University of Virginia Library

2. PARABLE OF THE WIDOW'S MITE.

In which the retired politician writes to his younger friend Ned, who is still in the political harness, giving a few practical pointers on the game of "Legislative Poker," otherwise known as graft.

Brokenstraw Ranch, —, 19—.

Dear Ned: —

I see by the papers that things are doing in the franchise line at the legislature, this Winter, and that you stand a good chance of lifting the mortgage off your place if you practice a little statesmanlike economy.

But, as you never were any good at Legislative Poker, I conclude that it may strike you as a little late to come into the game, now.

However, if you should be tempted to take a hand, let me give you the tip to remember the modern Parable of the Widow's Mite and keep in mind that this is the great day of Consolidation. Both these observations point the same moral: "A bribe in the hand is worth two in the safe-deposit vault—to which the other fellow holds the key!"

Probably you have forgotten the little episode of the Widow's Mite. It happened that Winter when the Red School House issue left you at home, along with several other rural statesmen, to fodder the stock and reflect on the heartless ingratitude of the average country constituency.

Up to that time every corporation tub had stood on its own bottom and the "attorney" of each franchise grabbing scheme had settled his own score in his own way. But at the opening of that session the lobbyists were thicker than rabbits in a tree-nursery and the boys had their pockets enlarged to the size of meal sacks in order to take care of the prospective shakedown.

They had just begun to get out their clubs—in the shape of bills to regulate the powers and emoluments of the various corporations, when a hatchet-faced lawyer, with a Highland Scotch burr in his speech, entered his appearance and made a quick round-up of the representatives of the corporate interests and vested rights of the state. He wouldn't so much as whistle a psalm-tune on Sunday, but he could dispose of more smooth business on week days than an axle-grease factory.

It was said that the Gas Company had brought him on from New York to put through the consolidation bill. Anyhow, he took to the Consolidation Idea easier than his ancestors did to golf and Scotch Whiskey.

The morning after the Lairds of the Lobby had met in his room, the word was passed down the line, among the boys, that things were going to be done on a brand new basis; that the great Consolidation Idea was the order of the day and that it was a Good Thing.

Then the fellows who were running things in both houses were told to get together on the close-communion basis and be ready to take care of all business bearing the consolidation tag that came along.

Old Hi' in the Senate and Little Danny in the House gave it out that everything was fixed and that every man who climbed into the band wagon would get his proper share of the great consolidation water melon—and that it was to be the biggest ever set up in the history of legislation.

This time, so they told the boys, things were going to be handled so slick that there weren't going to be any stray seeds scattered around to make talk on the part of pestering reformers and newspapers. For this reason the melon was going to be put away on ice until the close of the session—when it would be carved the week after adjournment.

Little Danny was appointed custodian of the melon fund, and he passed out the word that he had it put away snug and tight.

Every man knew the size of the piece he was to get at the end of the session, and all stood pat on the agreement and delivered the goods on roll call, without flinching.

Day after day little Danny grew thinner and yellower. But he kept up on whiskey, increasing the dose as the session drew to a close. In the last days he was as shaky as a new-born calf; but he hung on like grim death and kept the boys in close line.

Of course most of the loaded bills were rushed through with a whoop in the last week of night sessions, and mighty few of the members wasted much time in sleep. So, when the whole thing was over, all agreed to go home and rest up for three days before dividing the spoils. Then they were to meet in the city, in Little Danny's office, and carve that melon.

But, the second morning after adjournment, the Honorables of the state were jolted out of bed by the news that Little Danny had dropped dead in his own home.

His funeral looked like a joint session of the House and Senate, and there were more statesmen among the mourners of Little Danny than ever will be got together again outside the cover of a capitol dome.

For the next few weeks the black-eyed widow of Little Danny held a continuous reception. Finally she closed the house and retreated to her father's home up in The Patch, three miles away from a railroad, in a back township. But the tide of emigration, on free passes, followed her, and more distinguished statesmen got off at that little jerkwater station while she was there than had ever been in the county before.

She broke all the records of widowhood on the score of delicate attentions from men who were entitled to write Honorable in front of their names.

When one legislator met another he grinned sheepishly and asked:

"Seen the widow?" or "What's the news from the Lady in Black?"

Finally, it filtered along down the line that Mrs. Danny had found a key in the trousers of the deceased and that in the safe deposit box which it fitted she had discovered a hundred thousand dollars. Danny had often told her, she said, that he had made some good investments and a lucky strike or two on the stock market and had salted down a snug sum.

While she coyly admitted that she was a little surprised at the size of the pile that Danny had saved, she was not wholly unprepared for the shock. It was only his quiet way of providing for his family! In fact he had, in almost his last words, told her, she said, that she'd find enough to keep the wolf from the door after he was gone.

At last the anxious attendants upon the demure and tearful little widow held a grand pow-wow to see what was to be done.

The first item of regular business transacted at the meeting was to formulate a water-proof lie for the widow's benefit, to the effect that Danny had been the custodian of a pool fund with which he had speculated successfully and that the money in the safe deposit vault represented the principal and profits of the venture in which all were to share.

All agreed to this except one young man. He stood out. Then some one happened to get a hunch that he was the only unmarried man in the combination. It was plain that he had intentions on the widow and planned to copper the whole pile by a matrimonial coup. The rest of the gang made short work of him. They found out that he was engaged to a girl in his district. Then they called him into open meeting and gave him just a week in which to get out the invitations—told him that if he didn't make good at the altar on schedule time the young lady would get a round-robin, or something of that sort, giving him a character that would last the rest of his life.

He came to taw quick, but inferred that he should expect to be handsomely remembered by his friends on the happy occasion. And he was. He received enough pickle castors, web-footed cake forks, spoons and table ware to stock the best jewelry store the little town had ever seen—and he opened business right away after the honeymoon. The other fellows thought they had done something mighty slick.

Then a committee of three legislators waited on the widow. They thought she'd cry and then compromise, for she was too wise not to know what Danny had been up to. But she didn't. She simply stood pat—told them she'd fight their claim to finish in open court. That settled it. The boys swallowed their grief, cursed the great Consolidation Scheme and threw up the sponge.

From that time the relict of Little Danny was the most offensively cheerful widow in ten states—especially whenever she happened to meet any of his old comrades of the session.

So you see, Ned, that the old C. O. D. plan is the only safe one. If the modern siren of Consolidation tempts you, remember the parable of the Widow's Mite and stand out.

Seriously, old man, wouldn't it be a revelation to the dear Trustful People if they could trepan a legislature and see what's going on under the skull of their Honorable Representatives? Just to uncover the real "works" and watch the secret wheels of legislation go round for the last days of a session would make them throw bricks at every state house in the country and put up signs over every Senate and House reading: "This place has changed hands!"

Things weren't so bad when we started in—and thank God I got out of it before the boodle disease became universally epidemic! I couldn't look my old dog Bluff in the eye if I'd been mixed up in that sort of mess, Ned, and I'd rather catch my son stealing scab sheep than see him elected to a legislature. And that's honest, too!

In the course of time I hope to live down the fact that I once held a seat in the lower House, back in the old state. But I'll have to raise a good many chickens and fancy cattle out here on the ranch before I'll quite get the taste out of my mouth!

Write when you get time and let me know if you're still in the strait and narrow path.

You'll be less lonesome for writing if you are hanging to the old-fashioned notions of square politics with which we started in.

I see that you are inclined to hedge in answering my question regarding Kate and the widow. To my mind that's as good as a frank confession that the young widow is in the lead, for there's nothing that quite equals a blooming young widow, in a heart-to-heart campaign, excepting a younger and handsomer widow. I shall expect to hear something from you besides glittering generalities on this score.

Yours as ever,

William Bradley.