The Iola register. [volume] (Iola, Allen County, Kansas) 1875-1902, 1895-01-11

It's my land. l paid fur it and 1 amt
goin' ter pay no more, jedge- 1 want
justice from you, justicer'
There was deep furrow In Judge
Gray's forehead. He had lived among
these Missouri farmers all his life, and
knew well the absolute impossibility
of eradicating an idea once implanted
in their heads He cleared his throat
nervously, and tried to explain to the
old man why taxes were levied, and
that everyone had to pay them. The
only reply he received was an impa-
tient gesture, and these words:
Its paid fur, Jane told me not to
pay no more, and 1 amt goin' to do it. -
All the judges explanations were
useless and Clark turned from him in
a paroxysm of rage and grief
81 thought you wuz good" he said;
you've got a kind face. But you're
in league with that man." pointing to
the assessor who stood near; land you
won't help me at all! It's my farm,
and l want justice" and he walked
slowly out of the room, shaking his
clenched fist at the judge and the spec
tators.
There was a certain majesty about
him, for constancy to a principle,
even though a mistaken one, gives
sometimes the martyrs dignity. The
! judge shook his head and sighed. He
was powerless to help, and he pent up
in his great heart the countless mis-
cries he saw about him.
Some days later, there was sold at
| tax sale the third quarter of the fourth
section, northeast, the farm owned by
Jesse Clark. lie was notified of the
sale but refused to vacate the prem
/ ises. 1t was bad year for crops and
Clark made nothing, for the seventeen
| year lOcusts were abroad and ruined
! everything.
Little by little he sold his farm i'm
/ plements. horses, stock, and finally his
/ furniture. At last the worst blow
came. The house was rented to an
/ other farmer, and although Clark re-
/ fused to leave his farm. as he still
/ called 1t, the day came when he found
| himself set down in the road, with
only two or three pieces of furniture
( left to him. His anger knew no bound,
$,
shrieking out in frenzy of rage:
1T is my land. Mine! You've no
right to it." All to no avail Night
came, and the old man, faded and
worn, nearly crazed with grief and
misfortune. sat down by the roadside
to think What should he do? At last
his decision was made.
"The lands mine," he murmured
''As long as I'm on it. they can't take
it away from me. I'll stay on it and
mebbe I'll get justice some day." SO
he took piece of old sheeting, made
tent just large enough to hold
chair, table and rickety cot bedstead,
all that was left of his furniture. Thus
he settled down in his new home, on
a corner of the farm. The people rent
ing the place were good-natured folk,
and they let him remain. He made a
little money, enough to supply his few
wants, by gardening, or helping his
Deighbors in the harvest fields.
He had under cultivation a few feet
of ground and was unmolested by his
neighbors. Most of them scarcely
dared to speak to him, so strongly did
he preserve the taciturnity of a man
who thinks himself wronged. Some
times he would cry aloud for Justice"
and tell his woes to a passer-by, but
more often he refused to speak to any
one. In the ten years after his farm
was sold he saw no one but the farm
ers for whom he worked.
1t was lonely country. The road !
~.
end apparently terminating in the |
skyline. The other seemed to run |
into Jesse Clark's tiny house, but that |
was because the path made a sudden |
turn at the foot of the hill where the !
hut was. Clark's tent had merged into |
little cabin, a few boards roughly |
nailed together. with room enough |
for the furniture the tent had con-
tanned. A stranger passing down the
road one summer day glanced at the |
quaint place, nearly buried in flowers.
A syringa bush grew at one side the
house, its long arms clothed in white
blossoms, stretched protectingly about
the tiny window, encircling it in
beauty, and reaching far over the low
roof.
In front was a little plot planted
with flowers and vegetables; dozen
sturdy cabbages were beginning to
head, some early potatoes were in
bloom, and inside the old snake fence,
nearly hidden by a wild grape vine,
some purple and red columbines
bloomed, their gorgeous bells seeming
to ring mathis in the sunshine. Some
inverted cracked flower-pots pro-
tected from the blazing sun
young tomato plants not yet firmly
rooted. A robin chirped on a choke
cherry tree near by, and in the back
ground were scrub oaks, their trunks
showing pinkish sprouts and an I'M
dergrowth of elder bushes and rabbit
berries. The fields beyond were full
Of grain, the soft green tufts of wheat
looking like turf. and the waving rye
yellow in the brilliant sunshine.
Jesse Clark sat at the door, his head
on his horny hand. Upon his furrowed,
weather-beaten face he wore a pecul-
lar expression. 1t was a mingling of
logged determination and dreariness,
one predominating, at times
the other.
The stranger paused, and looking at
the old man said: ''Good-day, sir.
Can you tell me whose farm this is?''
As he spoke the dreamy look in
Clark's dark eyes melted into anger.
stranger" he said. this land is
nine, all mine. l live here in this hut,
because l have been robbed of my
house up there" pointing to the farm