Part 3

The grievous depression we are passing through must be attributed to the war in the Orient. Without war cotton would now be from 12 to 15 cents per pound, even with the big crop. Think what prosperity this would have meant. Can anyone contend that the United States should be indifferent to this war? It may be pointed out that our diplomatic moves were masterful, both in getting the powers to commit themselves to limiting the war zone, and to preserving the integrity of China, and also in negotiating, by cable, treaties with China, not Russia, opening up Mukden, Dalny and Antung, in Manchuria, thus recognizing Chinese sovereignty, and placing the United States in the same attitude as Japan, in standing for the evacuation of Manchuria. Unfortunately, our diplomatic moves had but little deterrent effect, not being backed by an adequate navy. Had we possessed an adequate navy, I am bold to say that Manchuria would have been evacuated and the war would not have come to disturb the earth and bring the present depression over the Southern people.

It is hardly necessary to point out that our losses already incurred would have covered many fields over the cost of such a navy.

But as great as are these losses they cannot compare with the greater losses that may lie ahead, if the present drift of events should go unchecked and lead to a general war over the division of China.

Naturally, the Continental powers of Europe do not wish to have to compete with our industrial nation on the basis of an equal footing in this great market. They have, therefore, combined to seize China by force, and partition it among themselves, leaving the industrial nations out.

The first step taken in this direction came at the conclusion of the war between China and Japan, when the Continental powers intervened to despoil Japan of the fruits of victory, preventing the consummation of the treaty of Shimonosoki, that would have ceded to Japan part of Manchuria, including the Liaotung Peninsula with Port Arthur. Soon Russia came to occupy the same territory wrested from Japan, Germany seized Kiaochao, and part of the Shantung Peninsula, Italy attempted to seize a Chinese port, and France became active on the frontier of Indo-China.

The next step in the seizure of China is planned for the present war. Indeed, the seizure of China is the very purpose of the war, and to this end Russia is conducting her war operations.

The chief aim of this year’s campaign has been to change the public opinion of Europe. Thus it is that Russia has conducted a pre-arranged system of retreats, and that the inspired press of Europe has raised the hue and cry of “Yellow Peril,” with such success that the peoples now stand with their governments on the side of Russia. The combination is ready to move, and we can expect renewed reports of Chinese violation, of neutrality, of Chinese disturbances and Japanese intrigues in China, Russia reporting upon the affairs in Mongolia, France upon the affairs in Kwangsi, and Germany in Shantung and Chili. The agents of these powers will probably facilitate and exaggerate the Chinese disturbances, and then upon the pretext of preventing massacre and a general Chinese uprising, the armies by pre-arranged program will enter and occupy the Provinces of China, never again to leave.

Opposition on the part of Great Britain is evidently anticipated, and the inexplicable seizure of British ships, followed later by the inexplicable firing upon British fishing vessels, appears as part of a plan to excite British indignation, so that at the opportune moment, the British may be the more easily provoked to commit an act of war which would at once put into operation the Russian treaty of alliance with France, and this would be the signal for Germany, Austria-Hungary and Italy to join Russia and France.

Thus the present war is producing a grouping that imperils the balance of power, placing a heavy preponderance on the side of the military as against the industrial nations or on the side of war as against the peace forces. No thoughtful observer can fail to see here all the elements for a world war; nor can we look except with alarm upon the declination by the military powers of the interstate to the proposed second convention of The Hague, and the Russian note complaining of alleged violation of neutrality by China. It is idle to imagine that the United States, the foremost industrial power, with more at stake in the Orient than any nation, could look on with indifference.

We should awaken to the full significance of the events gathering in the Orient. The two antagonistic systems, militarism and industrialism, are gathering for a death struggle. The Orient is the battle ground—China is the objective.

If militarism succeeds in intrenching itself upon the yellow race, securing the myriads upon which to levy for men and for means, then it will perpetuate its harsh reign for centuries yet to come.

On the other hand, if thwarted in obtaining the spoils of war and left simply to a fair competition, militarism will be unable to hold its own, and will be driven to the wall, and be compelled to disarm by the great economic forces of commerce and industry, and we can then confidently expect the establishment of general and enduring peace long ere this century is gone.

What would be the effect upon cotton?

If peace is restored and maintained, cotton will start again upon its upward course and in a few years, with such a vast demand as China would create, I am conservative in saying that the price would pass the 20 cent mark, and remain above this mark, no matter how large the crop.

On the other hand, if events are allowed to drift on and a general war comes, cotton would become a drug on the market, even though reduced acreage, calamity and distress would spread over the South. Indeed, with militarism uppermost, wars and rumors of wars would continually disturb the world, nations would be exhausted and lose in their buying capacity, and the myriads of helpless peoples would pass under the military yoke and remain unable to buy clothing. The greatest source of Southern prosperity would be permanently blighted, and a serious blow would be struck at the general prosperity of America, and at the happiness of mankind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE MASTER-HAND.

BY GARNET NOEL WILEY

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

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

THE BOY IN GRAY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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