The Daily Worker Newspaper, July 12, 1924, Page 12

© PTET ery pes ray oo are es erry errr aa , National WOMEN AT ST. PAUL N the center of the picture, of course, were the members of the Woman’s party, because , they were there as women, and with ” a distinct object. ' that sex equality was a fundamental They had been told * principle with Communists and that the Communists would control the convention, and they were there to , challenge this boasted principle and to see that it was emplanked in the * platform. The question unfortunately, is a complex one, and the various women’s organizations themselves are at odds, because absolute equality means the abolition of the protective laws now in force, and some think these are ne- cessary in the present stage of in- dustry while others argue that they are a handicap, and even that they were deliberately placed there by the enemy man, to prevent “scabbing” of women by working for lower pay and ionger hours, the theory being that without an open scramble, women could not compete. But none of these equality, advecates whether of com- plete or protected equality have any patience with the Communist conten- tion that women should organize as workers rather than as women, that there is little to interest the working woman in the object of the bourgeois women’s parties and that the right to equal exploitation with her fellow vic- tim, the working man, is not an ob- ject to struggle so madly for when there is the great array of women workers to be organized on the job. There was a-free-evening at the convention when the hall was not available, and the Workers Party filled that in witha “banquet” at The (Continued from page 7.) ‘ and we responded with a fiutter of K py @ million desires to run far away from here into thése new light vistas. Marie came along\and sat down op- posite me, looking with her big, wist- ful eyes thru the little window of “my hut towards the great forest. Si- _ lently we left the house, she took my ‘arm, and I sense that her heart is » beating very fast. “What is it, Marie?” I ask her. She looks up list- lessly, silently, and we walk on to the forest, while she clings closer and closer to me, as if in mortal fear of something dreadful that is about to happen. What a strange sight our two dark figures make up in this milky-white world, two lonesome, wandering souls, so near and so distant. Whither are we going? Hush, there are voices from afar, familiar voices. We sud- denly. wake from our dream, and presto! Marie, our dear Marie of old, is again before me. The sorrow has left her eyes, her melancholy is gone, and obeying a quick tug of her arm, I am running fast after her toward the voices. In a moment we are in the forest, and thru the trees per- ceive our colony camped out on a strip of land between the trees, cov- ered here and there with sparse green patches. A big campfire.fed by enor- mous logs and branches shoots out gi- gantic tongues of flame which cast grotesque, ribbon-like, purple sha- dows upon the snow. We are hailed with shouts. Our Grousinian comrade rises with a glass full of whiskey and drinks our health. There is a boil ing samovar upon the ground, and in the center of the improvised camp a red flag strung up on a tall tree flutters quietly to the breeze Tif the midst of this wild, arctic nature where spring is still blended with win- ter and ni ith day. In an instant Marie was at the flag surrounded by all the members of our colony. Some one hands her a filled glass, and all drink at one gulp. Then we sing all in chorus the “Inter? national,” and our voices ring far into the depth of the night, and again Marie’s voice rises over all of ours, Ryan Hotel. Incidentally the great majority of delegates seemed to be present in sympathetic accord, and the woman’s party was represented by all its delegates. There were twenty-five speakers listed, but need- less to say the program was closed near midnight with many speakers unheard. On the woman question, Julia Poyntz spoke for the Commun- ists. Mabel Vernon followed with a spirited and rather scathing arraign- ment of the Communists’ position charging them with inconsistency in struggling for the temporary right of free speech while minimizing as a temporary measure the freedom of women. When Joseph Manley reported at the convention for the - resolutions. committee, he announced dramatical- ly, “Our committee was raided! Raid- ed by the Woman’s Party.” And “raid” is perhaps the happy word to express their incursion, for while they are all very feminine and attractive gentle- women, this group—Lucy Branham, Mabel Vernon, Aliée Paul—they are very spirited and aggressive fighters for their cause. One, is reminded a little by mother-tigers on a forage. The committee adopted a resolution declaring broadly for the principle of equality. We are now challenging the National Women’s Party to sup- port the only party which supports them. There were present also with them, .a group of local women, Miss Cane of the Minnesota legislature, Mrs. Calvin and half a dozen others of the city club where we were cordial- ly welcomed. One sympathetic lone woman, is a member of the teachers’ union of 400 members, affiliated with the A. F. L., therefore separate from MA just as it did that night at Petrograd. We drink again. Marie loosened her tightly drawn hair and suddenly she whirls away in a southern | dance across the field; we sing > ctapping handg and accompani by two guitars atid a harmonica. Soon the Caucasian and a few more of our group join Marie, and it seems as if the entire forest had joined them, the mighty old trees and the thick under- brush, all are moving and dancing to Marie, the queen. She danced away with the Grousinian ahead of the rest. Now and then they met, their arms interlocked and the harmonica and the guitars play faster and faster, a militant, boisterous march. Soon we are all swirling passionateiy, forget- ful of all and everything in a mad “carahod.” “Fill up the glasses,” Marie orders, and our dance continues with added fervor, until exhausted, our steps weaken, and we gradually quiet down. Even the campfire is slackening and the flaming tongues cast only pale reflections over the dark btue horizon. The forest too became melancholy, as if wrapped in sudden remorse. The guitars and harmonica give forth sad- dened, drawn-out sounds, and our Marie with her jet-black hair all over her shoulders and cheeks flushed, stands close by the tall tree upon which the red flag still swings tender- ly, and staring at the dying campfire, bursts out into a crying Little-Rus- sian melody. The sudden cry grips our hearts, our heads drop low, and as if mourning, we listen to the sigh- ing melody, which flows like a river of sadness over our heads. The harmonica and guitars are si- lent now; only Marie’s voice fills the chastened air, and as she sings our hearts grow heavier. “Oh, dear, old home, dear friends and comrades, where are you now?” cries out each note of her song. Now as never be- fore we perceive how deserted and lonesome we are, wandering here in the misty white world, between win- ter and spring, between day and night. Fill up the glasses, quicker, quick- er! Let us pour wine over our sor- the men-teachers’ union. Another prominent woman remarked after list- ening to a fierce pre-convention de- bate, “I never supposed I was a Com- munist, but if I had to go with one of those groups after hearing them talk, I'd certainly go with the reds.” Does it seem the women are getting on. Most prominent naturally, were the two women who acted as secretary and assistant of the convention, Miss Daly, former teacher, scholar, politi- cian, could match any man there for courage, eloquence and clear-sighted- ness as to the issue—a thoroly charm- ing and sympathetic exponent of her sex whom no man would hesitate to welcome to equality. And it was not of the woman’s, but of the workers’ problem that she spoke so ably. Miss Kostner of the Washingtou legislature and the Washington forum. followed her with an cqually sound address, and won the interest and admiration of all sides by her fine strong per- sonality and her convincing presenta- tion of the economic issue. Miss ly’s little circle of supporters from South Dakota were also a live and in- teresting group of women. Then there was Lydia Gibson of the Liberator, clever artist and re- viewer, fascinating Rose Pastor Stokes with her uncompromising mes- swe of workers’ control of industry, and Comrade Gitlow, mother of Ben, as young as any in her enthusiasm for the cause. These two women rep- resented the “United Council of Working-class Wome,” a strong or- ganization of New York. The Stokes group had “hiked” from New York with 16-pound packs and Rose with her admitted 45 years, was girlish and jaunty in her knicker suit. It was a pleasure to Californians to find that RIE row, our yearnings, let us forget, tho of a moment, our exile! But silence reigns and the plea is unheard and unanswered. Instead, a sob rings out, a real human cry. it seems so near, so. unbelievably near to us. Who fs this crying? She, -she, our ‘There she is sitting on a halt-s ing log of the campfire, her pow buried in her hands. : The white night 6f the north had opened Marie’s heart. She remem- bered for once that she was not mere- ly the daughter of the Revolution, but the child of a loving, loyal mother. Her mother had died five years ago, and she, her only daughter, had not shed a single tear for hér. There was no time, no place. The great cause had taken her all. Now the spring Penetrating Analysis! Burning Criticism! By ANNA PORTER Anita Whitney received her share of honor on committees and platform and played her role with initiative and force, not hesitating even to tilt a lance with her subtle colleague, Wal- ter Thomas Mills. And that \argues some courage. As a Californian, I must not omit mention of our loyal and militant Alice Park and our staunch little farmer delegate from Los Angeles, Esther Yarnell. That I saw no Negro women delegates, I re- gret to report. Lastly, there was the green Irish chamber maid at the Ryan. I do not refer to her political color (all poli- tics serve to be colored nowadays) but to the fact that she must very recently have escaped from the Emer- ald Isle, tho her mind seemed quite untouched by the economic political struggle. Her quaint attractive brogue was quite unintelligible to me, as my dialect appeared to be to her, so I confined my propaganda to re- peating clearly again and again, “Tell your friends to vote the Farmer-Labor ticket.” And thinking something con- crete and personal might arouse more interest, I told her that the lovely lady across the hall was sent to jail for trying to help the workers. And if that is not a very. intellectual ex- position of the case, it is after all, the very essence of the situation and of the general truth. Readers are asked to recognize and appreciate the restraint with which costumes are excluded from the re port of a women 5 gathering, with the exception of the mention of knickor- bockers, which would naturally ap- pear in a New York delegation. Oth- er artistic costumes were not absent. of tears had broken forth and Marie cried out that night all the sorrow of her young life. “Mother, mother!" her lips whispered, and we all wept with her. ... LENIN ON WAR (Continued. from page 1.) necht was in agreement with us in essentials, The split in the Second International as a means for the development of the revolutionary movemient in the prole- tariat, civic war as the means of vic tory over imperialist war — these were the two leading ideas which Lenin endeavored to impress upon the minds of the advanced revolutionary elements of every country with which he was in connection. Sound Logic! 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