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Hellraisers Journal – Wednesday August 24, 1921
Poem for those who laid the railroad track but not allowed to ride at all.
From the Industrial Pioneer of August 1921:
Tag: Hoboes
Hellraisers Journal: Ben Reitman Hosts an Evening at Chicago’s Dill Pickle Club: Speakers, Music, Poetry, Sandwiches
Brethren of the Ancient Order of Dill Pickles,
I greet you…
Now let us get right down to business,
as the speakers are all on time.
-Ben Reitman
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Hellraisers Journal – Wednesday January 8, 1919
Chicago, Illinois – An Evening at the Dill Pickle Club
From The Chicago Daily Tribune of January 6, 1919:
DILL PICKLERS LOVE LIGHT,
BUT O YOU SOUP!
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So Psycho-Analysis Is Made
Slave to Lunch Counter.
—–BY MAUDE MARTIN EVERS.
We of the Dill Pickle believe in everything. We are radicals, anarchists, pickpockets, second story men, and-thinkers. Anything to make the mind think! Some of us practice free love and some medicine. Most of us have gone through religion and tired of it-some of us have tired of our wives…
Up spake Ben Reitman, chairman, as he called to order the weekly meeting of the Dill Picklers at the Dill Pickle club rooms, 18 Tooker place.
Hellraisers Journal: “Experiences of a Hobo Miner” by Frank Little from the I. U. B. -“Wage-Slave Seeking a Master”
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Hellraisers Journal – Tuesday December 15, 1908
From Reno, Nevada – Frank Little Describes Journey from Prescott, Arizona
From The Industrial Union Bulletin of December 12, 1908:
EXPERIENCES OF A HOBO MINER.
The experience of a wage slave, seeking a master during the panic of 1907-8:
On December 5, 1907, Fellow Worker Chris Hansen and myself left [P]rescott, Arizona, for a trip across the desert to see if we could find some kind-hearted parasite who would clasp the chains of wage-slavery upon us and allow us, along with other workers, to produce wealth that would allow a few parasites to live in luxury and idleness, giving us in return for our labor enough bacon and beans to keep us alive. We had heard that the American workers were free and had the right to work when, where and for whom they pleased. But we soon found that this was false.
The first place we went to was Octave, a mining camp south of Prescott, thinking we could get a job there. But one of the first men we met was an overdressed, well-fed parasite, who was in Clifton, Arizona, at the time I was trying to organize the slaves of that place.
We next went to Congress, the worst scab hole in Arizona. The looks of that place were enough to drive a man “nutty.” From there we went to Wickenburg, but this place was full of jobless slaves. We started across the desert towards the Colorado River, stopping at all the mining camps, but could not find a master at any of them.
