SUICIDE NOTE for Louis Lingg (dead Nov. 10, 1887) The day of the Haymarket Affair I was making bombs with Seliger in my small room and getting worked-up as we talked about women exhausting themselves over spinning machines fined for singing of their half-remembered villages, fined for staying home to care for children stricken with pox and of the canary-dead coal miners obiigedto buy in the company stoe at 20% more than they would pay on the outside. By evening, there were fifty round and pipe shape contrivances with caps attached and we celebrated the virtues of dynamite!. How cheerful and, gratifying to light the fuse in the neighborhood of a lot of rich loafers who live off the sweat of other people's brows. A lb. of this stuff beats a bushel of ballots. We quit the rooming house, carrying between us by a stick through the handle, a small truck filled with bombs, which we left in the hallway of Zeph's Hall and went to take a beer in a nearby saloon, when a bomb hurtled though the air, glowing and sputtering, striking down Degan and other foes of the working man, changing the course of history. I despise them, their order, their laws, their force-propped authority. I do not recognize the court's sentence. I'm to hang not for a crime, but because I refuse to be governed by the profit motive, labor exploiters, children slayers, home despoiiers. Last night 1 heard music from a ball somewhere. I so wanted to go there and dance. I can only hope that the girl who 1 loved, when she presses her head against another man's shoulder will sometimes pretend he is me smelling her perfume. Farewell, Adolph, Albert, August, George. I will not follow you to the gallows to wear the noose the plutocrats call justice. A comrade smuggled in a special baby of a smoke, not exactly a Havana, but top quality never-the-less, inside a dynamite cartridge alive as the unborn in a mother's womb. Certainly no time is better than the present to sit back and inhale the aroma of a good 5 cent cigar. -Willa Schneberg