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VOLUME SIX
NUJISEK EIGHT
7HB ONL'f LONESOME HOUSE
That Dandy Nelv Tolvn, Home of the National Farmers 9 Union, is Ruled by Hen of "Backbone and
Character —and She is Grolving Some.
Sy WILLIAM ©. UPSHAW.
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say.
I had always wanted to visit that remarka
ble new town, only seventeen miles from At-
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? HON. D. A. CARMICAL. I
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lanta, but somehow my whirling, busy life had
never allowed just the kind of opportunity that
I wanted.
But I met the genial Mayor, Hon. D. A. Car
mical, recently when I lectured to a big, gen
erous crowd at Grantville. And that enter
prising, engaging town builder who has been
dreaming by day and by night for the uplift of
Union City, ever since he flung that famous
burg from the palm of his creative hand about
three years ago, simply told me if I had right
good sense, I would come to Union City to
lecture at my earliest open date. He looked
like he meant business; and as I greatly de
sired to sustain a moderate reputation for com-
Y, my! what a spinal tonic it is to a
man who is traveling all the time
and meeting all sorts and condi
tions of men and communities, to
find a town like plucky Union City,
where the reigning citizens are
sure enough men—and not mere
macaroni bipeds, “waddling around
in breeches,” as Sam Jones used to
ATLANTA, GA. APRIL 13, 1911.
mon sense —in the estimation of one of the
most remarkable citizens of Georgia, I took
him at his word.
But I did not come in this story to tell about
the lecture, save only the fact that every man
and woman, boy and girl who braved that
March gale, to see what was under “John’s
Hat,” seemed to be made out of brains, eyes
and ears. They could see an idea about a mile
before it got into town, and they came down
to the depot to meet that idea in a band wag
on. Professor Smith, the grey haired young
man, who is superintendent of the Union City
school, has that thing in him that the author
of Piney Wood Sketches calls “Gism” —for he
didn’t do a thing but give the sign to those
bouncing, young Americans, and they sprang
to their feet right there in the school room and
gave such a yell, as I have not heard since Mer
cer, Emory, Athens and Dahlonega used to
meet in the Grand, Atlanta, to “root” for their
oratorical heroes. I said right straight: “No
wonder Union City is growing when its boys
and girls are taught to yell like that for their
wide-awake town.”
But, fine as it was, I did not come to tell
about the superb company of boys and girls.
I did not come to tell of the great implement
factory with its nearly three thousand stock
holders, among the farmers of the South, which
is bursting its bounds with success until its
capacity must be more than doubled next year;
nor yet of the famous phosphate works —owned
also by Farmers’ Union stockholders; nor of
the three big lumber yards and planing mills
and the back band factory, and the cotton grad
ing school, where young men are taught how
to successfully handle and grade the king of
Southern products.
Wonderful as it all is I did not come especial
ly to tell how D. A. Carmical conceived the
idea when the A. B. and A. road was getting
ready to pass through Campbell county that a
town ought to be built where Union City now
is and that the State and National Farmers’
Union ought to locate their headquarters there.
I haven’t time nor space here to tell how he
induced Secretary Eubanks, of the Georgia
Exchange, Editor Duckworth, of the Farmers’
Union News, and President Charles Barrett,
of the Farmers’ Union of America, to see that
that spot was the place of all places of which
they had been dreaming for a town of their
own, where they could move their families,
grow according to their own ideas, and carve
out a community in inspiring sympathy with
their laudable plans.
But Carmical Did It.
1 he deed was done and their rosy dreams
came true.
Union City is only about three years old, but
with nearly a thousand people, all living in
pretty new houses, with handsome brick
stores, whirling factories, a busy bank, a beau
tiful lake, a smiling park, two railroads, and
people knocking at the door of the town every
day and on every side —that is only a part of
the story, for we can hardly realize how the
many thousands of Georgia farmers and the
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? PRES. CHARLES S. BARRETT. ?
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three millions of American farmers, revolve in
their thought about that unique new town, as
the center of their mighty activities.
But while all of this is true, my good friends,
this is not what I came to tell you. The inspi
ration of this story came to me from the one
and only vacant, lonesome house in this busy,
bustling burg.
Even Coffins Won’t Grow.
My eyes spied a little brick-house way off
by itself, and built in a sort of “cata-wampus”
style of architecture.
“Whose house is that?” T asked.
And my friend smiled as he answered : “Ah !
you’ll be glad to hear it —that house has a his
tory.” I was all attention. And this is the
story, as my genial friend told it to me, with an
air of community pride :
“Well, a whiskey man built that brick house
for a “near beer” saloon in Union City. He
(Continued on page 8.)
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