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EDITED BY CHARLES H. KERR ASSOCIATE EDITORS: Ernest Untermann, John Spargo, Robert Rives La Monte,

Max S. Hayes, William E. Bohn, Mary E. Marcy.


The Dream of Debs

Jack London Socialism for Students. III. Socialist Economics Joseph E. Cohen The Economic Aspects of the Negro Question. VI. Lynch Law

1. M. Robbins Race Suicide in France

Eliza Burt Gamble The Oklahoma Vote

F. P. O'Hare Do We Need a Political Revolution ?

William English Walling The Education of the “Devil”

Edlington Moat To Capitalistic Critics of Socialism

Lincoln Braden


Editor's Chair: The Official Vote; Socialists and Radicals; Socialist

Gains and Losses; The Party Election International Notes

Literature and Art World of Labor

: News and Views Publishers' Department


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States, Canada, Mexico and Cuba. On account of the increased weight of the Review, we shall be obliged in future to make the subscription price to all other

countries $1.36. All correspondence regarding advertising should be addressed to The Howe-Simpson

Company, Advertising Manager of the International Socialist Review, 140 Dearborn street, Chicago. Advertising rate, $25.00 per page; half and quarter pages pro rata; less than quarter pages, 15 cents per agate line. This rate is based on a guaranteed circulation exceeding 25,000 copies.

All other business communications should be addressed to

CHARLES H. KERR & COMPANY, Publishers (Co-Operative)

153 Kinzie Street, Chicago, Ill., U. S. A.

Copyright, 1908, by Charles II. Kerr & Company. Entered at the Postoffice at Chicago, Ill.. as Second Class Matter July 27, 1900, under

Act of March 3, 1879.


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AWOKE fully an hour before my customary time. This in itself was remarkable, and I lay very wide awake, pondering over it. Something was the matter, something was wrong--I knew not what. I was oppressed by a premonition of something terrible that had happened or was about to happen. But what was it? I

strove to orientate myself. I remembered that at the time of the Great Earthquake of 1906 many claimed they awakened some moments before the first shock and that during those moments they experienced strange feelings of dread. Was San Francisco again to be visited by earthquake?

I lay for a full minute, numbly expectant, but there occurred no reeling of walls nor shock and grind of falling masonry. All was quiet. That was it! The silence! No wonder I had been perturbed. The hum of the great live city was strangely absent. The surface cars passed along my street, at that time of day, on an average of one every three minutes; but in the ten succeeding minutes not a car passed. Perhaps it was a street railway strike, was my thought; or perhaps there had been an accident and the power was shut off. But no, the silence 'was too profound. I heard no jar and rattle of wagon-wheels, nor stamp of iron-shod hoofs straining up the steep cobble-stones.

Pressing the push-button beside my bed, I strove to hear the sound of the bell, though I well knew it was impossible for the sound to rise three stories to me even if the bell did ring. It rang all right, for a few minutes later Brown entered with the tray and morning paper. Though his features were impassive as ever, I noted a startled, apprehensive light in his eyes. I noted, also, that there was no cream on the tray.


“The creamery did not deliver this morning,” he explained; "nor did the bakery."

I glanced again at the tray. There were no fresh French rollsonly slices of stale graham bread from yesterday, the most detestable of bread so far as I was concerned.

“Nothing was delivered this morning, sir,” Brown started to explain apologetically; but I interrupted him.

“The paper?"

"Yes, sir, it was delivered, but it was the only thing, and it is the last time, too. There won't be any paper to-morrow. The paper says so. Can I send out and get you some condensed milk?”

I shook my head, accepted the coffee black, and spread open the paper. The headlines explained everything-explained too much, in fact, for the lengths of pessimism to which the journal went were ridiculous. A general strike, it said, had been called all over the United States; and most foreboding anxieties were expressed concerning the provisioning of the great cities.

I read on hastily, skimming much and remembering much of labor troubles in the past. For a generation the general strike had been the dream of organized labor, which dream had arisen originally in the mind of Debs, one of the great labor leaders of thirty years before. I recollected that in my young college-settlement days I had even written an article on the subject for one of the magazines and that I had entitled it, “The Dream of Debs.” And I must confess that I had treated the idea very cavalierly and academically as a dream and nothing more. Time and the world had rolled on, Gompers was gone, the American Federation of Labor was gone, and gone was Debs with all his wild revolutionary ideas; but the dream had persisted, and here it was at last realized in fact. But I laughed, as I read, at the journal's gloomy outlook. I knew better. I had seen organized labor worsted in too many conflicts. It would be a matter only of days when the thing would be settled. This was a national strike, and it wouldn't take the government long to break it.

I threw the paper down and proceeded to dress. It would certainly be interesting to be out in the streets of San Francisco when not a wheel was turning and the whole city was taking an enforced vacation.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Brown said, as he handed me my cigar case, “but Mr. Harmmed has asked to see you before you go out.”

"Send him in right away," I answered.

Harmmed was the butler. When he entered I could see he was laboring under controlled excitement. He came at once to the point.

"What shall I do, sir ? There will be needed provisions, and the delivery drivers are on strike. And the electricity is shut off-I guess they're on strike, too."

"Are the shops open ?" I asked.

"Only the small ones, sir. The retail clerks are out, and the big ones can't open; but the owners and their families are running the little ones themselves."

“Then take the machine," I said, “and go the rounds and make your purchases. Buy plenty of everything you need or may need. Get a box of candles-no, get half a dozen boxes. And when you 're done, tell Harrison to bring the machine around to the club for me-not later than eleven."

Harmmed shook his head gravely. "Mr. Harrison has struck along with the Chauffeurs' Union, and I don't know how to run the machine myself."

"Oh, ho, he has, has he?" I said. "Well, when next Mister Harrison happens around you tell him that he can look elsewhere for a position.

“Yes, sir."

"You don't happen to belong to a Butler's Union, do you, Harmmed?"

“No, sir," was the answer. “And even if I did I'd not desert my employer in a crisis like this. No, sir, I would—”

“All right, thank you," I said. "Now you get ready to accompany me. I'll run the machine myself, and we'll lay in a stock of provisions to stand a siege."

It was a beautiful first of May, even as May days go. The sky was cloudless, there was no wind, and the air was warm-almost balmy. Many autos were out, but the owners were driving them themselves. The streets were crowded but quiet. The working class, dressed in its Sunday best, was out taking the air and observing the effects of the strike. It was all so unusual, and withal so peaceful, that I found myself enjoying it. My nerves were tingling with mild excitement. It was a sort of placid adventure. I passed Miss Chickering. She was at the helm of her little runabout. She swung around and came after me, catching me at the corner.

"Oh, Mr. Cerf!" she hailed. “Do you know where I can buy candles? I've been to a dozen shops, and they're all sold out. It's dreadfully awful, isn't it?"

But her sparkling eyes gave the lie to her words. Like the rest of us, she was enjoying it hugely. Quite an adventure it was, getting those candles. It was not until we went across the city and down into the working class quarter south of Market street that we found small corner

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