Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, 1886-05-13

after me and the children" 1t has been so
hot sometimes I have sneaked off, feeling
almost as mean as the newspapers printed
me, and I think I will take Mrs. Moses ad-
vice hereafter if 1 can only get out Of this
scrimmage without losing my scalp.
To add interest to the situation, and also
to ridicule US, the pencil of the cartoonist
has been brought into play, and a most
laughable picture is exhibited downstairs,
which most of you have doubtless seen, rep
resenting Moses and the lost tribes and
Pharoah, the Granger, racing for the Gov
ernor's mansion. I can only say that am
aiming for the Agricultural College, and
expect to get there too. "The lost tribes"
will look after the Governors mansion and
Legislature also next summer. l desire
to suggest to the clever artist who drew the
cartoon referred to that he draw another
somewhat after this fashion: remember
to have seen picture once which amused
me very much. There was a room enclosed
by glass, a sort Of conservatory. In the
centre on a table was large dish of cheese,
around which were gathered about twenty
big, lusty rats with very long tails, each on
his launches nibbling at slice cheese OF,
seemingly just as happy as an officeholder.
On the outside of the glass, standing on her
hind feet, glaring through the pane at the
rats, was an enormous cat watching them
eat. She was hungry, and you could see it
in her eyes. She was mad, you could tell
it by her claws being out. Under the pic
ture ran the legend, "You can't get in." 1t
seems to me there are some cats around
here trying to ''get in," and many more at
home who want to do so. We farmers
are inside with the cheese once. We can
help ourselves if we wish, and while it is
our own cheese we must not be wasteful; ;
we had better take little slice just to see
how it tastes. We need not fear the hungry
cats who are caterwauling outside. If we
are true to our ourselves they are powerless.
We can even let "them in" without danger,
if we will only organize and have a clear
understanding among ourselves first.
This plaintive cry of 1--WE can't get in, we
can't get in," which is being raised now by
so many who at first sneered at the farm
ers' movement, reminds me of another pic
ture, word-painting by Lawrence Sterne,
the author of Tristham Shandy. I have
not read the story in long, long time, but
will recall it for you as best I may. Sterne,
led by the natural curiosity of a traveller,
while on journey through France made
visit to the Bastile, that celebrated prison
and fortress which was destroyed by the
"Red Shirts' of Paris in 1889, at the be-
ginning of the French Revolution. Ac-
companied by a keeper, who was showing
him the prison, he was passing along dim
corridor, high up in one of the towers,
when voice which he took to be that of a
child or woman, in tear laden tones, call
ed: II can't get out, 1 can't get out" He
stopped to listen and again came the sad
words: 81 can't get out, can't get out"
Curious and keenly alert, he followed in
the direction whence the sound came and
saw in the dim light, near deep embra-
sured window, bird-cage. In it was a star
ling, species of English bird which can be
taught to talk. AS he approached, the
little bird repeated the words which had
so excited his sympathy. 81 can't get out,
I can't get out" said the startling. Deeply
moved and without taking time to consider,
Sterne exclaimed "You poor prisoner, l
will at least give you your Freedom"
seized the cage and wrenching open the
door, held it toward the window to see
the little songster fly away. The bird
fluttered out of the cage toward the outer
edge of the window sill, then paused and
looked. There were no trees near, the
distance to the ground was very great.
Long disuse of his wings had made him
timid. He was afraid to venture. After
pecking the stones time or two and re-
peating his mournful monologue, II can't
get out, can't get out" he hoped back to
the cage and entered it. He was content
to remain a prisoner rather than trust his
weak wings.
My friends, there is moral to this pitiful
tale, which I hope you will all ponder.
From many towns in South Carolina, every
county has hundreds Of them, comes the
sad cry which so wrought upon the pity of
the English moralist. 81 can't get out, |
can't get out" says the farmer. These cries
grow more numerous every year, the tones
more despairing. Enticed into debt by the
damnable lien law, induced at first to plant
cotton as speculation in hopes of fast get
ting rich again, now forced to do so by their
masters who hold titles to their lands and
stand ready to demand the pound OF flesh,
these farmers cry in pitful chorus, 1--WE
can't get out, we can't get out" 1 have
been in that Bastile myself. l have felt the
waters rising higher and higher and look
ing forward without hope, as failure after
failure in the cotton crop left nothing with
which to even pay interest. | had to sell
some land, which L had bought and paid
for to ease the CALLING yoke, but the pro-
baton through which l have passed has
opened my eyes. The deep study caused
by my condition has shown me clearly the
causes which are at work to produce our
grinding poverty, and will continue to do
it till change is brought about. That dole
full cry "We can't get out, we can't get
out, we can't get out" will never cease till
a new system of farming is followed, and
how to bring that about has been the SUBJ
ject of my thoughts for many, many
months. l do not see my way clear to the
end, but the starting point is very plain,
and because being farmer and knowing
our needs, feeling where the shoe pinch
ed and seeing the hopeless condition of the
tens of thousands of farmers who follow
old ruts because they do not know. any
better and cannot see any other way to get
even living-because 1 have raised my