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1' 1 „ _ '■ (u BRARY «r|| t ; ’ <% till R* Mt wWlr _P 1J JMhST '«»L s 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. La say. I had always wanted to visit that remarka ble new town, only seventeen miles from At- I I i F-4® JwL jflßMy 1 ; jL - i ? SB TZlsIiS 1 i • IJIKf ? : F' ■^W* ZSBt ••' IF fr ? HON. D. A. CARMICAL. I i ? 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 i I ? r i x i /w \ ? I/« ; 4 \ i ;/B i \ I i / ; fffc \ I f /, x l ‘ i t ? ; I «, I • I JL | ! i i X It Owlr i i I ? PRES. CHARLES S. BARRETT. ? i-.-....-.-.-.-. 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.) $1.50 <7 Y£AX. TIVL CENTS A COPY.