“The Dust of Monroe,” from the June 16, 1916
issue of The Monroe Journal.
Of a certain
servant of the King of Syria, it was written that he was a great man with his
master. He was a great leader and honorable, a mighty man of valor, but he was
a leper. His one affliction marred all his greatness. It cast a gloom over his
friends. It was a barrier to his future career. It was a dark and every growing
spot on an otherwise bright prospect.
This piece of
ancient personal history makes us think of our town. It is beautiful for
situation, a veritable city set upon a hill. It has the stately oak, the
spreading elm and the inviting umbrella tree for shade and could be made a
veritable queen among the cities of our state. She has the lordly mansions and
the cosy bungalows, her lawn is covered with green and decked with flowers. The
names of her efficient merchant princes have gone out far and wide. Her banks
are the safe depositories of her thousands of wealth. The people are refined
and friendly and hospitable. All of which go to make attractive and build up a
town, but it has the dust. Yes, like Naaman’s leprosy, Monroe’s dust mars all.
It makes the faithful inhabitants sigh the sigh of despair. For, lo, these many
years the faithful housekeepers have scrubbed, swept and dusted until they have
become weary, worn, nervous and sad. For it all, what reward have they got?
Dust, more dust, ever increasing dust.
Yes, it fills the
cabin and the mansion. It is breathed in the home, on the streets and in sacred
precincts of God’s house.
Cleanse your house
with snow water if you will, rest awhile, get a breath, then you go answer the
door bell and welcome your friends, and, lo, the dust is already there to meet
them also—on the floor, on the chairs, everywhere, ready to stamp itself upon
all who enter.
It is sold with the
new goods fresh from the factory, it rides upon the food from the market, it
takes the choice seat when you order a car for an outing—Oh! The dust, the
insolent dust! It is no respecter of persons, places or things. Like the poor,
it seems to be with us always. For should it rain, it rolls up like the waters
of the Red Sea for the passage of the children of Israel only to return to its
place when the sun shines out again.
What is dust? Not
just common dust—but the dust of the streets of an inhabited place? We know it
is not anything nice, for the Lord used it to make the third plague upon the
Egyptians. It seems just dust is pest enough and we are truly glad there is no
modern Moses to smite the dust of Monroe, for it is already everywhere.
We once heard an
old ex-slave say a little clean dust was healthful. Be it so, but what of the
dust of our streets?
A German chemist
describing what he called a clod-hopper, said: “He is simply organized potato
with ability to move and assimilate more potato.” We borrow his words and say,
“Our street dust is simply organized filth with ability to move and assimilate
more filth.”
It meets the
traveler and home seeker with the first welcome…fills his eyes, nose and
throat, clings to his hat, shoes and coat. No matter where he goes it is at his
feet and his side as a companion that will never forsake, and should he in
disgust decide to leave he will have more to do than shake it from his feet.
We walk our streets
with no thought of harm
From man or beast,
for our faithful “Cop,”
Is ever ready to
call out to the intruder, “Stop!”
We lie down to rest
in peace,
Both son and sire,
For we have ever
ready and efficient
Watchmen to put out
the fire.
But no man has
arisen to say to the dust, thus far, and no farther.
Have we not some
men, who like the Judges of old, will rise up and deliver us from the bondage
of this dust?
We care not whether
you can speak like Demonthenes or Cicero,
We care not whether
you can fight like Joffre or Jellicoe,
We care not whether
you have the teeth of Teddy or the smile of Woodrow—
Just deliver us
from this awful dust of Monroe.
And we will your
brow entwine
With the laurel,
the ivy and the pine,
And you will be
classed as one of great renown
As we hail you, the
deliverer of our town.
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