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.

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.

“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]

Footnote 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.