Puslapio vaizdai
PDF
„ePub“

erence were gaining ground. To-day the protectionist dominions sit in the high places of the empire, and their voices, added to those of Englishmen converted by the lessons of the war, must soon turn the scale. Unless all the omens are at fault, the British Empire will emerge from the present struggle an economic as well as a political entity.

But how must all this react upon Britain's allies? They will obviously expect England to grant them favors commensurate with the sacrifices which they must make for the success of the common cause. Yet how can Britain fulfil their expectations and those of her colonies at one and the same time? How square, for example, M. Rostovtsev's demand for a de facto monopoly for Russian grain and lumber. on the British market, to the detriment even of Canada, with Canada's demand for British preference of these same commodities as against the whole world? The thing simply cannot be done. But unless it is done, England is faced with the dilemma of offending either her allies or her colonies or possibly both.

By this time we can see pretty clearly that free trade between the various parties to the projected Allied economic combine is impossible. What will doubtless happen will be a complicated series of reciprocal tariff agreements, half-measures involving endless dickering and pregnant. with the germs of possible tariff conflicts. Certainly that is not a pleasant prospect for the future.

Another unfortunate result of the Paris conference is the encouragement it will afford to the analogous movement developing among the Central Powers, the movement best exemplified by the German Friedrich Naumann's recent book, "Mitteleuropa." This counterblast to the Allied scheme looks to the formation of an economic block embracing Germany, Austria-Hungary, Bulgaria, and Turkey, avowedly at economic war with the Allied nations. The Teutonic project is thus inspired by the same motives of fear and passion as the Allies' projected dispensation. It also reposes upon equally grave

economic fallacies.. Space forbids any detailed analysis of the special perplexities for each of the respective parties to such a mid-European combine. Suffice it to say that the scheme is cursed by one insuperable difficulty: the ground-plan is too small for the house. Even if Austrian manufactures could be induced to immolate themselves upon the altar of German industry, the whole economic area is still not nearly large enough to support the huge economic superstructure which Germany has raised during the last two generations. A "Mitteleuropa" attempting to be permanently self-sufficing would be like a man trying to lift himself by his boot-straps. The unfortunate inhabitants would ultimately have to emulate the fabled shipwrecked sailors on the desert island who sustained life by eating each other up.

As a matter of fact, if these rival economic Frankensteins ever do actually take practical shape, it will not be long before they both begin to suffer from their congenital defects. And right here is where the most dangerous possibilities may be expected to develop. In their desperation both will concentrate upon the neutrals and will exert every possible means of enticement or coercion to drag the neutrals into the fray. It is even possible that to this pressure the minor European states and perhaps China may succumb.

But neither combine can long endure if those vast economic areas, the United States and Latin America, stand resolutely aloof. And they must so stand. Such monstrosities as the proposed combines, based as they are upon vicious economic fallacies and inspired by the sinister concepts of permanent hatreds and chronic warfare, are a menace to both the material and moral future of mankind. A high duty rests upon the Americas not to prolong the existence of such inimical organisms by a single day. No matter how unpleasant things may be made for us, we must hold out.

There need be no fear of the result. If we do our duty, the time of trial will be short. Should the Allied combine pe

nalize us in their markets, we must forthwith retaliate in kind. They will suffer more than we, for in tariff wars the producer of manufactured goods is always hit harder than the exporter of raw materials. If the Central Powers attempt to swamp our markets by a combination of cartelism and "dumping," we must instantly clamp down the flood-gates by strict antidumping and anti-subsidy regulations such as have already been proposed by our present administration. Above all, we must resist inflexibly any attempt to coerce our Latin-American neighbors. We have the weapon ready to our hand. The very existence of these rival combines presupposes a readiness to supplement economic by military warfare if changed conditions should make either party reasonably cer

tain of success. Should, therefore, either the Central Powers or the Allies venture to threaten coercion in this hemisphere, all we should have to do would be to give the offending party to understand that such conduct would be answered by the swinging over of the United Americas into the opposite camp. The knowledge that we meant what we said would settle the matter. Neither combine would dare to drive virtually the whole Western World into the ranks of its enemies.

Such are the possibilities disclosed by the economic conference of Paris and the correlative scheme now germinating among the mid-European nations. The prospects are not pleasant, but they will be evanescent if the neutrals, particularly the Americas, do their duty.

The Floor-walker

By ROBERT GILBERT WELSH

O himself he seems essentially elegant,

Call him a mere floor-walker.

They are wrong.

Once on a never-to-be-forgotten afternoon
He attended the wedding of the boss's daughter,
And as he watched the slim young men

In tail coats, immaculate gray gloves,

And perfect cravats and shoes

Guiding the wedding guests to appropriate places With unquestionable urbanity,

He knew at once that their efforts were like his.

Ever since he has thought of himself as an usher, And as, with unquestionable urbanity,

He directs the seething customers

Through the long aisles of the big emporium,
He sees himself as one guiding happy guests
Down the aisles of a temple.

[graphic][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]

THEN Sam Woodruff was alive

WHE

there was always a barrel of flour in the pantry. One year he stored fifty bushels of potatoes in the cellar, grown on his patch of land. Not a winter passed without a string of traps along the river, and it was a poor season when his rifle did not earn at least one fox-pelt. All this was in the last fragment of life, when age clogged his steps and sapped his arm. Before that he had been young and conquering.

Now there was corn-meal and salt in the pantry. Deb, widow of Sam, sat in the kitchen smoking her clay pipe and thinking of the contrast. She was not mourning. There was no probability that she would starve. Pretty soon somebody would come after her to do a day's scrub

bing or a week's nursing. The woodshed was full, and she was warm despite December.

Two things irked her to-day, and set her mouth watering at the memory of Sam's lifetime. She had a long-accumulated and increasing desire for something sweet, and she was faced by the arrival of one of those moments when she must borrow or try to borrow. There was no kerosene oil, and she could not buy any until work came. That meant darkness that evening or borrowing of Martha Griggs, her only near neighbor. These were the inexorable alternatives, for the fierce pride she had learned from Sam forbade her to borrow of any but the poor. Borrowing from the well-off might look like begging. Stealing was unwise merely

because of the risk; begging was impossible because of itself. Certainly it was a bad day.

"I s'pose I'd oughter be thankful I got tobacker." Deb rose, and knocked out her pipe, adding, as a kind of precaution, "I be."

In a closet she found an empty quart bottle. She put on an old coat and a cap that had once been worn by Sam, and stepped out into a world of beauty. Snow hid all the ugliness that had been done by men. The valley was like a white bowl with a blue border, Deb thought as she shaded her eyes and swung her glance around the encompassing ranges of mighty mountains. She did that every time she went out, because Sam had done it.

From the winter sunlight and the keen air Deb entered the Griggs kitchen, filled

with the ghosts of long-gone meals. Martha Griggs, whose pale-red hair was drawn straight back from a pale and puckered face, looked with frank suspicion at the bottle. She was paring potatoes. She motioned toward a chair with her knife.

"Mornin'," greeted Deb as she sat down. "How be you all?"

"Lem 's to work, and I 'm to work, and Petey 's gettin' worse about the same as usual."

"Huh!" Deb pondered. It would be wiser to see Petey and express sympathy before mentioning the oil. "Worse, hey? Can I see him?"

"If you want to," answered Martha, without interest. "He's in there."

[blocks in formation]
[graphic][ocr errors][merged small]

Martha Griggs lay on a sofa, propped up by pillows. Deb, who had seen the gray coming of death many times, knew that it was drawing close to that place.

Petey's parents had done what they thought best for him. Since September the windows had been nailed down, in order that no breath of deadly fresh air might reach his affected lungs. With the door leading to the kitchen closed, his room was virtually sealed. A wood-stove kept it at a varying, but always high, temperature. Here he slept and lived in as much neatness as Martha Griggs could spare time to provide. Nevertheless, the end marched upon him.

"Feelin' any better?" asked Deb.

"No; I feel bad, Mis' Woodruff." His skeleton fingers worked among the knots of the home-made comfortable that was spread over him.

"Huh!" Deb appraised him with an experienced eye. He might last a week or he might go at any hour. The funeral

would be a big expense for people like the Griggses, not poor enough to let the town bury him and too poor to afford it themselves.

"I want something good to eat," he whispered. "Seems as though if I could have a piece of mince-pie I 'd get some strength into me."

Mince-pie! Deb brightened. Now she knew that the taste of mince-pie was the elusive savor that had been haunting her palate for days-mince-pie with lots of sugar in it. She licked her lips and swallowed.

"I'd walk five mile' for a piece of mince-pie, myself," she said.

"I don't s'pose ma would let me have it," whispered the boy.

"Probly not," answered Deb, cautiously. It was none of her business. She rose to go.

"You ask ma about the pie; she won't listen to me." "Aw right."

[graphic][merged small]
« AnkstesnisTęsti »