The Daily Worker Newspaper, June 27, 1925, Page 9

a. The Disc HE Discarded Soldier had crawled to his garret to die. He lay on his ragged bed. He had lit the candle beside him to light him into eternity. His head peering from the bedclothes was a portrait of death. The face was pale and wan and haggard, like the face of a drowning man, sinking into a dark river in the moonlight. The light of his candle was his moon burning fitfully: The Discarded Soldier hugged him- self close trying to find warmth, His lean Hands wandered over the clothes, drawing them closer around his body trying to shield himself from the cold draughts. The veins on the hands stood out like blue snakes, crawling outside the flesh. Death was in’ his eyes. They were pale blue spots, with red, facings, stuck in deep hollows. They were half closed with weariness. sage hands dropped wearily on the clothes. OOR Discarded Soldier. Poor use- less cannon fodder, Poor scrap- ped tool of capitalism. But a few years back, he was a strong youth with bright eyes and smooth sleek body perfect in every limb and then. * . . The recruiting sergeants came and looked at his body and_ they wanted him to: fight the war for cap- italism. They brought him from the freedom of his lonely home by the Sea. They herded him into a battalion with others. He was sent among the monstrous guns, that spat out death. He was marched thru fields sodden Kool Kalculations of. By OUR WHITE HOUSE REPORTER ‘T THINK I'll go to Swampscott, Mass., and spend the summer dog-days among the cool breezes of the New England hills,” said Kalvin to’ Kellogg; as the two principal serv- ants of Wall Street met for their weekly chat in the White House. “You think,” replied Kellogg with a sly wink. “When did you begin in- dulging in that vice so rare among politicians?” Kal—The two of us have got an awful reputation as a pair of bone- heads, but we aren't any thicker than the rest of them—are we, Kell? Kell—If we were we wouldn't be here. As far as I am concerned our critics can take a jump into the river with their wise cracks. They call me “Nervous Nell,” but I should worry; I'am getting mine. Kal—You're getting yours all right, but I am afraid you're getting it in the neck. Did you read what the Monday Evening Plute had to say about your note to Mexico? Kell—No; what did it say? Kal—It said you might be excused for writing it if you were half shot, but that if you were sober, shooting Was too good for you. And you know the ediitor of the Plute is pretty close to the Big Fellow. Kell—I know that very well. Say, Kal, I have an idea somebody has been double-crossing me. I wonder would it be Borah. : Kal—What makes you think that? Kell—Borah agreed to the publica- tion of the statement while we were in conference, after he heard the Big Fellow’s message from Butler. But later on when he saw how it was taken by the public, he pretended that we pulled something on him. You better watch out for him, Kal; he’s playing for the presidency. He's @ more dangerous man ‘than Charley Dawes. Kal—I'm not afraid of either one of them. What I fear is a bad crop and high prices—or a bumper crop and low prices. I fear a slump in business more than anything my ene mies can do, As long as things run amoothly I am the man for the job. I know how to keep my mouth shut and look wise. Kell-—I wish you had to do the dirty work I am doing. I get panned for pulling the Mexican boner when you are as much to blame as I am. You know well that it was all fixed up with blood to the trenches, where men lay huddled in holes, watching thru the night for death. He was cheered and petted by fair ladies: They called him a hero. They sang to him. They feasted him: Fat men pinned medals on his breast— for valor they said. Then again he was hurled against unknown enemies, pushed from be hind, cursed, urged on, beaten, im- prisoned when he complained, sent on again to kill, amid the roar of guns, and the mud of the trenches. HEN at last he was caught by a bursting shell and hurled into the air, amid red-hot bolts of steel and showers of earth and smoke. He was crushed into a jabbering mass of pulped flesh. He was no longer a hero. He was a wreck. Capitalism did not want him. The ladies no long- er cheered him. They brought him flowers in the hospital for a few months and then forgot. The ribbons faded on his breast. He was cast linto the great city, homeless, unwant- pee penniless. Capitalism no longer néeded him. Capitalism forgot him. Capitalism imprisoned him when he demanded food. The servants of capitalism beat him with clubs, when he cried for bread. They called him a Bolshevik, a public meance, a scourge of society, They threatened to throw him into a lunatic asylum. So he crawled into the garret to die, dreaming of his home by the sea—dreaming of the freedom of his youth and the warm sun. [ arded Soldier - - | lirious, HERE was not even romance in his ghastly death. He was not thinking of romance. He was think- of his home and the sunlight: The hunger gnawing at his bowels made him weaker. It brought a mist before his eyes and transformed the noises that echoed in his ears: He was car- ried away from his garret to his home by the sea. The distant noises of the city traf- fic seemed to him the noise of the breakers at night rolling toward a rocky shore. The recollection brought a smile to his lips. He became de- He could see the dawn break- ing now in his home, He could see the waves—gentle now and cheerful ~-surging calmly over the sandy beaches in an awed whisper. Then the sun rising in the east, over the hills, glistening on the dew-cov- ered crags. The sun. The beautiful warm sun. The dying man tossed away the clothes. He wanted to lay on his back in the sun. He wanted to. bare his bosom.to the sun... He stretched out his limbs with a. sigh of gratitude. He wanted to . bare every muscle to the regenerating warmth. HEN he listened. Ha. There it was. The song of the lark as the bird soared into the fleecy clouds, singing its morning song of joy. He smelled-the wild flowers, that grew by the sea. He saw the glistening sea weed on the rocks, bared by the re- ceding tide. He smelled the salt sea breeze that swept in over the ocean. of QR! and Kelas between Sheffield and J. P. that we throw. a hot dog at Calles and that he would come back like a belly-full of pulque. Nobody would be hurt, but the confounded Mexican peons that man Calles is more afraid of than we are. Kal—I must keep quiet, Kell, or the whole show would go up. I got out of the Teapot Dome scrape by keep ing my head closed and throwing a couple of bums to the wolves when they threatened to bite me. Nothing will happen to you unless you lose your nerve. I dropped Hughes be- cause he is too dignified and would HARKEN, HYPOCRITES! By COVINGTON AMI “Might is not Right in Freedom's fight”: Thus so you say, thus oft you pray. But— The terror white that stalks the night, not piay second fiddle. But, Kell, that’s what I am doing—playing sec- ond fiddle. Keil—We're all taking our orders from the Big Fellow, but at the same time we have a certain dignity to main- tain. If the people begin to laugh at us we are thru, That was the trouble with Warren. The people got the idea he knew less than his dog, and his goose was cooked. But to get back to Mexico. This fellow Calles means all right, but he is a Politician like ourselves and he must keep up appearances. Now, since his election he has been getting fat on The blood you shed, the millions dead, . The famished hordes on haunted roade, The orphaned child, the war defiled, The mindless Huns that man your guna, The soulless ghouls you use as tools, The wasted lands beneath your hands, The death that lurks in all your works, The lies you will the truth to kill,— Your dreadful deeds deny your creeda, Your every act but proves the fact You're liare in your hearts. | TL! ee _By Liam O'Flaherty Ha! He would soon get well, since he was back again in his home. He would soon be able to rum and jump and shout as of old.. No more bun- ger: No more tramping dirty ugly streets. No more fetid smells in slums. No more war, no more roar ing guns, no more killing. Joy. To be back again in the sun—the great glorious sun that warmed him. nn: ah! The sun was too warm. The dying man licked his parch- ed lips with his tongue. The drought of death was in his throat. His tongue was thick with it. His veins were on fire now. The fever of death was upon him—eating him and he thought that it was the sun. His brain grew dizzy. Then he smiled again. His head turned sideways on the pillow. His lips set in a smile. He saw himself approaching a mountain spring, beneath a towering cliff that sheltered him from the over- powering heat of the sun. He wanted coolness now and water. .There it was in front of him—the water rip- pling out from the base of the cliff, gurgling like wine from a bottle. He knelt on the grassy knoll beside the spring. He stooped until his head was among the water-cress. The stream was at his lips smothering him. § yea as the water lapped his lips, he stretched his limbs taut to enjoy the exquisite draught and. . . His spirit faded into eternal night. The Discarded Soldier was dead. Kal and Kell alculationy the Wall Street bottle, but the peas- ants and the workers got wise and threatened to raise hell. Kal—iIf I were there, I'd pull a stunt like I pulled in Boston. Kell—Shucks! job there. You had an easy Breaking @ pétice’ strike is velvet compared to.subduing a, na-, tion of armed peasants. Hold your hobby-horse, Kal, and don’t get a swelled head. Calles was up against it. He was using the troops to break strikes and drive the peasants off the lands they took from the big land- lords, just as we told him to. Some thing was going to break. Then it was agreed that I should make a threatening statement and _ Callies would come back like a broncho and the workers and peasants would think Calles was raising the dickens with the “imperialists of Wall Street,” as those damn Communists call us. Kal—And—— Kell—Everything went according to pian, but we forgot that the news- papers didn’t know what it was all about and proceeded to lay it on to us. You escaped, as usual, but the pro- gressives have never forgiven me for once being a progressive. They charged me with inviting war with Mexico. And what do you think that * * © Hearst did? 7 Kal—Ah, yes, I am anxious to know how he took it. You know L had his man Brisbane with me on the May- flower while Pershing and LeJeune were discussing the question of a future invasion of Mexico. Kell—Yes; Hearst came out with a signed statement posing as the friend of Mexico, and we cannot open our mouths or tell the deal Brisbane made with us. Brisbane praises you in his column while Hearst slams me in the rest of the paper. Kal—Don’t worry about what Hearst does. He does not want to antagonize tle Mexicans, and he did not get you |he job anyhow. As the bible said: “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, blessed be the name of the Lord.” Kell—I sometimes envy Al Fall.