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 CO-OPERATIVE W O O L E N M I L L T H E R E has been a great deal of controBy M A G N U S B R O W N versy about the wool tariff, which has President of the Minnesota Wool-Growers Association made the cost of woolen clothing and woolen goods of all sorts prohibitive N o substitute has been found which has anyto the average consumer, without, at thing like the warmth of wool, whether for bedthe same time, benefiting the producer. ding or clothing. It is indispensable, it is a So far as the writer knows, the wool-growers primary necessity, of which it is cruel to deprive of Minnesota were the first to see that the present protective tariff was of absolutely no advantage to their class because of the many loopholes and jokers in it. In their efforts to find a remedy for the great abuses that have grown up in the wool trade through the duplicity in the wording of the wool tariff—abuses affecting producer and consumer—they discovered that the direct and immediate causes were the uneconomic and unscientific methods of distribution. Besides, since the tariff law was framed to keep out the manufactured goods of foreign countries, a great system of adulteration and substitution has been built up, and this has brought big profits to some and disappointment and disaster to the consumer. The wool-growers found that the wool is bought from the producer by the local dealer, who adds at least a cent a pound to its price. T h e local dealer sells to a larger dealer, who adds another cent. This dealer sells to the dealers in Boston or Philadelphia. These add another two cents. Thus the mill has to pay from eight to fourteen cents more per scoured pound than the first buyer, that is, the local dealer, paid. In other words, the profits of the dealers alone Magnus Brown raise the price that amount. N o w, the mill adds a 10 per cent, profit to the price, the jobber 20 the poor. But by our system they must do withper cent., and the retailer, finally, 30 to 60 per out it. They must wrap their babies in cottonade cent. In a large department store in Omaha the blankets and dress their boys and girls i n cotton writer found a blanket retailed for $6.00 which sweaters. They must do so because of this pyraactually cost only $3.80. miding of profits. Good fabrics have been taken

from the reach of the average consumer, and to supply his demand substitution and adulteration have been resorted to. I n fact, substitution and adulteration in such circumstances are inevitable. Another evil effect of the tariff law and the absurdities of distribution was to reduce the original price of the wool to such an extent that the wool-growers had great difficulty in eking out a living, T o remedy these conditions several wool-growers of the N o r t h and West conceived the plan to obtain control of a woolen mill and send their product direct to the consumer with the smallest possible intermediate cost. T h e wool-growers want to prove to the consumers that strictly all-virgin wool can be made and distributed at such a price that it will be attainable by all except the very poorest.' W h a t is more, the wool-growers found in making their investigations that all new wool goods made and distributed on an economical basis is cheaper than substitutes and adulterated goods. I n addition, all-wool goods are more sanitary. N o w the question is, W i l l the consumers join with the wool producers in taking the wool direct from the farmers' wagon to the mill, and direct from the mill to the consumer, with but one profit between, and that as small as prudence will permit ? This will give the consumer the greatest ultimate value and satisfaction. W e believe that the distributive co-operative stores should seriously consider co-operating with us. Primarily because it will eliminate to a certain extent the excessive profits that now go to the jobber and middleman. Furthermore, it will be the first step toward the establishment of an economic solidarity between the productive and distributive co-operatives.

CITY VIGNETTES By Edwin Björkman A C R O S S the street stands an oldfashioned house with a gabled roof. O n its red tiles the sun is pouring down a flood of melted gold, and the reflection of it fills my room with a roseate light. Above the roof a narrow patch of sky is visible—a sky as tenderly blue as any ever shown on a Venetian canvas. The surging life of the surrounding city seems to have ebbed out of hearing. A t whiles the spring breeze catches the Chinese lantern over in the corner and makes it beat a gentle tattoo against the wall. Otherwise no sound is heard but the light rasping of my pen on the paper. A n d as minutes and hours pass by, the pile of white paper in front of me thins away rapidly. Suddenly I find myself checked by a thought that will not move on. M y mind beats impatient wings' against an invisible wall—and then I become conscious of a melody that is floating up from the street and interposing itself between me and my work. A n organ grinder has stopped right below my window. H e is playing a waltz— cf course, it is Die schoene blaue Donau! Experience has taught me the futility of resistance. So I stretch my cramped limbs and step to the window for a look at the street. H e is an Italian, stumpy and black-bearded, and yet with a certain wistful beauty in the face lie turns upward from time to time in search for

II

A Glimpse of Fate Drawing

by Samuel

Schwarz

listeners. B u t his entire audience consists of two women—the wife and daughter of the little German cobbler in the basement across the street. The mother is tall and slim, light-haired and clean-faced. T h e daughter looks just like her mother. Standing in front of the shop, which is also their home—their heads leaned together, their arms around each other—they may be taken for sisters. N o w their faces are lit up with pleasure, and their bodies are swaying in time with the waltz. The music ceases. The Italian stands still, expectant. The eyes of the two women meet for a moment. Then the younger one runs into the shop and returns with a pocketbook in her hand. Together they take stock of its contents. Finally the girls drops a small coin into the organ grinder's hat. A n d I happen to know that even pennies are scarce in the cobbler's shop. Once more the man is turning the crank of his instrument. I can see the women bending their heads forward in eager, grateful anticipation. A few soft notes are wafted upward on the breeze —it is the Donna è mobile from "Rigoletto." 16

Magically the whole scene changes as the melody begins to unfold itself. The women draw together as if in fear. Particularly the older one seems deeply affected. One moment more of hesitation—then they hurry back into the shop, slamming the door behind them. T h e Italian breaks off abruptly to stare after them with open mouth. But only for a second : then he picks up the shackles of his little cart and runs down the street with bent head as i f he had caught a glimpse of the evil eye. The street lies utterly deserted. Nothing is to be seen or heard that might account for the flight of those two scared women. W h a t connection, I ask myself, can there be between a German cobbler's wife and a sweetly sentimental old opera melody? Yet, as I recall the details of the incident just witnessed, I realize that such a connection must exist, and my mind strives vainly to imagine its nature. The sun is still shining on the red tiles of the house across the street, and the reflected light fills my room. Nothing is heard but the gentle tapping of my Chinese lantern against the wall. It is time for me to go back to work, but the desire to do so has fled. A real human fate has passed me by—its features deeply veiled, its entrance and exit hidden from my view—and those imaginary fates I was creating seem now futile and foolish.