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**~~~~ . ui i i.jjiw b<h >i i ■*a>w^w<im~n *•" d - , , |-q f - > T E v j S^- AR > -W —— VOLUME ONE. NO. THIRTY-TWO. WHISKEY DOWN—PROPERTY UP. T makes the blood tingle just to pass through the prosperous counties of Wil cox and Irwin, in Georgia, and see with your own eyes the striking change for the better since the saloon and the dis pensary were driven out! Last year, the first thing that greeted the eye—yes, and the “nose”—of the traveler as he alighted from the cars I at Abbeville, was a wretched barroom right at the depot, with its fumes and its fuss, its topers and its loafers. Now that self-same house is filled with the necessities of life, a legiti mate, wholesome business is being done, and the money that went for liquor, sorrow and horror is now buying health and happiness for bodies, hearts and homes. While the saloons held their bloody, debauching scepter over the town, the whiskey sym pathizers declared that Abbeville would be ruined from a business standpoint if the saloons should be stopped. They were stopped in December. But, as is always true, the merchants declare that their Christmas trade was better than it had ever been, while not a single arrest for drunkenness was made during Christmas week. And the former whiskey friends—the few that can be found—are all compelled to admit that Ab beville is a new town—cleaner in its life, happier in its homes, stronger in its commerce and certainly a far safer atmosphere for that thriving institu tion, the Georgia Normal and Business College, witu its hundreds of students every year. Rochelle, too, another wide-awake and growing town in Wilcox county, is taking on new life since whiskey was driven out; and Seville, poor little rum-cursed, whiskey-soaked Seville, that was so long an eye-sore for decent people who traveled the Sea board from Cordele to Abbeville—Seville whose three saloons seemed to dominate all other business until the outraged people of that precinct arose in their might and smashed them to death by a major ity of ten to one—Seville, thank God and the mili tant voters, stands purified and redeemed! Ocilla—Fair, Beautiful Ocilla! There is not a better town of fifteen hundred peo ple in Georgia, or the South, than Ocilla. Four years ago, when I helped Pastor W. J. Barton in a gracious meeting, saloons blotted and blighted the face of the town. Many of the strongest men of the community were converted. Their leadership began to tell for the public virtue and civic right eousness. They said the barrooms must go. They did go—but the Dispensary came instead. For a time the decent people seemed pleased. Less drinking, they said, and “the dear school fund” of the town received a handsome purse from the dis pensary. “Long live the dispensary!” But it was noted by keen observers that liquor from the “dar ling dispensary” kept on making people mighty ATLANTA, GA., SEPTEMBER 27, 1906. Wilcox and Irlvin rc( Bejore and Softer. ” drunk (just as the fine liquor does from the Pied mont bar in Atlanta). Debauched negroes and low down white folks would congregate around the “dis pensary of devilment,” blockade the corners and then line the streets, until Saturday afternoon be came a bedlam, and, Saturday night!—yes, a fore runner of hell! The sons of the men, and the husbands of the best wives in the community were going down be fore the “school-saving” dispensary. The spectacle was heart-rending—the facts were intolerable! The dispensary must go. Ocilla, Fitzgerald—lrwin county must be free! Hon. B. E. Wilcox, the stainless Christian gen tleman who represented Irwin in the Legislature, went to work, and he did not work alone. Hon. George Wilcox, his stalwart kinsman over in the Senate, went to work in that dignified and conser vative body. The lines were drawn, the battle was fierce, but victory came. And Georgia’s Chris tian Governor, Joseph M. Terrell, signed the bill. The dispensary went out of Ocilla and saloons out of Fitzgerald—the old county of Irwin and the new county of Ben Hill. Ocilla, one of the most generous, unselfish towns I have ever seen, is rejoicing that the dispensary is closed, and her manly citizenship has determined that the welfare of her splendid school shall not be dependent on the bloody tax levied on the depravity of drunken white men and carousing negroes. The merchants declare that the cash trade has already greatly improved while the Saturday nights of bacchanalian revel have been converted into the order and quiet of the former Sabbath day. Some Funny Things at Fitzgerald. The other day Colonel Tom Eason, of the Geor gia Prison Commission, one of the most popular men in the State, was moving from Mcßae to the new county site of Ben Hill county. On his way from the depot the hackman informed him that— “ Fitzgerald is dead!” “Why,” said the smiling Colonel, “I don’t see anything of the funeral going on—looks like I would have heard something of an event as im portant as that.” “But,” contended the hackman, “the town is certainly ruined since whisky was put out. It is a dead town, I tell you! There’s nothin’ doin’!” Colonel Eason investigated the pedigree and pros pects of the Fitzgerald citizen who would welcome a new citizen with such a distressing, depressing libel on a town that seemed so much alive, and lo! that self-same hackman was found to be resting right then under an indictment for running a “blind tiger. ’ ’ Take another: The day after the bill killing the saloons was signed by Governor Terrell a certain real estate owner came down town “tearing his By WILLIAM D. UPSHAW. hair,” “wiping his eyes,” and covering the totter ing, dying town with crepe. “It is a shame—it is an outrage!” he declared. “My hard-earned property is worth 25 per cent less than it was yesterday, all because of the fanat icism of these foolish temperance people. It is a shame—a shame! I tell you. my property is down 25 per cent lower than it was yesterday.” “ What will you take for that bouse and lot on street?” The question was put by one of those same “fanatical temperance men.” “Four thousand dollars,” said the distressed man, “I’ll take four thousand dollars!” “I’ll take it,” said the temperance man quietly. “Come to my office and draw the deeds and I will write you a check.” , ~ The temperance man waited in his office, but the distressed real estate dealer did not appear. Whereupon the purchaser wrote the check, made out the deed and proceeded to look up the real estate man to get his signature. Then there was a straight back-down and the legally purchased house is yet allowed to remain, enhanced in value, in the hands of the man who was wantonly tying crepe on the door of his own property. And another rising financier—a fine young fellow who had just allowed the devil to put some sand in his eyes on the whisky business, offered a lot for a thousand dollars several months ago. A few days after whisky went out he was asked what he would take for this same lot. “Three thousand dollars,” was his quick reply. Then quoth the temperance jnan: “Why, I thought you said if the saloons were’Vlosed it would hurt the value of property. Why have you gone up on yours?” And the young financier was “speechless.” The truth is, he is a royal spirit—he is an hon est man, and conscience has begun to get in her work. Editor Jesse Mercer, of The Fitzgerald Enter prise is jubilant over the downfall of barrooms, and the consequent up-building of the famous “Colony City.” And E. F. Chambless, the faithful and fearless President of the Law ami Order League, declares that for the sake of the good name of the town and the boys of the present and the future, the brave men of the town will see to it—as the citizens of any community can do if they will— that “blind tigers” are exterminated and the law is enforced! A Ringing Declaration. Every such movement has its genesis—its pivotal, quickening initial hour. In looking through the minutes of the Little River Association during my recent visit to Ocilla, I found the “Report on Temperance” which, more than anything else, perhaps, started the fire to burning in Wilcox and Irwin counties. That report TWO DOLLARS A YEAR. FIVE CENTS A COPY.