Betsy Gaskins (Dimicrat).

CHAPTER I.
JOBE SETS AND STUDIES.

 

 

 

Our family, thus, was of one mind, perlitically, until Jobe Gaskins begin to come to see me.

I was a young woman of nineteen summers, as the poit would say.

Jobe he was a Republican and “didn’t keer who knowed it.”

My folks opposed Jobe on perlitical grounds.

Jobe he opposed my folks on the same grounds, but hankered arter me, though he knode I was a “Dimicrat dide in the wool.”

And I must say I hankered arter Jobe, though I knode he was a rank Republican. On that one pint we agreed: we both hankered.

Well, the time come when Jobe and me decided to lay aside our perlitical feelins and git married.

This our folks opposed, but we “slid out” one day, and the preacher united the two old parties, as far as Jobe and me was concerned, though I was still a Dimicrat, and Jobe he was still a Republican.

Like the two great perlitical parties at Washington, when they want to make a law to suit Wall Street, Jobe and me decided to pull together on the question of gittin married.

We have lived together for nigh onto thirty-five years, and durin all that time Jobe has let me be a Dimicrat, and Ive let him be a Republican. It has never caused any family disturbance nor never will, so long as I be a Dimicrat and let Jobe be a Republican.

We have no children livin. Our little Jane was taken from us just arter her seventh birthday. Since then we have been left alone together, jist as we was before little Jane was born. It is awful lonesome, and as we grow older, lonesomer it gits. Sometimes, when I git my work all done and have nothin to okepy my mind, I git that lonesome, I hardly know what to do. Of late years I read a great deal to pass away the time.

Jobe he hardly ever reads any, not because he cant,—Jobe is a good reader,—but it seems the poor man works so hard, and has so much to trouble him, that he would jist rather set and study than to read.

When he gits his day’s work done and his feedin, and waterin, and choppin of wood, he jist seems to enjoy settin and studyin.

I hardly ever disturb him when he is at it. I jist set and read or set and knit, as the case may be, and let Jobe set and study.

I did git him started to readin a couple of years back. I had signed for a paper that said a good deal about the Alliance and the Grange and sich, and Jobe he read it every week, and got so interested that he would talk on the things he read about to me and to the neighbors. He got nearly over his settin and studyin and seemed in better spirits so long as he kept a readin of that paper. But one day a feller, who was a Republican canderdate for a county office, came to our house for dinner (they allers make it here about dinner-time, them canderdate fellers do).

“We both hankered.”

Well, arter dinner, Jobe and that feller went into the front room, and the feller gin Jobe a segar (a regular five-center, Jobe said), and then they set and smoked, smoked and talked, talked about the prospect of their party carryin the county, the feller doin all the talkin, until at last Jobe told him that he “had been readin some of the principles of the People’s party and liked em purty well.”

The feller reared back, opened his eyes, looked at Jobe from head to foot, and then indignant like says, says he to Jobe:

“I am astonished!—astonished to think that Jobe Gaskins, one of the most intelligent, most prominent and influential Republicans in this township, should read sich trash, much less indorse it.”

And from that day to this Jobe Gaskins, my dear husband, has quit his readin and gone back to his settin and studyin.

His party principles was teched. The argament of that canderdate feller was unanswerable; it sunk deep into Jobe’s boozim, and from the time that that feller thanked Jobe for his dinner and hoss feed, and invited Jobe and me both to come into his office and see him, if he was elected, to this writin, I have not had the pleasure of talkin with my husband as before.

“I did git him started to readin.”

That feller robbed me of all the bliss I enjoyed of havin my pardner in life to talk with of evenins. And all I got for bein thus robbed, and for the dinner and hoss feed he et, was a invitation to see him okepy the high position of county officer—as though that would pay for vittles or satisfy an achin void, caused by him a turnin Jobe from his readin to his settin and studyin. What good would it do me to see him okepyin a county office and drawin of a big salary? Yes, drawin of a big salary that poor Jobe has to work his lites out of him to help pay. All that there canderdate feller cares for Jobe remainin to be a Republican is so that he, and sich fellers like him, will continer to vote for him and his likes, and pay the high taxes out of which they git their big salaries. What do they care for poor old Jobe Gaskins, whether he be a Republican or a Dimicrat or a Populist or one of them wild Anacrists, if it were not that he had a vote and they want to keep him in line? What keer they what papers he reads, or how quick he changes his polerticks, if they dident want to git office and draw a big salary?

Say anything to Jobe about this and he will flare up and tell you he “doesent intend to lose the respect of all the leadin men in the county by changing his perlitical views.”

He dont stop to ask hisself, “Who is the leadin men?” He dont stop to ask hisself how much taxes and interest and sich he contributes to make them the leadin men. Contributes it to support them and their families in style sich as becomes leadin people.

Yes, to support their families, I said, so that their wives and their girls can wear fine silks and satins, while I must git along with a brown caliker or gray cambric dress at best.

Jobe and his likes earns the money by the sweat of their brows, and them canderdate fellers and their likes spends it in high livin and makin theirselves leadin citizens. And then they are astonished to hear of one of their regular voters a readin anything that says that sich men as Jobe Gaskins and his wife Betsy, if you please, are jist as respectable, jist as leadin citizens, as any county officer or polertician and their wives. Yes, it astonishes them to hear of his readin a paper that says that the farmers have jist as intelligent, honest and patriotic people among them as the leadin citizens have. Now I read sich “trash,” as the canderdate feller calls it, and I dont keer who knows it, though Ime a Dimicrat. But as it is gittin late and milkin time is here, I will close, promisin you more anon, as it were.

BETSY GASKINS (Dimicrat),

Wife of

Jobe Gaskins (Republican).

CHAPTER II
AN ARGUMENT ON THE MONEY QUESTION.

THE anon is here. Last Tuesday evenin, arter I had milked and swept and washed up the supper dishes and done many other things I have to do day in and day out, year in and year out, arter Jobe had done his waterin and feedin and choppin of wood, we both found ourselves settin before the fire, me a knittin, him a settin and studyin.

Says I to him, all of a suddent, loud and quick like:

“Jobe, what yer studyin bout?”

You ort a seen him jump. He was skeert. I spoke so suddent and quick.

He hemmed and hawed a minit or so, got up and turned around, sat down, spit in the fire, crossed his legs, and says, says he:

“Well, Betsy, Ile tell you what I was a studyin about. I was jist a studyin about the mortgage and the interest and the fust of Aprile. Aprile, Betsy, is nearly here, and where is the money a comin from to pay the interest and sich?”

I saw he was troubled; but all I could say was: “Well, indeed, Jobe, I dont know.”

And I dont.

It seemed, now, as I had Jobe started, waked up as it were, he wanted to talk, and I was willin that he should, even though it wasent a very pleasant thing to talk about.

“Me a knittin, him a settin and studyin.”

Says he: “Betsy, I sometimes think we will never git our farm paid for. It seems to be a gittin harder and harder every year to make payments. It has took all we raised to meet the interest for the last four years; we haint been able to pay anything on the mortgage; and this spring I dont know where we will git the money to pay even the interest. It takes twice as much wheat, or anything else, nearly, to git the money to pay the interest with as it use to, and crops haint any better. Besides, Betsy, if I was to sell the farm to-day, it wouldent bring much above the $2,100 we owe on it. When I bought it for $3,800, fourteen years ago, I thought it cheap enough, and it was if times hadent got so hard and things we raise so cheap. Jist to think, we have paid $1,700 on the first cost, and $2,100 in interest besides, and if we had to sell it to pay the mortgage we would not have a dollar left. Congressman Richer could foreclose at any time; he could have done so for the last three years—ever since I failed to make the payments on the mortgage.”

“Well, Jobe,” says I, “it is bad enough, to say the least.”

“Yes, Betsy,” says he, “if we cant meet the interest, Banker Jones tells me, we will be sold out.”

I was silent.

Jobe continered: “I tell you, Betsy, these times, six per cent. interest is hard to pay. It seems that, no matter how cheap a farmer has to sell what he raises, interest dont get any cheaper.”

Thinks I, “Now is my time to speak.”

“Jobe,” says I, slow and deliberate, lookin him square in the eyes, “Jobe Gaskins, haint you a American citizen? Haint you jist as good a citizen as a banker? Haint you jist as honest? Haint you jist as hard-workin? Haint you got as much rights in these here United States?”

Jobe was silent, but lookin straight at me, starin.

Continerin, says I: “I was a readin in my paper, the other day, that the banker borrowed money from this here government for one per cent. The very money he loans you and your likes at six and seven and eight per cent. he gits from this here government for one per cent. You, Jobe Gaskins, ort to have jist as good right to borrow money from this here government of yourn and his as he has, if you give good security and will pay it back, and God knows you would, as honest as you are. Jist to think, Jobe, if you could have borrowed the money from the government to have paid Congressman Richer for his farm fourteen years ago, when we bought it, at only one per cent. interest, and only paid back to the government, at the post-office, or some other place appointed, the same as you have paid Congressman Richer in payments and interest, we to-day would have our farm nearly paid for and be out of debt, and you wouldent be a settin and studyin about the mortgage and interest and the fust of Aprile. Or even if you could borrow the money to-day from the government at two per cent., you could git the $2,100, pay it off, and next year only have to raise $42 interest instead of $126. Dont you see it would be easier for you to pay? And you could pay a little on the mortgage every year, as hard as times are?”

While I was a sayin all this Jobe was a lookin at me, a starin, turnin on his seat, spittin in the fire, crossin fust one leg, then another, waitin for me to stop. I seen he was teched; so, when I had done, I sot back in my cheer, and begin to knit, and waited for what was a comin. He begun slowly, but warmed up as he proceeded. Says he:

“Betsy, I have lived with you for nigh onto thirty-five years; we have allers lived in peace, though you was a Dimicrat and I was a Republican; we have had our sorrows and our hardships, and now, arter all these years of peace, am I to pass the last days of my life with a pardner who is allers talkin like them blamed Populists? You know, Betsy Gaskins, that I am a Republican and expect to die one. I believe that all the laws made by the Republicans are just laws. If they made laws to lend the banker money at one per cent. it must stand, and I will try to bear my burden, though I have to pay six per cent. interest or more, if need be, for the same money. Betsy, you must stop readin them papers. I never look into one; they jist start a feller to thinkin, and the fust thing he knows he dont believe a thing he has been a believin all his life. It ruins a feller’s perlitical principles. If a feller is a Republican, he should be one and never read anything to cause him to think. Them Populists, Betsy, is jist made up of a lot of storekeepers and farmers, and men who work in shops and mills and coal-banks and sich places. They dont know anything about makin laws, or money or bizness. Our law-makers, Betsy, should be lawyers and bankers and rich business men and sich.”

Well, I jist saw it was no use argyin with him, but I thought I would have the last word, as I allers do, and says I:

“Well, Jobe Gaskins, if you ignorant farmers haint fit to make the laws to fix the taxes you pay; if you farmers haint fit to make the laws to govern yourselves; if you farmers haint fit to transact the bizness in which you should be most interested, I think you ort to begin to prepare yourselves until you are fit, by readin what hasent been done for you that ort to have been done, and what has been done agin you that hadent ort to been done.”

“‘Talkin like them blame Populists’.”

At that, bein ready, I skipped into the bed-room and in a twinkle was in bed with the kivers drawed up over my head. If Jobe said any more I heard it not. In a few minits I was asleep, where I must soon be agin.

CHAPTER III.
JOBE SLEEPS IN THE SPARE BED. THE DREAM.

THAT nite arter I had got into bed and kivered up my head, I went to sleep and waked not until broad daylite. Imagine my surprise, when I waked, to find that durin all that long nite I had been the sole okepant of that bed. The piller on which Jobe, my dear husband, had slept for over thirty-four years had not been teched that nite, and, for the fust time in thirty-five years next corn-huskin, Betsy Gaskins had slept alone. I felt skeert. I felt as though some awful calamity had or would occur to me.

With a heavy heart I ariz and put on my skirts, all the time feelin as if I was about to choke. Everything was silent and still about the house. Could it be possible that my dear Jobe had dide or been kidnapped, or what? I hurried into the room—no Jobe there. I went into the kitchen—no Jobe there. I hastened to the spare bed-room. The door was closed. I stopped. I rubbed my hands together, studyin what to do, all a trimblin. Certainly the dead and lifeless corpse of my dear husband was in there cold in death, drivin to it of course by the cruel words of his lovin wife. There I stood stock still, not knowin what to do. I must have stood there some three or four minits until I came to myself. All at onct I says, says I, out loud: “Betsy Gaskins, what are you about? Haint you allers been looked upon as a woman of good jedgement and feerless in the face of disaster?” At that I marched up to the door and flung it open.

“I waked not until broad daylite.”

Now what do you suppose I found? Jobe was not there, but that spare bed had been okepied that very nite. Then it was that I realized that the two old parties, as it were, had been divided—divided for one nite on the money question. Yes, Jobe Gaskins and his wife Betsy, a Dimicrat and Republican, had slept beneath the same roof and in seperate beds.

While I stood there, contemplatin what next to do and where Jobe might be, I heered him come onto the back porch. I met him with a smile as he come into the kitchen.

Says I: “Why, Jobe, where have you been?”

“Feedin—feedin, of course,” says he; “where do you suppose Ive been?” lookin at the floor and walkin apast me.

Arter reflection thinks I, “’Tis best to say nothin to him about the split in the two old parties until a future date.” So I jist went about it and prepared the mornin meal, thinkin all the time of a dream I had that nite, some time between bed-time and daylite, while I lay there all alone, while the pardner of my life okepied the spare bed.

“Feedin,—feedin, of course,” says he.

Well, while Jobe was partakin of his mornin repast, I saw all the time that he wanted to say something. I never said a word durin the whole meal, neither did Jobe. We jist set and eat—eat in silence.

When Jobe was done he pushed back and tipped his cheer agin the wall. I knode he was a goin to speak. He cleared his throat like, and says, says he:

“Betsy, I dont want you to say any more to me about what you read in the newspapers. I am willin to listen to anything else under the sun, but dont let me hear any more about them Populist ideas. I want to talk sense to you, and you to talk sense to me. Now what I want to know, Betsy, is, how are we to raise the money to pay the interest by the fust of Aprile?”

Says I: “Land a goodness, Jobe, how do I know? Goodness knows I am willin to do all I kin to help you raise it. I had a dream last nite; if that dream was true I might tell you how to raise it.”

I stopped.

“Well,” says he, arter studyin a minit, “what was your dream?”

Lookin at him kind a girlish like, says I:

“Jobe, I wont tell you what it was unless you make me two promises.”

Jobe actually smiled. Says he:

“Go ahead; what are your promises?”

“I sot down, ... lookin him square in the face.”

“Well,” says I, smilin, “the fust promis is that you sleep in the same bed I do to-nite.”

At that I laffed out loud. Jobe he did, too. Then says I:

“The second promis is that you will listen without commentin until I tell it all.”

Jobe he studied.

“Do you promis?” says I, girlish like.

“Yes, I promis,” says he; “go ahead.”

“You promis to sleep in the same bed you have for these nigh onto thirty-five years?”

“Yes, yes,” says he, lookin half guilty.

“And you will listen?” says I.

“Yes, yes, Ile listen,” says he.

So, arter clearin away the dishes and scrapin off the crumbs for the chickens, and puttin some dish water to bile, I sot down on the other side of the table from Jobe, lookin him square in the face. Says I:

“Well, Jobe, we was talkin of the mortgage and the interest last nite when I went to bed, and I suppose that had something to do with me havin the dream, and for that reason I dont suppose there is anything in the dream.”

“Spose not,” says he, lookin oneasy like.

“Well, Jobe,” says I, “I dreamed that Congressman Richer had demanded his money, and you had to raise the whole amount of the mortgage or lose our home. I thought you and me went down to town and went to every bank to try to borrow the money with which to pay the mortgage. I thought every place we went we was told that they was not makin any loans now, that there was a money panic and they had decided not to make any more loans for some time. I thought we could see great piles of money inside the wire fence that seperated us from the bankers, you know.” At this he nodded. “And I thought you said, jist as plain as I ever heard you say anything:

“‘Why, haint you got plenty of money?’

“‘Yes, yes, we have plenty of money, but we are not loaning any at this time,’^[A] says each banker, jist as though they had all agreed to say the same thing.

 

A. In July and August, 1893, during one of the severest money panics ever experienced in the United States, many of the banks not only refused to lend money on choice security or to discount commercial paper, but in many instances would not permit persons to draw out the money they had deposited with them. Business was paralyzed. Thousands of persons were ruined, losing the accumulations of a lifetime by being unable to raise money as usual to meet obligations falling due. Factories were closed for lack of funds to pay employes, and thousands of American citizens were thrown out of employment. The consequent suffering among the poorer classes throughout the nation was indescribable. And during all this time the banks of the country held the money of the people and refused to pay it out even to those to whom it belonged. Hence the question: Can not a better system of financiering be devised than our present banking system? Would it not be better to permit the people to deposit their money with our county treasurers?

 

“So I thought we traveled and traveled and coaxed and coaxed, and we couldent git a cent, as it were.

“Finally I thought we was agoin along the street, both feelin sad and discouraged, when jist in front of Spring Bros. & Holsworth’s big dry goods store who should we meet but Bill Bowers of Sandyville.

“‘Hello, Gaskins,’ says he.

“That was the fust we had seen of him. Our minds was so troubled.

“We stopped, and arter inquirin about the folks, and the stock, and the meetin that is goin on at Center Valley school-house, he asked:

“‘What are you doin in town?’

“And I thought you up and told him about havin to pay the mortgage; and of our havin been to every bank; and of our havin been told the same tale by each banker, and then you said, ‘I guess, Bill, we will have to lose our farm.’

“When he up and says, says he:

“‘Why, Gaskins, haint you heerd it?’

“‘Heerd what?’ says you.

“‘Why, haint you heerd of the new law?’ says he. ‘Why, Congress passed the law yisterday. I was jist over to the court-house and they showed me the telegram.’

“‘Why, what law do you mean, Bill?’ says you.

“Then you and Bill sot down on a box and I leaned agin the house, and says Bill:

“‘Why, yisterday, Jobe, they passed a law in Congress authorizing the Secretary of the Treasury to, at once, have engraved and printed full legal-tender paper money to the amount of ten dollars per capita of the population of the United States, and that money is to be set apart only to be loaned to counties on county bonds, and the counties are to git it at one per cent. interest. Then the county treasurers are to lend the money only on first mortgage real estate security to the farmers and business men and mechanics, at only two per cent. interest, and when the man that borrows it pays it back, or any part of it, the amount of his payments shall be credited on his mortgage, and as fast as it accumulates in the county treasurer’s office he shall forward it to Washington and git it credited on the county bond they hold. The one per cent. the government gits is to pay for makin the money and keepin the books at Washington. The other one per cent. that the borrowers pay is to go toward payin the county treasurer’s salary and clerk hire. This money, Jobe, is as good as gold, because the government agrees to take it for postage stamps and internal revenue and duties on imports and sich. All you have to do, Jobe, is to go over there to that grand old court-house, give your mortgage to the people of the county, and git your money; and after this you will only have to pay two per cent. interest instead of six or seven, and you kin save your farm.’

“Well, Jobe, I thought you and me and Bill Bowers all went over there, and sure enough, what Bill told us was true. The county treasurer told us that he would put our application on file, and as soon as they could git the money out and here, possibly in thirty days, we could come in and git ninety per cent. of the value of our farm if we needed that much.

“And while we was standin there a talkin to Treasurer Hochstetter, I heard George Welty explainin to Ed. Walters ‘how nice it was for a person to be able to give a mortgage to the people of the county for money to pay for a home, and then the county goin that person’s security and gittin the money from all the people of the United States,’ and explainin that there would always be jist enough money to do bizness on and no more, since the county would only borrow from the government when some citizen of the county had use for the money and was willin to give good security and pay two per cent. for it. And, Jobe, I thought you looked happier than you have for ten years.”

“Well, Bet——”

“Hold on, Jobe,” says I. “Well, I thought you and me and Bill Bowers started up street, and when we were passin Jones’s bank he called us in.

“Says he: ‘Mr. Gaskins, I guess we can accommodate you with that little matter you was speakin about this morn——”

“‘I dont want it now,’ says you.

“‘No,’ says I.

“‘Ide think not,’ says Bill Bowers.

“‘Well, but hold—hold on,’ says Jones. ‘I—I—we—we will let you have that amount at four per cent.’

“‘Oh, no,’ says you.

“‘Well, how will three strike you?’ says Jones.

“‘I dont want it at all,’ says you.

“‘Come on,’ says I, and we went on up street. When we passed the First National Bank, out comes one of the clerks a hollerin, ‘Mr. Gaskins! Mr. Gaskins!’ We stopped. He came a runnin up and says: ‘Come in now and our people will accommodate you,’ takin hold of your arm and startin back with you. I thought I jist took a hold of your other arm and says, says I: ‘Jobe Gaskins, where yer goin? We dont want any bank money in sich a panic as this. So come on and lets git out of this panic.’

“Well, every last bank we had been to that mornin was a peckin, and a hollerin, and a beckenin to us that evenin, until we like to a never got out of town and away from them. They jist seemed bound to lend you that money whether you wanted it or not. Something had created a panic among them—a panic to git to lend you money. Maybe they had heard of the new law. I dont know.”

Durin most of the tellin of my dream Jobe he was leanin his face in his hands, his elbows on the table, eyes wide open, listenin as he never did before.

When I finished, says he:

“Betsy, that will save us. What a grand country this is!” And he got up and walked across the floor. Comin back and lookin, anxious like, at me, says he: “Betsy, which party did Bill say passed that law—the Dimicrats or the Republicans? It is grand! grand! It will save us.” As he spoke he looked full of joy and happiness. Answerin, says I:

“I think I heard John Denison say it was the Popul——”

I never got to finish that word. His fist came down on the table like a thousand of bricks. He jumped back into the middle of the floor, cracked his fists together, stamped his foot, and says in a loud voice: “I wont! I wont! I wont do it. It can go fust. Bill Bowers is a dum fool. I wont! I wont!”

Says I: “Why, Jobe, what on airth is the matter? What ails you? What yer talkin about anyhow? You wont do what?”

Answerin, says he, bringin his fists together agin:

“I wont borrow any money from any scheme them tarnal Populists has made into a law. Ile—Ile pay ten per cent. interest fust. Ile not lend my approval to any law they have made.”

“Why, sakes alive, Jobe,” says I, “they haint made any law. That was jist a dream I had. What ails you, anyhow?”

At that he stepped back a step or two, lookin at me vicious like. Movin his head up and down in short jerks, says he:

“Betsy, you must stop it. Stop it at once. Its got you crazy—so crazy you are dreamin about it. You must stop that readin or Ile have you sent to a lunatic asylum.”

He went out at the door then, but just as he got out, in time for him to hear it, I hollered:

“Its you and your likes that ort to be sent to a lunatic asylum for not seein a thing that you have to turn your back on to keep from seein.”

This ended the second “discussion of the financial situation,” as they say down at Washington. The two old parties—Jobe and me—are still divided; but I have one promis he has yet to fulfill.

CHAPTER IV.
“THE COMERS.”

BILL BOWERS has got me into trouble. The Thursday arter I had my dream about the money bizness, who should ride up to our gate and hitch but Bill Bowers? I had not seen him for nigh onto two years, except in that dream, until he rid up to that gate post.

No sooner did I lay eyes on him than I thought of our meetin him that day in town, right there by Spring Brothers’ big store, and of his tellin us of the money plan, and of his goin with us to the county treasurer, and of us a learnin from the county treasurer that in a few days he would become the people’s banker and would lend money to the people on good security. While he was gittin off and hitchin, I remembered of his walkin with us up apast all the banks; I remembered of them refusin to lend us any money in the mornin; of them a peckin and a beckenin, a hollerin and a runnin arter us, wantin to lend us their money, in the evenin, arter we, and they too, had heerd of the new law Congress had made the day before—a law that turned a panic where we had to beg for money, and not git it, to a panic where they begged to lend us money and we wouldent borrow it.

Yes, sir, that there dream all come back to me as plain as day, Bill Bowers and all, jist as soon as I laid eyes on him.

So it was no more than nateral for me to tell him about it. Jobe not bein at home, I had to do the entertainin. As soon as he got in and got settled, I says:

“Bill Bowers, I am glad to see you. I must tell you my dream. Bring your cheer up to the fire.”

Then I jist up and told him that whole dream, and he swollered every word of it without chawin, as it were.

When I had finished he says, says he:

“Betsy Gaskins, if that ere dream was only enacted into a law, what a blessin it would be to the creatures of this world! Betsy, though I am one of the stanchest Republicans in Sandyville, if this here Dimicratic Congress would make sich a law, Ide vote the Dimicrat ticket at the very next township election. Betsy, how in the world did you come to dream sich a dream?”