The Subjed


Miss Understanding, Flattery ^ Co.




If I could sing

I'd make the welkin ring

and charm the birds that revel in the blue;

I'd send high notes around the mountain tops,

and clear, for you, dear you; the low to pits below the ocean's flow in chords as smooth as your velvet skin. I'd garlands weave of roses for your lovely brow in multicolored tones of golden melody and fill your soul with rhythmic spring if I could sing!

If I could sing

I'd flood your soulful eyes with silvery tears of


your nerves as restful as a sunny day I'd phrase; my heart I'd urge for dulcet-dreamy resonances and lay them on your soft and silent reveries, and to your wishes sweet fulfillment bring, if I could sing!

If I could sinl;

I'd make vour life a Ionic and linijerinq: lav of

« n o Q ^

passion's symphonies; in lulling- evenings bring to you on euphonious wing the thing no king could string on golden ring to please your tuneful ear,

and with harmonious fling and swing I'd wring the rarest riches from the mines of melody, if I could sing!

If I could sing

I'd counterfeit the winds in calm and storm, the brooklet's tenor tones in liquid song, the cascade's barylouic soft-caressing woo, the deep-base bell's stentorian roar and ring,— I'd blend the sounds of all audition's sense, and in the noonday glory of love and joy I d

give them wing— I'd surge thru all mankind a hurling, purling, twirling, swirling, sparkling, spirited, soulful stream of rhythmic harmony if I could sing! Jo Labajhk

March, 1924

[A week before he died Dr. Orville Ward Owen, of Baconian cypher fame, declared as a critic of poetrv that the above lines where "splendid, wonderful/' 1 wonder.—J. L.J

Dear bard of Bubbling Waters, Why say " If I Could Sing1? The rhythmic flow of your music Is like rippling rills in spring.

- There are notes above the mountains, And notes below the sea; The tuneful chords of vour music Bring floods of melody.

o y

The garland sweet of roses You weave for a "lovely brow/' And the golden wish in your music Are proof of your singing now.

No need of "the brooklets tenor," Nor the "base-bells roar and ring," For out of your heart's own music Come the soulful songs you sing!

Myra P. Weller.

September 7, 1924.


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Long amid Nature's secret haunts I'd sought her, And found her, hid, at last, at Bubbling Water. Her spokesman-poet, I found, on my visit, Has ceased to write his poem, and just is it I Of course, he needn't stop for that, because it Is evident to all he always was it. And, let him write or not, true readers see it, In mere living he has^got to be it. I'd like to stay and learn the trick, but damit, I know I'll never live to say I am it! The place, the setting, seeing it, first minute, You sense at once that Labadie fits in it. Retreating here from whatever care besets you, The Lure of Bubbling Water surely gets you. Snug and secure in every sort of weather, The Lord and Labadie live close together, Chummy as comrades, with one common mind, Freedom, and peace, and love for all mankind;

Albert Leslie DeGreene,



Its good to have a friend like Jo, Whose mind for dates is apropos. Mis welcome wishes (tho in rhyme) Consolement brings for flight of time. However, why should we repine As years go flitting down the line? "Age/' savs some sage on page of truth, t4 Has its delights as well as youth/' If one iray win a friend per year What wealth could fetch us greater cheer? And at that rate see what I've done:

I've fiftv won, \ Say fiftv-one.

* 1 mf 4

Herman Kuehx.

Some of the Writers

Here's to Joseph Labadie,

Clear of mind and warm of heart; Chained by love and more than free— A child of Nature wed to Art.

William Francis Barnard, Author of 'The Moods of Life," "The Tongues of Toil," Etc.


My comrade speaks to me

With voice both clear and glad: Come, let us agree, My comrade.

He would I shall have had His dream of Liberty— Methinks he is not sad!

He^jrould that all shall see Visions of men not sad— Of when each man shall be My comrade.

Forrest Bowman. 1:05 A. M., February 15, 1918.

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I'm out of Sing Sing—yes, just now,

But prob'Iy not for long,

With Jo Labadie to tempt me,

Into devilment and wrong.

With insidious suggestion

To hold before my eyes,

What would land me in the "cooler",

Were I not so wise!

He would make of me an Anarchist,

With whiskers wild—disheveled hair,

A'whooping down the avenue,

With blood-shot eyes aglare,

Scaring all the pdpulace,

Along the thoroughfare. -

He would lead me out of freedom,

And 'twould be my fate instead,

That on my tombstone folks would read,

" Hung by the Neck Till Dead"!

M. DeC H.

Jo Labadie, she rnak de verse,

She's rhym lik heveryting; She's write som ver fine song, by gar; H'l lik for hear her sing.

Som tim she's write lik what you call

De socialistic style; She's call dat mans som ver -hard names Becos he's mak hees pile.


She's say dey haint no kind hof law

Dats wort ha pinch hof snuff; !i Han wen ha man's got hall he's need, Wy, den he's got h'enuf.

By gar! hi lik wat Jo she's say.

She's sur got de right dope, Han wen she's run for halderman She's be heled, hi hope;

For wen dere's be no law for mak

She's got snap lik heveryting, Han hall she's got for boder her His mak de song for sing.

James V. C. Perry.

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Witless multitude over the harvest-ofPSS

. /*.... ^ i-:*'' .iv j*' .• - • % *'mm,i . • . •.•.<•"<.',' ••i.-r/r.-tti,'v,

ShJ^i^^fflteiautumn leaves in the

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That teach fertile lessons more convincingly

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forsooth ! those into whose anSGci^l ;^^^g^TO^navegiveil.wrongful

To tht ^vantage of those who conS^SMJt^P^^

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r^s-vr ■•^vt,^. y/jy^y^.m.^..

. • —■ . • %» . • i . -

Is ij^^tp^ ^ttl^a^ii nd^ecl who loosens feoia^fe^^l


, its to others

hearrtistone and hopes^not

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* • / •«

t .A*.

many years, v- ^

of comrades, In yearning for righteousness* In sympathy with joy and justicc^ ^Y In hope of symmetrical rights, • • Has cried out warnnJgly: 1 'Sell not your birthright for a mess of pottagef' "Make not property of things not fashioned by QS'iuman hands— ■

; Of things not hallowed by the punning stciH of

j-fij^or they who own them own those Who must

^M use th^ ; • • •.^'fVs

Heedless, alas I of this toying and warnfu] V9ic%; Careless as the winds that scatter this^e seed 6W

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: With consciences lik^ a wrecking sea,. Who reckon their fellows as food for their

The things thaj are needful for your pleasure, ' : your comfort, your life; .-V/'-O f v

And then, like suppliant dogs, crawl upon yoyr scrawny bellies u-mp\

: And beg a life-saving sufficiency! J v

How sorrowful the smite of those wh<v see; v The handwriting of Justice on the wall •V;. )ySyj< -As clearly as 4 folk-grown moon qn a cloudless

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: b^n 1 ong imprudent, with anxious eyes :

■ . • t5"vtI • 'r• v'r-' •' '^1 :• /HA•" • •>. -i f >-v ?--- & * • y• •.

17, v." * m. •• ••>!-••. * -'^"'i' / .j,'. • > - ■ ' ■ ''.'^.c p . • • v v-.^-s

& rtSgpt^ & orii.3/ . .h. ■ ■ :: .v.•%<? ;.

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i n g* - bro --;: - ;; - -

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J%2adM piteous accents: "What shall we do?" ft'hftt is-there to do but as penitent pcocjjgj

CJd^t^fe to th^ home of pur early fHenty


Mi^&recan see the

Affd^aek ... ..... ___________.

forth ^

And pluck tb£3ruit which Nature bids shall* be

•^Jeaten in the sweat of thine own face If ish- tlie sweets of ^ell-earned ;

If yptitare to feel the luxury of tired sleep, ■Jfydii are to have the honor and dignity that

^V ' ' ' ' • ' s. K

lf^u^;t6uenjoy' ehjoymetM' to, Jth:€^ -1;

The path to social peace and plenty can be trod-

den only by the feet Whose ever! tread makes music that inspires the ^/^at^ref^in equat^-fe'^

Arid Freetfdtp cannot abicie wh^efthe suffering //.. children of men are barred from tbe gener:

tyyk- thtDdroii JVezvs, OcL 22, igo

J^^^idism hfcs filled

some people ou tlie one white,

tfcfk masses |>oorv tlie StlMpM^: tt has failed to feed tjtfe :peO{x^

tkiarifcoods. It does not prevent war, disdj^^fc^ titution or crime. If capitalism is a behefit^^e



by jo labadie.

I sing this Song of Self Because I sing of things I know of best And of the universal I do not know.

A grain of sand upon the golden beach, That comes and goes with every swish of wave And hurries out and scampers in as will the ebb and flow Of the whole big earth what does it know ? How comes it to be sand, and but a grain ? How comes it here and not some otherwhere? Has it a soul to save ?

(The soul is master of the will and all that is, we're told). Has it no life, no consciousness, no sense, no will ? Does no romance come to it, no love, no grief, No toil, no gladdening recompense, no war to kill its kind?, Has it no rent to pay, no false aristocrats to bear, No ruling rock with ruffian raiding rank and file? I do not know, and know not if it knows or no.

I am but a grain of sand upon the beach of universe, And cannot comprehend the whole, not comprehending part.

The limits of my ken are pain and pleasure. And jagged the horizon by alpine weal and woe. Up, up I go into the purpted blue of joy, Then plunge foredoomed adown an avalanche of grief Which things outside myself have caused. I go whither forces take me,

Be it upon the mountain peaks of joy or in the deeps <

sorrow's salty sea.


If soul be master, will must subject be.

1 am as I am as fate so decrees;

And fate but the sum total of all that's gone before.

May it not be that will is but the shadow of the soul.

And what we wot not of be master over all ?

I siiw of self as self I know the best.


1 know when cometh joy, as rosy morn on velvet fjet

unto the early, listening day, Glinting the peaks of my compiaicent heart, And glowing grows until the zenith 's reached. Ah ! then for Joshua's power to make the sun stand st 11 When down the west it goes and hides its flushing face

behind the whelming wave, And chilling blasts from hoary-caverned wretchedness Congeal my sinking heart and stop the flow of sweet felicity, this, too, I know.

Who does the best he can does well, And that which cheers the heart the most is best. It may be that joy and grief adjust themselves to meet

our earthy needs As from the womb of yore we go to sealed futurity.

I to my fellows bring the fruits of love because I like to see them feast. I burn incense on the altar of good will because its fragrance fumes my nostrils too.

I do not crowd because the rudeness of the crushing ruffles mv sei*en it v. ' : '

I want not what belongs to vou, as caring for mv.ownis

task enough. . . I love you because I love myself, and niggard ness in love

k kin to hate. • * • • • Who does best by himself doe's best to all, and good to

all is need fid tor one's fullest happiness. Burdens placed on other backs by me burden me in placing them,

And so I bear my load to void excuse ot others loading me.

Into the world I came not of mine own accord, And so 110 just debt against me lay before my coming Than stands against the oak. the rose, the ant, Or any other denizen of floral world or fauna. By no fair rule of recompense I know do ought I owe, And duty speaks no language plain to nu' that debts me

to the world without mv will. That which joys my heart is law a-^ truly that bodies

come to earth, And nature's God no other rule reveals to me. If I but house myself, but clothe myself, but feed myself, But satisfy mv own desires bv tuj of arms mine own at

nature's cache, Then do I leave the world as the world leaves me— Taking nothing, leaving nothing, owing nothing, doing into other worlds (if otherworlds there bz) As I came into this,

Naked, debtless, creditless, selt alone.

As a drop of water cmssfrovn a rumbling cloud Into the lisping rivulet, runs with the braggart brook,

thru the placid lake, With the mighty river, and at last into the majestic

ocean, comrading with other selves, But always individualized, always entity, always self.

J£ag, bearte, to gou fifte uniqueness in Q&oeftfi ?

then why not try


Nothing like them anywhere else. Every process 111 the old-fashion way. They are mostly written by an old-fashion fellow, put into old-fashion type in the old-fashion way, printed on an old-fashion press, sewed and bound in the old-fashion style, but got rid of by an entirely new process. If you haven't the price a book goes to anyone who asks. The income so far has been almost wholly prompted by partisans of this way of having this enterprise run. It is the newest way of capitalizing goodfellowship, comraderie, fraternity; making one hand wash the other, as it were; casting bread upon the waters, and so on. We haven't as yet run short of funds to grease the wheels with, and some of the Booklets are in the second edition. They are not published for profit, but more as a diversion from the bread-and butter stint. It is largely as an experiment of doing business on the basis of love as an asset, and several years' experience has demonstrated to a large degree that it pays better than . the gn:> and skin system, the conventional profit.

The Labadie Shop is now located at Bubbling Waters, a modest home in the wilderness, 35 miles from Detroit, one mile north of Grand River Road, on the Oakland and Livingston counties line, made possible by the generosity* o£ friends. . The P. O. address is Wixom, Mich., -R\F.1>. 1; and 2306 Buchanan St., Detroit, in the winter months. Remember, Booklets at your own price, from postage up. Size from 16 to 100 pages. All hand work.

.v*. J* .. us.! V- • 1.7 • .* \£' • W .'V.


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