_The End of the Road; Moonshine; and Some Proclamations_
AUGUST 1, 1912. Standing up at the Postoffice desk, Pueblo, Colorado.
Several times since going over the Colorado border I have had such a
cordial reception for the Gospel of Beauty that my faith in this
method of propaganda is reawakened. I confess to feeling a new zeal.
But there are other things I want to tell in this letter.
I have begged my way from Dodge City on, dead broke, and keeping all
the rules of the road. I have been asked dozens of times by frantic
farmers to help them at various tasks in western Kansas and eastern
Colorado. I have regretfully refused all but half-day jobs, having
firmly resolved not to harvest again till I have well started upon a
certain spiritual enterprise, namely, the writing of certain new poems
that have taken possession of me in this high altitude, despite the
physical stupidity that comes with strenuous walking. Thereby hangs a
tale that I have not room for here.
Resolutely setting aside all recent wonders, I have still a few
impressions of the wheatfield to record. Harvesting time in Kansas is
such a distinctive institution! Whole villages that are dead any other
season blossom with new rooming signs, fifty cents a room, or when two
beds are in a room, twenty-five cents a bed. The eating counters are
generally separate from these. The meals are almost uniformly
twenty-five cents each. The fact that Kansas has no bar-rooms makes
these shabby food-sodden places into near-taverns, the main assembly
halls for men wanting to be hired, or those spending their coin.
Famous villages where an enormous amount of money changes hands in
wages and the sale of wheat-crops are thus nothing but marvellous
lines of dirty restaurants. In front of the dingy hotels are endless
ancient chairs. Summer after summer fidgety, sun-fevered, sticky
harvesters have gossiped from chair to chair or walked toward the
dirty band-stand in the public square, sure, as of old, to be
encountered by the anxious farmer, making up his crew.
A few harvesters are seen, carrying their own bedding; grasshopper
bitten quilts with all their colors flaunting and their cotton gushing
out, held together by a shawl-strap or a rope. Almost every harvester
has a shabby suit-case of the paste-board variety banging round his
ankles. When wages are rising the harvester, as I have said before,
holds out for the top price. The poor farmer walks round and round the
village half a day before he consents to the three dollars. Stacker's
wages may be three to five simoleons and the obdurate farmer may have
to consent to the five lest his wheat go to seed on the ground. It is
a hard situation for a class that is constitutionally tightwad, often
wisely so.
The roundhouses, water tanks, and all other places where men stealing
freight rides are apt to pass, have enticing cards tacked on or near
them by the agents of the mayors of the various towns, giving average
wages, number of men wanted, and urging all harvesters good and true
to come to some particular town between certain dates. The multitude
of these little cards keeps the harvester on the alert, and, as the
saying is: "Independent as a hog on ice."
To add to the farmer's distractions, still fresher news comes by word
of mouth that three hundred men are wanted in a region two counties to
the west, at fifty cents more a day. It sweeps through the harvesters'
hotels, and there is a great banging of suit-cases, and the whole town
is rushing for the train. Then there is indeed a nabbing of men at
the station, and sudden surrender on the part of the farmers, before
it is too late.
Harvesting season is inevitably placarded and dated too soon in one
part of the State, and not soon enough in another. Kansas weather does
not produce its results on schedule. This makes not one, but many
hurry-calls. It makes the real epic of the muscle-market.
Stand with me at the station. Behold the trains rushing by, hour after
hour, freight-cars and palace cars of dishevelled men! The more
elegant the equipage the more do they put their feet on the seats.
Behold a saturnalia of chewing tobacco and sunburn and hairy chests,
disturbing the primness and crispness of the Santa Fé, jostling the
tourist and his lovely daughter.
They are a happy-go-lucky set. They have the reverse of the tightwad's
vices. The harvester, alas, is harvested. Gamblers lie in wait for
him. The scarlet woman has her pit digged and ready. It is fun for
the police to lock him up and fine him. No doubt he often deserves it.
I sat half an afternoon in one of these towns and heard the local
undertaker tell horrible stories of friendless field hands with no
kinsfolk anywhere discoverable, sunstruck and buried in a day or so by
the county. One man's story he told in great detail. The fellow had
complained of a headache, and left the field. He fell dead by the
roadside on the way to the house. He was face downward in an ant hill.
He was eaten into an unrecognizable mass before they found him at
sunset. The undertaker expatiated on how hard it was to embalm such
folks. It was a discourse marshalled with all the wealth of detail one
reads in _The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar_.
The harvester is indeed harvested. He gambles with sunstroke, disease
and damnation. In one way or another the money trickles from his loose
fingers, and he drifts from the wheat in Oklahoma north to the wheat
in Nebraska. He goes to Canada to shock wheat there as the season
recedes, and then, perhaps, turns on his tracks and makes for Duluth,
Minnesota, we will say. He takes up lumbering. Or he may make a
circuit of the late fruit crops of Colorado and California. He is,
pretty largely, so much crude, loose, ungoverned human strength, more
useful than wise. Looked at closely, he may be the boy from the
machine-shop, impatient for ready money, the farmer failure turned
farm-hand, the bank-clerk or machine-shop mechanic tired of slow pay,
or the college student on a lark, in more or less incognito. He may be
the intermittent criminal, the gay-cat or the travelling religious
crank, or the futile tract-distributer.
And I was three times fraternally accosted by harvesters who thought
my oil-cloth package of poems was a kit of burglar's tools. It _is_ a
system of breaking in, I will admit.