When I am dead Waste not yourself in either grief or joy

because of so, As I'll not know,

And recompense, the spur to all we do, Will never come to you, Except as one in sounding glen bewails or sings

And echo brings on airy wings The messages himself sent out.

Jo Labadie.

Odtober, nineteen-leven.


The T.nbadie Booklets





The following verses were written in February 1905 and express the dreary aspe<5l of conditions in Russia at that time and the indignance of an essentially peaceful man toward injustice. They were found among my fathers printing things and I consider the little labor involved in putting them in booklet form small cost for the pleasure it may give him to see the hobby he loved continued. The first three were linotyped and were probably printed somewhere but I can find no copy in my fathers scrapbooks.

The advertisement is appended principally for the philosophy it contains and is the same set-up he used in his last booklet "Anarchism." Most of his booklets have been disposed of in my fathers peculiar manner. However, the few remaining may be had on the same terms.

Laurance Labadie.



Out of the frost-etched north, out of the numbing berg,

Over the crunching snow, over the wild wind's dirge.

Cold as a Polar night, harsh as a mountain side.

An avalanche of woe, the weal of the world defied,

Fierce as a famished pack whose howls are heard afar.

Blood-red jowls reeking wrath: 'Tis the spirit of the czar!

Out of his shameless smile, out of his bloodstained hand,

Over the people's doom he gives his claque command;

Cold is his fatal frown, filling his vengeful cells.

Reeling from city to town, feeding these hungry hells;

His vicious voice is death, victors the victims are,

Ogre of hell is he, O wicked, Caliban Czar!

Out of the Russian faith, out of its Christless creed,

Over the fawning priest, over authority's greed,

Cold as a grand duke's heart, harsh aa a Cossack's steel,

A hurricane of throe, a gruesome, grinding heel,

Ignorance bowing low, kissing the hands that scar,

Image of God debased—this is the Russian czar!


(On the death of the Grand Duke Sergius.) Freedom takes another stride towards the dav of peace!

The bomb's awful flame has flared once more To guide heroic feet from darkness and distress! A grand duke's black and hardened heart, That barred, as Alpine peaks, a nation:s course

to joyous life, Stains authority-ridden Russia's guiltless snow. And millions, walking with bleeding feet The way to hope, will tramp his ruthless blood Into a soil athirst for tyrant sap.

With shoeless tread Terrorism, like a Colossus, Stalks the dreaded czar's domain With roses for the plodding people in his peaceful hand

And dreadful death to despotism ift the other. With a pathetic prayer on ;hi$ resolute and pallid lips

Th*t fate wiU spare the need of other holy crimes

Ere righteousness (with clean, white bands) A halo of love about his beaming face,-A he&rt rhythmic with the people's weal) Shall throne himself in the will of Russia, He burls at autocracy a potent message from the weak.

And Tvitfr a voice of thunder 'round the lauding

world resounds. "We shall be free, if only in tfct grav*!"

Autocracy is a mad fool dancing on a rotten

thread over the mouth of hell. Wben Pitiless power girds the people's struggling neck with brawn their own it in-


vlies the furies to a feast. Who sow terror reap the terrible. Who plant horrors walk gorgonean paths And poisoned fangs strike at every step; At every turn ogres with raw heads and bloody

bones stare with verigingeyes, • The hands of death reach with iron certainty

•for their guilty throats, Every getitTe breeze Is a viper's hiss. Every laughing morn Is a mockery of peace, Every gleam of the sun lights the assassin's aim, Every moment sits anxiety on the jagged edge . < of eternity;

The luxuries of the world are but means' of torment.

And life itself is but an awful nightmare. In which accusing eyes, green with hate, Gaping wounds full of torturing memories. Prison hells reeking with filth and filled with

consummate agonies, Stiffened corpses in Siberian snows pointing

fearful fingers, And crushed but cursing hearts bleeding eloquently for freedom, Make a harrowing picture of bureaucratic crime. Oh. what a desperate price for oerfldious power!

And yet. until falr-faeed freedom has reached

its golden goal. • -

The means to win are the means of fate, anJ justified!

And though the grand dukes of the wortfl,

The rabid rulers of- a ransacked race,

The ignoble nobtes of earth be scattered to tha

. • ' skies, . - . -

I»Ucq debris frpro ft .YQtoftlio» . . j lv: . .. The loss is gain and the reign of gQofl will and peace on earth is nearer at hand.


The millions of moiling, maudlin men. Mean in mawkish meekness to a merciless monarch—

Their ruthless ruler, royal in relentless robbery— Is a mammoth submissive to a mouse.

Pessimus clouds Russia, and the days are dark. The masses grope with labored step, Soddened with superstitions of church and state, And with drooling jaws pray to powers that only live in muddled minds.

Rulership dominates only who would rule. And the miasma sickens unto death. The nations of earth breathe the noxious fume And the madness resulting makes wretched war. Puts the po*soned teeth of the one into the

gurgling throat of the other. And thumb and finger into sightless sockets. For surely no one who sees sanely fights for rulership,

Because the joy and profit of palmy peace surpass that of wrecking war, And he alone prays whose heart is filled with fear.

Domination sears the soul and racks it with

unholy dreams Of paving worldly ways with wretches weakened with unworthy wants. It renders righteousness into fiendish munitions.

And murder In every degree terrorises tortured hearts. •

It prompts to dastard deeds who would advantage of his fellows' follies.

And breeds the foibles that All the world with sorrow, violence and vengeance.

Russia, zenith of centered political power.

The fruit of which now whelms with Its awful harvest.

Learns the world that congested sway ruins alike ruled and ruler.

Tn such declining degree as man rules man do peace and plenty grow.

Their flowered fulness finding finish in fearless freedom.

The great white Czar is but a troubled dream

Of souls made treb'y troubled by fears of future punishment.

Foretold of them by priestly varlets for worldly favors.

If jthey bow not in meek submission

And pay his will in sweat and sorrow, even ■unto ignoble death.

When they awake, these dull and dreamful souls.

They'll see Nicholas the man as of themselves,

And not so terrible or so godly as Pharisee or plunderer, friend or foe, as suit the purpose. paint him.

And they'll see the palling power of Nicholas the Czar is but what they themselves grant him.

Is but their own will and acquiescence focused in his arm.

And that if they but cast the shadow of their displeasure

Upon him and his. autocracy and retinue

Will pale and die as plants without sunlight.

Autocrat®, like noxious weeds, grow but in welcome soil, - - . • And can no mo*e exist where freedom 's loved

than iceberge form in tropic seas. Rulers prosper best where superstitions, political and religious; fructify their lordship most; And long must mercy pray with wistful words

and pleading palms FOr what is tight from might.

When surrounded by banditti Who awaken first meet bandit bullets and brutality, '

And so they whose sapient eyes first' saw those

pride-filled bureaucratic plunderers Bleed barmy blood ere fly the foe in fear*fri>m

fields of frightful work. From every drop of rebel gore rise hosts of revolutionary spirits - ' • J ' Who haunt and harass unholy despotd and their covetous courts, their cruel Cossacks, their craven priests, their pliant armies, * Whose iron cruelty gnaws their own trembling

nerves '' * ; ** " And turns'every sackless shadow into an tia-- • sassfo. - • -

* . •..* • r ♦ :

Helfman, Zassulic. Llsogub, Osslnsky, Clement,

Stepniak, Ste'fandvic, Perovskaia, Your' martyred bodies five "in * deeds and labor . still for .Jttis3ian,.llbertyl, t / .

Where'er your holy feet have trod grow tending

thorns V * . • ,

TO tear the flesh and fang the hearts.of those

invading righteousness. ., V , ^ ■

• »

Hail. Russian revolutionaires!

Waste no more your pious patienc* on hearts of

ice that feel no warmth for humankind. When the appealing voice is powerless. When aristarchy has no ear for labor wronged. When wretchedness displays its festering sores

to sightless eyes. When stubborn lust for malignant power rules

the ruling hand, When human sympathy is lifeless, Then the blow muBt speak! • And it may Justify itself to speak howo'er it

may if it but deaden enmity. . Squeam not at means.

Your noble aims make White the blackest weapons

If they but thwart the rotten Romanoffs And all their horde of pestilential partisans and parasites

And fill your rugged fatherland with ferment freedom!

February 1905,


"The Czar has granted freedom!"

The press dispatches say, ' And so the people kneeling, For the little father pray.

But could the little father

Give what he did not own? Of freedom was he maker? Fruit of what he'd sown?

Gifts come but from the owner,

And the owner is but he . Who gets by honest effort, Not brute authority.

The Russian Czar can flatter

His own deceptive heart, But still the truth is open That he and crown must part.

And here's another matter About (he Czar's decree: The Russian revolutionist Without it will get free.

As Patrick Henry shouted

Here in America— "Liberty or death for me!" The Russians shout today.

Talk as you will, you tyrant,

Be you a Czar or tool, Full freedom's surely coming, In spite of those who'd rule.

October 1905.


(Russian General shot by a woman Dec. 5, 1905.)

The report of a pistol but echoes the lash, And the brute who whipped women lies shot thru the heart!

The spirit of peace makes a rift in the clouds As black Sakharoff s carcass and life apart.

Meek Submission's arousing from lcthargic Sleep And the blush of the morning is lighting his face;

He's streaching his limbs o'er the world of affili&ion. Disturbing the dreams of the thugs of the race.

The rights of the people are making way slowly, The grip of the despot is weakened each day,

And if death and distruftion must needs be the how, Then Hell, loose your furies! For freedom make way!

Hail! powder and bullets and dynamite too, That grimly demolish the might of a king.

These are the medicine to demoniac power, These are the cure to tyranny's sting!


Does the nature of freedom change because

answers to another name? Pods independence become thraldom because

its garb is homespun and out of style? Doc ;> the red heart of L^bertv turn black becau we call it Anarchv ?

. , 4 • • ' J .

» ■ ft* . • > .

With brushes long lain in blackened lie,s . Injustice paints Anarchy blacker than.hell. Rulership taints it fearful, terrible. -To save its own malignant sovereignty. But frienzied disorder it is not, , Nor riotous rage and wretched ranchor Pricked like bulls maddened into blind<exas-

peration By javalins of fancied wrongs; Nor-wild-eyed, wild-haired, wild-ajfling, Running amuck with weapons deadly," '.< ■•„ Hands reckless and reeking with human blood!

Grim-visioned .chaos Anarchy is .not, But with tranquil grace and confident feet It walks the paths of the garden of reason,

Restful and radiant as a leisure season,

And the people, simple, ijnthoughtful, welcome and love it,

Tho, alas! by that name they know it not.

Not with air-splitting thunders of war does it come,

Nor with clashing blades and martial trappings.

With menacing mien and hands unclean it comes not,

Nor do harm and hate and havoc herald its approach.

Hence the people, undiscerning, do not know it.

With fierce-frowned face and heavy hands protesting

Authority anathematizes and the people are awed.

But parricide, fratricide, regicide Anarchy is not;

Nor is It thuggery, murder, massacre or assasin-ation,

But like a morning in summer it comes;

Like the filling of the moon it comes—

Out of the darkness, noiseless and calm.

With hardened fece, clutching its bulging pockets,

Business blares against it with bowels of brass.



But silent, soft-footed stealing Anarchy is not;

Nor pillaging, plundering, pirating^ pecarooning;

Nor robbery wearing the mask of commerce.

With the prodigal aid of freedom,

With the hope and the heart of justice,

With the lighted lamp of knowledge,

The seeds of concord sowing,

The needs of kindness knowing,

The meeds of moiling showing, it comes.

But over the barricades of the will it cannot come.

Nor does it come until the fruit is ripe to harvest.

As iho from the womb ofthe East came the sun. Golden-haired god of the day, And, feeling the while the warmth of his genial smile,

His breath of beatitude blowing upon you. Your flesh crawled creepily like a wounded lizard, •

And with tongueless horror you started in awe, Believing the cohorts of hell with its heat were

coming, You and yours to annihilate, So, with eyes afilmed with folly, Ignorance

stands aghast, Gazing on the fair face of Anarchy.

The Anarch's coming, comrade, fear you not,

For what you grow and glean he comes to safeguard.

From the claws of beady-eyed Usury he releases you;

From your limbs he strikes the shackles of the usurping lords of the land;

He frees you from the gnawing bonds of torting business;

He undoes the swaddling of insolent restraint;

From those sickly superstitions that hang about your neck like dead snakes he emancipates vou;

And he loosens from your potency the grip of vacant-eyed Idleness.

He makes you glad;

He makes you rich;

He makes you royal;

And, as a means of sundering his own bonds,

The zenith of his hope is to make you free!


Archy robs you while you sleep.

From numbing slumbers rouse you, comrades!


The Labadie Booklets

- JO LABADIS, Author, Pointer, Binder

What is Love and Other Fancies; The Red Flag & Other Verses; Doggerel for the Under Dog; I welcome Dftardfcr; WuricShop Rifnes; My Song of Self; Essays; Songs of the Spoiled. These are printed in very lifrtitfcd hufnberrf, afe not for Said in the store, but sent to those who want them at their own price. The worlc Is demfe by the family,

— type set by hand in the old-fashioned way: printed on an old Washington press, and we bind them at our leisure, in the Shop at Bubbling Waters, in the wilderness, one mile north of Grand River Road, on the Oakland-Livingston counties line, 35 irtiles froth Detroit.

The Shop .is intended to demonstrate co* operation without the loss of personal re-sponsibility, the weakness in all co-operative enterprises heretofore attempted for industrial or commercial purposes. What is everybody's business is dbnfc efficiently by nobody. This is why even democracy in politics always fails to perform social fun&ions to the advantage 6f society ftf general. Politicians bear no economic loss for their inefficiencies. The Labadie Shop bids for your support Only When it doesthe job that, suits you. The taxes are voluntary. See the poin£ ? The price of each booklet is what you want to contribute to the support of this modest little enterprise.-No dun is sent anybody. Unless a book is ofdfcrfcd no cofrtrtbiition is expelled. Stf far the income has been ample, the individual fiavors ranging from a few cents to hundreds of dollars. Do you want to co-oper-ate? Address: Wixom, Mich.

Far fr< m the crazy city's strife, Away from its wretchedness and woe, I cogitate for a saner life And hopefully dream in the ingle's glow.