The Daily Worker Newspaper, June 26, 1926, Page 12

The Metamorphosis of Mrs. Brown’s We are publishing herewith the second of a series of three sketches on the British General Strike sent to the New Magazine from London iby Florence Parker. The third sketch will appear in the next issue of the magazine, * * * By FLORENCE PARKER. ROWN, being a printer, was very agitated about the newspapers during the strike. And Brown, in common with most of the organized; i. e., striking workers had been de- cidedly heartened by the action of the printers on the “Daily Mail,” who had, the day before the strike, refused to print their paper because it contained a gross and insulting misrepresenta- tion of the miners’ cause. Brown felt that his class was on the verge of complete triumph when the “Daily Mail”—affectionately known by many as the “Daily Liar’—was stopped by the printers, and all the seab-produced publications of the en- suing days failed to take away the , sweetness of that first moment of re- { venge, | Phe first day of the strike there " were no papers. The second day and, indeed, to a limited extent, on the first evening there appeared weird and wonderful collections of scraps of pa- per, printed and otherwise, bearing news, true and otherwise. The “Morn- ing Post” came out as the “British Gazette” and the “Daily Herald” turned into the “British Worker.” Brown bought the latter, read it, passed it on and was, on the whole, thankful to get it, though it seemed to him unnecessarily mild. But, oh! how Brown loved the strike bulletins! How he, a skilled and critical printer, took to his heart the typed, duplicated, often smeared, sometimes ill-spelt, nearly always amateurishiy made-up sheets, in quarto and fools- | cap; 6 White paper while it was pro- curable, and later on various romantic tinted sheets, which were disgorged all over Great Britain daily and some- times more often, from all sorts of machines, from printing presses which some councils of action were lucky enough to possess to duplicators and typewriters in all states of costliness and efficiency. Every morning Brown helped with the production of his local strike com- mittee’s bulletin. He was on excellent terms with the young schoolmaster who acted as editor and found him a splendid chap, though at first he had been warned against him. “They say he’s: a Communist—but he seems all right.” Then another thrill got Brown in its grip. He began to develop a hith- erto unknown spirit of acquisitiveness and feverishly started the collection of strike bulletins. The mild, though determined, duplicated sheets of the official trade union branches found their way into Brown’s pockets, side by side, with all thé shameless inti- macy of the United Front, with the Bolshevik, seditious, disrespectful sheets issued God knows where and God knew by whom. Brown only knew about these latter papers that they must have been produced by people with incredible stores of energy and possessed with stocks of information which made him feel that where and whoever these demons were, my god, they knew something about the move- ment and about the right sort of press for the strikers. , In. short, Brown thought only of | strike bulletins and of the strikers’ press. He had worked for many years as a printer and had often heard such phrases as “the power of the press,” Now he was beginning to realize some- thing of this power and had all the exultation of being part of the power behind the press. What “the shadow of the Kremlin” meant to the “Morning Post” readers was a pale symbol compared to the words, “the power of the press,” in those days to Brown. He found him- self thinking of dynamos, and power- ful, relentless machinery. He watched people closely as they read his—for he really felt it part of himself— strike paper. And he happened to be in the of- fices of the Hastwich strike committee ’s Husband when three members of their editorial board were arrested—and later given three months hard labor—for publish- ing the reassuring news that a cer- tain regiment had been confined to barracks for insubordination and re- fusing to take up their duties against the strikers. That same evening Brown, ponder- ing over his latest phase of the class struggle and turning over in his mind various sentences, most of which be- gan with “Wel, if anyone had told me before the strike , . .” wandered on his rustry bike as far at Trafalgar Square and there fell a victim to the Red terror. It happened like this. A newsboy was rushing past in a mad hurry call- ing out “Latest Strike BulHetin!” Now Brown had been caught that way before in the last few days and had found that the so-called strike bulletin was often indeed no other than the scab-produced “British Ga- zette,” alias the Morning post. But still he was determined to miss noth- ing in the nature of a strike paper and to his astonishment, the newsboy called him comrade and was wearing the badge of the Communist Party. Brown bought his paper immediately and heard the priceless yarn of how thousands of copies of the pre-strike numbers of the Workers’ Weekly had been sold on the street during the strike, being bought in many cases by people who had never seen or heard of the paper before and who had bought it thinking it was some anti- striker paper. *e¢¢ Brown did not like to confess that he had never read a copy of the “Workers’ Weekly” before, for he was beginning to feel differently about the Communists since he had met them during the strike. For some months past he had merely read the “Daily Herald” from a sense of duty and re- minded himself,-with dismay, of- the number of times he had refused to buy the Communist paper from the young woman who, rain and shine, win- ter and summer, stood outside his printing factory on Friday evenings. He was thankful, though, to remember that he, at least, had refused politely her offer of ““‘Workers’ Weekly, com- rades, one penny!” After this strike every Friday evening should find him penny in hand, for it would be a great mistake to lose contact with the “real thing” in the way of the workers’ press. And, after all, Communists are workers, only more so, as you might say. Another phrase which tickled Brown’s imagination, tho he could not quite remember where he had heard it, was “factory newspaper.” He decided to ask the young editor of his strike paper for information. And did so, hearing not only of “fac- tory papers” (which opened up all sorts of delightful possibilities in Brown’s mind), but also of the “wall newspapers” of the Russian workers. He heard more of the Russian work- ers from the young editor who lent him papers and pamphlets about things over there. It seemed strange to Brown that he had never heard of this side of things in Russian. Even the “Daily Herald” had not empha- sized, in the least, the news of life and conditions in that workers’ coun- try of Soviet Russia, At the top of the Communist strike bulletms was always printed the phrase: “All power to the workers,” and this Brown began to feel fitted in very nicely with his own pet phrase of the “power of the press.” And so we leave “Comrade” Brown waging the great strike which has acted on his mind like a huge spring- cleaning, destroying what was old and dusty therein and fitting it up again with such healthy and invigorating things as “solidarity” and Mp ‘Power to the workers.” And Brown is, after all, a very or- dinary example of British citizen, It just shows the way that “red poison” spreads, that out of a tidy “constitutional” industrial strike the harmless, innocent minds of Brown and his mates could grow visions of workers’ control—and, above all, in Brown's mind, workers’ control of the press, “Your Order, Please” ARRIED? said the little waitress as she slung a bowl of soup across the table. “Got two kids,” she continued. “My odest boy is.two years old and the baby is four months old.” “But I don’t understand how you can go to work with a baby only four months old?” I asked her, “You don’t suppose I'm doin’ this because I’m in love with waitin’ on table, to you? But we got to live somehow, and my husband ain’t been workin’ now for nearly a year.” I looked at her. I was beginning to see the slim young girl before me in a new light. Before she had been just a waitress, bringing me my order of poached eggs and toast or whatever it happened to be and asking me if my coffee was “all right.” She always seemed rather cheerful and ready to make small talk. But she had never become confidential with me. Today she seemed worried and tired. There were dark circles under her eyes|« and she dragged her feet as she moved about. Her usual lightheartedness seemed to have taken flight. I had asked ber if she was not feeling well. “Oh, yes,” she had replied, “I’m all right. But I’m dead tired. Didn’t sleep a wink last night. The baby was so sick I thought she was going to die.” In my amazement I had blurted out: “You aren’t married, are you?” So little Evelyn was married and had two children. And she was support- ing her family on the $10.50 a week that she was earning for waiting on table, jf “How do you manage to live on $10.50 a week? The four of you?” “Oh, believe me, there din’t nothing left of my pay when I begin to dish it out, And besides, I’m in a hole. Just borrowed $50 from my sister for some coal. Just to show you, I got paid the day before yesterday. I was all out of groceries, so I went down and came back with fifty cents of my week’s pay. I have to walk to work. ‘QUESTIONED ber further. “Do you mean to tell me that your hus- band has not had work for nearly a year, and that all this time . . .” “Oh, he worked a couple of weeks for a fellow who said he’d contracted some kind of a job from the city. I don’t know what it was, but anyway Bud worked for him for two weeks, and then he.got laid off. But he ain’t seen hig money yet. I guess that fel- low’s crooked. And we ain’t got any money to sue him. Besides, I don’t suppose it’d do any good. He most likely’s got some of them big chiefs workin’ with him.” The thought that this girl, with a baby just four months old, had been working during her whole period of pregnancy seemed incredible, “But if your baby is only four months old,” I said, “surely you haven't worked this last year, have you?” ‘Haven’t I tho? I worked right up till nearly two months before the baby was born. I sure didn’t want it, but what could I do. Gee, them rich is lucky. They never have kids, except when they want ‘em, but we poor breed ’em faster than we can raise ‘em. Believe me, it ain't easy to be workin’ while in that condition. But after the baby was born, Sis, she gave ,) You tell’ em I am,” Jus a lift, She ain’t any too well her self, but she’s awful good to me.” “Who's taking care of the children now, while you’re away at work?” “Sis. I get breakfast for the kids and then dress ’em and take ‘em over to her house on my way to work and call for them when I get thru here. She ain’t feelin’ so well. I guess maybe it’s T. B. We ain't sure. But the doctor said she ought to go out West. Her husband had about $500 saved up, but he went and put it into a garage. He’s trying to work him- self up. So now they ain’t got a cent with which to move. She’s awful good to me, Sis is. I don’t know what I'd do if it weren’t for her.” I pictured two little children grow- ing up in a home like that. “I guess maybe it’s T. B.” rang in my ears. And this woman was taking care of two young children. What chance in life did they have with a start like that? I mentioned it to her. H, don’t you suppose I know? But what’s the good. I can’t let ’em stay at home alone. She’s trying to be careful. Don’t kiss ’em or nothin’.” “But I should think your husband would try very hard to get work. What does he do? Has he a trade?” “No, he’s just a common laborer. And I guess there’s too many of ‘em, that’s why it’s so hard for him to find work. And then he ain’t so strong, either. He needs an operation. He's got kidney trouble.” I asked her if she belonged to the waitresses’ union. A girl with all that trouble, I decided, would be good ma- terial to get into the union, if she was not there already. “No,” she answered, “I'm not. I can’t take a chance on losing this job, and I can’t spare the money for dues. But mostly it’s my job I'm afraid of, if I'd lose this, 'd be in...” And she swore under her breath. “But you’d get more money and you wouldnt have to work so hard,” I per- sisted. “You once told me you came here at seven and worked until three, without any time off except a féw min- utes in which to eat your lunch, Don’t you get all worn out?” “Don’t I? You tell 'em! Quit at three? Gee, I can’t remember the day I went home at three. I’m al- ways here to nearly four or later. By the time I sweep the place out and help the cook in the kitchen clean up after the rush hour, it’s four o’clock before I can go.” “Doesn't he pay you for overtime?” I asked, not suspecting the least that he did. “No. He told me once I could fix myself a soda for stayin’ late. I worked till almost six that night. That other girl was sick and couldn’t get here on time.” “And yet with all this, you can’t see the advantage in joining the union?” J argued. “Oh, I ain't sayin’ that. I think unions is a mighty fine thing. It helps the workers. But TI can’t take a chance on losin’ my job, my husband out of work, and the kids .. .” “Order of creamed asparagus, r-ead-y,” bellows a voice from the kitchen. *’*Scuse me,” said Evelyn to me over her shoulder, and hurried off. THE TINY WORKER. A Weenty Edited by Johnny Red Vol, 1. Saturday, June 26, 1926 No. 5 THE BUNK will write again if Is) is Wm. Green. He isn’t so good. He thinks Reds ought to be shot. But they won't be. he’s out of “Washington never told a lie.’’ Do you know any more bunk? Send So it int tuck. This is Skinny first Jones on What, Do. Vos base, He’s a classy | Mean “Awrfully,” ball Florence? Jon any "nea: ” nny nae weak ther | eS Rie? Wake 4 e fon’ School team, | DI last Wateh for the score | Was awfully ni You had a sw next Saturday. tle 1°I like your little) pug To KNUW But why didn't ou comb your hair? I don’t like A. F, of tb» | to comb it neither be ag | the Soggy but my mother Federation says I look like the Caber — ask irl “wild from father what Borneo when I only 8 years old, I! ski, Pittsburgh, Pa. THE TALE OF A PUP Johnny Red’s mother was brushing off Johnnie’s new pup, and asked: “But why do you call him ‘Revolu- tion’ Johnny?” brought him home and ba ith. bisras ke an apn on him’ ra is him clea > his mother er said mr du ust Brush is “hale down and h ‘He’ seems to like you aett “Hot dawg He’s a swell pup alright. = on ‘Revolution’, let’s go on pa inane, Jonna’, mather street with ‘Revolution’, “ag boy, he sure Fae 9. one, He u ing. He had a AES OIE Fol OC Ig SE t i