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About The courier. (Lincoln, Neb.) 1894-1903 | View Entire Issue (Feb. 16, 1895)
THE COURIER 1 ably below zero, our trip was anything but pleasant. Tho driver fastened a cloth up in front so tho man and I were shut in from everything and had nothing to dp but talk about the drouth. He had lived in Missouri, but tho doctors thought ho had con sumption and told him ho must come here. First ho located in Nebraska, and, though ho regained his health, ho found with labor ious and unceasing work it was impossible to earn a living. Owing to the continual drouth ho could not raise a crop, and after seven years ho gave it up as hopeless and moved to South Dakota, becanse he heard it was better there. He lives in a sod housa and has worked hard, but it is no good; crops will not grow without rain. Tho man is thoroughly disheartened with his nine years' unre warned tod. If he can get money enough ho will go away with a thorough knowledgo of what western Iifo means. It is tho desire to own a homo that brings people into such God forsaken countries," ho told me. "Wo listen to tho stories land agents and roads circulate, and tilled with a desire to own our own home, a thing that is scarcely possible to tho working man in the east, wo move here. And what do wo get? Our labor goes for nothing. Crop after crop fails. Wo borrow money to help ub out and two per cent a month soon eats up everything. We have no schools for our children, who are raised in ignorance, and if they have no liking to be farmers there is no other avenue open te them. We have no public works. In fact, this life out here is simply hell. We ccabe to be human, and all wo ever knew wo forget, and life 6imply becomes a struggle for enough to eat. Why, our children are growing up in such ignorance that we forgot our pride and have sent in a petition to the government to allow our children to be ed ucated in tho Indian schools.' At 11 we stoDpcd at the "Half Way Houso" to leave the mad and warm up. An hour later wo stopped again to throw off some mail bags. At 1 we stopped at a house called "Tho Rapids"' for dinner. There I learned that a woman had received supplies for the desti tute and that she had sold tho supplies instead of giving them.jAdoz en persons were willing to swear to her selling the food she received. One man has promised to take me to the sufferers who borrowed money to buy from this woman. At least she sold cheap 75 cents for a pair of shoes and ."iO cents for 100-weight Hour. The woman defended her actions by saying she had to sell the goods to pay tho freight on them, and the mail carrier with whom I traveled said she had paid him ST for freight, but another man sajs all sho has to do is to return the freight bills and the relief com mittee wdl refund her money. However, 1 shall see this woman as well as those who bought from her in a day or so. At S o'clock tonight, having traveled since 4 this morning, I reached Fairfax, S. Dak. I have only seen the people in tho house where I am stay ing. Jt is called a hotel and consists of three rooms. They tell me that peoplo aro sufiering dreadfully about here and I have made arrangements to drive about tomorrow and Beo for mjself. No relief has been sent here yet, but everybody, oven the village people are destitute. Nellie Bly. ALONG THE STREETS. Written for Tiie Coceiek. THERE goes a lumbenng, heavy cab. It is olackand clumsy. Day after day it paces thro' our own uusy streets, and wo always gaze after it with interest. Wherever there is a cab out, there is certainly something of interest going on. Some .times it will go dashing by. The horses will have white favors on ttrair harness, and th driver's lap-robe will be covered with rice, and perhaps thero will lie upon tho top of the cab, a soiled white satin shoe with its bow partly torn from tho instep. Through tho window we may catch a glimpse of a bride's happy face. Roses and lilies and smila.t. A handsome bridegroom will be bending over tenderly caring for his newly found treasure. At another time the cab will go slowly by. The horses will step solemnly and slowly and their heavy black nets will sway contin ually. Through the windows we see a mother with a black veil hiding a face pale with sorrow. A man deep dejected sits on the other side and in his arms he carries a little white coflin. On the coffin lid are the roses, tho lilies and the smilax, but they look pitiful now. They are not in the bravery of smiles and blushes and happy glances but are heavy with tears of sorrow. Again tho cab goes by and this timo some palo invalid is going for a drive. Tho windows are closed tightly and tho horses go along slowly and easily. Onco in a while tho invalid looks languidly from tho window and notices but feebly tho outer world; ho is wrapped in a world of his own, whero his aches and pains aro all. And bo tho heavy cabs go by, rumbling through tho busy streots. We have all seen tho littlo undertaking establishment .with its gruesome sign. On tho window is a yellowed velvet coffin and a wreath of faded sun-stained Mowers. If ono is curious ho may peer through tho dingy windows and Bee a glaf-B case with shrouds and silver handles for coffins and other lugubrious things. But wo always hurry by tho littlo place. If it is at night wo shiver and sigh even if it is a summer night. When tho sun shines wo turn away and look at tho sky or talk to some ono, and novor notice tho mute reminder of death that stands on our busy streets. Hut some day wo come to tho littlo store. Our oyes so blinded that wo can hardly read tho sign, but we know tho place. Wo go in and sit down on tho black hair-cloth sofa and wait for the shop keeper to como in. "Wo gazo at tho long rows of Btiff Iace-trimmod shrouds. Wo stare at tho coffin plates displayed on tho walls with a new interest. Now tho shop-keeper enters and we talk with him in a low voice and select that which we camo after. We go out through the little door but wo never shun tho placo again. In that little shop wo suffered tho bitterestanguish for a few momentsalone with the shrouds and tho collin plates, and whero wo have suffered, there we like to go, even almost as well as whoro wo have been happy. Tho old clock up in the tower goes steadily on day after day. Men come and go. Are born and aro buried, wed and divorced but still the old clock ticks on and on. Its inexorable hands point out the hours that aro swiftly passing into eternity. The gay school children look up at its face and huny along to school. Thf clerk see? that is '.' mo he was at tho store and tho professional man hurries as he glances up at tho tower. It points out the hour for weddings and for funerals. For the festival and dance and for tho surgeon's chair with its tortures. The condemned man gazes from his cell window and watches its great hands swiftly creep around to his fated hour and as the hands rest upon the mark the door grates and he is hurried 'away. The last thing he sees before tho hideous black cap is drawn down over his face is the solemn old face of the clock that stops forever with him at that moment. From his sick chamber the invalid sees its wearisome handa drag day after day. Each minute an eternity as suffering racks his body. When sleep comes he falls asleep and dreams that he sees the old clock in the tower and awakens to find that he has slept but a mo ment and tho whole long day still lies before him. And at last when he falls into that dreamless sleep where his glassy eyes staro up and see nothing, then the old clock ticks on and on and never stops. I love to sit by the busy street And hear the tramp of hurrying feet, As to and fro with careless tread The amy of men is driven and led. Tramp of millions, now fast, now slow, As in work and pleasure they come and go, Like mutlled drums they beat to me A solemn and soothing melody. And when at night in bed I iio As I list to the st ps of passersby My pulse keeps time with measured beat To the hollow sound of the restless fept. And when are done life's hopes and fears Tho no sound may reach my senseless ears I would like it best if I might lio Where millions of feet are passing by. William Reed Dcnboy.
