Volume 6, No. 2, June, 1918

Page twenty-four The Internationalist
"We'd better go now and pick a coffin," he purred.
—
A new horror clutched Joe. "I haven't got any money
he began.
"Dear, dear, how unfortunate," sympathized the undertaker,
"But do not fret, my friend. We have board ones for
that kind."
"I don't want a board one," Joe whispered, "I want it
white—pure white—white silk."
"Dear, dear, but the money. I must be paid in advance."
"Give me time, and I'll pay you. I'll work," Joe said.
"Impossible. I assure you, board ones are entirely satisfactory.'
You must use a board one. And flowers? Can
we afford a few flowers?"
"Yes," said Joe desperately, his hand seeking the folded
bill—the doctor's money. "She's going to have lots of
flowers. I'll go get them."
He went out and found a florist's shop. He looked long
in the window, trying to make up his mind what he should
buy. He finally decided upon violets and white carnations.
Bill liked sweet smelling flowers best.
He ordered ten dollar's worth, then reached in his pocket
for the money. It was not in the pocket where he had tucked
it away. He turned the pocket inside out to be sure. Then
all his other pockets. It was not there. It was gone. Lost.
Dropped perhaps, when he had taken out his knife.
"Will you trust me for the flowers?" he said.
The florist did not answer for a full minute. Then he
said, "What do you think I am?" and turned his back.
Head bowed, Joe retraced his steps. Suddenly he smelled
something—an enchanting odor, just above him. Apple
blossoms! Great branches of them! How Bill loved apple
blossoms
He looked up the road and down the road, but saw no
one. He vaulted over the fence and climbed the tree, to
the topmost branches where the blossoms were thick. He
broke them off lavishly.
He heard a shout. Across the garden a man was running,
gesticulating fiercely. He was a little man in huge tortoise
shell glasses with brown lenses. My God! The doctor!
Now what? Well, Bill should have her flowers! That's
what!
Grasping the flowers firmly, he jumped. And fell.
He cursed wildly. Damn it! Why should he always fall?
He tried to rise to his 'feet, tried to reach for the apple
blossoms that were scattered all around, but his head swam
so he could not. A cool breeze fanned his face, and something
splashed upon it. Was it raining? The drops were
hot. Even the sky was against him.
He heard a man's voice as if miles away. "He's coming
round all right. Just a bump on the head."
Then a woman's voice. "Joe!"
Joe lay very still. Gosh! Was he dead? And had the
preacher's got the right dope after all?
"Bill !
" he whispered faintly.
"Oh kid! I thought you'd never come to!" The splashes
fell like hot rain upon his face.
!
"Is this heaven?" he asked feebly.
"Heaven
"Are'nt you dead?"
"No I'm not hurt the teeniest little bit. Nobody's hurt but
you—not even Mike. But you got an awful bump, Joe.
Feel the lump on your head."
"If we'd been going fast, somebody might have been
killed," one of the dim figures around him interposed. "We
broke your lights and smashed the fender, but we'll pay for
it of course."
Joe rubbed his hand up and down Bill's body and across
her forehead. He stroked her warm healthy flesh with returning
confidence.
"What day was it?"
"What day was what, kiddie?"
"The day I was hurt."
"Why, tonight! Just now!"
Joe sat up dizzily and looked at his watch.
It was eight thirty!
Bill had told him the time at eight twenty-five. Five
minutes
ago.
Five minutes!
Joe laid down again and asked for a drink.
AS
The Trouble With The Socialist Party
an agency in diffusing the philosophy of Socialism
throughout society, the Socialist party has been a brilliant
success. As a theory, Socialism has been made
popular by the Socialist party. But this work is done, and
the urgent need is for an active, potent, virile, agency to carry
the theory into practice, and make Socialism a real force in
politics and industry. Whether or not the Socialist party is
to become this agency depends upon the ability of the organization
to adapt itself to new requirements. If it persists in
being inflexible, if it persists in becoming a narrow creed
based on what some patron saint thought, said, or wrote several
years ago, its usefulness will soon become that of a
historic relic, a fossilized effect of a' past evolutionary period.
There is absolutely no doubt that Socialism, like all forces
of evolution, has power to
secure those ways and means necessary
to accomplish its ends; but the rapidity of its forward
movement in the immediate future depends upon whether the
Socialist party is to become an obstruction clinging to the past,
or an organization that can move forward, both revolutionary
and efficient.
It is absolutely impossible for the Socialist party to carry
on the work before it without more funds. More funds can
only be secured by raising the membership dues. And even
with more funds, if administration is to continue as ununified,
scattered, and inefficient as it is today, the increased income
will be wasted as easily as the present income is wasted, as
far as accomplishing effective results are concerned. If the
membership dues were raised to ten dollars per year the cost
to the average Socialist would be no greater than at present,
for most every Socialist gives as much or more than this
year to be spent inefficiently and ineffectually.
each
The Socialist party must adopt a radical change in its relation
toward the labor movement, for no Socialist organization
can longer prosper unless it is organized both politically
and industrially. It had as well be admitted first as last that
there is little common ground for a labor movement that
recognizes the profit system as a legitimate social institution
and the Socialist party that professes to abhor that system and
is determined to destroy it. There must be a labor organization
within the Socialist party, for, unless the party is able to
champion the cause of the revolutionary working class both on
the political and the industrial field, it can not carry out the
historic mission of socialism and must relegate itself to the
past. — H. A. MERRICK.