The Bamberg herald. [volume] (Bamberg, S.C.) 1891-1972, 1911-12-07
Low PRICE OF COTTON.
Reduced Acreage the Only Remedy
Says "Old Timer"

Says 'OId Timer.
Wanderers Rest, Nov. 29.-To-
morrow is Thanksgiving and all
should throw off all care and with a
| free heart give thanks for the many
| blessings we have. Last spring
| nearly all the newspapers published
| in substance a well worded and ap-
! parently a sincere article stating that
| the world was short four and one
| half million bales of cotton and that
| a IA or Is million bale crop was the
| only hope of the world and that a
| crop of that size would bring IA
| cents, upland. How the farmers
read and reread that statement. Not
doubling the statement in the least,
| result, deeper plowing was done and
more Of it than ever before, more
fertilizer used by far than any pre-
| vious year, just enough rain to bring
| the young cotton up, no grass to
trouble and dust everywhere. In
| the nick of time the rains came as
| if made to order and that big crop
| realized. but late one for very lit
| tie August cotton was sold here.
Still all was joy at the scene and
| every prospect pleasing for a bum
per crop, and IL cents was GER
| tainty, for it had been promised in
the newspapers by some one paid by
Wall street to help the bears out of
hole or to lay a trap to catch the
farmer, and an old farmer down this
side was caught but not mapping, for
| an effort was made to grow regard
less of expense big crop of cotton,
also corn and pigs, and the day
dreams on cotton more than realized
| and almost on corn and pigs.
Now comes the 28th of August,
storm, cotton injured, corn blown
down to rot, and rain, rain ever
since to retard the harvest, lower
the grade and hundreds of bales un-
picked at date, there to remain it
seems. Not IL cents but 6, even
5, for some is the case, and still
lower the grade and corresponding
price perhaps, and while the old
farmer smokes his pipe in silence
thinks of that promised IL cents or
IA cents of the spring writers not
realized he almost wants to say cuss
man that makes promise but to
deceive.
But so it is, and the unexpected
has happened, that the big crop Of
cotton has brought almost ruin to
some and no gains to the grower,
and now the speculator and spin
ner can clink the glasses and drink
to the thoughtless farmers of the
South, and give handshake and a
smile to the writer or writer's who
helped to deceive the cotton growers
of the South into the folly of trying
to grow, and helped out by the best
growing season in years, a crop too
large to gather or sell, stands in the
sad plight of being laughed at by
his far of friends who now clap their
hands in glee and yell supply and
demand, while the supply bill justly
due the merchant, fertilizer bills and
notes on high priced mules in many
cases unpaid, fields as white as snow
on all sides, even the ground man
tied with a white carpet of cotton,
all go to prove for all time that all
cotton farming is wrong.
Now the remedy what to do with
this cotton still in the field, much
of it so low in grade if gathered to
be on the market for years only to
depress in the years to come. Would
it not be better to turn it all under
as fertilizer? Most assuredly so
where men are in shape to stand
the loss, for loss it will be to the
grower in the end to try to market
it, yet to grow an expensive crop as
fertilizer only derived from the
seed, no money to buy wraps and
ribbons for the long-suffering wife,
nor for bee gum hats and white
slippers for Maud and Chloe, the
boys longing for a, soft paying job,
his other girls in town, seems to
say: "No, gather that cotton if it
takes until May next" and five dol
lars a bale over cost of picking is
received, and thus it will be, but not
to the advantage of the grower. Cut
the acreage next year half in two is
the remedy, and it is time for all to
realize this fact, but like certain
agricultural commissioner after ad
vising in every way for the farmers
to cut theirs went to his own farm
and planted all cotton. On being
asked why he did so, replied: why,
all the others will cut and I will
make big money" So it is, and now
the old farmers feels like the disap-
pointed lover exclaimed:
"I'll hang my harp on willow tree
And off to the wars again;
My peaceful home has no charm for
me,
The battle field no PAIN
After all, clothing the world for
naught but worry don't pay, and
from this on will one say: "I'll try to
help feed it, OLD TIMER.
N. B. Next week will try to find
the cause of all cotton, and look for
more remedies. O. T.
Prison for killing Betrayer.