following answer to Attorney General Palmer’s letter, he still refuses to do. Yet the Governor must surely yet see the light, as he knows that there IS no question of defeat if a special session is called to ratify.