The Nonpartisan Leader Newspaper, December 9, 1915, Page 7

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v » & BRt | 51 | y/AR N . * iy “ | i L% ‘> . Iy i i \ .\ "" - "V & ? L4 ] i { L ‘ , . et & y € P g THE . WAY THE,NONPARTISAN LEADER 15 _RECEIVED=BY N THE FARMER~ © BY BIG BIZA P Why Things Look Different to Different People ) E usually see in a thing that which we want to see. It is said of a certain woman, that she could see a man on a barn but could not see the barn. She was looking for a man. High freight rates look good to Jim Hill but have alto- gether a different appearance to Jim Hllistrom, a farmer. Low wheat prices makes the farmer look like 30 cents and makes Mr Patten look like 3-million. A nice smooth, oily politican looks like an angel of light to the powers that prey and looks like his Satanic Majesty to the people preyed upon. . ' A well-contrelled, safe and absolutely sane mnewspaper warms the heart of the gangster while the Nonpartisan Leader sends wave after wave of ice-cold chills racing up and down his shivering back. The Nonpartisan Leader urges ‘the farmers to stick as ‘tight together-as the politicians do—as those do who back and finance the politicians’ campaign. That’s the reason the politicians and those who back and finance the campaigns of politician see red to see a copy of the Leader and makes him see all the colors of the rainbow to know that nearly half the farmers of the state read the Leader. The trouble is not with the Leader. The Leader looks al- right to the awakened farmer. The Leader doesnt tell any lies. If it did the politican would like it. .It tells the truth —+that’s the reason the politician doesn’t like it. Not because the politician .likes lies, he doesn’t. But, neither does he like the kind of truth the Leader deals in. Any man who wants to know all the truth about market- ing conditions, about slippery politicians, about derelict law- makers, about greedy combines and scheming lawyers and us- urous bankeers likes the Nonpartisan Leader. Any man who wants the producer to remain uninformed on these vital problems, who wants the curtain of secrecy to remain drawn upon the plots and plans of the political gang. is very wrathful over the Nonpartisan Leader. It is all in the way you look at a thing, as to how the thing looks. If it is to your interest it looks good, no matter how bad it looks. If it is against your interest it looks bad, no matter how good it looks. the politician don’t like the Leader a litttle bit. It makes the ~ During the big game -season\ x.#.hichviclosed Nov. 30, 59 hunt- ers were accidently killed in the United States. Twenty-five of them were killed by their own guns. Saved the fool killer the job. Politics, that is, unaduterated politics, is the science of government. It is something every one should know something about and take a part in. Then it will become unadulterated. The mian” who tries to keep you divided among yeurselves is your ‘worst énemy. even though he pleads his friendship with the eloquence of Cicero. The “gang” has run the country long enough. It is time now for the people "_to run the gang—out of the country. Farmers “keep out of politics” and wheat prices will go up, railroad rates win ‘go down and interest will fade away. Why all this “dead silence” .down at Bismarck? Must be something on the line, THE NIGHT COURT. = By Ruth Comfort Mitchell, in Century “Call . Rose Costra!” Insolent, she comes. The watchers, practiced, keen, turn - down their thumbs. The walk, the talk, the face—the sea- shell tint— It is old stuff; they read her like coarse print. Here is no hapless innocence waylaid. This is the stolid worker at her trads Listening, she yawns; half smiling, undismayed, Shrugging a little at the law’s delay, Bored and impationt. to be on her - way. ; It is her eighth conviction. Out be- yond the rail. A lady novelist in search of types turns -pale.’ et She meant to write of them just as she found them, And with no tears or maudlin glamer round them, In forceful, virile words, harsh, true words, without shame, Calling an ugly thing, boldly, an mgly mame. Sympathy, velvet glove, on purpose, iron hand. But eighth conviction! All the phras- es she had, planned . Fail; “sullen,” ‘“vengeful”; mo, she isn’t that. : ; No, the pink face beneath the hectia hat Gives back her own .aghast and sick- . ened stare With a detatched and rather cheerful air, ... And then the little novelist sees red; - From her chaste heart all clemencyis fled. g : “Qh, loathsome! venomous! Off with her head! Call Rose Costra!” But before you stop, And shelve your decent rage, let’s call the cop. Let’s call the plain-clothes cop who brought her in. The weary-eyed night watchman of the law, A shuffling person with a hanging jaw. Loose-lipped and sallow, rather vague of chin, Comes rubber-heeling at his honor’s rap. He set :and baited and then sprung the trap— % The trap—by his unsavory report. Let’s ask him why—but first let’s call the court. Not only the grim figure in the chair, Sphinx-like above ‘the waste,. and wreckage there. 3 Skeptical, weary of a retold tale, But the humming hive, the false, the frail— An old young woman with a weasel face, A lying witness waiting for his place, ‘Two ferret lawyers nosing out a case, Reporters questioning a Mexican, Sobbing her silly heart out for her man, e Planning to feature her, “alome, des- rerate, pretty”— | ‘Yes, call the court. But wait! Let’s call the city. {Oall ‘the community! Call up, call down. [ «Call all ‘the speeding, mad, unheeding town! {Call rags-and tags and, call the velvet gowns! $ iGo summon them from tenements and clubs, On office floors and over steaming Shout to the boxes and hehind the scenes, Then to the pusheart and the limou- sines! Arouse the lecture-room, the ca- baret! Confound them witth a trumpet blast, and ,cay ¢Are you so dull, so deaf and blind’ indeed, That you mistake the harvest for the seed?” Condemn them for—but stay! Let’s call the code— That Facile thing they've fashioned to their mode: Smug sophistries that smother and befool, That measure mountains with & three foot rule, And plumbs the ocean with a pud~ ding string— The little, brittle code. Here is the root, Far out of sight, and buried safe and deep, And Roze Costra is the bitter fruit. On, every limb and leaf, death, ruin, creep. ’ So, lady novelist, go home .again. Rub biting acid on your little pen, Look back and out and up and in, and then Write that it is no job for pruning shears. Tell them to dig for years and yeara . .and, years s The twined and twisted roots. Blot out the page; Invert the blundering order of the age; : Reverse the schemes, the last shall be the first. Summon, the system, starting with the worst— The lying, dying code! On, down the line, The city, and the court, the cop, Assign The guilt, the blame, the shame! Sting, lash, ‘and, spur! : Call eachand all! Call us! And then call her! . L R YR

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