v i:


• •

!■ r £ \

V ;. ■ ' ■ ■ '.y. . . .. ■

■V- - • - v : •

:{ -.i ?• Vj.- '■■'"1■■:'■

so - ; ■ ,

> /i'

; i . '••I * c

■ : >y \\ Y

jw. i'i


* i-..

• ■ ' •

• I*/ •

/ .». i .

A /• - * . .

• i . <

i " v - v... "T v . • * <" •

Av?£ V. ' ■ -' :■ ■■: ...=.■ ■.'."J-:; " ■'■.

> i-

V* <

•«••• ; v J,'/' / . • •. " A*

i.v:-v • -

• - S

• * :v ,

■ ■ ■■.■■-.■■..■

. • , .*-• I . .• ^ . ■ | "* V'/s. ' » • :, ." • .. ,V/ "I. "'.


- s« 'v •

. • •• i / • • t

-:- ^vv


•. "V

7 2

; >

/ 's-



* "a-.

•'"> /v. -




• V" .'.« ■■ ■ ■ ■

r '-'j'fs* \>

"% * : /

; v.-



t. . * •

,. /. %• ^

\v. a :..- -

.s r.• v

•N". '

x'i r.

r* •. -


■ f -

II-. • >

l' V- .V.

. . . ... • • •

• ■ • i. * •

• •

* :

I /- , v <

* * w > * *

1V c

^ i-



I ' > q va 7

77/.'* LahaJic Booklets



Anarchistic View, The

- 32

Anarchy to Toil ....



Art -------

- 11

Aye for Freedom ... -


Biggest Thief, The -

- 13

Causeless Fear ... -


Choose You Which -

- 12



Fair Play......

- 44

Grant Equal Rights


Idle Rich, The -

- 31

It's Just As Easy -

I'd Like You'd Answer Me

- 8

I Like You, but Hate Some Things You Do 41

King is Dead, The" -

- 39

Labadie Booklets, The (advt)


Let No One.....

- 45

Like Produces Like -


Line of Least Resistance ...

- 5

Little Bits of Paper


Loitering ------

- 46

My Comrade.....


My Hope......

- 21

Plea for Freedom -



- 20

Red Flag, The -



Selfishness -

- 17

Song of Self -


'Taint Success.....

- 9

They All Hate Freedom


What Would You Do ? . # -

- 15

When one with threats of violence -


Why is It ?.....

- 19



This modest little book of verse is the product of neither a college man nor a rhetorician. It comes from a student in the University of Work. It is hand wrought, not machine made. You can see the marks of the hammer and the axe and the smut of the print shop on every song in it. The evidences of denied opportunities are plain. The verses lack the liquid flow that lulls convention's ear. They are low, rumbling notes of a coming storm. They are cries of warning fo the invader. They are protests from the long-suffering. The shop and the field and the fierce conflict of law-made poverty thrum the tones of these hobnailed lines. They will not please the ears of the critic. They were not so intended. The critic is too often more satirist and lampooner, lacking originality in his squibs, than one whose judgment shows honesty and helpfulness. He usually fails in the essential purpose of criticism. So far as this work is concerned this kind doesn't count. The author makes no claim for excellence. Verse writing came to him only after he had past the half century mark. Without any literary training he has done the best he knew. The type for this booklet was set by hand by the author, and the printing and binding were also done by him.

H The purpose of these songs is in a small circle to salt the raw consciences of law-made and vainglorious rich and the traitorous poor, and to prick the pride of the plundered proletaire—to arouse the dormant sense of self-interest in the plodding, wretched, non-resisting, supine victims of Usury—of capitalism in all its ramifications —and spur them to such action as will ultimately lead to its overthrow. If in the slightest degree this is done the aim is accomplished. % Detroit, March, ig jo.



If you want to make him angry As a thunderstorm in full Just shake a crimson banner In the presence of a bull. He will bellow like a foghorn In the middle of a haze; He will paw the ground about him, And his eyeballs madly blaze; He will work himself to frenzy Like an aspen in a gale, And he'll tackle little children, And make the women quail.

If you want to make him ugly Just you wear a ribbon red, And he'll put you out of business, Put you several weeks in bed,

For, poor silly, fat-necked Taurus, Why should we think he'd know The glorious Red Flag's storv, How it makes the graces grow, How lean Labors blood for ages Has stained red its color fast, So that nothing now can fade it, Nor its promptings overcast.

If you want to make him silly As a bully with a jag Just pester Mr. Bullock With a jolly crimson flag; Just jab him with intelligence, Or prick with questions keen, And see the brutal booby With his weapons make a scene. He will trample you with horses, He will smash your thinking head, If you dare enjoy the freedom To display a rag of red.

If you want to make him civil, To have him understand, You'll need to take authority From his base and brutal hand, And urge on him that always The ensign to allure Was the simple blood-red banner, The banner of the poor; How 'twas always for uplifting The hopes of lowly Toil, And to thwart the hands of bandits When the lowly they'd despoil.

It's what mankind is to nations, Or the mother to the child, What the world is to its countries, Be they civilized or wild. He knows not that the minute men Who fought to make us free Held high the crimson banner That stands for Liberty; Knows not that now and heretofore, In every land and clime, It always stood for righteousness, And never once for crime!

LITTLE BITS OF PAPER. Little bits of paper Written on with pen Make a mighty people Slaves to daring men, Make them follow notions Of folks dead long ago, Tho it bring them nothing But poverty and woe.

Little bits of paper Scaled with ruthless hands Give to haughty idlers Might by owning lands, Make the foolish people Sweat, produce and do All the useful labor, Enriching but the few.

Little bits of paper

Put into a box

Make the simple voters

Proudly orthodox,

While the real rulers

Pull the cunning strings,

Snickering the meanwhile

At the antics of these "kings."

A little bit of paper Given man and wife Makes the woman property All her fettered life. He assumes to own her, Body, soul and tliot, As the piece of paper Says he does and ought.

Little bits of paper Keep us all as clods Just so long as mind To superstition nods, Little bits of paper, By authority, Rob the unsuspecting Of their liberty!


Tho high the hill

And rough the ground,

If we but will We can go round.


" Like produces like/' Write it red acrost the sky, Plain to every human eye. Sowing roses, roses grow; Thistles if we prickers sow; Frowns upon your pleasant face Smiles on merry lips displace:— Like produces like.

Hate and gloom produce their kind, Haggard, sallow, ugly, blind; Round about us laughter spread, Gladness comes in gold and red; Kindness breeds a godly glow In the heart of friend or foe.

Like produces like.


Sunshine makes the flowers glad, Cloudy frowns^their faces sad; An angry wind upon the sea Ruffles its tranquility,

Boils with passions black, and knocks Ships to pieces on the rocks. Like produces like.

When a tyrant, harsh and rude, O'er a country's multitude Rides with savage cruelty Plants he deep hostility. Surely what he plants he'll reap, As natures laws are ne'er asleep. Like produces like.


Alas ! be there no end to human woe?

Ah ! that every tyrant hand were paralyzed;

That despotic thots burned as molten metal every brain that harbored them;

That every iron tongue that says '4 Thou must!" would cleave its warding roof, as lightning rives the daring stub;

That each invading arm raised in throe would wither like a sapless tree, and stand harmlessly pointing to warning clouds;

That every covetous eye should turn to stone, and forever gaze like the sphin\ o'er peaceful scenes; x

That every vengeful heart would pump but burning vitriol into its body's flood!

Is tyranny an endless chain of linked misery, and every link a social wrong?

Is every race of men and generation but prey for human wolves who glut on imbecility?

Is every blade of grass to grow from bleeding hearts, and butchered blood to banquet every bush?

TAINT SUCCESS. Tain't success to get a million !

If your fellows did not know How to earn and spend it freely How could Croesus, make a show ?

Tain't success to climb on shoulders

Bent with labor hard and long; But 'twould be if you would help them Gladden life with balm and song.

Tain't success to kill your fellows

By the thousand, hundred, score, Flooding homes with tears and sorrow, Groans the battle's echoed roar.

Taint success to build a fortune

Out of baby's toil and sweat, Robbing it of all its playthings And the mother of her pet.


Just be gentle, kind and friendly

As a blessed summer breeze And the graces sweet will find you, As the sunbeams thru the trees.

If you've people in your power

Just be ugly, cruel, rude And you'll reap a splendid harvest Of the ripest turpitude.

Just be pleasant, frank and honest,

Just be smiling, mild and gay, And the world will gladly greet you Wherever fate may guide your way.

Have a face like cloudy weather

And you'll bring about a storm; Have a voice like angry thunder— And a place awaits that's warm.

Flowers brighten joyous faces

With a fragrance and a bloom, But they wither with their graces When your mien denotes the tomb.


A little stuff, Tho it be rough; A little work That does not irk; A simple thought Concretely wrought From beauty's heart Is perfect art.


Work and eat and sleep.

Sleep and restore your wasted force, Then spend it for grim Moloch's keep;

And then, perforce, Repeat the routine all your life— A beastly, brutal, slavish strife.

Eat and sleep and work.

Work with a wholesome will and joy; Do useful, honest things that do not irk

Or hope destroy— That do not grind or spirit break Or make your life an endless ache.

Sleep and work and eat.

Eat naught but what you've earned, And save your manly dignity complete,

And thus you've learned What makes for righteousness and liberty, What makes men just and frank and free.


^ If people would but ope their eyes and see

what's really plain The state would loom up great and wise, but

always wise for gain. Yes, always out for gain, my friend, of everything in sight, And if by fraud it miss its end it wins by ugly fight;—

It makes you fight its battles fierce, tho you be

man of peace, And if your breast the bullets pierce 'tis but the war's caprice.

And then it taxes who's not killed to pay the costs of war, If they or not their blood have spilled in cause

which they abhor,— In cause which they abhor because there's naught in it for them,

As grafters always make the laws so all that's

good they hem: Hem in the land for which you fought, hem

in the bonds and all, They hem the jobs which you have bought by winning of the brawl.

If you, dear friend, who read these lines think government's your friend, There's something round your mind entwines

that checks its normal trend, For sure's your born, it is the truth, as thieves

on loot are bent, The biggest thief of all, in sooth, is that same government.



If no employer within reach

Had any use for you,

And you had naught but brawn and skill

What, comrade, would you do?

What would you do ?

If on the street, like a dog for bone, A job you searched for thru, And had no place to lay your head, What, comrade, would you do? What would you do ?

If hunger, cold and nakedness Just stared you out of view,. Reproving you were kith and kin, What, comrade, would you do? What would you do?

If every man seemed enemy, Your plight they'd misconstrue, And think you but a lazy lout,

What, comrade, ftould you do? What would you do ?

You're not allowed to beg for bread, They jail you if you do; But if starvation threatened black, What, comrade, would you do ? What would you do ?

* * *


I long for freedom everywhere, I dream of freedom every day, I work for freedom here and there, And freedom's aye my muse's lay.

l7 .


There is no room for selfishness, you say, in a

world of right relations. But I say selfishness is a seed that roots in the

ground of things, Growing green and strong and succulent with

public weal; That buds and blossoms pregnantly, And graciously it yields abundance To bring within your door as cheaply and as useful

As tho altruism had scattered itself over the

fields of human effort And filled your wants even to running over.

When one with threats of violence Would bridle your free tongue He takes a step towards the post Where will himself be hung.

GRANT EQUAL RIGHTS. If you'want men to be free, If you'cl like them well-to-do, Full of manly dignity, Grant them what's their rightful due.

Land is natures handiwork, Like the sunshine, water, air. These men need, for in them lurk What keep the lamp of life aflare.

Nature gave them all to man, Charging nothing for their use. Tell me, comrade, if you can,

That landlordism's no abuse ?


Don't you know that every man, Every woman, every child, Is by nature's kindly plan Due what beasts have running wild ?

Birds and beasts and fish are free •


To use the things they need to live. None dare issue greeds decree That pay for them they first must give.

Have the grace of beasts at least: Grant to each his equal rights To be no more by usance fleeced, To freely earn life's joyous hights !


What is there in authority That gives it iron hands, And makes its words so terrible They burn like blazing brands ? What makes the people bow in awe Before the folk who rule, Like slimsy reeds before the wind Bow foreheads in the pool ? I think I know the reason, Which 1 11 tell you, every one : It is because the simpletons Both sand and wisdom shun.


PROGRESS? TfThe people sleep.

At unpredetermined intervals they wake, Like volcanoes long quiescent, And rend the sinful state with vengeful force And sweep the verdant valleys of smug content And the plains heedless of social wrongs With long pent up and devastating wrath, Born of hoarded miseries and woe.

^[The people wake.

When their mighty force is spent in wreck and ruin

They ope their eyes in sodden wonderment

they'd done so much (As a druken giant sobered, red-eyed, spent, Realizes his mad destruction of home and kin), And wearily, in sullen sorrow, Go back to sleep again.



I hope the time will soon be here when people have the liberty to work or play as they've amind, and no discharge to be.

I hope the day is close at hand when work will be a human right (instead of but a boss's will) to every willing wight.

^ I hope the season s closing fast when wealth producers have no wealth, and when the idler lolls in ease in riches got by stealth.

^ I hope the date is calendared

when equal freedom world-wide reigns, when every human soul will have all that his weal ordains.


My, my, what fuss is being made About the Anarchist!

It seems each coward is afraid Of bugaboos of mist.

But ignorance and villany Have always lived in dread,

And even in the brightest day See goblins grim and red.

The dunderhead thinks there is hurt In thoughts beyond his ken;

The rascal knows his just desert Is the-scorn of honest men.

And so between the thief and fool The Anarchist must bear

Imprisonment and ridicule, And taunts and sneers unfair.

But, comrade dear, you need not fear What Anarchists may do.

Unless vou be a buccaneer

They will not trouble you,

* *


Give me wide room to swing my will, And let me learn, as fauna wild and free, How best to live and feed in unrestraint My nearest, dearest and mine own !

Grant me what nature gives to every living thing: The right, with hands untied, to take from her

exhaustless realm, But what my kith and kin and kind in greediness denv.


Like swine, they lie into the trough of plenty And crowd the gentler, weaker and less churlish From using what they themselves cannot.

I want no brutal struggle, fight and gouge For leave, primal need, to dig the ground,

Cache stored with juicy life and ease, While on my back with rowels ride Who should be friend indeed.

I, a man in will, in aspiration, in love, in kindness;

A workingman, a wealth producer, fair and square;

Too dignified to live in bondage or beggary; Too honest for brigandage, civil or barbarous; Too sane to work and live unlike a workman

ought to live— I stand stripped to the skin by government— Of everything except the ken and courage to

demand mine own, My workman's right to things on which to

exercise my workman skill, And the fulness thereof enjoy.

THEY ALL HATE FREEDOM. The autocrat with wooden will

Which God has given him Expressly for his ruling job Is on the job with vim.

And just so long as people think

By right divine he rules He'll ride with iron-shodden heels Over the silly fools.

The clergyman with silky hands,

Vicegerent of the Lord, Rules with the dread of flaming hell— And looks for cash reward.

The politician's unctious mien Gives him the ruling might, And ignorance gives up his sweat To this lightfingered wight

Employers take the gainful hint And do as others do,

So hire some raw-minded brutes To lord it over you.

The husband sways in "lawful" right His humble wife and kids,

And apes the mien of his own boss 3 When haughtily he bids.

The bigger children swat the small • And make them do their will,

And ad just like their parents do— Their "duty" to fulfill.

And so it goes all down the line: The boss with iron fist

Is pounding to submission him Who's next upon the list.

We prate about sweet Liberty With hypocritic cant,

While grabbing for a bossing job, Some tyrant to supplant.

Whene'er you hear someglib-tongued chap

For freedom talk with fire Nine times in ten 'tis safe to say He's one consummate liar.

28 %

MY COMRADE. My " Free Comrade,"3

Put palm in mine: You make me glad As rosy wine.

I love the free—

The free and fair, For liberty

Makes debonair.

The frank eye clear,

The free brain brave, The hearts red cheer The world can save,

Oh, to be free—

Free and benign 1 It leadeth me, This thought divine !

ANARCHY TO TOIL Rude Archy binds him hands and feet, And robs Toil of his "dough," Yet still he prays to this his god On him to weal bestow.

Blithe Anarchy then comes along, Would free him from his plight, When he protests in fear and rage And Anarchy would fight.

4'Why fight you me?" asks Anarchy, 4'When I would set you free From this old shark, whose interest Is your servility ?"

Then Ignorance, old Archy's friend, Puts in a word or two: 4'Don't mind this chap, for Archy will Take a father's care of you.

"Although he bind your hands and feet, And take your pocketbook. Tis done to better serve you, son, And guard you from this crook."

Poor,.silly Toil, in tattered clothes, His body sore and gaunt, Can't understand, if this be so, Why he should always want.

But yet his masters always said That Anarchy was wrong, That there was wreckage in his steer, Damnation in his song.

" I will not,comrade, coddle you," Says smiling Anarchy. " I'll neither rob nor give you pelf, But simply make you free !"


The idle rich ere long will have no hands, no

feet, no brains, Because disuse destroys needless things, And in this paradise of fools in which we live They have no use for hands or feet or brains. Were it nor for your horny hands, ye growers of food, they would hunger even unto death. Were it not for your ill-paid hands, ye makers of raiment, they'd walk the world in the nakedness of winter. Were it not for your skilled hands, ye builders of dwellings, they'd huddle in caves like wolves with their whelps. Were it not for your artful hands, ye midwives of invention, they'd trudge the highways footsore and weary. Were it not for your cunning brains, ye solvers of problems, they'd be as vermin on the face of the earth. ;

Instead, however, they are the pampered victims

of invasive law, which destroys idle rich and idle poor. Only insofar as ye are earners of bread, As your blood quickens from useful effort, Do ye live alive and the fulness reap.

Work and play and rest, In parts as mixed in freedom's crucible by each civic unit,

Form the trinitv of salvation from social death


and damnation.


I keep the wishful in mine eye, The Anarchistic view, And so the best the world affords Is none too good for you.



I sing this song of self ■ Because I sing of things I know of best, And of 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 rs 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

kilt its kind?' Has it no rent to pay, no false aristocrats to bear.

No ruling rock with ruffian raiding rank and file?

1 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 is by alpine weal ami woe.

Up, up I go into the purpled 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 depths of sorrows salty sea.

If soul be master the will must subject be.

1 am as I am as fate s soul so decrees.

Mav it not be that will is but the shadow of the soul,

And what we wot not of be master over all?

^f I sing of self as self I know the best. I know when cometh joy, as rosy morn on velvet

feet unto the early, listening day, Glinting the peaks of my redding heart, And glowing grows until the zenith's reached. Ah ! then for Joshua's power to make the sun stand still !

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 fragrant fumes salute my nostrils too.

I do not crowd because the rudeness of the crushing ruffles my mind's serenity.

1 want not what belongs to you, as caring for my own is task enough.

I love you because I love myself, and niggard-ness in love is kin to hate.

Who does best by himself does best to all, and good to all is needful for ones own most.

Burdens placed on other backs by me burden me in placing them,

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

Into the world I grew, and came not of mine own accord, And so no 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 rule of recompense I know do ought I owe,

And duty speaks no language plain to me that

debts me to the world. That which joys my heart is law as truly as that

bodies come to earth, And natures God no other rule reveals to me. If I but house myself, but clothe myself, but feed myself,

But satisfy my own desires by tug 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, Going into other worlds (if other worlds there be)

As I came into this,

Naked, debtless, creditless, self alone,

As a drop of water comes from a rumbling cloud

Into the lisping rivulet, runs with the braggart

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

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

ITS JUST AS EASY. It takes no skill for writing verse As some folks falselv think. As all one needs is paper pad, A golden pen and ink. Now sit you down in dreamy mood With fancies fleet as birds, And softly, sweetly, silently Just jot down fitting words.





Forsooth, no king or other ruler

Can be dethroned by death, As he the mind's creation is,

Fool fancy's ghostly breath, A fetich witchcraft subtly makes, A sort of mental stealth.

If a spook is shot a laugh comes back,

A mocking laugh at you, And but vexation pays your aim.—

The king still stands in view, Tho a hole as big as a barrel head Be made in him clear thru.

A king is but a people's wraith,

A silly, childish fay, Upon whose shrine the best they have

The people richly lay;— Which rouse his risibilities To see them pray and pay.

A ruler died the other day,

As other clay men do, And on their faces people fell— Idolatry in rue. " The king is dead.—Long live the king !" Their wretched wailings spew.

No interruption in the line

Of rulership was there, As he whose sway grim death cut short

Had left a ready heir, So they who sweat would never learn How they a lord could spare.

If No. i once deigned to think

Of his own best concern He'd sweep the swindling state aside,

Presumptions rulers spurn, •Be suveran of his own domain, Supreme o'er all he'd earn!



I like you, ye working men and women,

Ye who earn your bread and clothes and shelter by the skill of your hands and the sweat of your hide;

Ye who build houses and plow the sea and till the soil and weave the fibers;

Ye who carry civilization and comforts and progress on your burly backs;

But I hate your supineness, your ignorance, your crawling on your hungry bellies like swine to their swill;

I hate your scabbing, your moral fear, your distrust of liberty and justice;

I hate your race prejudices, your low-browed submission to flinthearted authority;

I hate your mockery of high ideals, of brave fighters on the field of freedom;

I hate your poverty, your lack of education, your want of culture;

I hate your rags, your bare tables, your cheerless hearths,

And I would cram your hearts with the spirit of revolt

Against conditions that make you mean and

slavish !

I like you, ye great captains of industry, Ye who teach us how to do much with little,

how to put things together that belong together,

how to separate things that need separation;

Ye who have learned the folly of sweating blood

in travail for bread and material needs When iron hands, and hearts of stoutest steam,

and mighty muscles of steel Can do as deftly as human skill, and much

more abundantly, And leave human energies for more subtle and diviner joys:—

But I hate your over-reaching, your despoiling of children, your turning their play days into your prey days !

I hate your grinding womanhood and motherhood into money and debauchery;

I hate your tyranny, your rudeness, your effrontery;

I hate your piratic profits,

your damnable monopolies your blighting rents;

I hate your browbeating, your ruthless hands, your invading laws and courts;

I hate your wars for markets, for plundering power, for shameful glory.

And all these are but the fruition of unequal opportunities

That come thru your government, your state, and your law !



*[[ Fair play ! Animating sound.

Frank, impartial, hopeful, just.

Deep into the heart of things it goes and vibrates

every human need, Sen ling tranquility to the ends of earth; Frank as the stream of the noon sun's gleam, Candid as the face of the unhid moon, To mankind revealing its best heart's hope! Impartial as Euclidian maxims; Unbiased as a table of figures; Yielding results as true as a plummet; Just as scales that weigh lead and down; Upright as the line from nadir to zenith; Righteous as the law of equal freedom; Hopeful as the coming morn; Giving the toiler a chance for his own.

% With a heart that beats in tune with honor's melody,

With a dare that grants right for right,

With a love that hugs justice close and hard,

Fair play greets with salutary smiles,


Silken hands gloved for momentous work Affecting the potentials of life for joy. Give way, you rubbish of privilege, war and greed!

Your room is wanted for sunshine seed.


Let no one say what you shall do

When not invading him;

Let none command what you may say,

Whatever be your whim—

Because when freedom does not guide

Your noninvading will

You fall right into slavery,

The blackest human ill!


In the streets of the town I just ramble around And the friendliest smiles I am meeting; In a study of brown No menacing frown Is my hearty good wishes agreeting.

I but loiter along With a fellowship strong Which my heart of goodwill is upwelling— Just singing my song Against social wrong Which justice is always repelling.

I loaf along there With seeming uncare If the world goes around or stands still. Its baseness I bear With feigned debonair While damning it up and down hill.


I'm dreaming away The loitering day As tho I had eons to live, And who can ought say But that I obey The laws which the fates to me give?

But clay in the hold Of necessity's mold Is every wee atom to date; And so, willy-nilly, It seems to me silly To not loiter along with your fate.

:V* v*'.?**- ■■ 'V ••

%: ; - .• .T-T .v.-- v


A'UV -

No. I. THE POOR DEVIL/' A Memory of Robert Reitzel. By John Hubert Greusel. With photo. 25c

No. 2. THE RED FLAG, A Little Piece of Paper and Other Verses. By Joseph A. Labadie. 25c, 50c, $i

No. 3. WHAT IS LOVE? and Other Fancies. By • Joseph A. Labadie. (Verses.) 50c, $1.

No. 4. DOGGEREL FOR THE UNDER DOG. By Joseph A. Labadie. 50c, $1. X

SONG OF SELF. By Jo Labadie. 5 cents. §;

WHAT TJEIINK YE OF CHRIST, WHOSE SON IS HE ? By 1). A. Roberts. Verile verses. 10c a dozen, 50c a 100. Good socialist stuff.

In Contemplation: Anarchism and Crime; Seek Good Health; What is Anarchism ? and others.

These Booklets are in my homely handicraft, done in our little nonprofessional Shop, where things of wood, > bark, leather, paper, type and press, and so on, are made as a recreation from the "demnition grind" of the capife ,, talistic system of industry, in which the Clock is a warii^|t ing witch and the Boss a goad at the treadmill. Unique leather handbags, baskets, calendars, etc., are produced principally for love, but some of them are sold to get stuff to make more with. They will boost who are if* $$ sympathy with this modest little enterprise, in which pf the boy and the girls and mamma and I, during spare ^M hours, have lots of enjoyment schooling the hands and §J mind printing our own pieces, binding them into Book-^f lets, painting chinaware, doing fancy work, sewing, andL singing songs for love and money. Those who can might furnish the "dough" for those who can't. Pick Ottt what you want and send your address anyway; it'll htk^M right. Whoever you are, whatever you are, where? you are, I wish you well.



>/■': *u


- •> .v/i

r ■ ^





-11 V

> v»*w


mmmm mMS&f




•. * . '-A «* "'.•><



1  ... ..

2  • • .: . * / r. • • . • ,--•*• i," - '! x ■ ■ % .." ' ^ *'' •4 ^'' . v

..." ' « ,v. . .• -'S .• ^ .. . -. • • : .• , 'V J1..'/ .

3 Tbe Free Comrade was a little magazine by J. Wm. Lloyd, Westfield, N. J.

4  • •

•: V