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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4b78dcc --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #66717 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66717) diff --git a/old/66717-0.txt b/old/66717-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 91bd503..0000000 --- a/old/66717-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10643 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Life Unveiled, by Anonymous - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: A Life Unveiled - By a Child of the Drumlins - -Author: Anonymous - -Release Date: November 12, 2021 [eBook #66717] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Martin Pettit and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at - https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - generously made available by The Internet Archive/American - Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LIFE UNVEILED *** - -+-------------------------------------------------+ -|Transcriber’s note: | -| | -|Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | -| | -+-------------------------------------------------+ - - -A LIFE UNVEILED - -BY -A CHILD OF THE DRUMLINS - -WITH AN INTRODUCTION -BY -JOHN BURROUGHS - - -[Illustration: Logo] - - - _Ce livre est toute ma jeunesse; je - l’ai fait sans presque y songer._ - --DE MUSSET - - - GARDEN CITY NEW YORK -DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY - 1922 - - - - -COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY -DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY - -ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION -INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN - -PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES -AT -THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y. - -_First Edition_ - - - - -CONTENTS - - PAGE -INTRODUCTION BY JOHN BURROUGHS vii - -TO THE READER xi - -CHAPTER - I. THE FAMILY TREE 1 - - II. THE ROOF-TREE 14 - - III. “A CHILD WENT FORTH” 42 - - IV. IN THE OLD PATHS 71 - - V. “AS TWIG IS BENT” 94 - - VI. “BRED IN THE BONE” 119 - - VII. SCHOOL DAYS 134 - -VIII. THE “MEDIC” 172 - - IX. THE “MEDIC” (Continued) 229 - - X. THE “MEDIC” (Concluded) 245 - - XI. THROUGH THE GATE OF DREAMS 273 - - - - -INTRODUCTION - - -I fancy that this “Child of the Drumlins” did not know she was living -amid drumlins when she passed her youth there. She knew them only as -the long, smooth, loaf-shaped hills that were scattered over her native -landscape, upon which she saw cattle grazing and grain ripening, and -upon which she roamed and played in the freedom of childhood. - -These curious-looking hills are found in certain parts of New England, -and in a large section of the central and western parts of New York -state. They would suggest artificial mounds were they not so large -as to preclude all idea of their being the work of man. They were -indeed made, but not by human hands. They are the work of the great -continental ice-sheet which tens of thousands of years ago crept slowly -over a large part of the Northern hemisphere, giving to the landscape, -among many other strange new features, these long, low, rounded hills, -called by the geologists drumlins, amid which the “Child” passed her -early life. Carpeted with grass and often dotted with trees, these -peaceful pastoral elevations are seldom more than a quarter of a mile -long, and perhaps a hundred feet high. Their trend is in one direction, -from northeast to southwest--the general course the ice-flood took. -They are simply huge heaps of clay and water-worn boulders shovelled -together by the gods of the Ice Age, though just how it all came about -the geologists are not clear. But there they stand, making a marked -feature in the landscape. - -To the Land of the Drumlins, rich in its early associations, the -writer of this narrative turns, giving a moving record of real life -which to me makes fiction insipid. It presents the natural history of -an American girl in the last quarter of the nineteenth century. (And -why should we not have such a history, as well as that of much less -interesting animals?) Herein we see pictured typical and representative -conditions and individuals which contributed to the development -of a dreaming, aspiring girl into a woman of serious purpose and -substantial achievement in a strenuous and useful career. A notable -piece of work of permanent literary and psychological value, it sweeps -one along by its intrinsic interest, its candour, its playfulness, -and its seriousness. Childhood memories, trivial and signal events, -portraiture, incidents, form a picture of real life convincing as -only real things can convince. Through it we look into a heart and a -life. It is life. One sees the writer from her forebears up. With what -admirable art she brings certain scenes before us! One is present, -sees and feels them all, and shares her inmost thoughts and emotions. -One’s tears stand trembling at the doorway; smiles and laughter are -irresistibly evoked. The feeling with which the writer has invested the -narrative is the principal source of its charm and value; it is that -which makes us a sharer in all her life. The book does not appear to be -written, but rather an unveiling of memories, with an entire absence of -literary consciousness. Her mind seems transparent; her life like an -open book before her where she can trace every passage. Does she forget -nothing? Few persons can see themselves objectively and at the same -time achieve such self-analysis. - -One is carried along by the rush and spontaneity of the record, as the -author evidently was in writing it. In her passionate confession, -faults and errors are courageously set down. One rejoices to know that -there were imps in the girl who shows at the same time such a serious, -earnest nature, such a vibrant, susceptible personality. One likes her -for her pranks and her naughtiness, her stubbornness, her primness, -and her deep attachments. She piques one and leads one on, a willing -sharer in all her experiences. One comes to see that he is always to -expect the unexpected from this demure, enigmatic creature who, though -preserving her own individuality, is so like all girls of her time -and race. And it is this universal appeal which gives the record its -value: other girls and women, other youths and men as well, will see -themselves in this “Child of the Drumlins” who summons her past before -us so vividly that we, too, live over again the days of our own youth. - -[Illustration: _John Burroughs_[signature]] - - - - -TO THE READER - - -Have you ever reached a time in your life when all that had gone before -seemed cut off from the present; when you felt an imperious need to -review whatever had gone to the making of the You; when the preceding -years, full as they had seemed, were barren of that which made the -present so vital; when, because of that barrenness, they seemed to -have belonged rather to the life of one you knew than to your own? If -you have, you will understand the motive that sometimes leads one to -deliberate self-study and self-delineation. - -He who honestly undertakes such study is pledged to candour at all -costs. Beginning by reviewing his ancestry and environment, he also -tries to recapture some of those earliest, evanescent sense experiences -and memories of childhood. He peers into that mysterious borderland -between childhood and youth; surveys the formative influences, -the outstanding events, the proclivities, longings, aspirations, -achievements, struggles, temptations, successes, defeats--reviews -them all, tries to estimate their influence, and to recognize their -possible reappearance, in other guises perhaps, in his present self. -The dawning of religious emotion, sex consciousness, the gradual -transition from the receptiveness and naïve simplicity of childhood -to the wilful caprice of adolescence (with its blind gropings, its -heightened emotional life, its contradictory moods, its evolution of -self-consciousness and social consciousness)--all these phases he -passes in review and weighs, hoping to form a just estimate as to -their effect upon his personality as he alone knows it. - -One cannot compass this survey until one has passed beyond the -seething period of adolescence which merges so insensibly into that of -maturity. Immaturity, maturity--the difference is only of degree; the -child _is_ father to the man; the psychology we trace in child life -is fundamentally the same that obtains when the individual achieves -that self-control and balance, that steadiness of aim, that harmonious -union of bodily and mental powers which characterize maturity. Until we -understand this merging and blending of experiences that make up a life -history, we may regard as trivial the fleeting events and memories of -childhood which the psychologist knows are significant and far-reaching. - -In the rapid setting down of what comes crowding into the consciousness -as the canvas of one’s life unrolls before him, one is not especially -concerned with the orderly sequence of events; mental associations -are intractable forces to deal with; a certain looseness of exterior -matters is inevitable; the eye cannot look both in and out at the -same time. What really matters is that one accurately read one’s own -consciousness, without mistakes, without self-deception, without wilful -deceit. Unless this is achieved, one cheats one’s self. - -Perhaps the record is made for self alone; perhaps for another; in any -case not for the public; and yet as the years pass, and the events -recorded have become so remote as to seem dissociated from the present -self, it may happen that the question of sharing the record with others -arises--a question which gives pause to the autobiographer with scant -claim on the public. - -“Who is this,” he imagines the reader inquiring, “who so confidently -asks us to share all these details of her life?” And then there -comes to mind that statement of Carlyle’s: that the humblest life, -if truthfully presented, would be of absorbing interest; that a true -delineation of the smallest man and his scene of pilgrimage throughout -life, is capable of interesting the greatest men, since all men are -brothers, and since human portraits, faithfully drawn, must be of all -pictures the welcomest on human walls. - -And so the story goes forth. If it faithfully depict the psychology -of child life, of adolescence, of dawning maturity, devoid though it -be of plot and, as a whole, of dramatic interest, it may yet, as a -typical human portrait, justify itself; may aid the young to a better -understanding of their own natures, and help those no longer young -to a keener remembrance, a deeper sympathy, and a broader tolerance -concerning the struggles, problems, and complexities that beset the -young lives around them. - -This book of my childhood and youth, written many years ago, is as -sincere as such a thing can well be, and this constitutes its only -excuse for being. Unless I have told the naked, unblushing truth, -why pretend to unveil my life?[1] If I have concealed faults and -follies, what is there in common with your life as you alone know it? -Doubtless you yourself would shrink from the deliberate self-analysis -and self-revelation I have made, and yet may find herein natural human -reactions which tally with your own inarticulate experiences. - -L’INNOMMÉE. - -FOOTNOTE: - -[1] The names in the narrative are, of course, fictitious. - - - - -A LIFE UNVEILED - - -_I once wandered in a beautiful garden. It had high walls which made -one feel safe and sheltered. There were many flower-bordered paths, and -some that were stony and rough. There were broad open spaces, dark, -wooded corners, cosy nooks, and friendly trees. Openings in the wall -gave glimpses that made one’s heart beat faster and that filled one -with queer restless feelings, half pleasure, half pain._ - -_There came a day when I left the garden and started on a long journey. -I have never been back. Sometimes I have wanted to go back, but the -great gate can never open from the outside._ - -_When we lose our Edens, you and I, is it any wonder that we sometimes -pause in the journey, and long to recapture the days when we played in -the enchanted enclosure? What if, some day, one creeps back close to -the wall, holding up the magic mirror he brought away with him? What -if he gets glimpses that help him to continue on the way? What if he -lets you peep into the mirror, too--the mirror which will reflect the -garden you played in, the paths you trod, the flowers you gathered, the -playmates you knew?_ - - - - -A LIFE UNVEILED - - - - -CHAPTER I - -THE FAMILY TREE - - -I seem always to have lived a life apart from the obvious one, seeing -the strange contrasts, the incongruities, the dramatic moments, though -always these things were unexpressed. Those about me had no inkling of -what was passing in my mind. Perhaps it is so with all children. One -can only know one’s self, and that so vaguely. - -I was born near the foot of a drumlin. Their smooth level crests broke -the horizon line of my native village. Amid the drumlins I shared -in all the little world they bounded. On the summit of a drumlin my -kindred lie buried, and back to the drumlins I shall one day turn--back -to the commonplace little village where my life began. The village has -not grown in all the years, either in population or importance; on the -contrary, it seems to have dwindled to tiny dimensions. Whenever I go -back there now, the houses and the prominent buildings look smaller, -the drumlins lower, and all the distances are lessened to a surprising -degree. I look at the one handsome residence the village boasts and -ask, Is that the house I used to think so imposing? Are those the -grounds so illimitable to my childish eyes? And is this the same hill -near Grandfather’s barn that was so steep when three happy children -clambered over it in search of sorrel leaves? What a paltry patch -of ground Grandmother’s garden now is! yet there was a time when, -engaged in one of the tasks of my childhood (that of picking Grandma’s -raspberries and currants), her garden bounded my little world which -then did not seem little at all. Nor was it; for while moving among the -currant bushes, my fingers busy, my thoughts roamed far afield--out -past the hop vines in the rear; out past the clump of big red “pineys” -in front, and the corner where the smallage grew; past the snowball -bush, even past the oxheart cherry tree; through the little blue gate, -and out into the big wonderful world beyond. No, it was not a little -garden; it was a very big garden then; some unkind trickery has been -at work these later years to make it the poor cramped little enclosure -which I viewed last summer through blinding tears. - -And Grandma’s old house, too. How low the rooms are now! There was -a time when, caught up in the arms of an uncle, and seated on his -shoulder, the laughing faces below me seemed remote indeed to my -half-pleased, half-frightened eyes. How tall I feel, almost stately, as -I enter the rooms now; and what a chill and gloom strike to the marrow -of my being to find no longer the dear old wrinkled face to greet me! -To see the same paper on the walls, the same clock on the mantel, the -same familiar things at every turn, worn and faded, but still there, -while that cherished face, and those beneficent, toil-worn hands, and -the tired, pain-racked heart are gone forever! - -No one was ever so hospitable as Grandpa and Grandma. “Just sit by -and have a bite of something,” Grandma would urge, unaware that she -was dispensing a blessing instead of asking a boon. Their meals were -frugal--no recollection of bounty comes to me, except at Thanksgiving -or other family reunions; but Grandma’s bread and butter, her -warmed-up potatoes, and her sugar cookies (with caraway seeds in them), -touched the spot as no other food ever did or can. Then she used to -place a cup of tea (green tea, it always was) slyly by my plate, -saying: “I guess your Ma won’t care this time if you take a little.” -I can see the little brown tea-pot now as she brings it from the back -of the stove; the silver lustre sugar-bowl with its ribbed sides, and -the nick on the knob of the cover; the blue dishes; the Britannia -spoons--no one but Grandma had Britannia spoons--and the thin, pointed -silver ones; the yellow-handled knives; and the funny little two-tined -fork that Grandma herself used--the rest of us had forks with three -tines. - -There’s the Boston rocker in which Grandpa sat of a winter evening and -peeled apples for drying. I wonder where his little old “shoe-knife” -is. “What makes your hands tremble so, Grandpa?” Sister would ask; but -in spite of the tremor he peeled a heaping pile of an evening. - -“Eunice, fetch me a bigger pan,” he would call to Grandma, busy in -kitchen or buttery; and how testy he got if she didn’t understand, -or brought the wrong pan! I shuddered when he spoke that way to her, -and wondered why it was; and her meek face and humble silence made -me love and pity her the more. I never learned not to mind Grandpa’s -angry tones. It was “his way” with her. His voice, as I remember it, -was almost always harsh to her, but never to me, never to me. He was -always indulgent with me, and with all of us children--except when we -hung around the barn at milking-time--then he would forget himself, -and one would have thought he was shouting to Grandma or to the -cows instead. We learned not to put his temper to this strain very -often--his hospitality did not extend that far. I don’t know how much -an incident of my babyhood engendered this feeling: Grandpa had a white -cow, a gentle, well-behaved “critter,” but one day when they took her -calf away, maddened, she made a dash at me, playing near; caught me on -her horns, and ran up the bank of the tow-path, while Mother looked on -paralyzed with fear. As Grandpa and a neighbour ran up the bank, the -cow ran faster, then tossed me wildly in the air. - -“I didn’t know whether you would fall in the water or on her horns,” -Mother used to say; “I expected to see you drowned in the canal or -horribly wounded; but Mr. Mintline caught you in his arms--Grandpa sold -the cow the next day.” Mother’s voice always trembled in recounting the -incident. - -Since then I have always been afraid of cows. If the peaceable -creatures come slowly toward me, try as I will I cannot walk slowly -away. I breathe freely only when the fence is between them and me. By -some childish twist of the imagination, so vivid was the impression -made upon me by hearing of being caught on the horns of that old white -cow, I believed myself to have been injured by the act, and was quite a -big child before I learned that certain anatomical mark on my body--the -little deep dimple in the abdomen--was not made by the horns of that -angry cow. It needed the confirmation given by seeing my sister’s and -other children’s bodies similarly marked to disabuse my mind of that -belief. - -I remember when in my early ’teens I would meet that -neighbour--Mintline--an unkempt man, who had long since forgotten his -share in my life, I would think, “He caught you in his arms,” and -would smile to myself at the incongruity as, fluttering past him on -the street in my pretty muslin gown, I was acutely conscious of the -contrast with his rough, untidy clothes. Turning and looking after -him I would say under my breath, “_You_ don’t know, but I do, and I’m -grateful to you, even if you have forgotten it all.” - -Grandpa, as I have said, was impatient and irascible; he was easily -moved to profanity; but he was a man of probity of life and character -and a hater of shams. His sense of humour was keen, also his sense -of justice. He was a mason by trade; had built the brick church in -the town, the old Academy, and a few other fine old brick buildings -standing there to-day. I used to look upon these with pride, saying -to myself, “Grandpa built that--and that”; though, since my earliest -recollection, he had not worked at his trade. He led an active life -up to his eighty-sixth year about his village farm, with his cows and -his pigs, and his haying in the low-lying meadows. I can see him now -riding his black horse, straight and sturdy, on his way to the pasture -with the cows. Often they were wayward and the boys in the street would -annoy him. I used to feel chagrined beyond words when I heard him -swearing at the cows, or at the boys, and saw him brandishing his whip -in the air. Mother felt the same. I could detect a look of relief on -her face those days when Grandpa rode peaceably by with the cows. - -Grandma was not pious, she was a saint. Though a church member, she -seldom went to church. Toiling from morning till night, she endured -hardship, harshness, and pain with a sweet reasonableness that endeared -her to all. Grandpa’s impatience and shouting never provoked complaints -from her. She seemed to think his quick temper and deafness excused him. - -In contrast to her hard workaday life I was always dreaming of the -romance of Grandma’s early days. Filling in related facts with fancies, -I pored over her early picture with its quaint arrangement of gown and -hair, rejoicing in traces of her girlish beauty. I liked her quaint -name, Eunice (a cousin of hers, a courtly old gentleman, used to -call her Eu-ni’-ce--that was beautiful, but Grandpa uncompromisingly -pronounced it Eu’-nis); I liked the names of her sisters, -too--Thankful, Peace, and Nancy. - -In retrospect I mourned with my great-grandfather Albro when he lost -his young wife and had to scatter his baby girls among their relatives. -Near neighbours, John Gear and wife, had begged for little Eunice, then -less than two years old. Though he let them take her, he had refused -their repeated requests to adopt her. But one morning the neighbours -were astonished to find the Gear house dismantled and deserted, the -couple having stolen away in the night. They were bound to have that -child. No trace of them could be obtained. That was in 1813. They -easily escaped detection, though for years the poor father inquired -diligently of chance strangers and travellers for news of the fugitives. - -The Gears journeyed to a distant county. Eunice was reared in ignorance -of her real parentage. Even when she married, her foster parents were -loth to let her leave them. Her own home and children soon claimed all -her thoughts, and she lived on unaware of the tragedy in the life of -her father. - -There was a certain youth, Otis Sprague, to whom Grandma had been -attached before marrying Grandpa; at least, she went to parties with -him. (I can’t tell just how much of this is my own romancing, but I -convinced myself he was a disappointed suitor.) He left home in the -early years after Grandma’s marriage, journeying to Washington county, -the home of his ancestors. (I used to make believe he left because he -could not bear to see Grandma the wife of another.) Visiting among his -kindred, he came upon his uncle, my great-grandfather. As usual, the -old man inquired of the traveller what parts he had come from, and then -ventured, “Did you ever chance to meet a man, Gear--John Gear?” - -“John Gear? Why, yes--there’s a John Gear lives in our place. I know -him well.” - -I could see the old man trembling with joy--the long-expected answer -come at last! Faltering as he tried to frame the next question, he -hesitated so long the young man thought him a little daft: - -“And did you--has he--is there--did you ever hear tell of Eunice--a -child with big blue eyes and”--then he broke off, afraid to question -further--she might be dead, or, if living, must be a woman now. - -Otis had his own reasons, I was confident, for remembering Eunice. He -knew just how those wistful blue eyes looked, and how the soft brown -hair waved over her forehead. Seeing at once that this meant more to -the old man than he could express, Otis answered the unasked questions; -told him there had been a Eunice Gear, eldest daughter of John Gear -(for the childless couple had later had children born to them). She -had married a young mason a few years ago--Crandall by name--quick -tempered, but a good fellow; they had two babies when he came away, and -he guessed there was another one a-coming. Yes, he went to school with -her--took her to a party once. - -Then I saw the scene that followed--the broken explanations of the -joyous father--questions, answers, hurriedly uttered, and the growing -eagerness of both men as they supplemented for each other the missing -information about the lost-and-found Eunice. - -Enraged at the Gears, on his return home Otis told Grandma the story -of her abduction, and gave her the messages from her father and sisters. - -After that, one hope dominated Grandma’s life--to save enough money -to go to her father. Loving the Gears, her heart yet yearned for -the father and sisters she had never known. But her children came -near together; money was scarce; means of travel were difficult and -uncertain; two children sickened and died; and the years went by with -her hope unfulfilled, an infrequent and laboured correspondence being -the only link between them. - -After many years of careful saving, the little hoard was thought -sufficient for the trip. The children were old enough to be left with -Otis’s sister, and Grandma set out on her long journey. - -There were no railroads then. She went on the canal “packet.” This -scene was very real to me. I could see her starting, loth to leave her -little family, yet eager to go; timid at the thought of the enterprise, -but impatient at the slow-moving boat. I’m sure she often walked on the -towpath to relieve excitement and suspense. I wonder how long it took -that snail boat to make the trip. Parts of the journey were made by -stagecoach. - -On reaching her old home she found her sisters, but her father -had moved to Warren County. More than that, he had had one or two -strokes of apoplexy and could no longer converse; he would, as the -sisters said, “say one word when he meant another.” Her money was not -sufficient to meet the additional expenses; the extra time it would -take was a serious drawback to the anxious mother; then there was her -father’s inability to talk with her; so, torn between conflicting -interests, hampered, anxious, and sore beset, she abandoned the quest, -renounced her long-cherished hope of reunion with her father, and -turned her face toward home and family, drawn by a half-defined fear -lest they get scattered, too. - -During Grandma’s last years her sister Thankful came and lived with -her--two feeble old women, united in infancy, separated throughout -their long lives, reunited just before the end! We children called her -Aunt Unthankful: her presence added much to Grandma’s burdens, but no -murmur passed the patient lips; nor would she suffer criticism of the -poor soul who had found refuge in her home and heart. - -As a girl I was keenly alive to the pathos of my great-grandfather’s -life, and to the deferred, then all-but-accomplished hope in Grandma’s. -My own mother’s cherished hope of one day taking Grandma to her -childhood home was also doomed to unfulfilment; and with a curious -prescience I used to ask, “Will the dearest hope that sleeps against -my own heart meet a like rebuff?” Had the tired, saddened woman found -her father at the last, I wonder if his failing mind could have grasped -the truth. Perhaps he would have turned away in bitter disappointment -when they had tried to make him understand; unable to articulate, but -thinking, “That is not my baby Eunice that John Gear stole from me.” -Perhaps he died hoping, believing, that his little Eunice would still -come back. - -As a child I remember being gathered into Grandma’s arms, conscious of -an infinite tenderness, inarticulate but encompassing. I used to look -up into her pale, weary face and wonder why she had to work so hard. I -loved to stroke her soft cheeks; was mystified by the wrinkled flesh -that hung beneath her chin; and her poor hands with their enlarged -joints and crooked fingers--it seemed as though they must hurt to be so -bent; vainly I tried to straighten them. It was such a puzzle, too--the -contrast between age and youth as I saw and felt it in Grandma -and myself when patting her face with my chubby hand. I looked and -marvelled and questioned, then gave up questioning, and rested my head -on her breast, content to be folded in her arms. - -There was a pink china teapot with a broken spout high on Grandma’s -pantry shelf. I never saw inside it, but a delightful jingle came from -its capacious depths. In it Grandma kept pennies, nickels, half-dimes -and dimes, and those tiny, three-cent coins I haven’t seen since -childhood; yes, and there were the large three-cent pieces and the -two-cent coppers that one sees no more. Grandma had a way of urging us -children: “Now take a nickel for all your trouble,” just as she had of -urging us to help her empty the old brown cookie jar. Although there -were no injunctions concerning a reasonable amount of cookies, we were -taught at home that we must not accept Grandma’s nickels (her milk and -yeast money) for the errands we did; and to our credit, be it said, we -refused them as a rule, even when we had to summon all our strength to -refuse. I can see now three pairs of red-mittened hands quickly drawn -away as Grandma would press the tempting coins, first on one, then the -other, of her little helpers. Sometimes the nickel would fall into -the pail, and we would fumble to get it out, while Grandma’s siren -tones would urge: “There, run along home like good children and mind -Grandma, just this once.” Ah, Grandma! many an enticing temptation of -yours did our childish strength withstand! Would that the forbidden -sweets and glittering coins Life has proffered had oftener met a like -renunciation! And yet, can one ever really say that he would change -anything that has become a part of him, of his experience--that, if he -could, he would blot it out, make it as though it had never been? - -So used to serving was she, instead of being served, Grandma seemed -always to ask aid under protest; her gratitude was out of all -proportion to the service rendered: “You poor child, when will you get -paid for all you do for Grandma?” was the burden of her talk, though -the “poor child” fairly doted on running errands for her. “Four pounds -of white sugar, two of light brown, half a pound of green tea, and a -ball of Babbitt’s concentrated lye”--this refrain I would con over and -over on my way to the village, lest I forget it while loitering to -watch the boats crawl under the canal bridge. - -How many hours I have spent down in her cool sweet cellar over the -little red churn, the dasher going up and down, up and down, while I -said aloud my favourite poems--after Grandma had gone upstairs. Many -a pat of butter has gathered under the dasher while I rehearsed the -winning of Juliet, Othello’s speech to the senate, Portia’s speech to -Shylock--extracts from Cathcart’s Literary Reader, which was my first -introduction to real literature. - -Men do not gather grapes from thorns, or figs from thistles. As -Grandma’s life had been one of service, so her daughter, my mother, -was untiring in devotion to her mother; and so, too, I am glad to say, -Mother’s children have tried to emulate the filial examples set them. -By way of contrast I am reminded of a story illustrating hereditary -tendencies: A boy was arrested for beating his father; the injured -father defended his boy thus, “He can’t help beating me: I beat my -father; my father beat his father; and my son’s son will beat him--it -runs in our family.” I am glad it runs in our family to love and revere -our parents. Yet, there was Grandpa with his habit of profanity, the -son of a Baptist clergyman! Mother used to marvel how he could have -grown up that way, since his father, who used to take boys to tutor -in his own home, was said to have given him and them a very strict -up-bringing. His mother, Katrina Klincke, born in Alsace, was an -inexorable housekeeper. Her exacting ways have cropped out in full -force in one of our aunts; and in later years I’m not sure but this -great-grandmother wields an influence over my sister and me--we cannot -be comfortable in disorder or slack housekeeping, nor--more’s the -pity!--can we let any one else be. - -My paternal ancestry is French and, probably, Scottish. Father used to -say we were descended on his father’s side from one of the celebrated -French Revolutionists, an intimate of Napoleon’s and Josephine’s; -but my grandparents and great-grandparents were born in the Land -of the Drumlins. When, some years ago, the memoirs of our reputed -French ancestor were published, bringing to light his brilliant but -unscrupulous career, I took a mischievous pleasure in sending Father -the particularly scathing comments concerning “our ancestor.” - -My father was the fifth child in a family of ten; his father died in -early adult life, presumably of tuberculosis, though Father would never -admit it. Two of his sisters had the same disease, and, because of my -resemblance to one of them, and my not robust health in childhood, I -was something of an object of solicitude in early girlhood, though -all fears on that score vanished long ago. I have heard that my -paternal grandfather drank to excess, and know that one of his sons -did, which may largely account for my father’s life-long zeal for the -Temperance Cause. His mother, of Scottish descent, left with a large -family, was brave, strong, and resourceful to an unusual degree. Their -little log-house being miles away from a neighbour, once during a big -snow-storm lasting several days they had nothing in the house to eat -but potatoes and salt. “But we ate them and were glad to get them,” -said Father, who added, “We can never know how much inward anxiety -Mother felt at such times, but whatever it was, none but herself ever -knew.” - -We children called her “the other Grandma,” for she then lived “way -out West” (in Michigan), and we never saw her but once. I remember her -serious face, which could look very merry when she smiled; and her -black gown with a purple stripe running through it. She was at our -house on one of my early birthdays and helped us smoke glass to look at -a total eclipse of the sun. When she died, a cousin came running down -the hill waving a yellow paper and saying breathlessly, “Grandma is -dead!” _And she smiled when she said it!_ A sensitive girl, overcome -with the importance of being the bearer of such news, her smile, I -know now, was a purely nervous manifestation; but I could not judge -her leniently then. Moved by the grief of my parents, I wept to see -them weep, but the shadow passed quickly; not so the resentment I held -toward that cousin for her untimely smile. - -As youth passes one longs for fuller knowledge of the lives that -preceded one’s own. We are the result of all that has gone before, -but how often important figures are missing; and even when not, how -inexplicable the sum total is! Lives cut off in our childhood and -youth, or perhaps before we were born, may have endowed us with this -or that constitutional bias, this weakness, that strength--to which of -them do I owe this fault?--is this trait, for which I am commended, my -own, or my great grandmother’s?--insoluble complexities, yet how we -seek an answer, here and there, as we study our tree of life from the -roots up! - - - - -CHAPTER II - -THE ROOF-TREE - - -If my father had married a certain sweetheart of his early youth, and -Mother a suitor to whom she almost became engaged, what would have -become of me? - - - Should I be I, or would it be - One-tenth another to nine-tenths me? - - -I often asked myself this question. But after each of my parents had -had a preliminary romance, they met at a Methodist prayer-meeting, and -each knew from the start what the outcome would be. - -Mother was then a school-teacher, Father a dry-goods clerk. Both were -born in log houses; both reared in the frugal way of their times; the -snow often blew in on their coverlids through chinks in the logs; they -slept in trundle beds; wore homespun clothes and calf-skin shoes, -and had their education at the district schools to which they walked -through the woods following marked trees. Born amid the drumlins less -than fifty miles apart, all their married lives--more than fifty years -together--have been spent in the little village where they met. - -In the early years of their marriage Father had a travelling wagon -called a “Yankee Notion and Boot and Shoe Store.” Brother, several -years my senior, would tell with pride of Papa’s big wagon and the -iron-gray horses. In girlhood I spent hours upstairs, when supposed -to be putting the large closet to rights at the spring housecleaning, -sitting on the floor poring over Father’s letters to Mother, written -during those years. How like a romance to find those letters so full -of solicitude and love!--comments on Brother’s baby ways; admonitions -to the adopted brother; words of love to Mother--strange to get this -glimpse of my parents; to see the young father’s pride in his boy; and -to read these unrestrained expressions of devotion! For the father I -knew, though affectionate and kind, was a more staid, reserved person -than the one in the letters. Now the baby boy was grown up, the adopted -brother scarcely a memory, and the girl who was not born when the -letters were written was reading eagerly the ardent words that had -gladdened her mother’s young heart! - -The circumstances of my brother’s birth strongly appealed to my -imagination: My parents had given up hopes of a child some years before -he came. Father’s health had long been precarious--a persistent cough -and exhausting night sweats were wasting him rapidly. Mother, at his -side day and night, facing his approaching death, was facing a hidden -dread as well--the fear that she was now to become a mother. As the -weeks passed and the fear became a certainty, she determined to spare -Father the knowledge, thinking it would kill him outright. She almost -prayed for his release before the truth must be apparent. How she -dreaded the scrutiny of the Doctor, and Father’s questioning eyes! -How she resorted to evasion, artifice, and concealment! But one day, -suddenly changing her mind, trusting in God to help him bear it, she -told Father that the child they had hoped for so long was actually to -come. - -Instantly he became electrified with the glad tidings. Summoning -unknown funds of strength he cried, “I must live, _I will live_!” It -was a greatly improved patient that the Doctor found the next day, and -recovery, though slow, dated from that time. (It was probably arrested -tuberculosis.) - -Many years later Father’s health again seemed precarious--dizziness, -and numbness of the arms, caused the physician to prophesy approaching -paralysis. I remember this as my first sorrow. I was perhaps fourteen -years old. When Mother told me what the Doctor had said I flung myself -on the bed in a paroxysm of grief. My Father was going to leave me! -The utter helplessness and wretchedness of us all without him! It -was an hour of agony. But there stood Mother with her own grief, and -mine. This calmed me. I must help and comfort her, instead of giving -way like this. The storm passed; but the days, weeks, and months that -followed were shadowed by this dread, which, however, proved less -well-founded than it had seemed; or else Father’s change in his mode -of life effected a decided change in his condition. Closing out his -boot-and-shoe store, and travelling again for the same firm for which -he had travelled as a young man, he recuperated markedly. Now, in his -seventy-second year, he is in fair health, alert, enduring, and with -keen intellectual vigour--a man of undaunted courage and unconquerable -optimism. - -I have often wondered how it would seem to have more than one brother -and sister; it always seems as if all the love I have went to these -two, and that there would have been none left for others; or at least -that it would have had to be divided up, leaving each the poorer--one -does not have to divide for brother and sister--the love you give a -sister is peculiarly hers, the love to a brother peculiarly his, but -how is it that large families have enough to go around? - -Death has never come nearer to me than when my grandparents were -taken. Not unmindful of this escape, I think of it often now. Once I -thought, “Death can never take away my father and mother, my sister -and brother,” but of late I am losing the feeling that none of the -calamities of life can come nigh me; and, instead, find myself trying -to think what it would be like to live on if one of them were taken. - -Once when Brother was a lad of perhaps twelve, during an attack of -inflammatory rheumatism, his heart acted so badly that Sister and I -were sent for in great haste to come home from school. The attack -passed, but after that illness his disposition was altered; he was -more irritable, with a temper much like Grandpa’s. He would domineer -over us, as big brothers will, speaking sharply over trifles, and he -and Sister would quarrel. I did not quarrel, but would grieve over his -harsh tones. I never could endure angry tones, they always made me -shudder. Noting this susceptibility, Brother was more patient with me -than with Sister, who would get miffed easily and talk back. My tears, -which came easily in those days, always melted him. Consciously or -unconsciously, I ruled him to some extent by this weakness. - -Once in school a boy whispered maliciously, “Genie, Art is reading a -dime novel.” Now I had never read a dime novel, but having strait-laced -notions of how wicked they were, my whole soul rose in denial--_my_ -brother do such a thing! No! But seeing Arthur bending over his -geography with unaccustomed diligence, something in his absorption -told me that _what that boy said was true_! The tears flowed fast. Ah, -the bitterness of that knowledge! Someone--the same boy, was it?--told -Arthur his little sister was weeping because he was reading a dime -novel, and at recess he berated me; I cried the more bitterly; he then -consoled me in his half-scolding, half-wheedling way, finally promising -not to do it again. - -And when he first learned to smoke! We were skating on the canal at -noon-time, I skating with a girl that Arthur was “sweet on.” Suddenly -he skated past us with a braggadocio air, _a cigar in his mouth_! -Carrie and I gave one look at each other, one swift, comprehending -look--if Arthur had robbed a bank or stolen a horse we could hardly -have felt worse. We tacitly sat down and took off our skates, and, -heavy-hearted, went ’cross-lots to school, the skates dangling from our -arms, and the lumps in our throats choking us. I cannot remember that -we talked about it; it was too awful to discuss. And that defiant look -of Arthur’s, how it cut! Our grief-stricken faces must have worked on -his conscience, for in the afternoon a note was passed to me (I’ve no -doubt he wrote to Her, too), in which Arthur said: - - - DEAR SISTER, - - Why did you leave the ice this noon? We had a good time. - - -Then as if in afterthought, - - - Did you feel bad because I was smoking? I won’t do it again. - - Your loving brother, - ARTHUR. - - -He kept his word for a long time; then, whenever he would break it, -there would be tears and repentance and fresh promises. Similar scenes -occurred the first time I smelled his breath and learned that he had -been drinking. Heart-breakings, attempted denials, then confessions, -promises, struggles to keep them, followed by lapses, penitence, and -tears. - -“I’ll never do it again, Genie,” used to make my heart bound with hope. -The tears no longer come now. Something too deep for tears is felt -when the poor fellow, thinking he can keep his word this time, says -penitently, “I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t do it again, Genie.” - -This weakness of Arthur’s has been almost the only sorrow in our -family. We each react to it in different ways, according to our -temperaments. Father’s watchfulness, and the necessary work and care -that are occasioned by this infirmity; his forgiveness, seventy times -seven; and his optimism, are his ways of meeting the conditions; Mother -suffers, pities him, and prays that with the grace of God he will yet -be able to conquer; Sister, seeing the sorrow that follows in the -wake of such indulgence, loses patience with a weakness she cannot -understand, upbraids him, and chides the rest of us for lenience; yet, -in spite of herself, breaks through her resolutions and, in practical -ways, dispenses timely aid; and I, knowing it to be a disease, perhaps -largely an inheritance, am bound to regard it charitably. Trying -to throw around him what safeguards we can, I am thankful for the -periods of well-doing, and can but be merciful when defeat comes. He -tries hard, never stops trying, and suffers keen remorse at times. It -is unspeakably pitiful, and especially in later years, since he has -children of his own and sees how they suffer through his infirmity. - -Who knows how much inherited tendencies in certain ancestors, the poor -state of Father’s and Mother’s health before and at the time of his -birth, and that critical illness when a lad, may have had to do with -giving him an organization seriously hampered from the beginning? How -can any of us blame another for a given course since, if we were that -other, and were confronted with identical conditions, we should have to -react to them in the same way? We make the mistake of saying virtually, -“If I were _you_, I would be _I_” whereas, the truth would be, “If I -were you, I should _be_ you, and do as _you_ do.” - -But all my life with Brother has not been under a cloud. He used to let -me go fishing with him (though I had to keep very still); sometimes -go with him down to the pasture after Grandpa’s cows; and often when -he went alone he would bring me back a flower--usually a syringa, -“cabbaged” from a bush that overhung a fence we used to pass. This -stolen sweet was precious to me, largely because he gave it, perhaps -partly because it was stolen. - -One especially joyous memory is that of a visit to a cousin in a -neighbouring village, and the happy time we children had there one -sunny forenoon. Three things contributed to our pleasure: Brother and -Sister, who usually bickered a lot, were amiable; the spearmint was -luxurious and abundant; and we followed a path across a meadow to a -spring--little things, simple things, but that particular day with its -keen joy of life is a red-letter day in my memory. That was the one -spring of my childhood. To this day the taste and smell of spearmint -bring all this back, and I mentally substitute “spearmint” for -Tennyson’s “violet”-- - - - Who can tell - Why to smell - The violet recalls the dewy prime - Of youth and buried time? - The cause is nowhere found in rhyme. - - -I never go past the little town nowadays without looking longingly -at that farm from the car-window and wondering if the spring and the -spearmint are still there. At times I have almost decided to get off -the train and seek it, but have never dared--it would be a needless -pain to find my one little spring gone dry. - - -The name of my mother’s rejected suitor was Fairchild. If she could -have overcome a certain inexplicable repugnance and married him, “then -I might have been a fair child,” I used to think, with a mental play -upon the name; for I knew myself to be a very plain little girl. I -suffered over this fact; could see myself objectively--greenish-gray -eyes, a long nose, a prominent forehead--I hated the sight of my -face in the glass, yet would torture myself with scrutinizing it, -searching for some redeeming thing, but ending with, “No, there’s -nothing, _nothing_ nice about it.” My facial angle I used to study -with a hand-glass, mentally cutting about half an inch from my nose, -pinning back my ears, and thinking how nice it would be if the straight -uncompromising hair would grow low in ripples on that ugly forehead. -But, opposed to anything artificial, I would, not bang and curl my -hair as the others girls did. Looking at certain girls that I now know -were plainer than I, I wondered pitifully if I looked as well as they, -afraid of deceiving myself with such cold comfort. - -All of which shows how self-engrossed and morbid I was; what capacity -for self-torture I developed early. I was constantly reading of -beautiful persons. I lamented secretly because my mother was not -beautiful. I loved her none the less, but had such a craving for the -beautiful, which Fate had cruelly withheld from me and my mother. I -have often been ashamed of this feeling; it seems as though a child -should so love its mother (and such a mother!) that her face would have -to be beautiful to it; but it was not so with me. And it was one of -my bitter childish and girlish griefs that Mother would not take more -pains always to appear at her best. It seems pathetic, how pleased I -used to feel when she would wear particularly becoming gowns, or take -special pains with dressing her hair. Unable to overcome this feeling, -I have always envied one with a beautiful mother. My mother’s heart and -soul are beautiful, but there was always this yearning for beauty of -face as well as of character. - -Once, as a child, when impersonating Summer at a school exhibition, -crowned with roses and bedecked with garlands of flowers, elated by it -all, I sang so much better at the concert than I had at rehearsals as -to surprise every one, myself included. Best of all I overheard someone -say that I “really looked pretty”; that she never knew before _that my -eyes were black_! How I treasured that statement, though knowing it was -only a temporary condition! - -I have no doubt I exaggerated my ugliness somewhat for, in addition to -youth and health, I had a clear dark skin, good teeth, unusually fine -and abundant hair, and a well-formed body. The one thing I took pride -in was my hair. It was a pardonable pleasure that I felt in contrasting -my long heavy brown braids with the wisps of hair many of the girls -had. But when I was perhaps sixteen, working too hard in school and -with my music, my hair came out so rapidly that one day a girl sitting -behind me leaned over and whispered, “Why, what has become of your -hair?” Bitter were the tears I shed that night! “_That_ is going, too!” -I cried in my wretchedness. But it did not all go; I still had more -than the average girl. Even to-day I sometimes get a sudden sense of -that schoolgirl’s pang at the threatened loss of her one beauty. - -In babyhood I received a burn the shock of which nearly cut short my -life: Tied in a high chair and placed before a stove, I was pushed over -by some frozen clothes which a “green” Irish girl had brought in from -the yard. The under part of my chin rested upon the stove, leaving its -imprint, when I was snatched from it. - -As I grew up I grieved over the scar thus sustained. I became morbidly -sensitive over it, though consoling myself somewhat that it was not in -a more conspicuous place. I envied children and girls their smooth soft -chins. It seemed to me the sweetest part of a girl’s features--that -white, smooth place under the chin. When a child I would never play “Do -you love butter?” although I liked to see the buttercup’s yellow shadow -on the chins of the other girls. When my turn came I always drew away, -painfully embarrassed. - -As a young girl I used to think it would be lovely to faint away. When -we “made believe,” I usually chose to be French, to have black eyes and -red cheeks, and to faint away on critical occasions. But after studying -physiology and hygiene, and acquiring more sensible views, I scorned -these earlier ambitions, and ridiculed the silly girls who pretended to -swoon when vaccinated; and who turned pale and asked to leave the room -when the skeleton was brought in to the physiology recitations. - - -There were only eighteen months between my sister’s age and mine, -and, although I was the elder, she dominated me. There was almost no -difference in our heights, and not much in our figures. She had a -pretty face with fairer skin and sunnier hair. Unobserving persons -thought we looked alike. Dressing alike until we were sixteen, we were -often asked by strangers if we were twins. Those who mistook one for -the other could not have been very discriminating, for with the marked -difference in our natures, there must have been, even in childhood, a -corresponding difference in our looks. I was quiet, shy, and dreamy; -Kate lively, active, outspoken. She had to take the lead because I -would hang back. In church, when we were little things, she would fix a -place for my head on her lap, then pull me down and pet me, whispering -to me to keep still and go to sleep; and, although I knew I should have -been the one to play that rôle, I would submit, while she carried out -to the finish her assumed dignity. - -How quick-witted she was! One summer Father had a certain pear tree -that yielded only a few choice pears which he was jealously watching. -We children had been admonished not to touch them. One day as Father -walked around the yard, he hesitated before the ripening pears, then -passed on. We thought him waiting unnecessarily long: one was surely -dead ripe. That afternoon, while he was taking his Sunday nap, Kate -picked that pear. She had just bitten into it as Father appeared. -Putting both hands behind her, she edged backward in the yard till she -stood under the astrachan tree, frightened, but “gamey.” - -“Katherine, come here,” Father called sternly. - -She came slowly, hands behind her and mouth full of the big bite she -was vainly trying to swallow. - -“What have you in your mouth?” - -A gulp, and she said, “Nothing,” opening wide her little mouth. - -“Let me see your hand.” - -Out from behind her came the right hand. - -“Let me see your other hand.” - -Back went her right hand, out came her left, the pear still invisible. - -“Let me see both hands,” said Father relentlessly. - -Quick as thought the little minx lifted her leg and, hands still behind -her, thrust the pear between her thighs, and calmly held out both -hands. Father’s anger vanished. - -Kate never resorted to deceit, and almost never to untruths, unless -hard pressed. While my own hypocrisies were subtle, hers were palpable. -But I long cherished resentment for one offense--an unusual one -with her: Mother had a bed of choice tulips--her special pride, our -special temptation. Kate succumbed one day, picking nearly all of them, -and with such short stems they were useless. Mother’s anger really -frightened Kate, who declared, “Genie did it.” Though denying it, I -probably acted guilty, for Mother believed her. (I always blushed -and looked the culprit in school if a general accusation was made; -and if any one rapped on the door and asked if a certain article had -been found, I used to feel so uncomfortable it is a wonder I was not -accused of having stolen it--self-conscious little snip that I was!) -To punish me for my supposed falsehood Mother put red pepper on my -tongue--a practice which a cousin had told her that she followed with -her children. It was terrible, and was all the worse because I was -innocent; though I’ve no doubt it was good for me, for I was more given -to prevarication than was Sister. - -My tendency to exaggerate was the cause of my fibs; they were -usually harmless ones; facts never seemed startling enough; I liked -to embellish them. Then, too, I was always making mistakes about -quantities or anything with figures or distances, and some of my -misstatements should be set down to this weakness rather than to -deliberate deception. In this very matter, years after, when speaking -of this red-pepper punishment, I used to say that my mother put a -teaspoonful of red pepper on my tongue. I can’t remember that any one -ever questioned or corrected the statement. I probably told it mostly -to children. It is only within a few years that, telling the story -again, my own common sense, so late to develop, showed me that that -must have been a gross exaggeration--a teaspoonful of cayenne pepper on -a child’s tongue!--the red pepper had punished one lie that had never -been told, but had given rise to one that I had gone on repeating until -at last I had sense enough to see that it was too preposterous to be -believed! - -Similarly in the matter of my weight: I had heard it mentioned--it -was probably fifty pounds--but with my usual inaccuracy for figures I -solemnly protested that I weighed five pounds, standing my ground even -when corrected, till the absurdity of it was shown me. - -I remember, too, hearing Mother talking with some women about how -young a certain neighbour was when her daughter was born. In telling -the school girls about it later, I announced that Mrs. H---- was only -five years older than her daughter Ida. Shouts of derision greeted my -statement, but I was firm. One big girl called me “little fool,” and -I suffered I know not what ridicule. It was partly an exaggeration, -partly ignorance. Grasping the main fact, that the mother was very -young when her child was born, and having forgotten how young, but -wanting to make my story worth while, I had resorted to a positive -statement which I stoutly maintained. I could not see why those girls -should doubt my word, even if the statement was startling. _Of course_ -it was unusual--that was why I had cited it. I have a fellow feeling -for the Vassar student who, when asked by the resident woman physician -what her paternal grandfather died of, and not knowing, but wishing not -to seem ignorant, said, “I--I think he died in infancy.” - -For years I was not a little given to reporting bright things people -might have said, as though they had said them. It was such fun to -embellish commonplace events and comments with additions of my own. -Whenever I would tell these untruths I always had a queer feeling -(almost of disappointment) to find that nothing happened to me; that -no one questioned them; and that everything went on just as before -the lie had slipped off my tongue. I don’t know whether I expected -Ananias’s and Sapphira’s fate, or what, but I expected something, and -nothing happened! - -This tendency to exaggeration and misstatement, and, on occasion, to -deliberate falsehood, I have tried conscientiously to overcome. In -fact, for years I swung far to the other side. Now, in matters of fact, -I think I am more often scrupulously accurate than not. If I cannot -be accurate, I refrain from giving a definite statement. My special -training in later years of course helped in this respect. But it was -earlier, when I became a “Christian,” that this tendency appeared to me -in all its heinousness, and in striving to overcome it I became, for a -time, almost morbidly conscientious. - -One day in school the word “conscientious” came up for discussion. I -was not present, but learned from one of the girls that “Prof” had -spoken out in school freely, using my name as an example of what -conscientiousness meant. But my wise little sister (and how I loved -her for it!), though pleased at the reference to me, went to all the -girls she thought likely to mention it to me, and cautioned them not -to. When I learned of it, from one who never could keep a secret, I -asked why Sister didn’t want her to tell me. “Oh, she said it would -make you proud, or something like that.” And she was right. I was too -self-conscious as it was, and vain, in a demure kind of way. Kate knew -my weaknesses. - -Sister’s deceits, as I have said, were such funny ones; they never -deceived any one--were never really intended to; they were only -desperate measures resorted to when in a tight place, their drollery -usually serving to protect her from punishment. As a rule she and -Brother managed to quarrel when left to their own devices. I played -the peace-maker between them, and have done it ever since. One Sunday, -when we stayed home from church, they got into a wrangle. Spiteful -words led to threats, and Kate was soon chasing Arthur round the room -in childish rage, I trying to intervene. In the squabble my belt fell -off--a black shiny belt with a metal buckle. As Kate could not reach -Arthur, she grabbed up my belt and, brandishing it in the air, chased -him, trying to hit him. - -Crash! went the buckle against the rosewood mirror. When Father and -Mother came home and saw that crack in the mirror, they saw also three -guilty apprehensive children. Brother and Sister pitched in, telling -about the quarrel, who did this, and who did that. “I don’t care about -who started it, or who kept it up,” said Father, “I want to know who -broke that looking-glass--the one to blame for that will be punished.” - -“Genie is to blame for it,” Kate promptly rejoined. - -Father looked at me in surprise, Arthur opened his mouth in wonderment, -while I stood dumb and guilty-looking beyond question. Then Kate added: - -“Arthur hit me, and I chased him with the belt, and the buckle broke -the glass, _and it was Genie’s belt-buckle_!” - -She escaped punishment. - - -We had fewer playthings than children have nowadays, but for that very -reason they meant more to us. I had but two dolls in my childhood -and one is still--living, I was about to say. One was a leather-head -doll, with painted cheeks, black hair, and blue, blue eyes. But in the -beginning of her career she met a strange fate--a boy much bigger than -I snatched her from me and bit off her nose before my very eyes! This -was one of my earliest griefs. I hated that boy but cherished the -noseless doll for many years. - -Later Kate and I had big wax dolls whose eyes would open and shut and -who would cry when we pressed a little place in the pit of the stomach. - -We played with them only on state occasions. They were kept up in the -“front bedroom” in a bureau drawer. I saw them a year ago. They had on -the same scarlet wool dresses trimmed with narrow black velvet ribbon, -but the dresses were moth-eaten and the dolls showed the ravages of -time. - -Occasionally, other relatives joining us, we had a family Christmas -tree--perhaps only four or five in our childhood. But there was always -the hope of one, and when there was one, the joy recompensed for the -lean years. One Christmas tree at Aunt Lucinda’s at which some Western -relatives were present, stands out vividly--the big house overflowing -with people, the smell of the dinner preparing, the air of mystery -of the elders as they went to and fro to the parlour with various -parcels; and then, at last, when the doors swung open and we got -that first glimpse of the blessed tree! But how was my joy modified! -Making our way, pell-mell, grown-ups and children, in the eagerness to -push through, someone bumped against me, driving my nose against the -door-jamb. I can feel the pain yet, and the blinding tears. Not all the -splendour of that tree could drive that pain away. After that, in a way -I had of accounting for things, I attributed a slight deflection of -my nose to that bump. I recall black walnut work-boxes for Sister and -me and a writing-desk for Brother as the most elaborate and expensive -gifts which as children we ever received. Some years there were no -gifts, except new clothing, which never satisfied the craving--except -once--our white “moss velvet hats”--these made our hearts light as -well as our heads. When there were no presents--can one ever forget the -bitter disappointment? A trivial gift means so much to an expectant -child! All in vain were we told (as we sometimes were in advance) that -no gifts could be afforded that year. We never quite gave up hope. But, -cruel as was the disappointment, perhaps the discipline was wholesome. -One year there were crosses covered with crinkly paper bedecked with -wreaths of worsted flowers, and framed in deep rustic frames. What -works of art! Almost equal to the hanging basket made of allspice that -adorned a cousin’s parlour, and to the framed pyramid of hair-flowers -that hung in our own! - -I still treasure a paper-covered Red Riding Hood, cut in the form -of the little lass, with the wolf crouching at her feet, the text a -metrical version, charmingly illustrated. I must have had it since I -was seven or eight years old. I knew the verses “by heart,” and have -heard Mother tell that I used to recite them and other long pieces in -my sleep. A bottle of oil once made a spot on the book and the paper -is yellow with age, but I still cherish it and would part with many a -choicer possession sooner than with this childhood treasure. - -In this connection I recall that when I was perhaps in my early ’teens, -the instinct of acquisition developing, I went about the house placing -my name upon all my belongings--every book and picture, even on the -bottoms of little toy vases, a porcelain lamb, and so on. As to Red -Riding Hood, I seemed to think it fitting to write my name in a big -sprawling child’s hand, every letter a capital, with the notion, I -suppose, that it would be thought that I had written it there when -a child. I even selected a date, reckoning back as well as I could, -and putting it upon one of my early birthdays. In the same way I -mutilated a quaint book that had belonged to Grandpa, by writing his -name on the fly leaf, and the legend, “His Book,” in what I considered -an old-fashioned hand-writing. Some years later, coming upon these -evidences of my silly deception, my cheeks burned with shame, and I -erased the false records. - -Fondness for my own belongings did not prevent me from a cruel piece -of vandalism in regard to a cherished possession of my sister’s: She -had made a clove-apple by sticking a greening full of cloves, and -hiding it in a cuff-box in the upstairs closet, had declared she was -going to keep it till she grew up. Laughing at her, I said it would -decay, but she maintained that it would not. On rare occasions, as if -it were a religious rite, she would peep into the box and sniff at the -apple, vouchsafe us a sniff also, and put it carefully away. As it -dwindled and dwindled, her attachment strengthened and strengthened. -I believe she kept it six years. Although I had often threatened to -throw it away, she never believed I would. But one day, whether out -of spite, or because of my strenuous housekeeping, I did it, probably -silencing my compunctions by thinking she was too old longer to indulge -in such nonsense. But her grief and anger on learning of the loss were -so moving that I was conscience-stricken, and would then have given -anything to have restored the treasure. She scorned all attempts at -extenuation. It is with real shame that I confess this misdeed--more, -perhaps, than I feel for later, graver ones. I know now that as one -of her treasures it should have been respected. Anything that another -really loves--a toy, a bauble, an idol, a comforting superstition--why -not let him keep it as long as he can? - -We were a happy and harmonious family as such things go. I do not mean -that we never said a cross word to one another; such families, I -fancy, exist only in Sunday-school books. There was not always unity; -our parents sometimes differed; Father was critical and methodical; -Mother forgetful and wanting in system. She was tried by Father’s -smoking and inordinate croquet-playing, and he was tried by her -procrastination; at such times fault-finding was forthcoming. Sister -and Brother had early and late unpleasantnesses; and, in our ’teens, -Sister and I became less harmonious than formerly, about the time, I -suppose, when we were each becoming more individual; at least, when, -ceasing to be docile, I became more assertive. But there was always the -good-night kiss all around, and Kate and I went to sleep with our arms -around each other as long as we were girls at home. I do not think we -could have slept had we let the sun go down upon our wrath. - -I remember the first time I omitted our custom of kissing all round -at night--the family and any guest staying with us. Some strange man -was there; when I had kissed Father and Mother I hesitated before the -man--I was getting to be a big girl--then, putting out my hand, said a -bashful good night and went upstairs with burning cheeks, wondering if -it had seemed rude not to kiss him. - -We were not a demonstrative family--the good-night kiss was the chief -expression of affection. I remember no fondling, no caresses after -early childhood, except the habitual ones--no spontaneous overflow of -affection at irregular intervals, such as I was inclined to, had the -others been so minded. Once in a great while Father would call us the -sweetest pet name in the world--“darling.” On these rare occasions I -was secretly overjoyed. Had he known the delight it gave me, I’m sure -he would have said it oftener. Mother sometimes jocosely called me -“Keturah,” and when, in one of her rare playful moods, she dubbed me -“Keturah Ketunk,” I liked it exceedingly. - -I remember once--I was probably thirteen or fourteen--going into the -bedroom to bid my parents good night, when, having kissed them, as I -started to leave the bed, Father threw out his arm; and, seeing it in -the half light, and thinking he did it to motion me back, I bent down -and swiftly kissed him again--an unusual thing for either him or me. -No sooner had I done it than my cheeks got hot as fire: perhaps I had -misunderstood his gesture; he may have just happened to stretch out -his arm, and was not beckoning me at all. Upstairs I went, torturing -myself with the query which I never solved. Whether or not he had -called me back, I now know he was not sorry to get the extra kiss. Why -couldn’t I have thus comforted myself then? I suppose I was hungry for -more demonstration of affection than I got, yet ashamed to show it. -Sister, not at all demonstrative, provoked demonstration in me; the -curve of her cheek, and her long eyelashes resting upon it, appealed -to me as a child’s beauty appeals; I longed to kiss her at inopportune -times, and sometimes did not resist. Half annoyed at me, she thought -it nonsense, I suppose. As we grew up, when she would be fitting a -dress for me, I would try to snatch kisses, sometimes calling forth -her impatience, at others her laughing dexterity as she eluded me. I -admired her prettiness, but was never jealous of her, though she could -dance and skate, and do all such things, with an ease and grace I could -never acquire. Making friends more readily than I, being sociable, -lively, and even-tempered, she had plenty of beaux while I had none. -But I had friends among the beaux of the other girls. Although I did -not want them for beaux, I should have been unhappy had I not had them -for friends--I understood myself well enough to know that much then, -though the general impression among my schoolmates was that I cared -nothing for the boys. - -My hypersensitiveness about the life of the affections was apparent in -the way I felt when Father would bid us all good-bye: When he kissed -Mother I would always turn away. It never seemed right to look on; -perhaps, partly, because it made me want to cry; but also because it -seemed as though _I had no right_. Even to-day, if I see lovers on the -stage whose acting is good enough to give the sense of reality, I find -myself turning away--it seems too intimate for me to witness. - -A favourite custom in our family was an annual Sunday drive in -apple-blossom time. Father would hire a team and a sort of landau -which, on a pinch, would hold ten persons--an aunt’s family and -ours--big baskets would be stowed under the seats, and off we would -go through the country on an all-day’s drive, stopping to picnic in -some grove, or by a stream. Then on again under the blue skies, the -air sweet with blossoming trees; and the tender spring green giving -that hazy, twiggy look of early May. (That line of Whitman’s--“Rich -apple-blossomed earth”--always brings back those far-off May-times -with those perfect childish joys.) Then we would drive home in the -twilight, singing as we went, old and young joining in the songs. Happy -children, happy parents! I’m sure the apple blossom is an escape from -the Beautiful Garden. I never breathe its fragrance without recalling -those cherished drives in the Mays that are no more. - -Our parents were wisely indulgent, giving us treats and privileges as -they could afford them. We were brought up to go without a thing till -it could be paid for; consequently, all of us have a horror of being in -debt. Father spent a good deal (considering our circumstances) on our -music, first and last, and he and Mother were ever looking forward to -our advancement. But there was always a struggle over money matters. We -had to economize and count the cost of any indulgence; but when it was -decided that we could afford a given thing, how happy, almost jubilant, -Father was over the expenditure! - -One of the happiest hours in childhood (I was perhaps ten years old) -was when, after spending the day from home, we returned at dusk and -were met at the door by Father and Mother looking so excited and happy -we knew something was on the carpet. And there was! In the sitting-room -our eyes encountered a change--the furniture was rearranged, and there -standing against the wall (were we awake or dreaming?) was a brand new -organ! - -Our joy was unbounded, our parents’ delight no less. How we smoothed -the polished walnut case; gingerly touched the black and the white -keys; fingered the stops; tried the pedals; moved the swell; and asked -to have the top lifted so we could look inside! And then Father sat -down and struck a few rich chords--those chords with their variations -that seemed peculiarly his own! Soon the music teacher came in, and -some neighbours, and the new organ sounded throughout our home, and -doubtless in our dreams that night; and the next morning _it was still -there_! - -Then began the lessons. Gradually the novelty wore away, lessons grew -harder and harder. Kate and Arthur, restless beings that they were, -made only fair progress; they disliked the practice. But, taking to it -eagerly from the start, I made rather more than ordinary progress. It -was as hard to get me away from the organ as it was to get Kate and -Arthur to it. I was still very young when, one day, putting aside my -exercise book, I opened the Methodist Hymnal and “picked out” one of -the hymns--Boylston. I was scared, it sounded so natural--and I had -done it alone! Mother came running in to see if it was really I who was -playing. - -Shortly after that, in Sunday School, the organist leaving before the -close, the superintendent came to me, saying, “We want you to play the -last piece.” I tried to beg off, but no, he knew I could do it; so, in -fear and trembling, I got up and played. The treadles worked hard, and -the stool was too high, so the superintendent pedalled for me, while -the school rose and sang. It didn’t take us children long to get home -that Sunday. “Genie played the organ! Genie played the organ!” shouted -Kate and Arthur as we rushed into the house. After that this occurred -so often that my timidity before the Sunday School wore away. This was -the forerunner of a greater event: I had never touched the big organ, -but as Father was chorister, we children often sat “in the choir” -pretending to help sing. One day toward the close of the service the -bass singer, leaning over, whispered, “Miss R---- has gone home, you -will have to play for us, Genie.” Protesting, I looked imploringly at -Father, but he only nodded and smiled encouragingly. My heart nearly -thumped itself to pieces, but the wily Basso whispered, “We’ll sing -so loud, if you make a mistake they’ll never know it, and we’ll pick -out one with an easy bass.” So I undertook it. In time, as Miss R---- -dropped out more and more, I became the regular organist. Later came -piano lessons, and later still I had a teacher from a neighbouring city. - -When I was developing rapidly, undergoing the physiological and -emotional changes of pubescence, they unwisely put me to studying -“Thorough Bass.” A paternal aunt had been an accomplished musician, -and my parents hoped I would show a like talent. How my head used to -ache over that study! As the lessons became more complicated, I grew -stupid; my health failed perceptibly and our family physician was -called. He talked with me a long time, then I was sent out of the room -while he and Mother talked; then called in again, and the little black -medicine-case was opened, while the Doctor folded the tiny powders -that, he said, as he patted my head and called me “lassie,” were to -make me strong again. - -The upshot of it all was I had to drop my music, not only then, he -advised, but for all time. I had too emotional a temperament, he said, -to stand the strain. (What kind of a musician would a non-emotional -person be!) But he was wise in prohibiting it then. I used to dignify -the severe headaches which I had at that time by saying I had “brain -fever.” (Girls in the books I read had “brain fever.”) But there was no -real illness, no staying out of school, though for a time my hours were -lessened. - -Dropping music was a real cross to me. Probably, had I been allowed to -resume it, I should have followed that as a vocation and not cast about -for another field of work. Although discontinuing the study of music, I -did not drop its practice. Music was an important part of our home life. - - -I remember how cruel I once thought my parents because they would not -let me go to a distant county to pick hops. One of the schoolgirls -had gone with her mother the year before, had earned a lot, and had -had a “splendid time.” As the season came round again, I “teased” to -go with this girl and her mother. I was hearing a good deal at home -about economy, economy, and Nora’s account of the money she had made -had fired me with the prospect of earning great sums to relieve our -growing needs. Confident, I announced my plan. Was ever a girl so -repulsed, so silenced? They wouldn’t even hear me out. I tried to say -what Nora said, and what her mother said, but they were obdurate. -A martyr in my own eyes for a time, it was probably years before I -realized what I had asked to do. When I learned what class of young -people usually engaged in such work, I understood how “out of the -question” (a finality of Father’s) it had been for my parents even to -discuss the project. I remembered, too, how the same bright-eyed Nora -had soon left school; how she changed in manner; became coarsened; -drifted out of our lives. Strange how, years after, children become -aware of the safeguards thrown around them in youth! With this -awareness, what a feeling of gratitude wells up within one toward the -parents who have surrounded them with such wise and loving care! How -one longs to fly home and tell them of it; yet how reticent are we, how -chary of expressing this gratitude! - - -One of the deepest of my early griefs was when we first learned what it -was as a family to be separated; when Brother, who was a printer, went -to Colorado to work. We had been so closely bound together. I realized -the anxiety of our parents, divined the loneliness Arthur would feel, -and what it would mean to lose him from the home. What interesting and -humorous letters he wrote us, with the homesickness sometimes peeping -through! How we read and re-read them! - -He stayed away less than a year. Shall I ever forget the day he came -back? His clothes had become shabby; he was stained with travel, but -I almost devoured him with my eyes. How good his voice sounded--every -well-known tone; every gesture; and his laugh--my heart was like to -burst. And, oh, the joy, the security, the blessed feeling that night, -to know we were all together again under the home roof! - -I used to resort to various devices to keep Arthur at home in the -evening, which sometimes worked, sometimes not. The most effectual was -to slip away from the supper table while the rest were still seated, -under the pretext of wishing to try a new piece, thus getting him under -the spell of the music while he was filling the stoves and bringing in -water, so he would be drawn in spite of himself into the sitting-room. -Once there, he would hang around and read, often appearing indifferent -when I knew he was not. When he would get up to go, after I had held -him as long as I could, how my heart would sink as the door closed and -his steps sounded fainter and fainter on “stoop” and sidewalk! But I -would keep on playing long enough so as not to make it too apparent to -the others what I had been up to, though they were doubtless as well -aware of my motive as I. Sometimes he would say, on going out, “Well, -I’ve got to go now”--his way of thanking me for playing. - -Even when he was doing his best, there was always more or less anxiety -until Brother would come home at night. No matter what I was reading, -when ten o’clock came, unless he had come, I felt an anxious pang. -All of us felt it, though it was seldom mentioned. Mother sometimes -spoke of it, or her sighs betrayed it, but as a rule we hid our -anxiety under an assumed cheerfulness. I would listen when the steps -came on the veranda to see if there were two walking, or only Father. -Then if Father came alone, he would ask with apparent lightness, “Is -Arthur home yet?” and I would hasten to answer, “No, not yet,” just to -forestall Mother’s sadder negative with its accompanying sigh. Then -we would all fall to talking to cover our fears. But when he did come, -how we strove to conceal the delight that our fears had been unfounded! -Putting up my books, but not too quickly, lest he be aware that I was -trying to reward him for coming home early, I would go to the organ, -and after making a pretense by first playing some indifferent thing, -would play and sing the songs he liked best. - -Oh, the safe housed feeling, when we could say good night to one -another, and not have to lie awake listening for Brother’s footsteps -that came so late sometimes, and sometimes not at all! After such -nights of watching, Sister and I would peep into his room in the -morning, to see if perchance he had come after we had fallen asleep. -And when his bed was untouched--the dread and fear of what may have -befallen him! - -Brother was always good company. He is witty, and easily moved by -humour or pathos. Once stir his worthy emotions and his better nature -comes to the surface, though he resists being stirred as long as he -can. A fond father, he is, on the whole, a wise one, except when his -temper, or his infirmity, gets the better of him. Like our dear, testy -grandfather in disposition, he reacts in much the same way, yet, with -all his impatience, shows surprising tolerance with certain vagaries -and eccentricities in others who, being the victims of hereditary and -constitutional handicaps, are “gey ill to live with.” Love for his -children is one of his strongest traits. - -A few months ago, when a maternal uncle, an alcoholic, died, Brother -took his own little son to the uncle’s coffin and there, telling the -child what a promising youth the uncle had been, explained to him -that drink had been his ruination. He wrote me that he had made the -child (only three years old) understand it all; and then had made him -promise that he would never touch alcohol in any form. - -Poor, tempted, struggling soul! Whitman has expressed tenderly and -understandingly the feelings that always well up in me at the thought -of my brother’s struggles and defeats--“Vivas for those who have -failed!” Such need pity, help, and credit far more than we are wont to -give. Bobbie Burns knew whereof he spoke when he reminded us: - - - What’s done we partly may compute, - But know not what’s resisted. - - -Father and Mother still have hope in Brother’s ultimate -victory[2]--such faith, and such optimism, combined with such -tenderness and forgiveness! I know of nothing more God-like than these -attributes as I have seen them exemplified in the daily lives of my -parents. “Like as a father pitieth his children”--what a perfect -example I have known of this infinite, compassionate love! - -FOOTNOTE: - -[2] The victory came some years after this was written. My brother now -knows the triumph of him “who ruleth his spirit.” - - - - -CHAPTER III - -“A CHILD WENT FORTH” - - -Environment--what part does it play? Its stamp is upon us, but other -forces and influences also determine our reactions and mould our -characters. Is the objective environment alone the sea in which we -swim? More significant still are the emotions which a given environment -induces in each individual. To determine these it is needful to resort -to our earliest memories. What were the things that so impressed us -that we carry them on down through the years, an inseparable part of -our inmost selves? What part have they played in shaping our characters? - -I have said that it was a commonplace little village where I was born, -and to another it may seem a commonplace outward life that I have to -record. But who among us will own to a commonplace inner, subjective -life? - -Our village, named after him who sang of the “deep and dark blue -ocean,” is a prosaic port on the Erie Canal along whose banks mules -slowly draw the heavy-laden boats. The canal divides the village -into north and south, as Owasco creek divides it into east and -west. Rising from the level landscape here and there, the long, low -lenticular drumlins form a conspicuous feature through that section -of the state. Commonplace, did I say? But less than three miles away -are the marshes of the Montezumas. What strange wild feelings the -lighted skies at night evoked! “The marshes are burning!” was such an -inadequate explanation of that lurid western sky. A few miles to the -south is Goldsmith’s “loveliest village of the plain”; about the same -distance west, one reaches Tyre; as far again, and Palmyra is found; -while a little to the east sits Syracuse in all her glory--surely an -illustrious environment, this Drumlin Land, if names could make it so. - -In the upper and hilly part of the town, called “Nauvoo,” the house -still stands where Brigham Young lived before he became famous--or, -shall we say, infamous? He was a carpenter and painter, and several -buildings are there pointed out as houses that “Brigham” built. They -tell that the Mormon went to Utah owing a certain couple in our village -for his board, and that years after, on learning that they were to -celebrate their golden wedding, he sent them the amount he owed, with -interest for all the years. - -In the decrepit old hotel on the village green Isaac Singer once -lived and dreamed of the sewing-machine which later made his name a -household word. There, too, in our little hamlet faithful Henry Wells, -sometimes a-foot, sometimes on horseback, went hither and yon amid the -drumlins carrying in his shabby carpet-bags messages and parcels to the -scattered homes. Trusty and dependable, there in our little village he -laid the humble foundations of the Wells-Fargo Express of to-day. - -Six churches, two hotels, several dry goods and grocery stores, a -drug store, a meat market, the Post Office, sometimes a bank, a -boot-and-shoe store, cigar shops and saloons, a pie factory, a shirt -factory, the Masonic Hall--these, most of which were grouped around the -Village fountain, constituted the town life I knew. - -It was amid these scenes that I as a child went forth; the objects I -looked upon became a part of me, interwoven with my very being: the -familiar drumlins on the horizon, flowers and the wayside weeds, the -pets I cherished, the family life, our neighbours, my teachers and -playmates, the games we played, the songs we sang, the books I read, -the sunset clouds, the friendly trees, and the winding creek; and -mingled with these commonplace scenes, the sorrows, joys, affections, -hopes, and fears--all these became a part of that child that went forth. - -In thinking of my earliest memories, why does my mind revert to that -little old tannery down by the dam which we passed on our way to -Grandma’s? It was painted red. There was a multitude of little square, -mahogany-brown pieces of wood that covered the yard like a carpet. -There was a buzz of machinery which always frightened me (and machinery -frightens me still), and a peculiar smell always emanated from the -place. And though later a grist mill, still later a paper mill, and -then a planing mill stood there, and now for many years dwelling houses -have occupied the spot, yet as I think back to my childhood I recall -most vividly the earliest scene, and the peculiar elastic feel of those -pieces of tan-bark under my feet. - -Quiet and shy, I was, as I have said, dominated by my sister till -perhaps a year or two before I went away from home. More of a leader, -more practical, in those days more executive, my sister had withal -more common sense and far more initiative than I. She mothered me as -a child, and “bossed” me as a little girl, and for a long time I was -content to have it so. In truth, so established was that order of -things that she has never, I think, quite accepted my emancipation. - -I was more shy in Father’s presence than elsewhere, even in my late -’teens. I don’t know why, but involuntarily I became more reserved. -I myself could see a difference in voice and manner. I was not afraid -of him (though that was the way Sister put it), for I had no reason -to be, he was kindness itself, and more gentle with me than with -Kate, she being so full of pranks he often had to rebuke her. I don’t -know just what the shyness was, but I was two different beings when -with and away from my father. As nearly as I can explain it now, it -was my exaggerated love of approbation making me so anxious for his -approval that I over-exerted myself when near him, the result being a -shy awkwardness. Yet he always seemed to understand me, and to make -it easy for me. I never would ask him for favours; Kate always had to -do such things for both herself and me. “You do it,” I would plead, -and she would “sputter” and say I ought to do it for myself, but would -give in. Sometimes she made me go with her, occasionally taking revenge -by saying, “Genie wants to ask you for a penny.” Then I felt like -running away. He seldom refused us; I don’t see why I was so bashful -with him. It irritated Sister. Straightforward herself, she thought me -two-sided. I don’t know when this shyness came, or when it wore away, -but before it developed I have one memory that is significant--one of -my earliest recollections. Years later I marvelled that I ever dared do -it: I remember sitting on Father’s lap (he in a little black rocker) -and “teasing” him to tell me where I came from. It must have been when -I first began to wonder about such things. I recall how I kept pulling -his face around by putting my hands in his long brown beard; how he -would laugh and turn away, trying to avoid me; and I can remember just -how he looked at Mother as they exchanged glances. I can’t recall how -they answered me, but think they told me I would know when I was older. -(I never remember being told about storks bringing babies, though I -do remember someone saying the Doctor brought them, and that God sent -them.) But that scene is very vivid to me; and afterward, when I began -to know, though imperfectly, the answer to my question, I thought of -how I had sat and coaxed Father to tell me. I would like to know just -how old I was when this question first seemed so important to me. I -recall when still very small, though later than this, being in the yard -and digging in the ground when Brother and some older boys, going by, -asked what we were doing. “Digging for babies,” we said, and it seems -as though I can remember the smile that passed between Brother and the -boys as they ran off shouting derisively, “Digging for babies!” That -must have been in the days when we used earnestly to try to dig down to -China. - -Although asking my father this question is one of my earliest -recollections, I think the very earliest is that of my first day in -school. I can remember just how I trotted along by my brother’s side; -how my starched skirts stood out proudly, and how my heart swelled with -excitement when, at the sound of the “first bell,” I started off to -school. Arthur was very nice to me, and granted permission (!) to two -of the bigger girls to let me sit between them. I recall the delicious -feeling of being the object of interest in the little flock, and how -they petted and entertained me. But the most wonderful thing was a -little wire frame which the teacher let me take to amuse myself with--a -frame with coloured balls big as cranberries, which could be moved -back and forth on the wires. Not long after I began going to school -regularly, and that little frame (years later I learned it was called -an _abacus_) was given out as a reward of merit. I can see now the -look of blushing pride mantling the cheeks of the favoured pupils as -they marched from the teacher’s desk back to their seats bearing the -coveted trophy. - -One evening shortly after my first day in school, we were startled by -the alarm of fire, and saw the flames coming from the direction of the -Academy. “Goody, Goody!” shouted some boys in the street, “We won’t -have to go to school any more!” But I cried as though my heart would -break, until a neighbour came down the hill and told us it was some -unimportant building farther away. - -A few years ago the Academy did burn, and the news came to me with a -far keener pang than that felt in childhood at the false alarm. The -present was momentarily blotted out. My thoughts flew back to the old -building where the most tender and beautiful memories centred. Of that -place so rich in associations only ashes remained; only in memory could -I see again the old brick walls--the walls my grandfather had helped -to build--only in memory hear the school bell ring! Curious, but more -than all the furnishings--the books, the globes, the maps and charts, -the chemical apparatus--more than all the things really of value in -the building, my thoughts kept going back perversely to that dear -little wire frame with coloured balls which I had so cherished since -my first day at school!--_that_ was gone past recall!--that and the -old bell! At those earlier home-comings after graduation, one of my -keenest pleasures had been to be awakened in the morning by the sound -of the school bell; it brought back so much: I was a girl again; the -past was bridged over; it stirred a host of chaotic feelings of mingled -sweetness and sadness--longing for my lost girlhood, and exultation at -the successes and achievements of to-day--the Spell of the Past was in -that bell. - -A fine high-school building, well equipped, now stands where the old -Academy stood. To the younger generation it will doubtless mean all -that the old school meant to us, but how like an interloper it is! Only -the ground and the old trees are left--the old linden trees under which -we played, where we used to gather the tiny round nuts and eat the -sweet brown kernels that ripen in September! - -Once when Sister was a little thing, perhaps four or five years old, -and an aunt, in telling her Bible stories, started to make some -explanation about God, Kate interrupted her in a superior way with, -“Oh, yes, I know God--he lives over there,” pointing to a meadow -opposite our house. Astonished, Aunt Kate inquired further, when the -child added: - -“He’s got white hair and wears a long coat; he walks around there when -it’s getting dark.” She meant an old man with a white beard and flowing -locks who, like Old Grimes, wore a “long gray coat all buttoned down -before.” His unusual appearance as he came and went in the hay-meadows -had appealed to the child’s imagination, and she had settled to her own -satisfaction that he was God! - -An experience of my own, some years later however, illustrates the -marked difference in our minds and temperaments--the one given to -definite, concrete ways of thinking, and to settled convictions which -satisfy her, however inadequate they may seem to others; the other, -at that time, to vague, even mystical interpretations. And a similar -tendency exists to-day in our attitudes where temperament and personal -bent are concerned: One spring, going to a sheltered strip in our yard -where we had previously transplanted wild flowers from the woods, I -found a pale blue hepatica in bloom. I remember the directness with -which the flower spoke to me. Something in its gem-like beauty and -its completeness touched me peculiarly; my eyes filled with tears. -I hesitate to write it, but it seemed almost as though the flower -whispered to me, “God.” It was an exquisite moment. The beauty and -purity of that flower spoke to my soul, and for a brief while I had a -conception of Divinity that made the day and hour memorable. - - -To my mother I am primarily indebted for my love of nature. She used to -take us to the cowslip woods every spring, and later to the Wintergreen -woods. We would begin coaxing to go weeks beforehand. Something sweet -and tender stirs at the thought of our excursions to those distant -moist woods in the early spring days. With what eagerness we started -off, Mother as eager as any of us! How we ran across lots, climbed rail -fences and a stone wall, peeped into deserted barns, traversed meadow -after meadow, till we came to the swampy woods where the gay flowers -grew! It was dark and wet and mysterious in those woods; we knew them -only as the cowslip woods; other woods we frequented at other times of -the year, these only in the cowslip days. I liked the crackle as we -gathered the plant for “greens.” We even ate the bitter buds raw. Often -we would slip from the mossy, decaying logs into the brown pools; we -always returned home with squeaking shoes, wet feet, full baskets, and -happy hearts. - -Mother used to go wading with us, too. Taking our luncheon, we would -follow the winding creek along the willows a mile or more till we -came to a little grove, a sort of natural park, with an island and a -dam, and a big swimming hole on one side of the island. Brother, who -had been to Niagara Falls, called this Goat Island; the water that -went over the dam was Niagara; and the grove was Prospect Park. Many -a time he has lain in his little bedroom, his door and ours open, -and recounted to Sister and me his visit to Niagara, always getting -excited and waxing eloquent, and seeming to see it all over again, as -he talked to his willing listeners till sleep overtook them. - -“Down to the dam”--there some of our sweetest childhood hours were -spent, Mother, one with us, wading the stream, teaching us the names -of the flowers, and telling us what was “good to eat.” When she was -in doubt about a certain thing, and so would caution us, I was pretty -sure to taste it, thus finding out for myself that many a thing is good -to eat at which others looked askance. Some Eves begin early to taste -forbidden fruit. - -Up the Ditch Bank was another favourite place for our picnics--a high -grassy bank running along a feeder, and farther up a big round pond on -one side of the bank, and a long stretch of marshy creek below on the -other. From the bank, across a precarious bridge we got into “Groom’s -Woods,” where the wake robins grew, and the large white trilliums, -Dutchman’s breeches, squirrel corn, crinkle root, spring beauties, -anemones, hepaticas, blood roots, and mandrakes. Mother taught us these -names, and the names of what few birds we knew--robins, goldfinches, -humming birds, and orioles, chiefly. Each year in cherry-blossom time, -Mother would say, “The orioles are here again.” - - -I had a goldfinch in a cage for a time, I called it a wild canary, and -grew much attached to it, but it soon died, and after that I never -cared to have another bird. I had one cat that I loved, too; his name -was Nimrod. He got so old a neighbour took him away. They told me what -was going to happen, but when I heard the gun-shot, far away, though I -had braced for it, I was nearly frantic. I could never bear to have it -mentioned after that, and loathed the man who did it. Children’s griefs -are about little things, but they are not little griefs. I feel sorry -for the child who suffered some of the things I remember. Mother used -to say, - - - “Poor Nimrod’s dead, he’s run his race, - No other cat can fill his place.” - - -And no other cat ever did. I have never cared for cats since. Cats came -and went, there was always one at home; they multiplied as cats have -a way of doing, but after Nimrod’s death I was indifferent to them. I -had one dog, too--one cat, one bird, one dog, and ever after eschewed -all pets. A little yellow dog came to our house once--from heaven, I -guess. We called him Ponto--such a big name for such a roly-poly dog! -Æolus would have suited him better, for we knew not whence he came, nor -whither he went, months later, after having endeared himself to us all. -He came the night I was brought home with a broken arm, and was such a -dear companion during my six weeks in splints that I grew inordinately -fond of him. Rheumatism attacking the arm caused me more suffering than -did the fracture itself. Ponto would cry when I cried, putting up his -paws so imploringly that, just to hear him take on, I’d stop crying in -earnest, only to cry louder in make-believe. How piteously he wailed! I -would get ashamed of myself for enlisting his ever-ready sympathy. He -left so mysteriously that we found no trace of him. One of the desires -of my heart for a year or two was to have Ponto back. I believe I used -to pray for his return. “Prayer is the soul’s sincere desire,” and my -soul surely longed for Ponto. - - -Another love of mine, a less responsive one, was my big willow tree. It -was only one of many trees along the creek, but oh, the difference to -me! Cows grazed in the pasture near by; spearmint grew in patches along -the path; the water flowed quietly. It was about ten minutes’ walk -from home, but I was in another world when there. Seated in the heart -of the old tree, I looked out upon a scene commonplace enough to the -eye--level fields and houses and distant drumlins, but ah, what inner -visions! What happy hours I have spent ensconced in that old willow! -Just a little climb (for I never could really climb a tree--I was too -afraid of getting up high), and there I sat, a queen on her throne. -Safe in the tree I was not afraid of the cows. There I read and sang, -recited poetry, and dreamed dreams. - -“I am monarch of all I survey,” I usually began with--the place really -belonged to me. The old farmer who came after his cows every night -thought he owned the land, but I knew and the old tree knew who was -the real owner. For years, as a child and a girl, I kept tryst with -this tree; and for years only the cows and I knew just where it was -that I went when I stole away “to the willows,” for I guarded the -exact spot jealously. Often in going past it with others, I have -feigned indifference, lest someone note its natural seat. I wanted it -all to myself. I used to feel uneasy when I had to climb down, about -supper-time; for the cows, eager for their own supper, came near the -bars and insisted on coming close to me. Although my heart beat wildly -at their approach, I would try to brave it out and look them down as -I had heard one should do. On they always came, bland and peaceable. -Facing them as long as I could, ashamed to show fright, even to cows, -I finally had to cut and run, and then how chagrined I felt! Once in -running from them, in my hurry to get under the fence, I flung my -book ahead of me, and it went into the creek--my beloved Cathcart’s -Literary Reader! To this day its stained leaves and warped cover remind -me of the fright I got from the harmless, curious cows. - - -“Oh, aren’t they cute, they must be twins,” was a remark Sister and I -often heard, long before we knew what twins really meant. Mother would -follow such remarks with, “No, there’s eighteen months’ difference -between them.” - -We thought “twins” must be something pretty nice, and learned to feel -the disappointment that we saw on the faces of strangers when Mother -set them right. Once at camp-meeting we were playing together, when -some ladies stopped us asking, “Little girls, are you twins?” Mother -was not near. Kate and I looked at each other and knew that our time -had come to be twins. With one accord we nodded yes, and had some few -minutes of unalloyed pleasure. Days later, while playing in our tent -door, the same lady and another passed. Pausing and noting us as we sat -with our big wax dolls (they, too, dressed just alike) the one lady -told the other that we were twins. - -“Oh, no, there’s eighteen months’ difference between them,” said -Mother, sitting near. - -“But they told me they were twins,” insisted the lady. We were covered -with confusion; tears, chidings, shame, and repentance followed. Though -I am not sure whether at that time we knew what twins really meant, -still we knew very well that we were not twins. - -When we were perhaps ten and eleven years of age, one of our -schoolmates, a child in a destitute Irish family living in the west -part of the village, died of scarlet fever. They lived in the “haunted -house” on the hill--a house near which we never ventured, though Mother -had repeatedly assured us there was no such thing as a haunted house. -Now, however, because of the fever, one would have thought we would -have still kept our distance. But hearing of the child’s death, Sister -was bound to go there. The dead always had a strange fascination for -her; she wanted to feel the corpse--the last thing I wanted to do. At -noon Kate made me go with her to that house. Other children accompanied -us. Awe-struck, we crept up the hill; we glanced furtively at the -broken shutters of the windows from which a ghostly arm was said often -to beckon. Such poverty and squalor we had never before come in contact -with. We filed past the body of our little schoolmate (Kate touched the -marble forehead), awed by the presence of Death, and uneasy at what we -knew was wrong. If the ghosts of the Board of Health of to-day could -have antedated themselves and walked there, what consternation would -they have felt at the presence of those children in the fever-stricken -precinct! - -The bereaved mother howled hysterically. An elder sister told us they -had no underclothes to put on the dead child. Kate marched me home, -enjoining strict secrecy. Moved by the poverty and grief we had seen, -with one accord we stole upstairs and purloined a suit of our best -underclothes, secreting them till after dinner, when we ran with them -to the house of mourning, intending then to hurry back to school. I can -see now the trimming on that little white petticoat that we stole from -ourselves; we hesitated, it was such a pretty petticoat; but the need -was urgent, and, somehow, we thought it must be the very best that we -give to the dead child. - -The family welcomed us effusively, blessing us, or asking Holy Mary to, -as they immediately put our offerings to use; and still we lingered -on. Presently they asked Kate to go with them to the burial, bribing -her with a nice long drive; before I knew it, it was all settled. Kate -ordered me to stop my opposition, _she was going to that funeral_. She -also persuaded, or commanded, me to give her my hat, having lent hers -to the sister. Then she made me promise to go back to school and say -nothing; she would soon be home. The “last bell” had long since rung -when, bareheaded, frightened, and alone, Miss Docility ran to school, -tardily repentant over the whole strange proceedings. A wretched -afternoon! As soon as school was out, I rushed up to the Post Office -and in tears and penitence told it all to Father. I can see now his -growing anxiety on learning of our visit to that fever-stricken house; -and then of Kate’s having gone to the burial. He upbraided me for not -coming to him at once, but knew that, as usual, Kate had dominated me. - -“Run home and tell your mother not to worry,” he said; “we will soon -get track of her and see that she gets home safe.” - -Mother’s distress was pitiful. Tormenting herself and me, she -rehearsed tales of Catholic funerals where they raced horses and -got drunk--perhaps they would have a runaway--Kate might be thrown -out--hurt, maybe killed--and perhaps we would all get the scarlet fever! - -When Father came home to supper, no trace had yet been found of the -funeral train, though a man had driven to the cemetery--the mourners -were either driving home by some other road, or had gone on to a -near-by city. - -How the hours dragged! But the joy when Father came in bringing Kate, -safe and sound, her elation over the experience only a little dampened -by the fear of punishment! But she escaped it that time; and we all -escaped the fever! - -Although I had had to drop the study of music in early girlhood, -music continued to be an important part of our home life. Other boys -and girls in our street used to gather round our organ in the winter -evenings, or sit on the veranda in summer, and sing till we had to -stop for hoarseness, the neighbours often calling to us for this and -that favourite. “Gathering up the Sea Shells,” “Pass under the Rod,” -“Jamie’s on the Stormy Sea,” “O, Fair Dove,” “We’d Better Bide a -Wee,” “I’ll Be All Smiles To-night, Love,” “Then You’ll Remember Me,” -“Juanita”--a heterogeneous repertoire, the list seems interminable. -There were certain favourites we would get Father to sing--“Bonnie -Doon,” “The Sword of Bunker Hill,” and “My Susanna”--songs inseparably -linked with home and those happy days. - -I used to sing Father to sleep Sunday afternoons. No matter how many -other songs I introduced, I always had to sing Longfellow’s “Bridge,” -and “The Day Is Done.” I was annoyed if he asked for the latter before -the day _was_ done. I liked best to sing it as the afternoon light -began to fade and barely come in at the west window, just enough for me -to trace the notes. - -Sometimes of a Sunday evening an aunt and uncle would ask for more -lively songs than those I chose, for there was a long period when I -steadfastly refused to sing secular songs on the Sabbath. At their -request, I would evade and substitute; but if their insistence became -too pronounced to be set aside, I would refuse point blank. In my -unregenerate days there had been a time when I had sung “The Yellow -Rose of Texas,” “Nancy Lee,” “Putting on the Style,” “Father, Come -Down with the Stamps,” and such worldly things, but later the little -Puritan was shocked to be asked to desecrate the Sabbath with such -levity. They learned to cater to my strait-laced notions. I am afraid -I was a not very pleasant person to deal with when a question of what -I considered the fitness of things was involved. (Perhaps I am not -even now.) I strongly suspect I was a self-righteous little prig for -several years. At a later period one of the schoolboys described me -to a newcomer in the town as “a nice girl, only _such_ a prim little -Methodist.” Not many weeks later, that girl and I were laughing in -great glee over the description which, though it had once been true, -was then hardly applicable; but I was still living on the reputation of -a past phase of religious emotion. - -We had a song called “Fire Bells Are Ringing,” a dramatic account of -a fire on a wild winter night, the chorus ringing out with repeated -cries of “Fire!” One windy night in February as Sister and I were at -the organ singing this with all the dramatic power we could summon, -the wild night putting us in the mood, Father, who had been in the -kitchen popping corn, came running in shouting “Fire!” even louder -than we were. Smiling, we sang on with redoubled energy, pleased that -we had put him in the spirit of acting, too. He rushed around the room -frantically shouting, “Fire! I tell you! Girls! _do you hear?_” Louder -and more dramatic grew our efforts, and louder grew his cries until, a -still more desperate tone in his voice, and the words, “Girls! Get me -my coat, quick!” finally made us understand he was in earnest. Mother, -too, had thought him fooling and there he was, excited as he always got -at the alarm of fire, almost in despair of making any of us take him -seriously! - -It was a house on the street above. A fierce conflagration was under -way. With the high wind, the adjoining house of a neighbour was -endangered, and we had an exciting time helping our friends gather -together valuables and other belongings, though luckily the fire did -not spread. Ah! the cruel, relentless sight of that burning home! -What if it was “the meanest man in town” whose house was burning -down--everyone pitied him that wild night when they saw the pitiless -flames. - - -We never associated with the neighbours on our right, except -to be civil to them (and I to borrow their novels by Mary Jane -Holmes--whenever I could without the knowledge of my parents). The man -was coarse and illiterate, his wife a silly, slovenly, red-haired woman -who would sit on her husband’s lap on the doorstep in full view of -passers-by. But our left-hand neighbours, though shiftless and lawless, -were interesting and likeable. Great borrowers, always borrowing, -they would keep our belongings till we had to go after them. I would -feel chagrined to have to ask for our own flatirons, or tack-hammer, -or chopping-knife, when we needed them, but Jean, the witty daughter, -would relieve my embarrassment by her ready assurance: “Certainly, -Miss Genie, you are welcome to the irons; keep them as long as you -like--we’ll come after them when we need them again.” - -Formerly there had been a picket fence between our yard and theirs, -along which the “myrtle” grew, and a board fence farther back, between -the gardens; but, little by little, first the board fence disappeared, -later the picket fence--whenever they got out of kindling wood they -would take a board here, a picket there (usually early in the morning, -or late at night). In time both fences were down, and only the “myrtle” -in front and the pie-plant bed and berry bushes in the rear marked the -division between our yards. - -Mother would try shaming them out of it by wondering (to them) who -could be carrying off our fence boards, and the wily Jean would reply, -“It’s a shame, Mrs. Arnold, such people ought to have something done -to them,” when perhaps that very morning Mother had seen her slip out, -knock off a picket or two, and hustle with it into the woodshed. But -the whole family had a way with them that was irresistible, and they -were kindness itself when any one was sick or in trouble. - -A slack housekeeper, the mother of the family, proud as Lucifer, was a -remarkable character. She reared a large family, all “smart as whips,” -but inclined to waywardness of one kind and another--the boys handsome -and debonair, but profane and given to drink, yet more gentlemanly when -drunk than many are when sober. Although we lived near them all their -lives, the young men never spoke to Sister and me after we reached -our ’teens without prefixing our names with “Miss,” and lifting their -hats. If they stood at the wood-pile (perhaps sawing some of our -fence-boards!) when we went to the well, they would bid us a courteous -good morning, always cutting short their profanity, if indulging in it -at the time. - -I admired their chivalrous manners, their good looks, and their witty -talk, even though knowing less admirable things about them. - -The father, a crafty man, with no visible means of support, lived -mostly by his wits. He was handsome, and humorous in a droll way. -Never lifting his hand to help his over-worked wife, he would yet say -ingratiatingly, “Mother, I don’t like to see you work so hard--we are -not worthy of it.” And she, knowing how lazy he was, how it was all -talk, would beam on him, proud of his good looks--the handsome father -of her handsome sons--pleased with the affectionate protestations that -he shouted in her deaf ears. She never criticized him or her sons to -others; but sometimes her lips would shut in an emphatic way and her -eyes say unutterable things if she thought herself unobserved; but the -face she turned to others was innocent of all this. How her eyes would -shine as she watched her sons start out of the house, well dressed, -with manly carriage, and that air of distinction that never wholly -left them! and when they came home intoxicated, how fertile she was in -resources to get them quietly out of sight; how apt in concealing the -loquacity induced by a lesser degree of intoxication! - -An incident in her earlier days put her on a pedestal in my regard. -Jean, her daughter, a fiery girl with coal-black eyes and hair -was witty and irresponsible, as I have said, but energetic and -warm-hearted. The neighbours knew her to be capable of escapades of -which her doting mother was innocent! More than once she had been seen -creeping down the slanting veranda-roof and down the porch pillars, -from which she dropped softly to the ground. But no one dared acquaint -her mother with the fact. In the course of time Jean was missing. Her -brother traced her to a neighbouring town, and going to the hotel where -she and her lover were staying, so arranged it that when they came into -the dining-room, there he sat confronting them! - -Equal to the occasion, Jean, I’ll wager, showed no embarrassment, and -though her brother was bursting with rage and shame, he, too, was -mindful not to make a scene. But what a dinner it must have been! Yet -I can imagine that Jean kept the conversation going in her inimitable -way. Dinner over, she asked her brother when he was going home. “Just -as soon as you can get your things packed,” Dick said significantly. -Knowing the Norton blood was up, she made the best of it and returned -with him. After that she stayed closely at home. People in general -did not know of her elopement, nor of the fact that she was to become -a mother. Both she and her mother kept secluded for months. I wish I -knew just how old her mother’s youngest child was when Jean’s child -was born. My impression is that he was at least three or four years -old. Nevertheless, it is stated as a fact, and was generally believed -in the village, that at the birth of Jean’s baby, Mrs. Norton, its -grandmother, put the baby to her own breast, and, by sheer force of -will causing the milk to flow, brought up the child at her breast! -He always called her “Mamma,” and his own mother by her given name; -and although after a time, the fact of his parentage was learned, the -family pride was saved to a great degree. People tacitly accepted the -child as Jean’s youngest brother, and he himself thought he was until -quite a lad. - -Not having learned of all this till years after it occurred, the -impression it made upon me was far less pronounced than when I learned -about a certain girl, nearer my own age, who “went wrong.” But I did -not learn of this little tragedy till a year or two afterward, although -when I did, I was so sorry for the girl that there was no room for -blame, and I was glad to know that Mother, knowing it all along, had -befriended her; I loved my mother the more for it. But how incredible -that such a thing had happened to one I actually knew! I used to wonder -how she could go on living and acting like other folk; how she could -meet that young man on the street; how she could fulfil her daily -tasks. Divining what she must secretly have suffered, I felt sure her -keenest grief must come from knowing that she was not as good as people -thought her. I used to wish that she knew I knew of it, and that -Mother had known it all the time, and yet that we felt the same toward -her. I was sure that would have been a comfort to her. - -A boy in our neighbourhood, a gay, boastful, light-hearted boy, who was -always whistling on the street, got into difficulties, became entangled -with low companions, and a grave charge was made against him from -which he was only partly exonerated. The first year I was away from -home, in writing to me about it, Mother had said, “Howard has lost his -whistle.” How significant that was! The merry-hearted boy was never the -same after that. These and other revelations concerning townspeople I -knew made a profound impression upon me. They were the beginnings of -my plucking the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, and -I found it bitter. Every taste saddened me. The dispersion of every -illusion was accompanied by a distinct pain. I think it must always -be so for those who believe that persons and things are what they -seem. The surface so smooth, so fair--incredible that beneath lie many -diverse strata seldom or never seen. Outcroppings come as a revelation, -and with the shattering of an ideal--inevitable sadness and pain! - -One of my vivid childhood experiences comes to me here--that of being -taken through the State Prison at Auburn, and to chapel services there, -and how my throat ached as those hundreds and hundreds of men in -convict garb filed in and took their places! The striped gray-and-black -cloth for their suits was made at a woolen mill just outside our -village. We sat in the gallery and looked down on the men. I have never -forgotten the pain I felt, child that I was, at seeing such a mass of -men branded with shame and crime, many imprisoned for life. I wonder -if my sympathy and tolerance for wrong-doing were not generated by -that early experience, when I pitied them so that there was no room to -condemn. - -Notes of piercing sweetness sounded through that vast auditorium as a -convict played on a cornet the prelude to “Watchman, tell us of the -night.” When they began singing I thought my heart would break. A part -of the men sang the questions, then another body of them the answers, -all joining in the refrain. Mother and all of us were in tears. Always -after that, at home, when we would sing that piece, that moving scene -would be vividly reproduced. - -Chaplain Searle preached that day, and I remember (or think I remember) -his beautiful, beneficent spirit as he talked to the men. (He used -later to lecture in our village, and those impressions of him became -blended with the earlier. One of his lectures was “The Sunny Side of -Life in Libby Prison.”) - -We saw the men march to dinner; saw their coarse fare, and peered into -their bare cells; and a great pity rose within me for their blighted -lives. To this day the sight of “Copper John”--the statue we see on the -top of the prison, on driving in to Auburn--awakens the recollection of -the painful emotions born that day when I first learned how hard the -way of the transgressor really is. - - -About the only plays I ever saw, until I went away from home, were -“Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” and “Ten Nights in a Bar Room,” played in our home -town, and “East Lynne” in Syracuse. These were my only preparation for -the appreciation and understanding of Booth’s “Hamlet,” which I saw my -first year in Boston. - -A mere child when “Uncle Tom” came to town, and too moved to do -anything but cry openly, I was unmercifully tormented the next day -at school by the older girls who, having witnessed my humiliation of -the night before, jeered at and mimicked me. Curiously enough, many -years later, while visiting in Worcester, Massachusetts, I encountered -the star of this performance at close quarters: I was taken ill while -there, and the landlady of my hostess was the “Topsy” of my early -remembrance. When she learned that I had seen her as “Topsy,” she -doubled her offices in my behalf: there was a distinct improvement in -my toast and gruel, although her housekeeping was almost as “shifless” -as “Aunt Ophelia” had complained of years before. - -My first experience with remorse came when I was quite a little girl, -on learning of the death of a schoolmate: One of the older girls, on -seeing me weeping bitterly, looking at me coldly said, “Humph! _you_ -needn’t cry--you used to quarrel with her--you know you did.” As though -I didn’t know it only too well! For years that girl’s twitting me of -those irrevocable quarrels seemed the most unfeeling thing imaginable. - -It was perhaps when I was sixteen that another schoolmate, going into -a rapid decline, died of “consumption.” During that summer I went -almost daily to brush her hair; she said I did not tangle it as others -did. It was painful to see her wasting daily: that ominous cough, that -sickly odour, and her pathetic hopefulness as her condition became more -hopeless! But I had a strong sense of duty then. It was about the time, -I suppose, that youthful altruism developed. Sometimes I would be so -tired from work at home that I could hardly drag myself up the hill, -and I dreaded the depressing environment. When she died they sent for -me to dress her hair. She had requested it. That seemed more than I -could do. (I have never been able to conquer my repugnance to touching -a dead body.) But there was no way out of it. After the task was done, -with which there was no one to help me except her brother, who was no -help at all, I stayed and got supper for the invalid parents, and did -other little things round the house, waiting for someone to come in who -would stay the night. But no one came. I could not leave those helpless -parents alone, so sent word home that I was going to stay, at the same -time sending for a schoolmate to come and bear me company. - -We had Louisa M. Alcott’s “Old-Fashioned Girl” to read, and proceeded -to pass the night sitting up in the room next to the one where our -dead schoolmate lay. The girl’s brother (the same who years before -had bitten off the nose of my leatherhead doll), kept coming into the -room and lamenting his sister’s death; then, going into the parlour, -he would weep over the body, groaning and reproaching himself noisily -for his past unkindness. The wildness of his grief, which came in -paroxysms, was terrible. I pitied him, but it was a relief when he -calmed down and went to bed. - -Late in the evening the undertaker came and was alone in the parlour -a long time. On coming out he asked who was going to stay over night. -Lizzie and I told him we were. “But what grown person, I mean.” On -learning that there was no one else, he scrutinized us a moment, then -said to me, “If you will step in here, I will show you what I wish you -to do.” Wondering, I followed him and learned that at midnight I was to -remove the cloth from the face, moisten it in a solution, replace it, -“taking care to press it well down on the eyes and around the nose and -lips.” I have forgotten what else we had to do, but remember that I had -to remove the folded hands from across the chest. (I did it by taking -hold of the nightgown sleeves at the wrist. How startled I was at the -spring the arms gave as I let go the sleeves!) He added that if I did -it at midnight, and again at three or four o’clock in the morning, it -would answer. - -I have done much harder things since, but never remember undertaking -anything that seemed more of an ordeal than that was then--our dead -schoolmate, my shrinking at the feel of a corpse, the mere staying up -in this remote house that night, no neighbours within call, we two -girls, with the sick parents and the remorse-stricken brother--no one -to give us moral support--small wonder that I quailed! But it had to be -done. - -My companion, less self-contained, and terrified on learning what was -required, began to be hysterical. It was not easy to get her interested -in the book, but we read on and on, taking turns through the long -hours, our feverish excitement increasing as the dread hour approached. -How loud the clock ticked! how every little sound about the house smote -our ears! how furtively we kept glancing at the time, pretending not to -be thinking of it! how our voices trembled! We both started in affright -as the clock began to strike twelve! Lizzie held the lamp while I did -as I had been instructed. Poor girls! They seem like someone else, -not I and another. She trembled and nearly dropped the lamp; and when -it was done, we almost ran from the room. It was no vulgar fear of -the corpse; it was the general gruesomeness, our loneliness, and all -that--the uncanny, tiny little mother, a mere skeleton; the Quilp-like -father--everything added to our shuddering dread. - -No sooner had we closed the creaking folding-doors and were back -in the sitting-room than my companion, heaving a sigh of relief, -said, “Now let’s go and have something to eat.” I could have -screamed outright--“Eat _now!_ after that experience!” My hands felt -contaminated, even after repeated washings. I begged her to wait -awhile. So Miss Alcott still diverted us till I felt I could go and -eat. After that we grew cheerful, even hilarious, and then felt guilty -for laughing in that house of mourning. - -Long hours passed in talking and reading till we had to go in that -dread room again. Finally morning came, and with it a neighbour who -relieved us. Going home in the early dawn, the queer look of the quiet -streets, the physical weariness, combined with the night’s experiences, -made me feel years older. Stealing up the steps at home and creeping -into the hammock on the veranda, I slept until the opening of doors and -windows in the house announced the family astir. - -Perhaps a year after the death of this girl, another schoolmate died -of the same disease--a brilliant, beautiful girl with smouldering dark -eyes, a girl of great promise, who had made a brave fight for life. - -Her mother, who was given to doing things in a theatrical way, asked -four of us girls to be honorary pall-bearers--to dress in white and -follow the casket in and out of the church. - -At the house the general gloom and our own grief had been a strain on -us, but as we got into the carriage we calmed down from our weeping and -were trying to get in condition to face the ordeal at the church when, -just as we were driving through the main street, without any warning, -one of us _broke into laughter_! Two others followed in sympathy, -the fourth girl looking so disgusted that it made us laugh the more. -Finally she gave way, too, and we were all in a state of uncontrolled, -unreasoning mirth! - -Although the carriage was closed, we feared the driver would hear -us, or people in the street catch a glimpse of us. Our efforts at -self-control were painful in the extreme. What would Ruth think if -she could know of our conduct? But everything we tried to say only -made matters worse. When the carriage drove into the churchyard, we -were still in a pitiable plight, and how we ever mastered ourselves -enough to step out and walk past the by-standers and on into the church -behind the casket is something I marvel at even yet. But we had had our -escape-valve, and now everything was done “decently and in order.” Long -after that, we thought with remorse of our conduct, not understanding -how blameless we were--how wrong it was to subject a group of -impressionable girls to such an emotional strain. - - -I recall some by-word meetings which I think had some share in my -development at a plastic period. They were conducted by the wife of -the Presbyterian minister, their object being to help us refrain from -the use of slang. That minister’s wife seems to me, even yet, the most -beautiful woman I ever saw--tall, slender, with a queenly carriage, the -smoothest, creamiest skin, bewitching dimples, jet black hair and eyes, -and slender white hands. - -On the street she wore a heavy veil, and when she lifted it as she came -into the meetings, it was like the unveiling of a beautiful statue. She -had a silvery voice, so different from any voice I had heard. In fact, -she seemed a little too bright and good for everyday life. We children -idolized her. Some of our playmates would not go to her meetings, -and spitefully told us she was “proud”; wore a veil to preserve her -complexion; never ate butter; and nearly starved herself to keep -slender; but, resenting these rude charges against our divinity, we -continued her willing devotees. - -How good she used to talk to us! She began her prayers with “Dear -Father,” praying easily as she stood before us, as though talking to -a loved parent. She listened to our confessions of what by-words we -had been betrayed into saying during the week, smiling brilliantly at -times, looking grieved at other disclosures, and sometimes shocked, -but always encouraging us to try harder the next week. The by-words -permitted were, “Oh!” “Oh, my!” “Oh, dear!” and “Oh, dear me!”--these -with varying intensity were the legitimate outlets for the various -experiences and emotions of our lives! All others we must strive to -keep from saying, “with the aid of our Heavenly Father.” I think -“Grief!” was the word with which I kicked over the traces the oftenest; -but her reproving smile was not a hard punishment; and it was such a -delight to see her approval when we could make a good confession. It -was an excellent influence she shed, not the least of which was due to -her beauty. My aversion to slang (except when “right off the bat”) is -probably due to those early by-word meetings. - -Although the hands of this woman strongly appealed to me by their -beauty and delicacy, my mother’s appealed more powerfully--the whole -woman in her seems typified in her hands. Not small, nor especially -white, they are well-formed, and, in spite of a life filled with work, -are soft, yet firm, strong, capable, and tender. Even as a child I -seemed aware of her emotion, as well as her strength, in them. I used -to like to clasp them--such a warm, sustaining grasp! And I liked to -open them and look at the palms. She has a hollow palm (something -like my own), and all the mounds are full and elastic--a warm, soft, -brooding handclasp peculiarly her own. In my emotional nature I am -more like Mother, in mental make-up more like Father. Sister’s hands -are more like Father’s, yet her physical type in general, and her -mental, is more like Mother’s. From Mother she and Brother get their -fairer skin, while mine is the brunette shade, like Father’s. How -mysterious it all is! How complex!--“Mate and make beget such different -issues!” - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -IN THE OLD PATHS - - -Does one ever outgrow one’s early religious training? Though he outgrow -his credulity, his faith, his observance of rite and ceremony, and -though he wander far from the paths he followed when being trained “in -the way he should go,” still must the religious influences shed round -him in those early, plastic years have their permanent bearing upon his -after life, even though sometimes so transformed as to be traceable -only to the keen student of personality. - -“Back to the Old Paths” was a gospel hymn I heard in the days when -those paths were traversed by my childish feet; and back to the old -paths I now turn, seeking to retrace the steps which time and disuse -have almost obliterated. - -Being Methodists, we children had been baptized in infancy, and -our childhood and youth had been divided into three-year periods, -diminutive dynasties, marked by the reigns of the different ministers, -events being referred to as “during Brother Gregg’s stay,” “in Brother -Carrier’s time,” “when Brother Browne was here.” What excitement toward -the close of one of those “dynasties” to see what the new minister -would be like! - -Father was one of the church trustees, Mother had a class in Sunday -School. Although we children regularly attended church and Sunday -School, and often prayer-meeting and class-meeting, we showed little -of the early piety which our Sunday-school books set forth. When -there was no one to leave us with at home, Mother usually took us to -prayer-meeting. All would kneel during the seasons of prayer--each -consisting of about three prayers--then would rise and sing; then kneel -for another season, and so on. I remember once awaking in shame and -confusion, still on my knees while the others stood round me singing. -Crouching there, a miserable heap on the floor, I waited for them to -kneel again, hoping no one but Mother had noticed me. But as it proved -the last season that evening, when the hymn ended and all took their -seats, the little heap on the floor had to creep up and seat itself -shamefacedly by its mother, its discomfiture unrelieved until they rose -and sang “Blest Be the Tie that Binds,” and the meeting closed. - -Sometimes Mother put us to bed when she went to evening meetings. It -was a hardship to be locked in the house those spring twilights with -the church bells tolling and the boys and girls calling us to come out -and play “I-Spy.” Everything called us out of doors. What was there -about that time of day that seemed made for frolic? How we pitied -ourselves when the “All free” of our playmates floated to us on the -twilight air! Once we climbed out of the window and played in the -street--bare-footed, too! Oh, the delight of our bare feet on the soft, -cool grass! But we had to climb in again soon, gloating guiltily over -the stolen liberty. We thought Mother unfeeling to leave us locked in -the house, but if we objected to the prayer-meetings she sometimes had -no alternative. We rather liked the class-meetings; there were only two -or three prayers then, and all gave their “experiences.” We knew by -heart some of the stereotyped speeches. Sometimes we would signal to -one another when it was about time for certain expressions that amused -us; and again would giggle if the good brethren and sisters varied -their remarks and failed to repeat the queer things we expected. - -One man at a certain stage in his prayer always rubbed his palms -together, then as his voice got louder, he would rub faster and faster; -his straggling hair would fall over his face; the veins would swell in -his forehead; and he would reach a climax of frenzied petition from -which he would gradually subside, tapering to a breathless “Amen!” -Sister could repeat this prayer and his manœuvres to perfection: “Oh, -Lord-ah, we have come here to night-ah, to crave thy mercy-ah”--thus -regaling us with reproductions of “Brother Aaron” and other eccentric -ones--when Mother was not near. Mother herself, though quiet in -testimony and prayer, would not let us ridicule those who were -not. There were three or four of the brethren and sisters of the -old-fashioned kind of Methodists, who were a boon to sleepy children; -but as I grew older I wearied of their stereotyped speeches, and felt a -repugnance to their emotional storms. - -In the home, at seasons of special religious fervour, we had family -prayers. There was something peculiarly satisfying to me in all of us -kneeling together while Father prayed. His prayers were controlled and -rational; I never felt uneasy when he prayed; while with Mother there -was always the fear that her voice would tremble, as it did when she -read touching passages in our Sunday-school books. I could not bear to -hear the tears come in her voice, for it meant we would all ultimately -break down and cry. - -Mother loved the Bible. How well she knew it! It was history, poetry, -and all literature to her. How interesting she made the stories when -telling them in her own words--the story of Ruth, of Queen Esther, of -Joseph and his coat of many colours--how inseparably these are linked -with Mother’s interpretations! - -She loved music, too, but none of her family could carry a tune, except -one brother who died in his youth. She would try so hard to sing, -“Hush, My Dear, Lie Still and Slumber,” usually getting the first two -lines pretty well, then would flounder around, unable to get the rest. -In church she would start out bravely to sing the “Doxology,” or “By -Cool Siloam’s Shady Rill,” or “There is a Land of Pure Delight,” but -would falter and have to stop entirely before the end of the first -stanza. I have seen her almost weep because she wanted so much to sing. -At first we laughed at her--it seemed so funny, and so easy to catch a -tune--but with her it was so serious a matter that I learned to pity -her. - -Unless Sister was watched throughout the church service, she would -excite the risibilities of all around by her antics and imitation of -the minister. Quick as a flash she would jump up on the seat, tiny mite -that she was, and flourish her arms as the speaker was doing. Mrs. -R----, the wife of a certain pastor who made very awkward gestures, -used to say it was bad enough to see the gestures themselves, but to -see them so perfectly reproduced was much too much; still she would -laugh about it till the tears ran down her cheeks. Kate would imitate -the twisting gait and fidgety manner of a sister of Father’s so well -that a neighbour seeing her would say, “There goes your Aunt Lucinda, -boiled down.” - -I learned early to while away the long sermons by reading Sunday-school -books, Mother remonstrating, but often ignoring the practice, for it -lightened her duties--she was thus sure of one of us being quiet during -services. If not reading, Arthur and I were bound to titter at Kate’s -pranks. - -“Who is this?” she would whisper, then pull down her face like old -Aaron Wilson in the side pew, or again like Brother Schermerhorn, or -saintly Sister Brown, or lugubrious Sister Stiles. She could look like -any of them in a jiffy, and we would nearly explode, while she was -tickled to get us in such an uncomfortable plight. Mother was often on -pins and needles lest we laugh outright in church. - -Sometimes it would please the minx to assume a demure, reverential -air throughout the entire service. Then we almost went into spasms. -She would turn the leaves of the Bible, rise, bow her head, and sing; -would place a hymn-book behind her, as the good sister in front of -us did, halfway through the sermon, to ease her back; would use her -handkerchief in a grown-up way--all apparently unaware of her giggling -brother and sister, except when she would turn upon us a pained, -reproving glance--usually the last straw for the poor camels. - -I kept up the habit of reading during services till the pastor -mentioned it so pointedly in Sunday School that I had to stop. When -the sermons interested me, I no longer cared to read. I recall three -of our ministers who were liberally educated for pastors in small -churches. One, in particular, a Scotch-Irishman, was an original -thinker, emotional, with a tumultuous Carlylean eloquence. He preached -remarkable sermons. Father and I followed his thought, I think, more -closely than any one else in the congregation. He seemed to feel this, -too, addressing us almost personally, sure of sympathetic attention. -Many of his stolid hearers had no idea “what he was driving at.” -Sometimes he would labour so to bring forth his thought that it was -painful to watch him--it was as though his mind was laid bare. Carried -away with the grandeur of a conception, he would wrestle with it, -conquer it, and finally unfold it. His influence on my mental and -religious nature (I was seventeen then) was unquestionable, but -unsettling, seeming to increase the chaotic state of my mind; at least, -it was during his “dynasty” that I became so unsettled--doubting and -trying to think a way out of the inconsistencies I was continually -coming upon. - -But earlier wanderings in the old paths claim their share in this -backward glance. Tenting at camp-meeting (Auburndale), perhaps four -times in all--not four years in succession, for that would have been -too great a boon--was a keen pleasure of our childhood. How we felt the -deprivation of the blank years! What a homesick longing for our tent in -the woods when the August days came round! The woods were perhaps five -miles away. It seemed a long journey. What fun to see the wagon piled -with bedding, furniture, and tinware; to see kettles dangling below; -to hear the rattle as we sat a-top of the heterogeneous array! Then -the ride along the sunny country road to the camp-grounds! I wonder if -a part of my fascination for gypsy wagons and the life of the Romanys -isn’t due to our own gypsying in the camp-meeting woods. - -Mother usually shared a tent with a certain good sister, an -old-fashioned fat countrywoman who was very devout and who made good -cookies. We liked her best for the last quality. - -How our hearts swelled as we neared the grounds and saw the high board -fence enclosing the sacred woods! Going nearer, we heard the singing as -the sound rose through the trees. The preacher’s stand, and the tents, -were down a steep hill from the road along which we came. Jumping -from the wagon, we would go in at the little gate, for the team had -to go a long way farther to enter the big gate. Wild with delight we -bounded down the hill, shouting a greeting to the lame gatekeeper and -taking care not to trip on the long roots extending into the path. Our -exuberance was always checked, partly by admonitions from our elders, -partly by the spirit of the place--there was something in the sight of -those white tents among the trees and the voices of song and prayer -floating up to us that in themselves held us in check--but ah, the -smell of the woods, and the realization that we were to dwell there for -ten blissful days! Did ever children have a more beautiful experience? - -Then the hunting for our tent-site, the scrutiny of its -surroundings--its relation to the various places of interest; the fun -of getting settled; of seeing the stove put up; the tent raised on its -wooden platform; Mrs. Van Aiken’s queer little cord-bedstead set up; -and the funny makeshifts of housekeeping that Mother and her tent-mate -would devise. The mere sight of a familiar kettle or a “spider” hung -on a tree at the back door, the improvised wash-bench with leaves from -the beech trees falling on the soap-dish and into the water as we -washed--these simple things provoked the most delightful sensations and -made us so happy, so happy! It is a delight just to stop and think how -happy we were. - -In the morning there were the walks after milk to a neighbouring -farmhouse, and the smell of the breakfast cooking under the trees as -we returned. Mrs. Van Aiken’s fried pork and warmed-up potatoes made -our mouths water; we liked her best when she was doing these things. As -the day wore on she got absorbed in sermons and religious experiences, -and became “teary” and lugubrious, making us feel our unregeneracy at -the bubbling of our spirits; it was bad enough at dinner time, but at -supper--_Whew!!!_ At breakfast, however, she was livable and human. -Mother was sufficiently zealous, often uncomfortably so, but not -unbearably so, as was Mrs. Van Aiken when the religious leaven leavened -the whole lump (and she weighed near two hundred). But she did make -good fat cookies, bless her heart! She scowled if we lingered on the -way with the milk, and there was so much to make us linger, even with -breakfast at the end! Ah! the smell of the woods in the early morning! -There were the places deep in the woods where we were not supposed to -wander, but where we did sometimes wander later in the day in quest -of mandrakes (they made us sick, but we never ceased to seek them, -the sickish yellow things!). There were the yellow-jackets’ nests, -our especial bane--one year a troop of us, Sister in the lead, while -exploring forbidden territory, suddenly plunged into one of those -miniature hells and were beset by those flying fiends. Such howling as -arose from our savage breasts--the Methodist shouting was for once in -the shade! Six tortured little beings ran screaming to their tents, -half-blinded from swelling faces. Pandemonium reigned. Sister and the -Presiding Elder’s boy were stung the worst; her eyes were swollen shut; -her face was unrecognizable; she was frightful to behold, and her -hands looked like Mrs. Van Aiken’s fattest cookies. I was stung only a -little, but enough to know why the others howled so. - -We liked to jump from bench to bench in the large circle in front of -the preachers’ stand, when it was not sermon time, but some pious -brother or sister would usually come along and tell us to stop. -Sometimes Willie Ives, the Presiding Elder’s son, would creep up to -the pulpit and exhort us eloquently, but such pleasures were quickly -curtailed, and we were made to feel the meaning of the formidable word -“sacrilege.” - -It was the custom of some to sing the blessing at breakfast. Hurrying -along with our milk-pail past the tents, we would hear men’s, women’s, -and children’s voices mingled as the family gathered around their -tables singing to the tune of “Doxology”: - - - We thank thee, Lord, for this our food, - But more because of Jesus’ blood; - Let manna to our souls be given-- - The Bread of Life sent down from heaven. - - -This usually had a subduing effect, as did the voices at family -devotions which issued through the tent-openings. But we were little -pagans after all, and many a time did not resist the temptation to -pluck at a woman’s skirt, or punch a foot, as we caught sight of them -under the half-rolled tent folds, while the occupants knelt in prayer. - -Not compelled to listen to the long morning and afternoon sermons, -except on Sundays, we had to attend evening services or go to bed. But -there was much to make them endurable, especially if a certain woman -“got the power.” And, anyhow, the scene was impressive out there in the -night, the tents gleaming in the distance, and the hymns and petitions -echoing under the trees. - -We went willingly to the Children’s Meetings, held after dinner in -a huge tent with its carpet of straw. Certain brethren and sisters -would address the children. Many an infant convert would “go forward” -amid great rejoicing. The singing and childish “experiences” were -interesting, though then our religious natures were fortunately but -slightly aroused. I would choke up and cry softly sometimes, but was -not deeply moved--the woods being a powerful rival at that early age. - -But one dear old lady (she seemed old even then) I always loved to -hear. She would come in at the side of the tent, Bible and camp-chair -in hand, stoop under the tentfolds, wade through the straw, which would -cling to her black skirt (the smell of straw always reproduces this -scene), place her blue Brussels camp-chair in front of us, and open -the meeting with, “Now, Children.” I can’t remember what else she used -to say, but that “Now, Children” was so intimate and confidential--not -sanctimonious like many who addressed us. Her voice was rich with -emotion, but controlled, so as not to make her listeners uncomfortable. -(Those good sisters whose voices were on the ragged edge of tears used -to irritate me; it seemed indecent; even in my most devout days I never -overcame my repugnance toward those who “went to pieces” when giving -testimony.) What she said to us day after day I forgot years ago, but -her face, her kindly comprehensive glance, and the inflections of her -voice became a part of my consciousness, deeply fixed in memory. - -Years later, soon after entering the hospital where my work has since -been, the poor soul was brought here as a patient. Going on the wards -one morning, note-book in hand, eager to take the history of the -patient admitted the previous night, I found dear old Sister Mifflin, -the same who had exhorted us at Children’s Meetings years before--no -older, it seemed to me, only more broken, pitiably broken. - -How the scene at Auburndale came back at the sight of her face, the -sound of her voice! She was just a feeble, whimpering old woman to -the others, but to me she was those dear, dark woods with the white -tents, the holy songs, Mother, Sister, Brother--Childhood! Such a -flood of recollections surged through me that I could only attempt a -few words of consolation and postpone my case-taking till under better -control. But I told her where I used to know her, and she brightened -pathetically at the word “Auburndale.” And here she was now, a child -among other gray-haired children who had lost their way, while the -Drumlin Child, whose feet she had tried to lead in the old paths, was -henceforth to guide her faltering steps to the journey’s end! - - -I remember the last time we tented at Auburndale an instance of -Mother’s watchful care that humiliated and incensed us then, but for -which I am grateful now: We were probably fourteen and fifteen years -old when, one evening, Sister and I and some other girls and boys -stole up through the little gate and outside the grounds to some -willows a short distance away. We knew it was wrong; the boys were -new acquaintances, unknown to Mother (sons of a man who later became -our pastor); besides, we were not supposed to go beyond the grounds -without permission. But with many misgivings we set out, feeling quite -like young ladies walking out with young men--a very delectable stolen -sweet we were nibbling! Sitting under the trees while the boys made -willow canes for us, tracing fantastic designs on them, we enjoyed -ourselves for a brief period. Presently an uncle of ours went by and, -greeting us, passed on to the camp-ground. The chatting and cane-making -continued. Twilight deepened, but it was still light enough to see -that which filled Sister and me with consternation and chagrin--Mother -coming down the road, bare-headed (in those days betokening great -haste) coming rapidly toward us, and--_with whips in her hand!_ - -With one accord we all arose and meekly followed her back to the -camp-ground. Something very like hatred stirred within us at the course -she had taken to show us before our new acquaintances that we were -still children and subject to her authority. Not that we questioned -her right to require us to return, but it seemed needlessly humiliating -to come after us with whips. I think we rebelled at her carrying the -whips, and that she finally dropped them. - -How crestfallen we all looked, the boys whittling the canes, and the -other girls probably seeing in ours a fate similar to their own! We got -a vigorous talking-to before we were sent to bed. Our uncle, it seems, -had alarmed Mother by saying that we were lounging under the willows -with a “lot of strange fellows.” This was a favourite trysting-place -for the young people whose devotion led them into these by-paths rather -than to the evening meetings. I can laugh now at our discomfiture and -at Mother’s wrath, but it was no laughing matter that August night so -long ago. - -I don’t know how old I was when I “experienced religion.” Reared from -infancy “in the nurture and admonition of the Lord,” there had been, -during childhood, a period of apparent indifference to such matters; -later one of acute interest; then the lull and reaction from the -excitement of a revival; then one of renewed and deepened interest, -followed by a gradual decline in religious observances, a creeping in -of doubt and unbelief; a period of acute suffering, extending probably -over three or four years (because I could no longer walk in the old -paths); then one of lonely wanderings in strange paths, till I finally -settled down to where I now find myself, though that state would be -hard to define. Of the length of these various periods, and the age at -which some of them occurred, I am uncertain. - -I was perhaps fifteen When I first became “converted.” There had been -premonitory symptoms a year or two before, at Auburndale, but the -real attack came one winter during a prolonged revival. Many of the -boys and girls “went forward” long before I did. Steeling my heart I -stayed at home and applied myself to my studies with increased zeal, -for Professor Durland, a Baptist, less carried away by the revival -than many others, although attending the meetings occasionally, had -talked wisely in school about religion, urging us to be temperate in -frequenting the meetings. He reminded us that all this emotion was not -religion, and that it was our duty as students to let nothing interfere -with our studies. I was impressed by what he said, but this religious -wave was sweeping over the town, and was hard to withstand. Two young -evangelists were there with gospel hymns, moving prayers, and engaging -ways of leading souls to the Lord. Every night witnessed the conversion -of sinners who, having groaned under the burden of the conviction of -sin, finally sought salvation. - -Night after night I studied at home when most of the young people -were thronging to the meetings; but finally I succumbed and went -forward, to the great joy of associates, parents, and friends. But -our principal’s admonitions still acted as a restraining force, and -kept me from yielding to the extreme emotionalism influencing so -many, young and old. Why, the girls got so they held prayer-meetings -at noon in an old stage-coach in the lumber-yard near the Academy! I -went once, but the incongruity so overcame my religious ardour that -I never went again. Still I was devout and had a pretty severe and -long-continued attack. My diaries at that time, were full of religious -yearnings and strivings. I read the Bible diligently, taking a “verse” -for guidance each day. I was religious in season and out of season. -After the revival had died down, many converts backslid, but with me -this religious experience was a steady thing, of varying phases, it is -true, but of tremendous importance for perhaps three years. - -During the height of the revival, when the other converts joined the -church, Sister and I, having been baptized in infancy, felt ourselves -defrauded of a part of the ceremony. So intent were we on being -baptized, we prevailed upon our parents, much against their wishes, -to consent to a repetition of the sacrament. Little sophists that we -were, we made it a point of conscience, our argument being the Biblical -injunction, “Repent and be baptized.” Baptized in infancy, before we -had anything to repent of, the cart had been put before the horse, and -we were not following the Scriptures. This view grieved our parents -who had given us to the Lord in holy baptism when we were babies. To -them it seemed wrong to set aside that sacrament for a later one, but -the strenuous converts, thinking they were acting from conscientious -motives, overruled parents and pastor. - -Of course “sprinkling” had been the form of baptism in infancy. Now -most of the converts were being immersed. Sister chose “immersion.” -There was still another form sanctioned by the Discipline, though -seldom used--“pouring.” This was to go down into the water and kneel -while the minister, dipping water from the stream, poured it upon the -convert’s head. As usual, seeking something distinctive, therefore -conspicuous (though quietly so), I chose to be “poured.” Not that I was -conscious of it then, but I see now that the desire to be different -from the herd was largely what influenced me in choosing that mode of -baptism. Moreover, I abhorred “immersion.” The sight of it outraged my -esthetic sense. It was such a sudden transition that I, as onlooker, -experienced: the gathering of the congregation at the water-side was -beautiful; the holy songs seemed more holy there; the black-gowned -pastor and the convert wading out in the stream while the hymn was -being sung; the pause, the solemn words; the yielding body as the -minister started to immerse the convert--up to this point the scene -filled me with religious awe; but from that point onward it was most -repellent--the convert’s rigidity and the struggle at contact with -water; the determined push of the minister, as he forced the resisting -head under water; and the gasping, snorting, drowned-rat appearance of -the victim when pulled out--all this was hideous. So I was “poured,” -and it was a beautiful ceremony. But many a time since I have regretted -setting aside the earlier sacrament so revered by my parents. And -yet, how can I regret it when I remember the strange, beatific mood -induced that day by the sacred rite? It lasted several hours. I have -never experienced anything like it before or since. It was hard to -come down to practical matters on reaching home. I went about helping -to get dinner in a kind of dream-state, eager to have the work out of -the way, so I could be alone and think over the beautiful solemnity of -it all. It was a real uplift of my introspective little soul, and very -beautiful while it lasted. - -Dressing myself that afternoon with great care, Bible in hand, I -visited a sick neighbour. She had a bad-smelling, untidy house which -I always disliked to enter, though often sent there by Mother with -delicacies. I think it was in a spirit of real self-sacrifice that I -required this of myself that day. Probably nowadays, under a similar -beneficent impulse, I should put on a suitable gown and go and clean -her house; but then I was under the spell of stories of pious maidens -who read the Bible to sick people. I can’t recall whether I actually -read to her that day, but do recall how the dingy house smelled. In -the door-yard was a bush of dainty pink roses, and, as she sometimes -told me to pick one, I hope she did then. It seemed queer that the only -place in town where those exquisite roses grew was in that unlovely -yard, amid those sordid surroundings. - -Religion was for a long time thereafter the guiding influence of my -life. Conscientious and devout, I was consumed with the desire to -be useful. Out of school I helped with the housework at home and at -Grandma’s, and helped Father in the Post Office. I do not recall much -recreation. Though sentimental, most of my sentiment took a religious -turn. - -The Presiding Elder and other clergymen were entertained in our home -during those years, and the silver Communion service was kept with us. -To polish this before Quarterly meetings was one of my duties; and to -prepare the bread in long strips for Communion, and in the little cubes -for Love Feast. One Communion Sunday, being indisposed and staying at -home alone, when the time came for the sacrament to be administered, I -read aloud the solemn service from the Discipline, sang, then knelt, -devoutly partaking of the bread and water (in place of wine). The hour -was a real means of grace to me. I have never divulged this before. -Much as it meant to me then, I find in myself now a tendency to -ridicule that strange little creature, and to wonder if it was not a -partial pose, albeit at the time she thought herself sincere. - - -I recall that during the revival at which I was converted Father -took an active part, though in a more moderate way than many of the -brethren and sisters. During the singing of gospel hymns, the workers -would go up and down the aisles and, by a sort of intuitive knowledge, -seek out those “under conviction,” urging the obdurate ones to go -forward and confess Christ. One night after they had sung the hymn -that begins tenderly: “Why do you wait, dear brother? Why do you tarry -so long?” the refrain being, “Why not, why not, why not come to Him -now?” the workers sought to lead the penitents to the Throne of Grace. -The crowded house, vibrant with religious fervour, the reiterated -invitation, the contrite sinners making their way forward, were -powerful appeals to others with whom the Holy Spirit was striving. As -the last words of the hymn died away, Father, stepping up to a certain -townsman, and putting his hand on his shoulder, looked in his face -appealingly and asked, “Why not, Wilbur?” I recall the man’s stern look -as he struggled for further resistance, Father’s quiet, persuasive -tones, and, at length, the actual yielding of the man’s body as the -tension relaxed, and they came down the aisle together, the man shaking -with sobs, while the happy tears streamed down Father’s face. - -One particular Love Feast stands out in memory. In fact I never -went to many; they were held too early in the morning. At this one -a loud-mouthed local preacher (whose reputed private life was much -at variance with his professed religion) held forth at great length -about the wrath of God, the fear of God, and the unending punishment -God would visit upon those who kept not his Commandments. He was a -burly, blustering man who worked himself up into a state of tremendous -physical excitement during exhortations. As he sat down, breathless, -with red, sweaty face and tumbled hair, Father arose and in a few -quiet words said that the God he worshipped was a God of love; that -he liked to think of the love, not the fear, of God. Beautiful and -memorable this recollection, and all the more so that Father so seldom -expressed his religious feelings in public, although he frequently -addressed the congregation at the close of the sermon, on financial -matters. It fell to him to stir up the people when there were extra -expenses to be met, church repairs to be made, and the minister’s -salary raised. Generous of time and money, he accepted the trusteeship -with the zeal that characterized him in whatever he undertook. Stating -concisely the needs, he would so plead with the congregation as to -stir up the apathetic members, sometimes fairly talking the money out -of the pockets of those whose purse-strings were tightly drawn. It was -a study to see him play upon the different ones by earnest appeal, -by gleams of humour, by eloquent pauses--his own enthusiasm, as he -announced the sums subscribed, egging others, and still others, on to -announce their grudging subscriptions. He should have been a lawyer. -What a special pleader he would have made! If he had been able to -exercise the same gifts in his own business interests, he would not -always have had to contend with the ogre, Economy. But there seemed -little self-seeking in him; his commercial spirit was never strong; his -zeal could not be aroused for personal gain, only for some Cause into -which he could throw heart and soul. I remember well his weary looks -after such sessions were over, especially if the needed amount had not -been raised. On reaching home he would unburden himself of scorn and -indignation at the parsimonious ones who had sat unmoved when the needs -of the Church were so urgent. - -Against the obnoxious local preacher before mentioned, Sister and I had -a special grievance: While standing one day on the creek bridge, when -he and some boys were below, fishing, we had heard him say an obscene -word as a fish got off his hook. Indignant to our finger tips, we -walked on, harbouring this in righteous wrath. And shortly after that, -when he was assisting the pastor at Communion, Sister and I tacitly -agreed to stay away from the altar rather than be ministered unto by -him. Noting our failure to commune, and meeting us on the street later, -he questioned us. Kate took the initiative but we were both terrible in -our wrath. We told him we did not care to take the bread and wine from -one who talked as he did on week-days. Astonished, he inquired what we -meant; concerned and uncomfortable, he seemed divided between wanting -to know and dreading to hear. Kate said she would not repeat such talk, -but that she heard it herself on the creek bridge when he was fishing. -He looked very cheap. Having reproved this whited sepulchre, the -offended misses went disdainfully on their way. I suppose that was the -least of his sins. I fancy he felt relieved that it was nothing worse -we knew about him. Later his conduct became notorious, but he never had -more inflexible accusers than those stern maidens who upbraided him -that Sunday. - -Another Communion service, probably before this, stands out vividly. It -was when I was having doubts and waverings about acceptance as a child -of God, when, in Methodist parlance, I was “falling from grace.” That -day, sitting through the service, seeing altar-full after altar-full -kneel, commune, rise, and “go in peace,” I had said to myself, “I -will not go.” Steeling my heart, I sat upright, conscious of Mother’s -questioning glances, but apparently unmoved. After the congregation -had communed, the choir-members went to the altar-rail, and as the -sparse gathering knelt there, and the last notes of the hymn died away, -instead of immediately passing the bread and wine, the minister and -the young evangelist paused to see if others would come. Although the -evangelist made a moving appeal, still was I determined not to go and, -anyhow, having waited so long, I was too embarrassed to go. The choir -communed and left the altar. It was the last chance. No, the evangelist -still stood there, and in a few earnest words besought any who were -hanging back to come. I knew he meant me, still I tried to withstand. -In conclusion he said, “While the choir is singing the next hymn, I -know God will soften your heart and you will come”: - - - “Just as I am, without one plea, - But that thy blood was shed for me, - And that thou bidd’st me come to thee, - Oh, Lamb of God, I come, I come!” - - -Melted by the singing, broken and contrite, alone I went and knelt -at the altar-rail. I can remember just how glad and gentle his voice -sounded; and how soothing it was as the evangelist placed his hand upon -my bowed head and prayed for the young sister who had tried in vain to -turn away the Holy Spirit. One other girl, moved by my example, came -sobbing to the altar, too--one who always followed my lead. - -In justice to myself I must say that there was no pose this time. I -did not want to be singled out in this way, for I abhorred betrayal of -emotion in public; to be the centre of a scene like this was painful to -me. Nevertheless, there was a great peace in my heart as I arose and -returned to our pew. - -When zealous young converts join the Methodist Church and “renounce the -Devil and all his works,” they give little heed to such renunciation, -only to learn later, as their religious fervour subsides, and -their social needs assert themselves, that the Discipline regards -card-playing and dancing as the works of his Satanic Majesty. I -remember when my sister was inveigled by some unconverted boys and -girls into playing cards, how I laboured with her with but poor -results. She refrained for a time, but soon again succumbed to the -pastime. It makes me smile to recall how long it took me to regard -those wicked-looking cards as an innocent amusement. Not caring for -them, however, they were never a temptation to me, and I found myself -distinctly bored when by the occasional playing of Hearts I declared my -independence. I never could learn Whist or Euchre. But dancing, because -more pleasurable, seemed more wicked; and, little by little, I yielded -to the seductions of the violin and the quadrille when, at an evening -party, dancing would form the wind-up. But I never learned to dance -well. Too self-conscious, the few times that I indulged in it in those -days I suffered so from remorse that it was a questionable pleasure. - -Toward spring, after the revival at which we had been converted, we -attended a party given by a boy whose father owned the Masonic Hall. It -was an innocent affair with dancing and light refreshments. I imagine -we were home in our beds before midnight. But a few nights later, at -a church sociable, one of the good sisters of the church, attacking -a group of us, berated us soundly for attending a dance in a public -hall, thus forsaking Christ and espousing the Devil and all his works. -Her unjust, intemperate, and tactless accusations made me regard the -whole matter more rationally than I had theretofore. Through gossip our -little party had grown beyond all recognition. It was characterized as -a public dance. Without any foundation whatever it had been asserted -that we had had supper at the hotel--a thing reprehensible in itself; -that wine had been passed; that Sister had tasted it, but that I had -refused it. Whoever had so falsified had done it skilfully, as Kate -was then more inclined to dip into the untried than I. But we had been -near no hotel, and did not know the taste or sight of wine, except the -unfermented “wine” used at Communion. - -This rigour of our church discipline concerning amusements which I -had come to regard as innocent pleasures, made me loth to continue -belonging to a body placing such strictures upon its members. Many -church members danced and played cards without compunction, but I was -strenuously opposed to belonging to anything to which I could not -heartily subscribe and obey to the letter. So when, a year or more -later, I left home, I requested that my name be taken from the church -books. Reluctant to accede to this request, the pastor urged me to take -a church letter, but I refused, determined not to begin my new life by -professing what I no longer believed or practised; I wanted to start -with a clean slate, since I no longer conformed to the rulings of the -church. - -Emancipation from the old teachings and beliefs came about gradually -and painfully. When first assailed by doubts as to teachings and -traditions formerly accepted unquestioningly, I had tried to talk them -over with Mother, but her unreasoning faith irritated me. Unable to -command my temper, I was narrowly and harshly critical; her devoutness, -her intuitions, her faith all irritated me, counting for almost nothing -with me then, when I wanted something to satisfy my reason; wanted -to reconcile the conflict between orthodox teachings, and the truths -of science as I was coming upon them in my studies. Moreover, I was -tenderly attached to the Old Paths, and Mother’s manifestations of -feelings I was trying to stifle only increased my intolerance. - -The church members no longer rent the same pews year after year. -Now when I go home I look in vain for the old families, or their -representatives, in their accustomed places. Scattered here and -there throughout the congregation, like lost sheep, I see a few of -the brethren and sisters who in the early days sat with us “under the -droppings of the sanctuary.” I would like to see them once again in the -places that knew them in those long-gone days; would like to sit with -Father and Mother in our own pew; join in the hymns, and once again -feel at home in the old church; for, however far I have wandered from -the old paths, they must always be sacred to me. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -“AS TWIG IS BENT” - - -The books one reads in childhood and youth are, of course, among the -most potent formative influences of those periods. My post-Mother-Goose -reading consisted largely of the Child’s Bible, later the Bible -itself, and the goody-good Sunday-school books, two or three of Miss -Alcott’s, and whatever else I could find in my browsings. How I -have cried over the Elsie books and rejoiced over the Gypsy books! -Mad-cap Gypsy Breynton and pious Elsie Dinsmore were real beings to -me. Sunday afternoons I would read by the west window with the door -leading upstairs at just a convenient distance, so that when I found -my emotions getting the upper hand, I could at one step open the door, -slip upstairs and weep in secret over the woes of my little heroines. -I thought the others had no inkling what that sudden plunge meant, but -my acute little sister soon learned, and one dreadful Sunday, when -I was making a desperate move for the stairway before the torrent -should burst, she called out mischievously, “Genie, what are you going -upstairs for? It’s warmer down here.” - -“Yes, Eugenia, it is too cold for you to sit upstairs,” Mother -intervened. With this sudden centring of attention on me at such a -crucial time, the clouds burst, the situation was revealed, and I -was permitted to go up and have it out. Bitter were my tears. It was -exceedingly painful to be seen thus moved. Such things should be -suffered in secret. When, shamefaced, I returned to the sitting-room, -Sister was not too deep in her book to shoot me a knowing glance, -though she had evidently been instructed to hold her peace. After that -I would feel the storm coming afar off. I learned to rise calmly; -to open the door with less precipitation; sometimes even making -an indifferent comment on leaving the room. So deliberate were my -movements, I flattered myself that no one suspected I was withdrawing -from the family circle in order to dissolve in tears. I would even -open a bureau drawer in hopes they would hear the sound through the -stove-pipe hole and think I had gone up after something. Oh, the poor, -thin artifices of childhood! Looking back and seeing how pitiful they -were, an added tenderness wells up within me for my parents who so -wisely and kindly refrained from letting me see that my little devices -were so ineffectual. - -There was no village library, though a Temperance Club supplied a -circulating one of which I availed myself till I learned to use the -Academy library. Then, too, I was a great borrower of books, although -we probably had more in our house than the average family in the town; -these I read over and over. “Robinson Crusoe” and “The Arabian Nights,” -I read surreptitiously in school. I revelled in “The Lady of the Lake,” -and “Aurora Leigh.” I was wont to combine reading and housework to the -detriment of the latter. While ironing sheets and towels I managed to -read at the same time, with long waits between the movements of the -iron--unless Mother came suddenly into the room, when I started up -briskly, sometimes having to fold inside a scorched place where the -iron had rested too long. Many a poem have I committed to memory at the -ironing-board. - -Father started to buy the American Cyclopædia when I was very young--a -big undertaking, for they cost five dollars a volume. The volumes came -slowly, but we rejoiced whenever a new one was added to the row. It was -annoying enough, though, to step up to the book case and find that we -had only got to O or P, when we needed volumes containing S or T. - -As a girl I had a pastime of my own, a kind of mental book-collecting: -Going along the streets I would say to myself, “What books will you -have from this house?--you may have any three you choose.” Then the fun -would begin. At Grandpa’s were “Timothy Titcomb’s Letters,” and “Bitter -Sweet,” and a queer little book called “Aristotle’s Masterpiece”; at an -uncle’s were Walton’s “Compleat Angler,” “Reveries of a Bachelor,” and -“Lewie, or The Bended Twig”; at an aunt’s was “Right and Wrong, or She -Told the Truth at Last”--a fascinating big, green-covered book that I -used to weep over, pitying the heroine entangled in an intricate web -of deceit. At another aunt’s were “Wells’s Science of Common Things” -and “Sexual Science; or Love, its Powers and Uses,” by O. S. Fowler. -I valued the “Science of Common Things” because it asked and answered -questions about a lot of things I thought I ought to know, and did not -know, and never could study out, even with the help of physics--always -a hard study for me; and I liked the book of Fowler’s because it dealt -with the alluring subject in a lofty and, as I thought then, scientific -way. At still another aunt’s “Pilgrim’s Progress” and Byron’s Poems -leaned confidingly against each other, except when I disturbed them. -Bunyan was the favourite then, and for that matter is yet. At the homes -of neighbours and friends were many coveted treasures--the Embury -Poems, “Physiognomy and Signs of Character” (this I borrowed for months -at a time), Moore’s Melodies, Longfellow’s Poems, Shakespeare, “Fern -Leaves,” and many more. I thought one man in town very literary because -he had all of E. P. Roe’s works; at one time “Barriers Burned Away” and -“Opening of a Chestnut Bur” seemed wonderful productions, and (I may -as well confess it) I adored the novels of Mary Jane Holmes. Though -forbidden to read them, I borrowed them of our slatternly red-haired -neighbour, devouring them on the sly. I read “Darkness and Daylight” -twice or thrice, and five or six others by the same author. The only -times I can remember Father’s voice raised in sternness to me were when -he caught me absorbed in novels by that wicked Mrs. Holmes. (Mother -told me he himself once sat up all night at a hotel to read “Lena -Rivers,” and that he had wanted to name me “Lena.”) - -Dr. Dio Lewis was born near our village. One of my schoolmates was -related to him (and one to the wicked “Mary Jane”--I, alas! had no -illustrious kin); she lent me two of his books: “Our Girls” and -“Chastity.” I believe I am indebted to them for a wholesome interest in -physiology and physical life, and for a sudden turning from forbidden -things learned in childhood. I think it was the reading of them that -engendered a repugnance to unchaste thoughts and conversation--a -repugnance that the majority of my schoolmates did not have, and that, -for a certain period, I did not have, for I engaged in talk and stories -and conduct that later made me blush to recall. After reading Dio Lewis -I can remember refusing to stay in the midst of girls who insisted on -telling improper stories. Many a time I have been ridiculed for my -uncompromising attitude, and many a time in later years have had to -check women in their recitals of such stories, though making both them -and myself uncomfortable by a seeming pharisaical attitude. I would -try to lessen the embarrassment by telling them that these things were -likely to come unbidden to the mind, polluting by unwelcome, unchaste -recollections our sweetest experiences--all of which I learned in the -Dio Lewis books. - -I recall this man’s once lecturing in our town; he was the first author -I had ever seen and I was somewhat disappointed to find him so like -other folk. On that occasion he confessed to some human weaknesses, -such as eating pumpkin-pie late at night--he, the High Priest of -Hygiene, lightly and shamelessly confessing this, when advice to the -contrary had been so clear in his books! In my ignorance of life I was -startled to learn that one could so earnestly preach one thing and so -lightly practise the opposite. I thought him somewhat of a fraud. I was -getting my eyes opened, and the light hurt. - -There was a time when I was under the spell of the poems of Emma -C. Embury, whoever she was. I borrowed a copy of her poems from a -neighbour who lent me the poems of Longfellow in quaint thin volumes; -but those of Emma C. Embury--how beautiful they seemed! Most of them -were sad; that was why I liked them: - - - Love’s first step is upon the rose - His second finds the thorn, - - -was the burden of one; of another: - - - The gathered rose and the stolen heart - Can charm but for a day. - - -I would improvise tunes to these verses when I could get away by -myself, preferably down by the creek in the heart of my big willow; -but if not there, then down in Grandma’s cellar, while she discreetly -stayed upstairs, never betraying by word or look her awareness of -anything going on below except the tiresome churning, for which she -pretended to pity me. Was she laughing in her sleeve all the time? It -would have hurt to know it then but would be a delight now if I were -sure that her hours of toil were lightened by quiet amusement at my -expense. - -Those sentimental, love-lorn pieces I affected at a time when my -days were so full of sunshine that I had to seek artificial gloom. -My greatest favourites among this melancholy poet’s verses were “The -Mother,” and “The Lonely One”--long poems, but I believe I could say -every word of them now, even without the aid of the churn-dasher. The -first pictured a young mother revelling in the beauty of her baby boy. -Then comes his illness and the harrowing scene as she realizes she is -to be bereft. As I recited the lines, I used to feel her rapt devotion -and her piteous grief. I identified myself with “The Lonely One” in -the same way--a love-lorn, unattractive damsel “on whose spirit genius -poured its rays,” who lived through the bitterness of seeing her hero -marry another, and then, his wife having died, turn to her for comfort, -entreating her love, just as Death was about to claim her: - - - She died, - Yet as a day of storms will ofttimes sink - With a rich burst of sunlight at its close, - Thus did the rays of happiness illume - Her parting spirit. - - -By this time my eyes would be suffused and my voice tremulous; but the -butter had come, and Grandma would come down-cellar and pour a little -cold water into the churn to help the butter “gather”; and despite Emma -C. Embury and her ill-fated maidens, I would drink copiously of that -most delicious beverage, butter-milk from Grandma’s little red churn. - -It was a heterogeneous lot of books that I read the last four years in -school--there was perhaps more system during the last two--and though I -had little discrimination myself, I was aggrieved if the interference -of parents or teachers took the form of anything more positive than -suggestion. - -How fascinating I found the historical novels of Louise Mühlbach! What -cared I if they were not reliable as history? I turned unwillingly -from them to Scott at the earnest solicitation of my teachers. The -“Correspondence between Goethe and Bettina” made a deep impression -upon me. I should like to see the identical copy I read; it opened up -a new world. And a translation of Faust by Agnes Swanwick, moved me -strangely. I copied favourite passages from it in a blank book, conning -them again and again. Faust’s apostrophe to the radiant moonlight -would put me in an exalted mood whenever I read it, especially the -latter part: “Oh! that I might wander on the mountain tops in thy -loved light--hover with spirits around the mountain caves, flit over -the fields in thy glimmer, and, disencumbered from all the fumes -of knowledge, bathe myself sound in thy dew!” I copied sentimental -passages in German script. I would have blushed to have it known how -much I liked this: - - - His stately step, - His noble form; - The smile of his mouth, - The power of his eyes, - And of his speech the witching flow; - The pressure of his hand, - And, Ah, his kiss! - - -But there was no one in my little world that answered to all these -things--somewhere, some day, I might meet such a being. I was in no -hurry. Enough to know that such things had been and would be again. -Poor little Dreamer! silly little Dreamer! and all the time she was -pretending, even to herself, that she did not care for love or lovers; -that they were never to be a part of her life; that she never wanted to -marry, never would; and that she meant to live a much more serious and -useful life than one of mere married happiness. - -It was a perverse, contradictory inner and outer life I lived at the -ages of sixteen and seventeen, yes, and on into the twenties; no girl -ever thought more about love and possible lovers than I, yet I felt -they were never to be really for me. Even my day-dreams had barriers -interposed. I wonder if this is not unusual--do not other dreamers -dream things as they want them--when everything can be rose-colour -for the mere wishing? Is it customary, I wonder, to let dark clouds -overcast the dream-sky? As I think of it, I wonder if it was not a -kind of prescience of what the reality would be. Anyhow, as far back -as I can remember thinking of these things, mingled with the whims, -sentimentalities, and insincerities of the adolescent period, was a -conviction of these two things: that love was the greatest, the most -wonderful thing in the world, and that there would be some barrier -always to my knowing all that it might mean. - - -Besides the books I read, I can trace other influences that had their -part in bending the twig in the way it was to grow. In the early ’teens -Brother and I helped Father in the Post Office, out of school hours, -an occupation profitable in many ways. I had much leisure there for -reading, was trained to accuracy and alertness in the office-work, and -learned a good deal about human nature. The requirements furnished a -needed corrective to my tendency to dream--I could still dream, but had -to _do_, also. It was a matter of pride between Brother and me to see -how rapidly we could distribute the mail; how quickly deliver it when -the box-numbers were called out; and how well we could remember just -what letters were in the General Delivery. - -I was vain, too. I can remember how gratified I was at occasional words -of approbation I heard concerning my efficiency; and when crowds of -men and boys would be standing outside waiting for the distribution -of the mail while Father, Brother, and I would be darting here and -there to put the letters and papers in the boxes, trying at the same -time to keep out of one another’s way, I would think with pride that -I was helping just as much as the others were; and what a “smart -girl” I was to be doing it, too. My cheeks would flush, and I felt a -diminutive sense of power: all these persons waiting for something _we_ -were doing; we held in our hands letters fraught with happiness, with -disappointment, with sorrow. I liked to have them crowd around and peer -at us through the windows and from the door in the rear that led to the -“store”; and when the work was done, and the public was at liberty to -inquire for mail, I just doted on reaching through the tiny window and -taking in the little green sign bearing the legend, “Distributing the -Mail.” And the self-centred Miss was aware just how her hand and wrist -must look as they reached through and lifted the sign from the hook -outside the window. (I forgot in cataloguing my unattractive “points” -to mention in extenuation that I did have a pretty arm and hand, and -actually discovering the fact myself, took a keen satisfaction in -the discovery. Perhaps this was not all vanity, as I am especially -susceptible to beauty of form and line, wherever seen.) - -In looking back upon my life it seems to have been a strange, -contradictory mixture of sincerity and duplicity. I longed, -passionately longed, for sincerity and openness, anything else tortured -me; and yet I can see how influences seemed always at work to foster -complexity and duplicity. - -To begin with, I was always fond of playing a part. Beginning as -children do, we played at ghosts. Wrapped in sheets at twilight, -we peered into the neighbours’ windows to startle them. But I soon -wanted something less crude. One day in my early ’teens, dressing as a -beggar, I went to the houses in our street asking for “cold pieces.” -At first it was a failure, as either I or the others would giggle and -spoil it all. Finally, stipulating that the others keep out of sight, -I went alone to the Widow Earle’s and told a pitiful tale, and the -unsuspicious old soul gave me a slice of her new bread, just out of the -oven. Blessing her, I hobbled away, munching the bread under my veil. -Soon we all scampered back in great glee, confessing to the widow, who -relished the joke far less than I did the bread--no woman likes to cut -into her warm bread, then to find she has been hoodwinked! No wonder -she was cross! - -Each time I tried something harder. One day when visiting in the -country, I dressed as a beggar, and going to a neighbour’s, while the -good housewife was in the pantry getting me something to eat, stole her -spectacles, took my food and went my way. Returning shortly after, with -the other girls, I delivered the spectacles to the incredulous victim -of my hoax. Then, in high feather I tackled a newly married elderly -pair at the next farm, concocting my story on the spot and enjoying -keenly their gullibility: I was destitute, was journeying afoot to my -daughter in a distant town, naming a town on the spur of the moment. -They asked my daughter’s name. Chancing to give the name of a new girl -who had come to school that week, I myself met with a surprise, for -the man said, “Why, _I_ know the Godfreys of Groton!” Quickly I begged -him for news of my daughter, and asked about her husband whom I had -never seen, catechizing him awhile, so he would let up on me, as their -questions were proving quite a tax on my ingenuity. As I sat there -after having lunched on pears and a glass of milk, which the deluded -couple had given me, the other girls, impatient at my long stay, came -down the road. The sympathetic farmer by that time was partly hitched -up to take me as far on my way as the next village. As the girls came -tentatively into the yard, my unsuspecting victims called out to them -to come and have their fortunes told, dilating on the wonderful things -I had told them. (I had done this to pay for my luncheon.) I don’t -recall how the revelation came about, but I soon stood confessed, a -sham beggar, while the man and his wife looked sheepishly at me, and at -each other, at the mocking girls and the half-harnessed horses. - -Graver instances of duplicity I have to record concerning a planchette -craze, rife in our neighbourhood when I was perhaps fifteen. Although -we had had a planchette in the house for years, and I had heard how -it was supposed to write, it had long lain neglected, none of us -showing either curiosity or credulity concerning it. Our planchette -was a heart-shaped piece of black walnut, large enough for the tips of -the fingers of two hands to rest upon. Mounted upon two gutta-percha -castors fastened to short brass legs, the third leg was formed by a -lead-pencil stuck through a hole in the apex of the heart. When the -right hands of two persons rest lightly on the planchette, the muscular -tremor, I suppose, makes the machine move over the paper placed -beneath. Some supernatural agency was supposed to make the thing reply -to questions asked by someone present. - -I can’t recall how we happened to start experimenting with it, but -during one winter, night after night, neighbours and friends gathered -at our house to watch the thing write. It was rather uncanny to see it -travel, fast for some, slower for others, not at all for certain ones. -After a time we detected crude attempts at words, but there were many -trials before any satisfactory results were obtained. - -I wish I could recall just how my part in it began, and how much -of my conduct was conscious deception, how much self-deception. My -impression now is that at first, especially, I was to a great extent -self-deceived, although that I was by no means wholly so, I am well -aware. At any rate, it gradually came about that the planchette would -write the best for me and a certain boy in the neighbourhood, but, he -being absent, almost as well if I was one of the operators. - -We were closely watched to see that there was no guidance of the -thing--that no perceptible movements of our hands or arms were made. -Sometimes they even blindfolded us, for there were always incredulous -ones in the company. These would take a turn at it, and would admit -that I did not move it; they were sure I did not. _But I did move -it_, whether consciously, with my muscles, or not, I’m not quite sure -myself. I know I determined what the answers were to be, and willed -that the thing should so answer; and, although there seemed to be -little opportunity for actually directing the movements without my -partner detecting it, I think I did do it, artfully and successfully; -and, little hypocrite that I was! pretended to be surprised at the -answers; or at a loss to make them out. Some of the others usually -deciphered the scrawlings, I helping out, occasionally, on a pinch; -and then we would all shout at the unexpectedness and aptness of the -replies. - -My parents never suspected me. As I think back on those times I see -how deep within my nature must have been the tendency to deception: of -all the crowd of young persons and adults that gathered around that -mysterious little instrument, I believe I was the only one at all -conscious of deceit being at work; and further, I believe I would have -been the last one to be suspected. My parents and the other adults -were intelligent persons, not prone to vulgar credulity; they did not -pretend to understand the writing, yet knew there was no spiritualistic -explanation--Mother would have burned the thing had any one said that -seriously, though we used to jest about the “spooks” making it go. It -was with living persons and issues that our questions dealt, and we -found it a fascinating amusement. - -I remember how they used to try to test it; how my parents would ask -names and things about family history that they thought no one in the -room but they themselves knew or remembered. One of these tests was to -ask for my maternal grandmother’s maiden name. It was usually spoken of -as Eunice Gear (her adopted name), but they forgot that I had noted and -remembered her romantic story, and knew her real name (Albro) as well -as I did my own. And here is where my double-dyed hypocrisy comes in: -I willed the thing to write “Eunice Albro” and, whether consciously or -unconsciously, I cannot now say, guided the movement of the machine in -the formation of the letters; but, watching it, as “Albro” was being -written, I cried out, feigning surprise, “Why, that isn’t right--it -isn’t writing Grandma’s name!” Father and Mother, watching eagerly, -hushed me up, and the thing wrote “Albro,” instead of “Gear.” Excited -and mystified, Father explained to the onlookers about Grandma’s early -abduction, adding that the children had probably always heard her -spoken of by the name of her foster parents. This was often cited as -the most signal triumph Planchette had to its credit. It was but one of -my many conscious intrigues with the little machine. Often, of course, -the answers were evasive or ambiguous, but I made them definite when I -could, and then they were very convincing. - -One night a young woman spectator asked a silent question. This -disturbed, but did not nonplus me. I knew she was having a love affair -whose course was not running smoothly, so made the oracle declare: - - - “_There’s many a slip_ - _’Twixt the cup and the lip_,” - - -and although she laughed it away and said there was no sense in the -answer, subsequent events showed that I probably hit the nail on the -head. Much later I learned that a real tragedy for her was going on at -that very time. And there was that poor girl depending on such flimsy -help as this for solution of her difficulties! I tremble when I think -what indirect harm such practices may work--palmistry, and other occult -things--with impressionable, uncritical minds, swayed powerfully by the -hit-and-miss guesses of these worthless oracles. - -This craze continued all one winter. It was great fun, but I wearied -of it after a while. And what makes me know that I was more than -vaguely conscious of my own deception is that on “experiencing -religion” I changed so in my feelings about the pastime. After that, -when planchette-writing was proposed, I recoiled from it, refusing -or evading requests for the experiments, and somehow finally managed -to put a quietus on the career of the little instrument. I think I -even appeared to comply with their requests occasionally, but did -not will the thing to write, and, several failures dampening the -interest, the thing was dropped--Planchette was again relegated to the -upstairs closet. For years I never came upon the little heart-shaped -affair without a feeling almost of nausea at the part I had taken -in the mysterious writing. Thereafter it was painful to hear others -recounting, in good faith, the wonderful things it had done. - -Harmless as were these pastimes on the whole, it is in their deeper -significance that the gravity lies. They betray innate and grave faults -of character--a capacity for artful duplicity which grew by what it fed -upon, each triumph leading to other, more elaborate experiments. How it -would pain my parents to learn that I had been such a gay deceiver when -they thought me a demure little mouse! The experience has shown me how -easy it is, too, to delude one’s self, as well as to dupe others. I can -see how “mediums,” and all who deal in occult matters, may evolve into -veritable frauds, though starting out in the utmost good faith. - -For some years after most of the girls wore bangs or curled their hair -I resolutely refused to do it, on the ground that it was artificial. -Though longing for wavy hair falling softly over my high forehead, -I would not curl it--it was false, the whole idea was wrong; Nature -had denied me natural curls, and I would suffer the sight of my plain -face in the glass rather than employ artificial means to relieve its -plainness. But--when about seventeen, I did begin to curl my hair, -my awakening feminine instincts, I suppose, getting the better of my -principles, such as they were. I disapproved of artificial flowers, and -for years would not wear them on my hats; but there came a time when -I weakened in this, though the flowers must be of the best--the most -natural-looking to be had. - -I can see now a significance back of these seemingly trivial things: -they reveal an unenviable complexity of nature. In first one thing, -then another, I have stood out against conforming to customs, if my own -ideas of right and wrong prohibited me, but alas! so often has come -the ultimate defeat--concessions to conventions, customs, overpowering -circumstances, or instincts. And, when finally yielding to that so long -withstood, I have pursued the opposite course with an almost equal -determination to make a success of the counterfeit; to give, as far as -possible, an impression of genuineness. If I curled my hair, the curls -must be as natural as possible. And the same principle has been carried -into less trivial matters. A legitimate outlet for my ingrained mimetic -and dramatic tendency would have been the stage. - - -When as a child I had sat on my father’s lap and coaxed him to tell -me where I came from, I had no idea of the correct answer to my -question. Though I do not remember how he answered me, I think I -may have persisted in my query because I was beginning to see the -inconsistencies and absurdities of the stories told me, but this is -purely conjecture. I remember the older schoolgirls telling me strange, -incredible things for a time, then later, one dreadful day, explaining -more correctly the real origin of babies. Shocked and horrified by -their talk, I opposed a prompt and stout rejection. It wasn’t so, I -knew it wasn’t so. Laughing at me, they adduced further proof. I tried -to pull away and get out of the room as I hotly declared, “It isn’t so, -I know my father and mother never----” and I choked with indignation. -They evidently enjoyed the torture they were inflicting. I was like -a hunted hare, and half my fright was doubtless due to the growing -conviction that _it might be true_. One girl pulled me back as I tried -to escape; then braced herself against the door while I faced her in -impotent rage and shame. And another informer taunted, “Little Fool! -you wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t true--your father and mother ain’t -any better than anyone else’s.” - -This was such a bitter experience that I have always felt strongly -the need of early satisfying these inevitable queries of children by -true, if partial, explanations, thus forestalling their enlightenment -in the brutal way it came to me, associated with impure, repelling -interpretations. - -For some months preceding the time of passing from girlhood to -womanhood, I stayed with Cousin Prudence, helping her with the -housework, and going to school from there. Fond of her, I was, too, -more docile in learning from her than I was at home. She was a married -old maid. “Prunes and prisms” was her watchword. Her house was in order -from top to bottom; she could tell on just what shelf, in which box, -in which corner of said box, a given article lay; and whoever helped -her had to observe a like care. She was not at all well and did almost -nothing but to help with the baking. I pitied her, and she managed to -get a lot of work out of me for this reason, and also because she had -tact, and convinced me of the vital importance of attending thoroughly -to the infinite details of housekeeping. From her throne on the couch -she would issue gentle commands and endless queries, and she had an -uncanny way of ascertaining if I slighted anything. But in justice I -must say I was conscientious in carrying out her exacting requirements. - -Methodical to a degree, it was not enough that her minute directions -were followed to the letter; she could not drop it there. When, tired -out, I sat by her couch to rest, I would have to listen as she would go -over and over the things that had been done, and the things I was to do -on the morrow. She nearly broke my back, and To-morrow’s too. Saturday -nights were trying times, for she doted on rehearsing all that had been -accomplished through the day, and all that we had in the house to eat -for over Sunday. Her husband was a prodigious eater, and she wanted -to make sure we would not run short. Then, too, it seemed to make her -more a part of these things if she could ring the changes on them; so, -pitying her helplessness, I humoured these foibles that I now know -bordered on morbidity: - -“You said you swept off the back porch to-day, dear? I always want it -clean for Sunday.” - -“Are you sure you scoured the tea kettle--nice and bright?--yes, I’m -sure you did. You won’t mind if Cousin Prue asks you about these -things, will you?” - -“Are the potatoes pared for breakfast? and covered with water, dear? -Because, you know, if some are out of the water they get black--yes, -you are sure, I’m glad of that.” - -“Let’s see--there are four loaves of white bread and two of brown, or -is it only three and a half loaves of white? And there is a jar of -sugar cookies, and part of a jar of molasses cookies; and you said -there was a whole loaf of ginger cake? and some--there _is_ some, dear, -isn’t there?--of that one-two-three-and-four cake; you know Uncle--I -should say Cousin Richard--is so fond of that; and there are--how many -pies are there, dear--one lemon, and two apple pies? and about how much -of that custard pie did you say there is left?” - -Oh, how weary I got of her endless talk about these matters--the things -themselves were bad enough, though I didn’t mind them so much (only I -_did_ get very tired). I was willing to wash and rinse the dishcloth -till it was sweet and white as a handkerchief, but did not like washing -and rinsing it over again after I got back to the sitting room. I -was always tempted to shirk polishing the stove, but she was sure to -detect it, or I dare say I should have slighted it more frequently, -for I never liked to soil my hands. But she had a way of commending me -that recompensed a good deal; and if there were criticisms, they were -tactfully made: - -“Dear, when you have rested a little I wish you would stand the broom -up the other way, you know it wears out sooner to rest on the splint -end.” - -“You dusted behind the mirror carefully, didn’t you? but when you get -up, won’t you just straighten it a wee bit?” - -“Now, after you have had a good rest, won’t you sweep off the -sidewalk?--I see the leaves have fallen a good deal to-day.” - -I pitied her, and I was meek in those days, but I marvel now at my -long-suffering. She was unhappy, but tried to conceal this, making -pitiful excuses which I saw through. Later she knew that I divined her -troubles, yet we each kept up a pretense of not seeing things as they -were. It was easier for her in more ways than one to have me there. I -learned later that that was why my parents let me stay with her. - -One day, calling me to her, with much preliminary talk, she said she -was going to tell me some things that I was old enough to know, which -my mother wished me to know. She then explained the mysteries of the -physiological changes of pubescence. My cheeks began to blaze. I -suppose she saw that she was late with her information, and, with less -than her usual tact, asked outright if I knew about it already; and I, -having learned it from older girls, along with forbidden things, and -thinking it something to be ashamed of, lied to her, pretending I did -not know what she meant. Of course she knew better, but not betraying -this, explained it all in a judicious, womanly way, divesting it for me -of the false shame with which I had come to associate it. That day, or -later, I broke down and confessed that I had known about it before, and -we were even better friends than ever after that. - - -It was about this time that a friend of my mother made a confidante of -me, disclosing deep wrongs endured through her husband, especially in -previous years. Whispering these cruelties to me, even when we were -alone in the house, she would interrupt her dramatic recital again and -again to make me promise never to divulge them, declaring her parents -would force her to leave her husband if they learned about it all. It -was a grave wrong to burden a young girl with this hidden sorrow. But, -nervous and sickly, she craved the sympathy I was ready to give; yet it -was a shadow which should never have rested on my girlhood. I think it -had no inconsiderable share in fostering in me the habit of duplicity. -Her husband was a moody, morose man, subject to spells of unnatural -gayety. Living with him was like living on the rim of a smouldering -volcano ready at any moment to belch forth. By the hour she would pour -into my ears circumstantial details of her husband’s cruelties--it -was like a thrilling continued story--then she would add, “But he’s -different now--you mustn’t lay this up against him, and you mustn’t, -for the world, let him see you mistrust him--Oh, Eugenie, don’t let him -see a difference in you. Swear, swear to me you won’t!” And I would -swear. And when we heard his step on the porch, we would begin to laugh -and chatter in assumed gayety, disarming him of all suspicion. Many a -time after such a recital, I have sat with them when it seemed as if I -must scream out and tell him I knew just how base he had been; but I -only went to the other extreme, becoming unusually gay and talkative, -while the artful little wife would chime in and egg me on. I learned in -watching her what a consummate artist in deception one can become; it -was a revelation to see her coaxing, conciliating manner to the tyrant -follow so closely her terrible disclosures to me. - -Happily, more wholesome influences were at work at the same time, -counteracting somewhat these sombre ones. I think I received a certain -intellectual stimulus from attending the debates of the lyceum to which -Father belonged--eight or ten of the townsmen met for years every -Saturday night in a lawyer’s office, debating in a spirited manner. -Though women and girls seldom went, they were made welcome. The last -year or two before leaving home I persuaded another girl to go with -me. She went to please me rather than because she liked it. Father -encouraged me in going. Although I really enjoyed the debates, I know -that a part of my pleasure was because Laura and I were the only girls -there. I liked the oddity of it, and was vain of the fact that I had a -taste in that direction. - -Those middle-aged men were much in earnest. There were several lawyers, -a doctor or two, our Professor, ministers, and a few non-professional -men, like Father. One lawyer, a hunchback, was very eloquent. His -smooth, melodious voice and engaging manner made one forget his -deformity. There was a “gentleman farmer,” too, a liberally educated -bachelor, very diffident, with halting speech. They had great respect -for his learning. How easily he coloured up on occasion! I think he -never felt quite so much at ease when we girls were present, but he was -very deferential to us. There were pompous men, testy men, humorous -men, taciturn men--in fact, as I recall the little club, I see it was -composed of very varied types; and therein, I suppose, lay a large part -of the interest for me, as I was always interested in studying people. -Often I had but little understanding of the questions at issue, but -even when these did not concern me, I liked to follow the arguments; -liked to see them pick one another up; liked the mental activity of -it all, just as when, in later years, my life-work calling me much -in the court room, I have enjoyed listening to the trial of even an -indifferent case. To hear the pros and cons, to see the intricate, -many-faceted presentation of the truth, gives me the same kind of -enjoyment I get from Browning’s “Ring and the Book.” Then, too, I was -proud of Father’s part in it all, his reasoning, so clear and forcible, -his humour so compelling, his enthusiasm so contagious! But he was -always partisan; whatever he took up, he espoused _con amore_. I come -honestly by my enthusiasms. - -At each meeting they appointed a member to report errors of grammar and -pronunciation. Father’s critical bent earned him the nickname, “The -Critic.” In time the schoolgirls dubbed me “Critic Junior”--an epithet -justly bestowed, I confess--it has always been easy for me to pick -flaws--to criticize myself relentlessly, as well as others. - -Another of the formative influences of this period was a literary -society organized by the young people. It started as a secret society, -“for the purpose of mental improvement, and the study of literature.” -We called ourselves the “W. B. S.,” guarding carefully the meaning -of these letters. I feel almost guilty now in revealing that we were -the “Would-Be-Somebodies.” It proved an interesting and profitable -association. Having no older person to direct us, we groped about and -attempted many ridiculous things; and we had to make concessions to -the less serious-minded; but our aspirations were genuine, and the -general effect of the society was beneficial. We began by reading -aloud “Lucile,” but all our selections were not so absurd. In time -we did some creditable work, reading and discussing good literature. -There were original papers, recitations, debates, music--enlisting the -talents of the various members. One winter we raised enough money to -hire a professor from Rochester University to lecture on geology, and -felt we were by way of being Somebodies then. On anniversaries there -were sleigh-rides and suppers--gay and happy times. - -My first glimpse of beauty in art I owe to the “W. B. S.” We went to -Rochester and visited Power’s Art Gallery. Until then I had seen no -statuary, no water colours, no etchings, no oil paintings of any merit. -The art with which I had been familiar was the sorry art to be found in -small towns--atrocious paintings and chromos, at the best a few good -steel-engravings. In these days, through reproductions, school children -in small villages become familiar with the world’s masterpieces; but I -was starved in this respect. - -I shall never forget the awe and wonder that came over me that day in -Power’s Art Gallery as we stepped into the room where the statuary -stood out against a background of dark plush hangings, while a sweet -low air was played by an orchestrion in an adjoining room. The place -was holy ground. I shall also never forget my disgust when one of -the girls brought me down from the sublime to the ridiculous: While -I stood gazing in rapt admiration at “The Genius of Art”--a wingèd -god carved from the marble, poised as though about to fly--the beauty -and aspiration of the figure holding me spell-bound, I heard the -stage-whisper of this irreverent girl: “He looks as if he hadn’t had -a square meal lately,” referring to the prominence of the ribs of the -beautiful creature. It took me years to forget that speech; it was such -a discord in this new harmony. I saw no humour in it then; now I rather -enjoy the picture my imagination paints--my transition from ecstasy to -detestation, and my struggle not to show her how she had jarred upon me. - -The names of the artists meant nothing to me, I cared only for their -works, looking long at what interested me. I remember especially “The -Gathering of the Potatoes,” a huge, sad painting that, as I recall -it, had much of the dreary realism I have since seen in “The Angelus” -and “The Gleaners.” The haunting sadness of that painting, the sombre -sky, the peasants in the foreground, the woman holding open the bag -while the man poured in the potatoes--they seemed to be counting -each one of the scanty store! The homely pathos of their lives moved -me then, and it all comes back to me now. There was much else that -moved me, but I was irritated, too, for that same facetious girl went -around nudging others and giggling over the complete anatomy of the -Cupids and Cherubs, frankly portrayed. I detested this singling out -of such things and talking about them. Prim as I was, I saw nothing -to object to in those charming figures; and it was painful to have -my enjoyment desecrated by these silly observations. To this day I -have no patience with persons who cannot view the nude in art without -low-minded comments (or thoughts) on what seems to fill their entire -field of vision to the exclusion of the work as a whole. I once showed -a vulgar-minded woman a picture of a beautiful, three-year old child, -nude--a thing so lovely I thought it must appeal even to her; but she -was scandalized at the pearl I had cast before her. She began a tirade -against “such things,” her unique argument being: “The sight of means -to do ill deeds, makes ill deeds done.” I thought that Shakespeare -would have risked his own curse and, moving his bones, would almost -have risen to confront her, could he have heard his lines so perversely -misapplied! - -A year or two after our visit to Power’s Art Gallery, I had my next -glimpse of art in Boston. But neither the Fine Arts Museum there, nor -those in other cities since, produced upon me the profound impression -that my first excursion into the world of Art produced. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -“BRED IN THE BONE” - - -Whether due to my reading, or almost wholly to observations and -conclusions, I cannot say, but I began early to feel the potency -of heredity; to lament certain tendencies in my kindred which I -saw cropping out in myself, and to realize the gravity of marrying -and having offspring. I saw my grandfather’s ungovernable temper -exaggerated in one of his daughters and in my brother; saw in myself, -though naturally of a mild disposition, a tendency to give away, on -occasion, to intense anger; saw queer traits in aunts and cousins that -frightened me; knew that tuberculosis had attacked some members of my -father’s family; that certain cousins on both sides were neurotic; that -my maternal grandmother had carcinoma; that a cousin was an epileptic; -and that on both sides were intemperate uncles--these were the chief -reasons contributing to my early, deep-seated resolution never to marry. - - -As a family, one trait which we have in common is intemperance, though -Sister is less so than the rest of us. My father would be surprised -to be charged with intemperance, for all his life he has waged war -against intemperance (in its restricted sense--the excessive use of -strong drink); but he has been intemperate in his zeal for the “Cause -of Temperance.” I remember the “Temperance Movement” in our village, -in my early childhood. Mother and other women went around to the -saloons praying and singing and beseeching the liquor dealers to close -out their business. I have heard them tell that when one obdurate man -finally yielded (pouring barrels of liquor into the street) there was -such rejoicing that staid citizens like my father threw their hats -in the air and shouted for joy. This was years before Father left -the Republican Party to espouse the cause of Prohibition--perhaps -long before there was a Prohibition Party. Of course the reform -wave subsided, the liquor dealers bought more whisky, and the curse -continued. But although that early warfare died out, Father’s zeal, I -might almost say his fanaticism, has ever been unceasingly directed -toward efforts to quell the liquor traffic. So it was not surprising -that, in time, ardent Republican though he was, he allied himself -to the party bent on fighting this evil. It is sad to think of him -expending energy on what seems to me a lost cause; but Prohibition is -no lost cause for him.[3] Logical and clear-sighted as he is, he seems -to me to take a one-sided view in this matter, and to be following a -chimera. He says Prohibition will yet prevail, whereas I feel that the -prohibition--the inhibition--must be in the individual himself. The -long years of character-building determine whether one shall succeed or -fail. Legislative measures, I fear, can never be effective for those -suffering from ingrained weakness, and dragged down by tyrannical -habits. But Father firmly believes that the good time is coming toward -which he labours unceasingly. - -Father’s excesses in minor matters also show the intemperance to which -I refer. I mention them only to show that in certain things I am a -“chip of the old block”: Many years ago he had the croquet craze. He -and other business men would play that silly game for hours. I recall -Mother’s disapproval and Father’s lame defence. She was not opposed to -a reasonable amount of playing; it was the intemperate, inopportune -indulgence that disturbed her. The same with chess and checkers. He -and his chess-loving friends pursued these with a fervour prejudicial -to business. Often when I have gone to the lawyer’s office where they -were wont to play, or in the back of Father’s store, I would find him -so absorbed that my timid request would remain long unnoticed. If some -other player would call his attention to me, his preoccupation was -such that I verily believe a moment later he did not know I had been -there. He contended that he never neglected customers for the pastime, -but Mother would tell him that his impatience to get back to his game -made him attend grudgingly to them, and that feeling this they would go -elsewhere. Of course he disavowed this, but it was true. - -I can see the same trait strong in myself. Given to riding my hobbies -hard, everything else is relegated to the background. I attend to all -else as expeditiously as possible that I may “return to my knitting,” -whatever it happens to be, though I do try to conceal my lack of -interest in the work at hand. Perhaps I flatter myself that I do, as -Father flattered himself; doubtless onlookers see that “my heart’s in -the Highlands chasing the deer.” For games I have cared but little, -except tennis--that draws me as croquet used to draw my father. My hand -itches for the racquet as his itched for the croquet mallet and the -chess-men, though it is not the ultimate winning I care so much about -as to make good plays, and have an exciting game--I get positively -despondent when I make a succession of poor plays, while with a good -audience, I can sometimes play a brilliant game. I can seldom remember -the score after the game is over. - -Many and varied have been the things I have taken up with an ardour -that, bred in the bone, persists in coming out in the flesh--tennis, -bicycling, amateur theatricals, the study of wild flowers, of the -birds, palmistry, handwriting and character, the Romany jib, the -spasmodic study of German and French--for the time these are the things -for which I live; incidentally I followed my profession. Perhaps I -deceive myself in thinking I have more moderation than my father. At -least I can see my tendency and attempt some self-discipline. There -is this marked difference between us: He makes himself believe what -he wants to believe, while the more I want a thing to be so, the more -I am afraid of being deceived into thinking it is so. I want to face -things as they are always; endure them, yield to them, or forego them, -as my will elects, or circumstances decree, but never to cheat myself -into thinking that they are so, if such is not the case. If Father -and I wanted to do a given thing, and the weather threatened to be -unfavourable, Father would be likely to scrutinize the sky, announce -that it was not going to rain, and start out hopefully; I should know -I couldn’t tell if I did scan the sky, but, with a strong feeling that -it probably would rain, would start out, in spite of misgivings, taking -the precaution, however, to carry my umbrella. - -Mother’s excesses take her into other fields: Always she has been a -lover of flowers; garden flowers and houseplants have been her hobbies. -How she would pore over the Vick’s catalogues, and stoop for hours over -her flowerbeds, and go miles to lug black dirt to enrich the soil! -Indifferent to sun, rain, heat, and cold, pulling weeds and caring for -her treasures, she would forget her rheumatic tendencies and the pain -that would make her groan outright when under a roof. As a young girl -it tried me sorely that she would do these things at such unseasonable -times, pottering in the yard in her old clothes when I wanted her to -look tidy in the afternoon. But what especially disturbed me was that -she would leave the dinner table standing to pursue her craze. It was -not so much that I objected to doing the dishes after school; if they -had been piled away in the kitchen, and the dining room put in order, I -believe I should not have said a word--it was that sickening feeling on -coming home and seeing the table just as we had risen from it that was -one of the real trials of my girlhood. I used to plead with her, but -all in vain. My training with Cousin Prudence had made me particular -about these things, but I should doubtless have been much the same -anyhow. I would urge how much more she would enjoy the afternoon if she -would give up a half hour to doing the work. I never could understand -her perversity in this, for she knew it distressed us girls, and, in a -way, seemed sorry. Many and bitter are the tears I have shed over the -dish-pan at five in the afternoon; and how ashamed I was if other girls -came home with us and saw the table standing! But, oh, joy! the nights -I opened the door and found the table cleared, and the work done! I -never failed to mention this delight, either, though I am sorry to say -I expressed the opposite feelings when the more accustomed sight met my -eyes. I purposely slammed things to make a commotion, so she could no -longer enjoy in peace her persistent weed-pulling. - -In those days I sometimes went down into the basement and banged an -old pie-tin around; this, though, not so much from anger as from a -feeling of inward irritation and pent-up energy--a desire to make a -racket. One day I made such a dent in a tin that Mother told me I had -better keep that one downstairs just for that purpose when the mood -came on. So whenever the desperate spell would come over me, I would -go down there and kick the old tin about; the cat would jump in terror -out of the window, and I’d bang away till the noise, the exercise, and -the absurdity of it all exorcised the demon, when I would go upstairs -flushed, relieved, and good-naturedly at ease. I suppose I did not have -enough play, and this furnished a needed outlet. Mother was wise to -indulge me in it--I often wish I had that pie-tin now! - -As to Mother’s habit of leaving the dishes, I used to quote to her, -“Parents, provoke not your children to wrath,” as I would tell her -how other girls’ mothers did. But she would only say, “Don’t touch -the dishes, I’ll do them--I only wanted to put in those bulbs,” or -“transplant that shrub”--“I only went out for a few minutes”; the same -old story--it never appeased me. I wonder now if it was not something -she was practically powerless to resist. She was not very well those -years; it was probably during a crisis in her woman’s life when she -had need of relaxation, and felt difficulty in concentrating on the -common round of duties. It was doubtless a salutary thing for her. Not -always flowers, in winter it was piece-work, carpet rags, or quilting, -pursued to the exclusion of regular tasks, and always from her the -lame excuses! It grieves me now to think how impatient and critical -Sister and I were because she would not conform to our wishes. Now I -believe she could not. Since then I have seen other women pushed on in -a similar manner by an imperative need of some absorbing diversion, and -have come to regard it as a safety-valve at certain periods in their -lives. Mother was not a poor housekeeper in the ordinary sense; she was -neat and fastidious and a good cook; her house was sweet and clean -from top to bottom--this of which I speak was a surface disorder, due -to lack of method and to postponing things, the neglect of which gave -a cluttered appearance to kitchen and pantry which sorely tried my -methodical soul. - -I have heard Mother plead with her mother, in much the same way (only -more kindly) that Sister and I would plead with her--concerning -Grandma’s queer way of doing her work. For example she would put the -scouring-board on the floor to scour her knives. But she could not -persuade her to adopt the easier, rational way. We wondered, when -Mother would marvel at Grandma’s obstinacy, why she could not see that -she, in turn, was equally obstinate. - - -One of Mother’s sisters was such a strenuous housekeeper that she lost -sight of what it means to make a home, so intent was she on having -things immaculate, and in maintaining a painful orderliness from cellar -to garret. The habit grew on her in later years. I can remember when -she used to get up delicious dinners at our family reunions, opening -her house with real hospitality; but a few years after her late -marriage to a widower with a large family, her peculiarities developed -and, taken with a captious disposition and shrewish temper, made her a -trying person to deal with. Yet she had a generous nature and could not -do enough for one at times. But let some little thing displease her and -a tantrum would result; she would twit the one at whom she was enraged -of every trifle she ever gave him and would rake up every little and -big grievance against him. These tirades would be as likely to occur -on the street as elsewhere. We learned not to cross her, even if she -made statements that we knew were wrong; for to disagree with her was -to see the fur fly. Yet how amiable she was to strangers--to everyone, -for that matter, when in her good moods! and she was kind at heart, -even to those she would on occasion rake over the coals. Mother could -not bear to have us criticize her. “I know--I’m sorry, but it’s her -way, you mustn’t stir her up,” she would say. She was a woman of keen -intelligence, well educated, public-spirited, and with a distinct gift -for composition. She dressed much younger than her years, with a marked -individuality in dress. In later years she seemed obsessed with a love -of fine clothes, which she kept in a wardrobe full to overflowing, -wearing her plainer ones as a rule. - -Another queer aunt, perhaps in the late thirties, also married a -widower--such a timid, docile creature that we children wondered how he -ever got up spunk enough to propose to Aunt Ann. Though having marked -peculiarities, she had a keen, quick mind and a phenomenal memory. She -was very obstinate. - -It was years before we children learned of the skeleton in her house. -We knew that when visiting her, Mother took along sheets, towels, etc., -but supposed it was to save work for Aunt Ann--the excuse usually -offered. Later we learned that, spic and span as was her house in -general appearance, and neat as she was about her cooking, she had an -unheard-of peculiarity in that she never did any washing nor had any -done. This queerness must have grown on her in middle life. At the time -I learned of it, her washtubs had fallen down, and her flatirons were -covered with rust. Shrewd as she was in concealing this singularity, a -close observer could discern abundant evidence of it. We learned that -Mother had laboured with her all to no purpose. So Sister and I decided -to make Aunt Ann a visit and see what we could do to effect a change. -Talking about it at first with our uncle, we told him our intention. -He said it would do no good, and that it would not be safe for him if -she knew he had discussed it with us. He startled us by saying that -she had a violent temper, and had often berated him so loudly that -the neighbours heard her; that she had even used profane language and -threatened his life--she, a regular church-goer and apparently an -exemplary woman! - -“She can’t help it, she’s crazy,” the husband said. This seemed so -incredible that we almost thought him the crazy one; still, there were -these incomprehensible things which we knew _were_ true, and the others -might be so, too. - -As Aunt Ann took pride in us and our pretty clothes, we conceived the -plan of appealing to this pride to bring her to terms, an invitation to -a neighbourhood party hastening our preliminary attack. That afternoon -she had said, “Girls, you will wear your velveteen dresses to-night?” -We would, we agreed, if she would let us do her washing the next day. -Bridling up, she said she guessed she could do her own washing when she -needed to. This gave us the opening. Beginning guardedly, not letting -her know that we knew the extent of her negligence, we said we knew -she was not strong, and we wanted to help her. But as she persisted -in saying that nothing needed to be done, we were obliged to instance -this, and that, that were so obvious; and finally laid all pretense -aside. Yet, when confronted with the facts, she stoutly maintained that -everything was as it should be. Then we told her how ashamed we were; -how Grandma and Mother grieved over these queer ways; and how it was -the talk of the neighbourhood. We said we did not care to go to any -parties there, or to church, or anywhere, when one of our own flesh and -blood was such a disgrace to us. Then we threatened to leave her, never -to come there again, unless from that day she would do differently. - -It was a tragic afternoon--that middle-aged woman convicted of these -unheard-of things, and berated by her nieces whose family pride was -stung, yet whose affection for her persisted in spite of it all. We -were baffled and bewildered by her conduct in the first place, and her -inaccessibility to reason in the next. She attempted no defence; would -not meet our arguments; would declare things that were so were not so, -till repeatedly confronted with them; then would stand there, sad-eyed, -like a creature at bay, sometimes darkly hinting, “You don’t know, you -can’t understand.” - -“What is it we can’t understand? Tell us, let us try,” we urged. -Convinced that there was a dread mystery somewhere, we tried in vain to -fathom it. Was there some terrible thing concerning the poor-spirited -uncle about which we did not know? But all the time we would come back -to the thought that nothing, _nothing_ excused this strange conduct. -We cried, we pleaded, we threatened, we entreated; she would not -promise to mend her ways or even admit that they needed mending; yet -with a strange insistence showed as much persistence in urging us to -go to that party and wear our velveteen gowns as we showed in urging -her to begin a radical reform in this matter of household management, -concerning which there could be no two rational opinions. - -In the heat of argument, and knowing her strong interest in church -affairs, I said, “Why, Aunt Ann, how _can_ you do as you do? You know -the Bible says that ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness.’” Her eye -lighted in triumph, and quick as a flash she retorted, “That isn’t -in the Bible, you can’t find it in the Bible.” For a minute I was -chagrined, and she harped on it unmercifully; but I finally told -her it ought to be in the Bible, if it wasn’t; after which I railed -against the kind of Christianity that would let one teach a class in -Sunday school while leading such an unclean daily life. Sister and I -alternated between righteous indignation and crying for shame. Aunt -Ann seemed to harbour no resentment toward us but remained unmoved. I -am convinced now that there was some delusional development back of -those strange ways; yet those who knew her then, and who have known her -since, who see her only as she appears when out among folk, would say -one must be crazy to suggest that she is not in her right mind. - - -All this gave me an ominous feeling as to my inheritance. It also -served to make both Sister and me extremely fastidious in matters of -personal neatness. We made a kind of god of cleanliness from that -dreadful afternoon when we realized that one of our own kin had -developed these strange ways. I resolved that whatever else heredity -developed in me, I would steer clear of that particular line of offense. - -We made good our threats and soon left our Aunt’s to visit a cousin in -the same village. While there I was invited by a young man to drive -out one Sunday evening--my nearest experience to having a beau. I was -pleased but embarrassed. I was probably then seventeen. Rallied by my -cousins before I went, I was laughed at unmercifully on return, early -in the evening, because I had not invited the young man in to call, as -he evidently expected I would. During the drive, when I had mentioned -my plans for further study on leaving school, he had questioned the -wisdom of them, saying a woman should choose no career that would -interfere with her home life, as that assuredly would, if followed. -“But I am not going to marry,” I promptly announced, and then how he -“squelched” me! - -“Don’t ever be heard saying that again. When a young girl says that, -it is either because she is so ignorant of life that she doesn’t know -what she is talking about, or else she says it for effect and to be -contradicted.” I think he added that he did not believe I meant to -be insincere; but I felt his rebuke keenly. My cheeks flamed at the -suggestion that I might be saying this for effect. I suppose I did -think it was “smart” to be different from the other girls, though -beneath this was a settled purpose. His advice stung me, but taught me -a lesson. Since then I have been guarded in expressing my intention in -this respect, but my attitude has never changed. - -As a family all five of us have alike a strong love for children. The -others have the natural outlet for it which I have never had, and early -knew I should never have. I was perhaps sixteen when I discovered how -strong this feeling was in myself. A friend of Mother’s was visiting -us with her two-year-old child. We girls were planning to go out that -evening for a frolic, but just before starting I had taken that baby -in my arms, and the delicious feeling I had as he nestled up to me -acted like a charm. In spite of the coaxing of the girls I stayed at -home. Left alone in the house, I had a precious hour holding that baby -and singing him to sleep. After all the years, that evening stands out -as a blessed experience, but even then I believe I was more sad than -glad. Possibly I am mistaken, but I think I felt convinced then that no -child of mine would ever nestle in my arms. I remember my voice broke -as I sang to him. The experience was too sacred to repeat. I have never -mentioned it before. - -Not long after my sister’s first child came (several years later -than the foregoing incident) I dreamed of being back home, and that a -neighbour boy, running through our yard, in reply to some remark which, -on waking, I could not remember, called out derisively, “Genie’s baby! -you mean Kate’s--who ever heard of Genie’s baby!” (Dream analysts would -find in this a good example of wish-fulfilment.) That dream marked an -epoch in my woman’s life. I realized then and there, how acutely only -a childless woman can know, that I should never be a mother. Till then -I had given the subject but little thought. Occupied with my work, and -having known from girlhood that I should not marry, yet the knowledge -of this other thing came to me like a stab--never a baby of my own! And -then I knew that, fill my life with whatever work and interest I might, -nothing could compensate for missing this supreme joy. - -The positive notions I held as to heredity, the traits and diseases -in my kindred which I took so seriously, the disagreeable and morbid -tendencies I noted in myself, had, as I have intimated, all combined to -make me feel it would be wrong for me to marry. I used to argue with -myself: “A man that I could esteem and love would be so far above me -that he could never stoop to love me; if he did, he would not be the -hero I thought him; and if I _were_ to marry, and bring into the world -children like myself, it would be a calamity indeed.” No, I would stop -the perpetuation of beings like myself. It was a blind kind of altruism -that actuated me, and not till I had the dream just mentioned did the -personal side of the question occur to me; and then I learned how, as -an individual, I should suffer in abiding by the stand I had taken. A -lover at this time would probably have swept away all my fine theories -and resolutions; but I had none, and serious work and interests were -filling my days. But how illogical I was! It seemed never to occur to -me that the same conditions that debarred me from marriage should debar -my sister also; I was even anxious for her to marry, while so firmly -convinced that it would be wrong for me. I evidently thought that all -the seeds of disease and crankiness were in me alone and that I must -let them die out. - -Now I know, too, that I exaggerated greatly the unfortunate family -inheritance. My studies in this field, in subsequent years--inquiries -into the family histories of many hundreds of persons--have shown me -that my inheritance averages up well with that of most families. My own -little knowledge in girlhood was a dangerous thing. Hypersensitive, and -introspective to a degree, I took my own adolescent impressionability -too seriously, losing sight of the fact that good as well as bad traits -and tendencies are inherited; and that training, environment, and -self-culture may do wonders to counteract undesirable proclivities. -I assuredly locked the barn door before the horse was stolen and -threw away the key. Though perhaps, in a way, so far as my sister was -concerned, I was right, for she is of a more harmonious nature, more -normal and typical, than I am. As to my brother, however, had I spent -my life trying to bring about a deplorable hereditary combination, I -could hardly have succeeded better than when, by the merest chance, -and by my own act, I unwittingly enlisted Propinquity, which lost no -time in bringing about his marriage with a neurotic girl who has since -become the mother of his children. And yet four beautiful little beings -(who seem to be unusually well endowed physically and mentally) gladden -the lives of all of us, and as I reflect how much of the good and true -there is in their inheritance, I am hopeful that, with such training -and fortuitous environment as can be compassed, much can be done to -counteract undesirable tendencies. But my soul sometimes contemplates -all this--my early theories, and the actual conditions--with a grim -smile: that it was I who brought it all about, I, the prudent one, the -far-seeing, the stickler for observing the inexorable laws of heredity! - -FOOTNOTE: - -[3] The above was written in 1902. Now his hopes are nearly fulfilled, -but he is no longer here to rejoice. All honour to him, and to others -like him, who, true to their vision, were untiring in their efforts to -bring it to realization! - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -SCHOOL DAYS - - -Serious as was my girlhood, as the sombre experiences and the -resolutions which grew out of them show, it was by no means always so -shadowed as this record would indicate. And it is a relief to turn from -the detailed account of much of my inner life when a schoolgirl to more -of the objective life, to sunnier memories, to the life within the -school-house walls, even though to do so I go back for a little to the -care-free days of early girlhood. - - -In school I was a dutiful little girl of the goody-good sort, but from -about thirteen onward my badness cropped out and I became a little -terror. My mates were equally unmanageable. In the senior department we -could keep a teacher only a short time because of our “insubordination -and irregularities,” as one dignified principal said when he came in -to chastise us. And I, though demure in appearance, was one of the -chief offenders among the girls. How fertile we were in devising ways -to annoy the teacher! We would agree to hum a tune in an undertone, so -arranging it that when the teacher would steal up to the desks whence -the humming issued, pupils in another part of the room would take up -the tune, and the baffled teacher would wander from desk to desk trying -in vain to “spot” the offenders. The very diligence with which we were -studying at such times should have enlightened her. - -One day the whole roomfull broke out in paroxysms of sneezing. The -ring-leaders when discovered were made to promise never to bring snuff -to school again. I kept my word but sought to get a similar effect some -other way: An arbor-vitæ tree grew near the school-yard, and somehow, -I found that by irritating the nostrils with those rough sprigs, we -could induce sneezing. It worked, though less successfully than the -snuff. I had my triumph when the teacher accused me of having broken -my word. Flatly and indignantly I denied it; we had had no snuff, I -declared emphatically. No, and no pepper, either. Nevertheless, she -kept me after school, whipped my hands, then, taking me on her lap, -wept and talked religion to me. Her leniency should have melted me, -but it did not. I was unregenerate indeed. I remember the casuistry I -used, which she herself must have repeated, for one of the students in -the academic department rallied me on the way I had defended myself for -sneezing in school. I had put a hypothetical question to her: If the -Lord made something grow that tickled the lining of my nose, was I to -blame that I could not control the sneeze? The youth would get that off -with variations till it teased me so that I was fairly punished for my -naughtiness. We also brought soda biscuit to school and ate them fast, -inducing hiccough. And the boys would strike matches, then report that -they _thought_ they smelled something burning--all sorts of schemes -were devised to annoy the poor teacher. Finally the Board of Education -sent one of their members to sit in the schoolroom and keep order. He -was a great fat man I had known from childhood. When I was little he -had called me “Sis Arnold,” and I had called him “Piggie Hanford.” -Mother used to remonstrate with me, but it was not so disrespectful as -it sounded; we understood each other. He always had a Jackson ball to -give me when we met on the street, but first he would pretend to bite -my hand. Once, I remember, he did bite hard enough for the print of -his teeth to show at the base of my thumb. But he didn’t hurt--just -liked to scare me, and I liked being scared. It was such fun to see him -coming toward me, big and black and frowning; to be snatched up, while -he pretended to bite me; to struggle; then to be put down, when I would -hold fast to him while he hunted for the Jackson ball, after which I -would run away calling, “Good bye, Piggie, Piggie Hanford!” - -It was years after that when he came to keep order for Miss O----. -I liked to have him there, for he helped me with my examples, and I -needed help sorely then and always. We were as good as pie when he was -there. But one day when he was strutting past my desk, a recollection -of my childish freaks coming to me, I whispered mischievously, “Piggie, -Piggie Hanford.” He turned on me such a stern look that for an instant -I almost screamed, as I used to when he would grab me up as a child. -But I soon saw the smile coming, and he bent down, saying in a low -tone, “That won’t do here, Sis Arnold,” and walked solemnly away. They -hired a more competent teacher the next term, and “Piggie” came no more -to keep us within bounds - -In the academic department, becoming interested in my studies, and -having to work hard, I kept out of mischief. Still there was nonsense -going on even there--whispering and writing notes, and passing -them surreptitiously, chiefly for the fun of disobeying the rules, -especially with the preceptress. More afraid of the new principal, we -toed the mark better for him, dreading his ready sarcasm too much to -risk it often. - -Mathematics was always a bugbear to me. Passing the Regents early in -the other elementary branches, and also in many of the Intermediate -studies, I was long in passing in arithmetic. It was not only dry, it -was incomprehensible. I detested it. Professor Durland was patient with -me. I verily believe he would have let me drop the study if he could -have. (To this day I often dream of being back in school and sneaking -out of the arithmetic class, only to be discovered by “Prof.” and sent -back to my hated recitations. What present-day duties am I longing to -shirk, the Freudians will inquire?) I tried Regents in arithmetic three -times before I passed. I well remember the last time: Professor Durland -had coached me diligently for weeks, and I had felt desperately that -I must succeed this time. The whole department was interested. It was -unusual for one so advanced as I was in other studies to be so stupid -in this. - -It was Father’s day for being present during the Regents examination. -(The different members of the Board of Education took turns in coming, -to see that all was fair play.) How my heart thumped when the principal -opened the sealed questions sent from Albany, handed a paper to Father, -and glanced rapidly over the questions himself! I knew how much he -wanted me to succeed, and I wanted to for his sake as well as for my -own. Soon he nodded satisfactorily. Knowing I was watching him, it was -as though he said to me, “It isn’t so hard--you can do it,” and as he -put the slip of printed questions on my desk he said in a low voice, -“You will pass this time, Eugenia.” That cheered me; it sounded so -confident; and he knew my limitations. He had drilled me so well on the -ground covered by the questions that I myself felt, on setting to work, -that there was a fair chance of getting through. - -“Prof.” came often to my desk, overlooking my paper. Once (it was not -fair, I know, and he knew), he drew his pencil across an example I had -worked. I did it over, somewhat conscience-stricken even at that hint, -for at the close of each examination we had to listen to an oath read, -stating that we had neither given nor received help from any source; -then had to write these solemn words: “I do so declare,” and sign our -names. Had I not been conscientious about this oath, I should long -before that have cheated in arithmetic examinations. - -When I handed in my paper, “Prof.” said, “Don’t go home till I look it -over.” Returning to my desk, I waited. The suspense while Professor -Durland and Father were bent over my paper was harrowing. It was a real -vivisection for me. I saw by their faces when an answer was right, and -when one was wrong, and saw them estimate the number of counts the -Regents would probably allow on each answer. Other students, too, were -eagerly watching the result--girls I had helped write compositions, -who, in turn, had worked my examples for me, were anxious for me to be -rid of the troublesome study. - -Finally those two men lifted their heads. They had evidently marked me -strictly, so as to be sure beyond a doubt that the more rigid Regents -Board would not turn me down. Professor Durland now nodded his head -vigorously, and Father beamed with joy. How gaily I walked out into -the hall, my feet scarcely touching the floor! While I was putting on -my wraps the door softly opened, “Prof.” stepped out and said, “You -are through this time, Eugenia!” It was one of the happiest moments -of my life; but though choking with emotion and gratitude to him, -I don’t suppose I expressed it at all. Still I think he knew; knew -also that I was fond of him. Along with several of the other girls, -I had a schoolgirl’s infatuation for him. He was our hero--a silly, -sentimental fondness of the adolescent period, but then, and always -afterward, redeemed by genuine affection and gratitude. He was then, -I suppose, a man in the thirties, and we were girls of sixteen and -seventeen. I have since thought how wise and kind he was never to seem -to notice or to take advantage of our romantic feelings, and never -to make us appear ridiculous on that score, for he must have seen it -all. (There was a time when we treasured everything he said or did. I -even remember once that a certain girl and I kept count how many times -he glanced at us in a forenoon; though his glances were doubtless of -surveillance, we treasured them just the same.) He pursued just the -right course with us, and our sentimental adoration did us no harm. It -probably helped us in our studies. We blossomed under his approval, -and withered under his biting sarcasm. Yet we often teased and annoyed -him. He was surprisingly forbearing at times, and especially indulgent -with me, giving me freer rein than some others to indulge certain whims -and idiosyncrasies. I half consciously recognized this, girl that I -was, and sometimes took advantage of it. I used to love to hear him -pronounce my name; he said it a different way from any one else. What -is it Whitman says-- - - - Did you think there was but one pronunciation to your name? - - -I had nearly as hard a time with algebra as with arithmetic, and often -became rebellious. Feeling that I could not go through the struggles -and humiliations that I had with arithmetic, I tried repeatedly to get -out of going to the class. I simply could not comprehend the study, -and was always behind the others. Girls that were as stupid as stupid -could be about tasks that were play to me would do things on the -blackboard as impossible for me as the labours of Hercules. How glibly -they explained what they had done! How painfully I toiled to perform -the simplest tasks! Oh, those miserable days! Professor Durland tried -all kinds of methods with me; he sometimes lost patience and would make -cutting remarks, not, however, without having first tried to persuade -me to work harder. I would not study if I could possibly help it, -vainly hoping he would overlook me in class or give me something easy -(which he often did), that my stupidity would not be so patent. - -One day when sent to the blackboard, knowing that the task was beyond -me, I refused to try. He insisted, saying he would help me. I hung -back. That angered him. “You can go up to the blackboard, can’t you?” -he tauntingly asked. I walked up to the board boiling with rage. He -stood near giving me points and explanations which, had I not been so -incensed and obstinate, would have enabled me to do the work. But I -was angry to my fingertips. I fumbled with the crayon and it broke. I -was powerless to do a thing but stand there and sulk. The tasks of the -other students nearing completion, one by one they took their seats; -one by one rose to explain their work; and still I stood, alone now, -before the long blackboard, my work untouched, my eyes blinded with -angry tears, my listless hand holding that useless piece of crayon, and -those meaningless symbols staring me in the face. - -What an awareness I had of my figure as I stood there, my back to the -school! I could see just how the back of my drooping head looked, -my long braids hanging below my waist. It was such an uncomfortable -awareness of my disgraced self that I had as I stood there. The -class-work ended, there was an ominous pause, I still standing -helpless and hopeless. Then the storm fell. Before the whole school he -launched forth a reprimand, every word of which cut me cruelly, the -burden of it being that I was not so stupid as obstinate (I think he -said “mulish”); that I thought I knew better than any one else what -I ought to study; but that I would soon find that I was tremendously -mistaken; that a “bird that can sing, and won’t sing, must be made to -sing”; that algebra has its uses as well as rhetoric and physiology -(oh, what scorn as he said these words--my pet studies!) and that -hereafter I was to get my algebra lessons before being allowed to -recite in anything else. - -I got so angry I was cold, and oh, so still! I remember the awful -stillness I felt within myself as I stood there. I knew what he said -was just, but it hurt my pride that he would speak that way to _me_, -and before the whole school! - -I don’t know how I ever left the blackboard and faced the others. He -kept me after school and patiently showed me how to do the work. I was -maddened for days after to see how, to conciliate me (who did not want -to be conciliated), and perhaps to avoid the risk for me of another -ignominious failure, he gave me such easy work that I could not fail to -do it. At that I felt insulted. Perhaps I did study harder thereafter, -but I went in and out of school for a period (perhaps only a week, but -it seems ages) with an air of offended dignity that must have been -absurd. I thought myself a martyr. Avoiding his glances at recitations, -I refused to smile at his jests and pleasantries; showed no interest -in the things about which I was wont to be enthusiastic; and was on -my highest heels of offended dignity. If I had the courage to look at -some of my old diaries I should doubtless find my injured feelings -faithfully and minutely recorded in them; but there is a limit to -one’s endurance of self-scrutiny. - -Some of “Prof.’s” efforts at reconciliation were obvious; and though -they pleased my vanity, my obduracy would not yield. The girls pleaded -with me to soften my heart; I hardened it instead--the memory of that -hour at the blackboard froze me. Then, too, I was pleased to be of -so much importance. I remember one of the things he tried to soften -me: It was before I had studied Virgil, but always when the class in -Virgil was reciting I had made little pretense of studying, listening -to the translations instead. At this “Prof.” sometimes shook his head -disapprovingly, motioning me to attend to my studies; and sometimes he -suggested that it would be well if those not in the class in Virgil -would kindly study their Cæsar; that there was abundant need of it, -and so on. But I had noticed that he seemed secretly pleased at my -attention when, the students having given their lame translations, he -would take it up and, in his beautiful, smooth rendering, read on and -on, himself carried away by the beauty of it. At such times I could -not help but drink it in; it was a daily dissipation that I struggled -against, but yielded to. Time and again I would pretend to be studying, -but really listening; till, in spite of myself, I would have to glance -up, always to find him looking at me as he translated the beautiful -epic. I think he took a mischievous pleasure in this; he knew I could -not resist it, and it was a tribute to his translation, as well as to -the poet. - -Well, after our “quarrel” he tried Virgil as a pacifier. Knowing that -he was seeking to draw some sign of interest from me, and pleased and -angered at the same time, still was I deaf to the charm. But, one day, -in order to counteract its effect, I seized my algebra and, stimulated -by the excitement of it all, dashed off a parody on Hamlet’s -Soliloquy--on the study of algebra. It was rather clever (the girls -thought it wonderful), and it helped to relieve my wounded feelings, -for in it I spoke rather freely of the principal. - -Shortly after this, when things were running fairly smooth again, -“Prof.”, who was helping me with my algebra lesson one day, taking up -my book to show me some rule, chanced to see that parody written on the -fly leaves. After reading a few lines he turned fairly white with rage. -In low tones of concentrated anger he said, “I always knew it was pure -mulishness in you; you could master your algebra as well as anything -else, if you would; you spend your time writing things like this, -instead of honestly studying. I have lost all patience with you--‘You -can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.’” - -Then followed another period of strained relations when, after days of -obduracy on my part, he enlisted Coleridge to break the spell. It was -in the literature class. Whether by accident or design, I don’t know, -but he read the sonnet on “Severed Friendship” in which are the words: - - - “Each spoke words of high disdain and insult to the other,” - - -and also, - - - “And to be wroth with one we love doth work like madness on the - brain.” - - -Reading this in class, as he always read poetry, beautifully, -feelingly, while I sat bursting with this teapot-tempest which I was -dignifying into a tragedy, he melted my stony heart. I barely escaped -dissolving in tears; and when the class was dismissed, the skies were -again clear. - -He had never again mentioned to me that wretched parody of the previous -year till one day shortly before graduation: One of the lower-class -girls had been using my algebra that term. We were grouped together -during recess, talking over the approaching Commencement, when “Prof.” -came up and asked where my algebra was. “Lizzie has it,” I said, -curious as to why he asked. Thereupon he sat down at Lizzie’s desk -and copied my wicked parody. I mildly protested, but half smiling, -he continued copying, looking grave as he proceeded. Touched and -flattered, the memory of my silly actions, and of his forbearance, and -the thought that our school days were soon to end, made me repentant -and remorseful. I would have given a good deal to have changed some -of the lines in the old thing that I had thought so clever; and would -have given much more to have told him how sorry I then was for my -stubbornness; how grateful for his help; but I couldn’t. He never knew -until years after (when I obeyed an impulse and wrote him), unless he -then divined my contrition. - -One other time in school he was severe with me: I had habitually -helped certain girls with their compositions. It was play for me. They -were poor stuff, but better than the others could do, and I always -made theirs inferior to my own. One week I thought it would be fun to -experiment a bit, so, instead of having the girls that I usually aided -write a part of their own essays, I told each one that I would write -her entire essay, if she would not tell a soul, and, after copying it, -would destroy my copy. Each girl jumped at the chance. How the literary -ardour possessed me that week! To write four or five essays besides -my own, all of which were to be read in one afternoon, I must vary my -style so that no one could detect the authorship. I flattered myself -I was versatile enough to do this. Glowing with pride I read them to -myself before handing them over to the girls. - -On the momentous afternoon I assumed a calm, indifferent manner while -the various essays were being read; and when my turn came, at the last, -read in my usual faltering voice, my knees trembling so that I felt I -must run from the platform before I was half through. As usual, mine -was greeted with applause, and I took my seat with cheeks aflame, a -sense of elation all through me. It had been an exciting afternoon, but -as I had sworn each girl to secrecy, I could share it with no one. - -At the close “Prof.” arose and said the exercises, though longer than -usual, had been uncommonly interesting; that the choice of subjects had -been varied, well chosen, well presented (I glowed more, with scarcely -concealed pride); but--and here he paused--he would like to add that it -seemed a little selfish, not to say conceited, for one person to be so -pleased with her ability that she insisted on being represented five -or six times in one afternoon! Instantly every eye was turned upon me. -Each girl, knowing her own false position, suspected the others, and -his remarks were so pointed that all the others guessed. He rubbed it -in by saying that it was a well-laid plan, but was rather unflattering -to the instructors to suppose them incapable of detecting it. Were we -not aware that our teachers knew what each student was capable of? Then -he launched forth in withering scorn of those who had been so helped, -not only then, but throughout the year. But of what he said to them I -cared little; for my own disgraceful part I felt the deepest chagrin. -He made me realize how culpable I had been in helping them to sail -under false colours. It was a bitter lesson for all of us, but did not -keep me from lending a hand (or pen) when we graduated. It was known -then, I’m sure, but winked at. One girl boldly said: “You’ve helped -us all along, you can’t leave us in the lurch now.” In fact, I wrote -outright the graduating essay of an upper-class girl who graduated the -year before I did; and of the fourteen essays in our class, I had a -hand in six, two of which (my own and another’s) I wrote outright. My -itch for writing bothered me at an early age, and I _had_ to scratch. -Not that there was any merit in the schoolgirl effusions; it was only a -facility for stringing words together, an aptness for quotation, and a -tendency to moralizing and to figurative writing, that let themselves -loose in them. - - -It has always irritated me to see persons too credulous, and I enjoyed -punishing them for their credulity. One of our classmates could be made -to believe the most absurd things. Sometimes we had spelling bouts -the last few minutes before the close of school, and the principal -would require us to define the words spelled. Sprinkled in with the -long columns of English words were occasional Latin ones. A demon of -some sort possessed me one day on seeing _Sal Atticum_ in the spelling -lesson. It was my first year of Latin and I chose Bessie Barnes, -the credulous one, who had not studied Latin at all, for my victim. -Whispering to her I said, “Shall I tell you the definition of the -Latin words in to-day’s lesson?” Of course she was glad of help, so, -telling her correctly the meaning of the others, when I came to _Sal -Atticum_, pausing and laughing (perforce at the absurd joke I meant to -perpetrate on her) I turned it off by saying that it was such a funny -thing to have in the spelling lesson; and the little goose believed -me when I told her it meant, “With Sal in the Attic”! We both laughed -at the absurdity of it, then I went on soberly to explain that “Sal” -was just Sal, because proper names do not change; then, reminding -her that in Latin the words do not come in consecutive order, as in -English, I said that “_cum_” means “_with_”; that “attic” is the same -in both languages, and that “attic” being in the ablative case, “in” is -understood, thus making the translation, “With Sal in the attic.” Then, -drilling her on the meaning of all the foreign words in the column, -I got heaps of fun every time she came to _Sal Atticum_ and gave the -ludicrous definition. And as we both laughed at the comical phrase, she -said she hoped it would not fall to her to define it. I have forgotten -the outcome. I can’t be sure, but think we gave “Prof.” the tip and got -him to ask her its meaning; but I remember distinctly her indignation -when she learned how I had hoodwinked her. - -I formed a romantic affection, perhaps in my seventeenth year, for a -new girl who moved into our village. She appealed to my imagination, -being so different from the girls I had known. Beautiful, with deep, -proud, dark eyes, she was a good student; had read much more than -I had; and could translate Virgil far better, all of which made me -look up to her. Strange to say, I wasn’t jealous of her. We studied -Greek and Roman history together, and astronomy. There were four of -us girls, and two of the boys, who met at our various homes certain -evenings studying together. The old Greek and Roman names, and the -constellations, are inseparably linked in memory, particularly with -that lovely dark-eyed girl and, yes, those two boys. It was a good -fellowship I had with the boys, no nonsense--at least, hardly any. The -boys had their own sweethearts who met with us, as a rule, though they -were less studious than we were. - -I think at that time I was vaguely conscious of being liked by these -boys in a different way than they liked their sweethearts--because I -was a girl and because I was companionable besides. There was always -a certain piquancy about it. And this has always been a pleasing -consciousness in connection with my men friends. I never could be -satisfied with a friendship taking cognizance of but one of the -factors. At the time of which I am speaking, though, I would have been -distinctly annoyed at any open manifestation on the part of the boys -of interest other than _camaraderie_. In fact a little later I was -angered at occasional demonstrations in one who was a faithless swain; -for he would often manage to take his sweetheart home first and thus -walk home alone with me. I felt sorry for her because she had so little -spirit; chided her for letting him tyrannize over her; upbraided him -for being fickle; and tried to be a disinterested friend to both. Yet -as time passed there were a few occasions when, silencing my scruples, -I permitted advances on his part of which I was heartily ashamed. He -would take us both for a drive, and after leaving her at her home, -would attempt to put his arm around me. Although at first repulsing -him angrily, at length I suffered it, knowing all the time that it was -wrong. How tender and persuasive his tones as we drove along, yet he -would be talking about the most commonplace things, and I would sit -there straight and unyielding with burning cheeks. I knew it was wrong -for two reasons--because he was Bessie’s “beau,” and because I didn’t -really like him that way; yes, and also because it was wrong to let any -one put his arm around you. The second reason seemed the stronger, and -I was ashamed of myself for being susceptible to his wooing tones and -ingratiating ways while really despising such faithlessness. Had he -tried to kiss me, I think I should have annihilated him on the spot. -In fact, I think I hardly dreamed of such an advance to _me_ then -being possible. I doubt if any other boy of my acquaintance would have -believed that I would permit any one to do as this one did. - -I was really more attracted to Walter, the other youth with whom we -studied. We were the best of friends. One night he came to our door and -asked me to come out on the veranda--an unusual request. “Come out and -see the stars,” was all he said. Wonderingly I went out: it was a cold -night, my teeth chattered. We walked to the west end of the veranda -and stood in silence for a little looking at the stars. I remember how -Orion shone; we spoke but little, but I recall how his voice trembled; -I did not understand it, but it moved me. It was such a little thing, -and perhaps I make more of it than there was, but there seemed -something in his impulsive request and the silent contemplation of the -stars that was electrical--youth and propinquity, I suppose. Nothing -came of it. I think at the time I was undoubtedly more attracted to -him than he to me, but I don’t believe he ever dreamed of it. In fact, -the boys and girls were wont to look upon me as a little aloof from -them. The sweetheart of this same youth said to me one Monday morning: -“Genie, when I see you in church Sunday nights, you seem so far away; -your face looks so serious, and as though I would never dare speak to -you; but when I see you in school and hear you laugh and talk you seem -like one of us.” - -Most of the girls had had their beaux who had sent them valentines and -bestowed upon them juvenile gifts, but my experience in this field -had been very meagre. When a child, before I had learned to write, I -remember being pleased with a little boy who drew me home on his sled, -and once I printed him a note. I hardly think I ever intended giving it -to him, but I tucked it under the zinc of our sitting-room stove and -my sister found and read it. The mortification I endured hearing her -repeat it cured me. I so hated after that to hear “Freddie boy’s” name -mentioned that I was glad when he moved out of town. I recall no other -sentimental affairs till I was perhaps fifteen or sixteen, when one of -the academy boys and I had a clandestine correspondence. He liked a -lot of the girls, was very popular, and wrote to several of them; they -used to brag about it and show their notes, but I told no one that he -wrote to me. The notes were usually trivial affairs, questions as to -where the grammar lesson was, and the like, although there were a few I -blush to remember. I was quite infatuated for a time; he was the hero -of my daydreams, but far more interested in another girl than in me; he -doubtless had no inkling of what was passing in the mind of his prim -little school-mate. Some time after this, when we were discussing our -futures, he told me of his intention of being a minister. I remember -his earnest voice and shining eyes as he spoke of our anticipated -careers, and said that we ought to do a great deal of good in the -world. When, later than this, Walter, the youth of whom I have spoken, -announced to me that he was going to study law, I recall the occasion -vividly: It was an August night when a lot of us young people and our -mothers were in the creek, in swimming. Since I have known more of -the world, I have wondered that there was never anything unpleasant -to look back upon in those associations. But we had all been well -brought up and were comparatively innocent, although we did not know -it then. (I saw this the other day: “‘I learned of my own existence,’ -said Innocence, ‘only when I ceased to exist.’”) We mingled together, -youths and maidens, on geological excursions, star-gazing, in the woods -botanizing, in the water learning to swim, and never thought of the -possibility of anything but the frank, chaste comradeship there was -among us. I recall what a display of meteors there was that night, and -how the sight thrilled us. We had gone to the willows before sundown -and had lingered in the water till the stars came out. During a pause -between one of the trials when Walter was teaching me to swim, we stood -transfixed by the sudden appearance of a great fiery ball which seemed -to burst just over our heads and fall into a near-by meadow. Walter’s -arms tightened as he held me; awestruck, we stood there an instant, -a thrilling one (perhaps it was not all due to the meteor). Whenever -after that I would think of that night, it always made me blush; why, I -did not know, unless because I had to admit to myself that I liked to -feel those strong, firm arms around me. - - -A broken arm sustained in my school days is closely linked with another -of my girlish romances: One May day, instead of going directly home -from school to help with house-cleaning, as I had promised, I went to -drive with one of the girls. She was bringing home a seamstress. As we -neared the railway track, an approaching train, and simultaneously a -newspaper fluttering at the horse’s feet, made him shy and jump. Essie -was cool enough, but the seamstress shrieked and grabbed the lines, -making the horse wheel, which swung the buggy round and down a bank, -throwing us out. - -The woman who had caused the accident, though unharmed, howled with all -her might, adding to the confusion. Essie picked herself up and chased -her horse. I picked myself up and stood, a little dazed, with gravel -and cinders ground in my cheeks and hands, with a general bruised -sensation, and with my left arm hanging in a limp, queer way. - -To a man who asked me if I was hurt, I answered, “No, only my arm is -broken.” The by-standers laughed incredulously, but I insisted. They -told me to move it; I tried, but could not tell whether it moved or -not, till I put my other hand on it to follow it. It felt dead. Putting -the pale seamstress and me in a wagon, they drove us home, she groaning -and shrieking most of the remaining mile and half-fainting, so that I -had to support her with my sound arm. - -As I went up the steps, Mother and Sister came toward me, frightened -at my bruised face and disordered appearance, and that limp arm. “I’ve -come to settle the house,” I said, trying to make light of it, but as -they started to cry I begged, “Don’t cry, Mother, or I can’t stand it.” -And quickly she braced up and began preparations for the Doctor, only -the tremor in her voice showing her anxiety. - -Father and the Doctor soon came; neighbours flocked in; someone asked, -“Are _both_ bones broken?” Even in my distress I was amused at what, -in my recently acquired knowledge of anatomy, I considered woful -ignorance--“both” bones, when there is only one in the arm proper! - -I can see now the frightened faces of the children peering in at the -window as I lay on the couch while the arm was being “set.” I almost -wanted to laugh, they looked so distressed. They said I was very brave. -There were weighty reasons for my good behaviour, vanity being the -chief: Already I had decided to study medicine, and thought that any -weakness on my part now would show my unfitness for it; but mainly, I -wanted to appear well before the young doctor who was then the hero of -my dreams and of those of my friend, Annette. For months previous we -had romanced and whispered about him, recording in our diaries every -glance he chanced to bestow upon us. Though scarcely aware of our -existence, he dwelt in all our air-castles, and we shared him between -us in a way girls have before they learn what jealousy means. And now -something had happened that brought him right into my home! Here he -would speak to me, look at me, and take an interest in me--for we never -deceived ourselves that he had ever really shown any interest in us. -It was all this that made me oblivious to the pain, if, indeed, there -was much pain. I was quietly elated. While driving home I had exulted -in the thought that as our family physician lived so far away, Father -would be sure to call the young doctor. - -While he was working over me I could hardly wait to see how Annette -would look when I should tell her all about it. What a silly happy -girl I was with my broken arm! Even having to stay out of school was -compensated for by his daily visits. I treasured his lightest word. He -whisked in, breezy and cheery. It was delightful to hear him speak my -name--his rich, full voice, and his slight stammer--I doted on them. -Days when the splints had to be changed and the bandage loosened were -red-letter days, as his calls were then lengthened. - -One day just before he came I had read two statements in the Bible that -had amused me: “A horse is a vain thing for safety,” and, “The arms of -the wicked shall be broken.” He laughed heartily when I told him what -I had found, and leaning over my chair as he looked on the page, asked -with engaging stammer, “Is th-that really in the B-bible, Genie?” That -was told with unction to Annette when she came after school--ostensibly -to keep me informed about the lessons, but chiefly to get reports of -the daily visits. She envied me then, but her time of rejoicing came -later when he treated her for jaundice; only, she complained, jaundice -wasn’t as interesting as a broken arm--one “looked such a fright”; and, -if the truth must be told, by the time her jaundice developed we had -both become somewhat disenchanted. - -Our unfeeling idol remained in ignorance of our adoration, and actually -wooed and married an attractive young woman of his own age! We tortured -ourselves with watching the progress of this courtship, and tried hard -to pose as blighted beings during the week of his wedding. At the fatal -hour that gave him to another, we agreed to withdraw from the gaze -of the cold world and battle with our sorrow alone. It fell to me to -pick Grandma’s raspberries at that hour; but the hands could perform -their task though the heart was wrung with grief. The seclusion of the -berry-patch was welcome; there would I wrestle with this cup. I thought -of Annette and hoped she was as secluded as I, and wondered if her -heart was as heavy. Picking the berries, I recited aloud “The Lonely -One” (the most melancholy poem I could think of) and tried to picture -the long years of desolation ahead of me. But my recollection is that, -try as I would, I could not induce the requisite degree of misery. And -not long after, Annette and I confessed to each other, rather guiltily, -that for some time our feelings had not been as heartfelt as we had led -each other to suppose. - -Thus ended our romance about “Apollo,” as we named him in our diaries. - - -It must have been three years before I left school that I conceived -the idea of studying medicine; it was during the period when I was -so religiously inclined. I had been to a Sunday-school excursion on -Seneca Lake that day when the idea came to me. There I had heard much -talk of a girl in our class who, having received a severe fall some -months before, and whom we had considered hopelessly injured, was now -improving surprisingly under the care of a woman physician from a -distant town. Her parents were too poor to procure these services, but -an aunt had recently sent for the physician; and the girl’s recovery -then seemed assured. All this I heard without apparently hearing, -giving it scant heed in the hustle and gayety of our lake picnic. An -old negress on the boat had told our fortunes that day, predicting -beaux and happy or unhappy marriages for all the girls but me. When -someone asked, “Isn’t _she_ going to marry?” she replied: - -“Go ’long thar, her father doan’t want her to marry--she hain’t got no -call to get married.” - -I was rather pleased at this: if it showed anything, I thought, it -showed that I was to have something different from a merely domestic -career; but I had no idea what my course in life was to be, nor what -I wanted it to be; and I think I was not then particularly concerned -about my sick schoolmate. - -It was that night after returning home, as Mother and I sat on the -“stoop” in the darkness, talking in a desultory way, that this news -about Dora’s improvement occurred to me. Our talk was mingled with my -own dreams and cogitations as to what my future was to be. I knew I -must do something, but what that something was I did not know. Music -had been prohibited, teaching was out of the question because of my -incompetency in mathematics--suddenly into my mind there came the -strange, hitherto undreamed-of idea, and I said, first to myself, then -to Mother, “I will be a doctor.” - -It all came in a twinkling--how scarce women physicians were, how much -they must be needed, and that if there were more of them in the smaller -towns, poor modest girls like Dora, who had refused treatment from a -man, need not suffer so for lack of means to employ them. - -I can hear now the dismay in Mother’s voice as she said, “Oh, Eugenia!” -Fired with the idea, I talked eagerly and rapidly; it seemed clear -that it was to be; there was no question about its fulfilment; but how -it was to be accomplished, so far as finances were concerned, I was -puzzled to know. For Father’s health was precarious then--two bank -failures and hard times made just the ordinary expenditures hard to -meet. I did not see how it could be done, but knew it would. Elated -over the project, the very suddenness with which it had come to me -convinced me of its ultimate accomplishment. I felt annoyed at Mother’s -objections. When she demurred, I insisted on her giving a reason. Her -chief one, that it was going out of my sphere, irritated me. In those -days (I hope I am less so now) I was very intolerant of another’s -point of view, and Mother’s illogical way of meeting questions tried -me exceedingly. Her insight, her intuition, her faith, her estimate of -character, were strong, but her logic was poor. Probably then, knowing -me as she did, she felt it would be a life for which temperamentally -I was not suited; perhaps she divined some of the disappointments and -failures I have since experienced; but she was unable to give a reason -and could only protest in a pitying way. I can hear her tones yet, her -words of regret and dismay, as I announced my intention with a finality -she seemed to realize. - -That night I wrote in my diary, doubtless sentimentally, of this -new idea. I think I rather gloried in Mother’s objections, and in -the ridicule of my sister when she heard of it. (She probably felt -much as some other girls and boys did: some boys who remembered my -hyper-sensitiveness and timidity as a child thought I would never have -“sand” enough to study medicine.) - -For a little I chose to consider myself a martyr. Years later, in -looking over the diaries of that period, much of what I had written -seemed so at variance with what I then felt, that it seemed like the -experience of another person--so false, so sentimental, such a pose! In -shame and disgust I destroyed the records. - -From the time, though, that the idea came to me, it was persistently -held. In school I worked with added zeal, paying especial attention -to studies I thought would be of use to me, and feeling impatient at -those which were distasteful, and which I thought little likely to be -helpful. But how poorly qualified was I then to judge of this! I know -now that just because of my failure to buckle down to what was hard for -me (particularly mathematics and physics), I missed the mental training -I most needed in those years. The education of the attention, the -moving along calmly from proof to proof, the deductions, the synthesis, -the exactness, the close, true ways of thinking, the patience, the -calmness; in short, the mental discipline which mathematics would have -given me, I failed to acquire; and I can now see how handicapped I have -been because of this failure. With senses so acute, and the emotional -nature so intense, the proper balance would have been found in a more -rigid intellectual training. The deficiencies have had to be made up, -when made up at all, at too great a cost; and the efficiency in my -chosen field of work has fallen far short of what it might have been -had I been more tractable then, more heedful of the advice of my elders. - -Confiding my hopes to a few intimates, from them I got the sympathy -I craved. Gradually my ambition became known in the school. It was -perhaps two years later before a word was said to me on the subject by -my father. I thought it strange that he who showed such an interest in -my studies should be so indifferent in this which meant so much to me. -But I learned in time that it was not indifference. It seems he told -Mother not to be anxious over it and not attempt to dissuade me. - -“If it is a mere whim,” he had said, “it will soon pass, and no harm -will be done; but if she is in earnest, she will do it, and opposition -will only make her more intent on it.” - -When he saw it was not a whim, he acted promptly enough; and when the -time came for me to go to college, he smoothed the way as only the most -unselfish of fathers could. And so did Mother and Sister; their ready -help was given, their own economies and self-sacrifices were cheerfully -contributed that I might accomplish my purpose. - -A certain noon as I started for school as usual Father said: - -“Eugenia, hurry up to the office when school is out; I want to take you -to see Dr. Barnard.” - -To my questioning look he explained: - -“If you are bound to be a doctor, you may as well begin to find out -something about it. I have talked with the Doctor; he says he will take -you as a student; you can read in his office Saturdays and get a start -in that way.” - -I wonder if my father knew how happy he made me that day. As I went -back to school I trod on air. A radiance suffused my whole being. -There was very little studying that afternoon--whispered explanations -to a favoured few, wonderful tolerance on the principal’s part at my -inattention to studies and open disregard of rules. We whispered and -wrote notes and were in a delicious flutter of excitement. As Father, -the Doctor, and the Professor were great cronies, I presume my teacher -knew of the plan long before I did. - -Dr. Barnard was a man of perhaps thirty-five, though to me he then -seemed much older. He was comparatively a newcomer in the town but, -being a Mason, found favour in Father’s sight. A good man with whom -to be associated, a student of human nature, kind, easy-going, with a -keen sense of humour, he was wide-awake as a physician and, what is -especially to the point, he did not take me too seriously, but wisely -concealed from me that he did not. I think he cured me of some whims -and susceptibilities; and I can see that he helped to develop my sense -of humour and to counteract some of my strenuous, sentimental views -of life. But it was done tactfully. He never shocked, though often -surprised me. - -That memorable first day he talked to me about the study of medicine, -about college life, its requirements, the difficulties to be -encountered, and the courage necessary. All that I could hope to do -while in school, he said, was to occupy the time I might otherwise -spend in desultory reading, in studying advanced physiology and -anatomy, thus making my first year in college easier. I could prepare -my lessons and he would quiz me on Saturdays. - -So, in addition to my school work, I studied Gray’s Anatomy. He let -me take home a box of bones, and I felt proud indeed to be learning -about each little groove and facet and tuberosity. On Saturdays I -recited and sometimes went with him into the country, often reading to -him from books on _materia medica_ or on pathology as we drove lazily -along. Occasionally he took me into the houses to see an interesting -case, but as a rule I held the lines during his visits (and was always -nervous till he was back in the buggy). Once I went with him when -he reduced a fractured arm. I got angry at the rough, coarse-voiced -woman who stood by ridiculing her husband for his groans and sighs; -she called him a calf, and said he ought to have a few babies, then he -_might_ make a fuss. The Doctor was much amused at my embarrassment. - -My preceptor moved away before I was graduated from the Academy, -and I then carried on what studying I did by myself, and later with -another girl, who, though ridiculing me at first, finally decided to -go to Boston with me to study medicine. No urging of mine influenced -her; on the contrary, I was rather disappointed at her decision. -Secretly pleased, as I was, to be different from the others, Belle’s -determination to study medicine robbed me of this distinction. Then -we had never been especially congenial. Totally unlike in tastes and -temperament, we had always been on opposite sides of the fence--she -a Democrat, I a Republican; she a Baptist, I a Methodist--we had -quarrelled over politics and argued over religion, and there was -no love lost between us. But, as she told me later, she had had me -“dinged” into her ears by her mother and sister so long that she had -come to think she must do as I did. This is why she decided to study -medicine. - - -At our last rhetorical exercises before graduation, we had the usual -history and prophecy, and felt the sentiments and emotions usually felt -on leaving school. We resurrected an old song we had sung in the lower -grades--“Twenty Years Ago”--its sentiment appealing to us now that we -were already beginning to feel a yearning for the old place: - - - I’ve wandered to the village, Tom, - I’ve sat beneath the tree - Upon the school-house play-ground - Which sheltered you and me; - But none were left to greet me, Tom, - And few were left to know - Who played with us upon the green - Just twenty years ago. - - -Although the boys had jeered at its sentiment, and objected to its -solemnity, they joined in it at the close of the exercises as feelingly -as we could desire. There seemed a world of pathos in it as our young -voices sang it that June afternoon just before we were dismissed for -the last time from the old walls. As the sounds died away, “Prof.” -stepped to the bell-rope, traces of emotion on his face, and rang the -bell--the signal for the close of school. We packed our books, closed -our desks, and dispersed, never more to return to the place that had -grown so dear. - -Commencement exercises! There in the old church packed to overflowing, -parents and friends gather to hear the boy or girl on whom their hopes -are set deliver the oration or read the essay that is a marvel of -eloquence and wisdom. - -Brimming with youth and hope, each girl graduate flutters before -the audience and from out the glamour of this never-to-be-forgotten -time announces confidently her hopes, her solemn beliefs, her freely -bestowed advice. It is all beautiful. The youths and maidens seem -lifted just a bit above the earth; but underneath the rosy glow solemn -thoughts force their way; sobs and tears are near the smiles; the -earnest students, touched by the remembrance of the love and sacrifice -of their parents, are moved to high resolve--they will yet justify this -faith in them! - -Meadow daisies are massed in profusion around altar and platform; a -paper canoe covered with daisies is suspended above--its paddle bearing -the word “Knowledge.” The class motto (translated)--“The love of -knowledge impels us”--is outlined on the wall. - -Roses, roses, everywhere. How the breath of June roses always brings up -that scene when I stood on the platform of the Methodist church that -night in June and looked down upon a sea of faces! Behind me, on the -platform, sat the dear teachers, doubly dear now that we were to go -from under their tuition; below me, close at hand, were the classmates, -so soon to “trust their parting feet to separate ways.” What a flood of -thoughts rushed through me as, standing there, in a voice that I did -not know, so loud and clear it rang (as though apart from myself), I -delivered the class valedictory! - -Looking down to our pew I saw Father and Mother beaming with pride -and joy; saw my sister and all the friends and neighbours of our -little village. How the expressions and the various faces stand out -even to-day! But am I dreaming? Is it really true? Yes, there sits my -own grandfather, dressed in unaccustomed black clothes, with a rapt -expression on his dear old face, the unheeded tears streaming down his -cheeks. The surprise and delight at seeing him there is one of the -keenest of my girlhood’s happy recollections. - -“Now, Eugenia!” my beloved teacher had encouragingly whispered when I -had passed him on the way to the centre of the platform; and afterward, -“I didn’t know you could do it,” he said exultantly, grasping my hand. -Then I knew I had done well. In school, as a rule, I had trembled and -mumbled when reading my essays; and although we had been drilled for -this momentous occasion, I had sadly faltered at rehearsals, and I knew -that “Prof.” had, as I had, grave misgivings as to my ability to get -through with it at all creditably. - -“You were inspired,” said an admiring classmate extravagantly; “we -could hardly believe our eyes and ears!” - -My essay, called “Sailing,” portrayed allegorically the voyage of -school life. By cables our little boats were fastened to a large ship -on which was the Captain who guided our course near home and foreign -shores, where we learned of the earth and the air, the rocks and the -reefs, and the mysteries of the deep; we studied the stars overhead, -the banks along the shores, the _fauna_ and _flora_, as well as the -peoples of the various climes--their language and literature. And this -is how my wonderful essay ended, as dropping the allegory, I addressed -the class: - - - Classmates, we have now come to that part of our voyage where we - must separate. We have long been fellow-voyagers, sailing side by - side, upon the Sea of Knowledge; we have had one ship, one voyage, - and one Captain, but henceforth our course must change; and as - we end the voyage of school life, and begin the greater one on - Life’s vast sea, may He who walked upon the waters be your Pilot, - guarding against shipwreck, and guiding your course until your - boats shall near the shining shore, and anchor in the peaceful - haven of Eternal Rest. - - -For two or more years I had had grave doubts about the truth of certain -orthodox teachings previously accepted unquestioningly. Our studies in -geology and astronomy had set me thinking for myself. I was groping -about for a reconciliation of opposing teachings. Our principal, -too, had often raised questions in class that he made no pretense of -answering, doubtless merely to awaken thought. Some essays of Huxley’s -and Spencer’s had contributed to my unsettled state of mind. In a -veritable chaos, impatient with certain teachings I now knew could not -be true, but too unschooled and dependent to reach a satisfactory -solution, I was a most unhappy being. With an ingrained tenderness for -the old paths, yet was I morally sure that there were broader ones, -with wider, truer vistas. Pulled this way and that, remorse because -of my doubts and uncertainties alternated with defiance; for I felt -that, since my reason was meant for use, there was a higher Right that -sanctioned my attempts to get at the truth. - -I revert to all this now because it comes to me how I struggled with -myself, when writing those last words of my essay, as to whether -I would say what I did, knowing in my heart that, in the ordinary -acceptation of the words, it was almost hypocrisy for me so to use -them--“May He who walked upon the waters be your Pilot”--and yet -feeling that they were needed to carry out my figure, and to make a -suitable ending to conform to orthodox beliefs. Besides, what had -I to offer instead? I did not believe that He actually walked upon -the waters, but I did believe that He would make a good Pilot, so, -weighing both sides, stood by what I had written. A lot of talk about -one clause in a schoolgirl’s graduating essay, but it indicates the -spiritual struggle which to recall even now makes me sorry for that -girl I used to know. I think I must have been more conscientious about -these things than most of the girls, for I never heard them hint at -such problems, and never discussed these things with them, though I -did with my friend, Walter. Had I attempted to explain my difficulties -to my elders, I should only have blundered and bungled. Yet, in spite -of these scruples, I sacrificed my dawning convictions that I might -attain what I considered an apt and artistic ending to my allegory! -I remember, though, that after deciding to make this concession to -established opinions, I nudged myself with a congratulatory nudge at -the innocent-looking but non-committal “peaceful haven of Eternal -Rest.” I had not read “The Light of Asia” then, and knew nothing of -what Nirvana meant--the ending merely pleased me by its cadence, and -its figurative fitness; it did no violence to my budding doubts, yet -would, I was sure, be accepted as a pious and fitting ending to my -clever allegory! - -Self-centred and self-conscious though I was, I was aware that no one -would give the attention to my little composition that I gave--the -general effect only would be noted; but I wanted to justify myself to -myself; I wanted also to be approved by the public--two opposing trends -of character that have robbed me of peace of mind at many a crucial -moment. In this early crisis, after weighing it all, I decided upon the -expedient course, taking care, however, to be as sincere as I could be -in conforming to the exigencies of the case. Looking back over my life, -I wonder if this has not been the course I have most generally pursued. -It seems to have been typical of much of my conduct. - -The above-named was not my original graduating essay but was one I -had written for our Class Day exercises under the emotional stir-up -felt at leaving school. My real essay, written for Commencement, I -considered a much finer production (I blush to think of it now); but -my instructors had persuaded me to read my allegory at Commencement. I -felt aggrieved that the other should be buried in oblivion. It was an -absurd affair--“What is Woman?”--which started out attempting to answer -in a facetious way some of the arguments in Walter’s essay--“Man’s -Place in Nature”--after which I launched forth in a revolt against the -prevailing ideas about woman’s inferior place in nature and in society. -It was a kind of miniature woman’s rights plea, weak and unoriginal, -and with my special thunder directed toward those who would prevent -woman from seeking to “heal the sick world that leans on her.” This -was “Lucile’s” influence, combined with reading “Eminent Women of the -Age,” plus a little Huxley and Spencer. The hodge-podge wound up with -a poetical passage probably inspired by parts of “Paradise Lost,” and -by a poem of Emma C. Embury’s--“The Mother.” Concerning the ending, I -was not aware of its being anything but smooth in expression till, on -reading it aloud to one of the girls, she exclaimed, “Why, Eugenie, -that isn’t prose--that is poetry!” a verdict which naturally made me -feel more keenly than ever the disappointment at not being able to read -my masterpiece at Commencement. - -After graduation I pieced out a summer term in a district school, the -regular teacher falling ill. As it was in one of the same schools where -my mother had taught as a girl, I tried to imagine what her life and -thoughts and hopes had been in those days when she did not know Father, -and when I was--nothing. - -Besides giving me the opportunity to earn money, teaching was a -profitable experience: I found it strange to be the mistress of -anything. At first when standing up before the little people, it seemed -queer to have them obey; it took me some time to get over the surprise -of it; had they rebelled I should not have thought it strange. But one -quickly learns to rule when he knows it is expected. I was learning for -the first time what prestige goes with the mere office. It was soon a -delight to direct and sway this little world. I then appreciated what a -trial my teachers had had with me. Encountering occasional opposition -in my pupils, and feeling the consequent disappointment, I had my -first realization of the trouble I had given my own teachers, and felt -a wave of tenderness, especially for “Prof.,” as I marvelled at his -forbearance. - -Some of my little charges were amusing and interesting; one or two -repelled me; to others I was strongly drawn. One little boy of five or -six was quaint and original: when I asked him who God was he sighed and -said, “That’s more than _I_ know.” He defined the stomach as “a kind -of bread-basket, ain’t it?” A bare-footed, brown-eyed boy of perhaps -twelve found a warm place in my heart. It was hard work not to pet -him. I grew almost sentimental over him, and made occasions for him -to raise his eyes, just to look into their brown depths. I remember -thinking, “Those eyes will make some girl’s heart ache some day.” They -almost made mine ache then. He seemed indifferent to my poorly veiled -preference for him, and evidently had no ambition to become “‘teacher’s -pet.’” One boy much older than the others grew insubordinate and I told -him he must apologize for his impudence or leave the school. As he was -to attend the Academy in a few weeks, he felt independent and refused. -Having to stand my ground for the sake of discipline, I let him pack -up his books and leave, but it was hard work to keep from calling him -back. I knew he was sorry, but couldn’t say so. - -The winter school which I taught was in another district--Johnny Cake -Hollow--in a little red schoolhouse in the same neighbourhood where the -youth lived to whom I had written notes in school. Although I had then -recovered from my early fancy, I was still sentimental enough to wish I -knew which of the battered old desks had been his. - -Boarding about half a mile from the schoolhouse in a family with a lot -of children, some of the elder ones of whom had attended the Academy -with me, I carried my dinner in a two-quart pail, and trudged through -the snow in all kinds of weather, all of which helped to make me more -hardy than I had been before. The bigger boys went ahead to break the -paths and open the stove, and “the teacher” followed surrounded by a -little group of red-hooded girls and sturdy urchins, their caps with -ear-laps pulled down low over their faces, their dinner pails gleaming -in the sunshine. - -I would have been happy that winter with its rugged pleasures and the -consciousness that I was earning money but for my perpetual anxiety -over the arithmetic lessons. It was easy enough with the B-class, but -with the A-class I was in continual hot water. Studying harder out of -school than any of my pupils did in school, I was always apprehensive -lest something come up that I could not explain. I knew that some -of the older boys and girls understood their lessons better than I -did--or would, if we advanced much farther in the book. Always promptly -dismissing the arithmetic class, I let the others run overtime. I am -afraid I kept the pupils back lest they get to that _terra incognita_ -(the back part of the book) where I was so lamentably weak. In other -respects I think I was a good teacher; in that I know there could -scarcely have been a poorer. - -The demonstrative _pater familias_ where I boarded gave me some trying -times: he was always putting his arms around me in a jolly, teasing -way that was hard to resist; it offended my dignity, yet I could not -manifest my full displeasure for fear of hurting the feelings of his -daughters, my friends; I thought it would be painful to them to see -their father rebuffed, so, evading him when I could, when I couldn’t, -I bore it with poor grace. Besides, I was displeased to have these -demonstrations before the children, my pupils--the demure young teacher -was very jealous of her dignity. - -One of the sons, about my own age, was a fine-grained youth; we and his -sisters had good times together, but something happened one evening -which made me furious: I was lying down, half asleep, dimly conscious -of the light and voices in the adjoining room, when I was startled by -a light kiss on my cheek. Thinking it was one of the girls, or one of -the little boys who was very affectionate, I lazily opened my eyes and -saw the guilty young man standing there, shaking with laughter. His -merriment was short-lived. Whatever I said made him feel sheepish and -contrite, for I felt that he had done me an irreparable wrong. There -was no pose in this: it seemed a real violation. No one, since when in -childhood I had stopped playing kissing-games--no boy or man, except -my relatives--had kissed me, and now this was done and couldn’t be -undone! I was a long time outgrowing my futile regret. Thereafter the -reprimanded youth was properly respectful to the Offended Being who -grudgingly pardoned him. - -At the time of Commencement I had formed a friendship with a girl from -Ithaca who, with her brother, visited in our village, and later engaged -in an active correspondence with both of them. They were several years -my senior; they had the charm of the unknown; they had read much and -wrote interesting letters; they were both religious, and in his letters -the young man laboured to bring me back into the old paths, or, rather, -into the Episcopalian fold. He was the nearest to a “beau” I ever had, -and a year later came to town, shortly before I started for college, -just to visit me. Full of my approaching departure and the new life -before me, his coming impressed me less than it might otherwise have -done. I have since wondered if he did not intend something more than -merely looking very soulful things had he met with any response from -me. I recall the thrill in his voice which stirred me a little when we -took a certain afternoon walk. But I found him much less interesting -than I had found his letters; and whenever I looked at the lower part -of his face, thought what a pity it was that such fine eyes should be -offset by such a mouth and chin. I knew I could never love a man with -a mouth and chin like his. He was then studying for the ministry, and, -I think, was tuberculous. His lack of physical strength and vigour -probably repelled me without my realizing what did it. At any rate, he -said no word to indicate anything but warm friendship. After his visit -he sent me Keats’s poems. Our correspondence continued throughout a -part of the college course. I have forgotten how it was dropped. During -one of my vacations I remember hearing him conduct religious services -in the little chapel in our village, but could not endure his intoning -and his priestly ways; his voice was weak, and the clerical garb only -accentuated his masculine deficiencies. I thanked my stars that I had -not been infatuated at the earlier period when he probably was a shy -adorer. Had he been healthy and good-looking, I might have succumbed, -for he pleased my mind at the time. - - -My sister had left school without graduating, which had greatly -disappointed me. But, more practical than I, and less studious, and -confronted by our growing needs and straitened means, seeing a way -in which she could help, she had taken matters in her own hands, and -a year or more before I left school had begun to learn dress-making. -I used to marvel to see her take the big shears and cut into new -material--such skill and daring, and she such a slip of a girl! What -pretty gowns she made for herself and me, talking me out of my “old -maidish notions,” and making me wear things that were “stylish” in -spite of myself, for I often objected strenuously to prevailing modes. -I can see now that it was individuality in dress that I was striving -for; but, though failing to achieve it to any extent, I habitually -dissented from conformity. How lovingly she worked on my graduation -gown, and how pretty she looked in the old-rose silk which she earned -and made for herself and first wore on that occasion!--the same -old-rose that played so prominent a part in our wardrobe for several -subsequent years. For she let me take it during my college course (when -she needed it herself); then when she married she remodelled it for -her trousseau. Again, when I was practising, and money was scarce, she -made it over for me--the gown going back and forth between us like a -shuttlecock; and every change in its form, and every scrap of the silk -I see to-day, tells its tale of love and devotion and self-sacrifice, -inseparably linked with our girlish hopes and trials and experiences. - -I remember with delight the gowns I had to start with to college (no -bride ever enjoyed her trousseau more), and I recall with tenderness -the hours Sister spent on them, planning how she could accomplish -what she wished with as little outlay as possible. The new world I -was entering, the novel experiences, all come back to me now when I -see bits of the old garments--my brown travelling suit that I wore to -lectures; my plaid one that was made over, even prettier than when -first made; my “best dress”; my red “wrapper”; my gymnasium suit--how -much they meant to me, and how impossible they would have been but for -Sister’s love and efficiency! - - - You may rip and remodel old gowns as you will, - But the scent of old memories clings round them still. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -THE “MEDIC” - - -Belle and I decided to go to a coeducational school to study medicine, -and settled upon Boston University. I was a happy girl that summer, -getting ready and picturing the future. Associating Boston with -Emerson, Holmes, Longfellow, and Whittier, I loved it before going -there. Belle, who had studied guide-books and maps, was glib in her -knowledge of the city; she knew just where the railway station was, -and the college, and how to get from one to the other. Her confidence -impressed me, for maps and topography were ever a vexation to my -spirit; her assurance impressed our parents also, and it was decided to -let us make the journey alone. - -Our family physician, who had written to the Dean, had received an -assuring letter: we were to go directly to the College and matriculate, -and there obtain addresses for boarding-places. In later years I have -realized what misgivings our parents must have had in letting us start -out alone, mere schoolgirls who had never been more than thirty miles -from home, green village girls, unused to city ways--ignorant of the -world, of life, of themselves. - -The last picture I have of my grandfather, is the one as he rode into -our door-yard the October afternoon of the evening I was to start for -Boston. Sitting his horse firmly and proudly (he was then eighty-five) -he brought me a fine full ear of yellow corn for a “keepsake.” I have -often wondered what made him bring that particular thing. Was it that -he knew the sight of it when far from home would be so dear, serving -to bring back Grandma’s kitchen and the overhanging ears suspended -by their turned-back husks? Or was it that he recollected what a -fascination the full golden ears had had for me when I had played -around the corn-house years before in the October weather? I never -knew. I think I did not then question why. But that long yellow ear of -corn which he brought to me on the eve of my first leaving home was -a precious gift, inexplicably precious as I try to explain it now. -I clung to him with unwonted tenderness as I bade him good-bye, and -through my tears watched him slowly ride away. - -The night we left home, just before I started for the train, my -class-mate, Walter, came to the door and asked for me. I wondered why -he had not gone ahead to the station with the other young people. -Drawing me out on the “stoop”, in the darkness he quickly kissed -me, wrung my hand, and with a choked “good-bye” ran down the steps. -Astounded as I was, and with my strict ideas about such things, still -I did not resent that kiss. And as Father and I drove to the station -in the darkness, leaving Mother alone at home, to weep, I was sure -(though she had kept up till the good-byes were over) Walter’s kiss was -a welcome diversion, a partial relief to the pang of leaving home and -parting with Mother. - -At the station the young people were gathered, chatting gaily, but -Sister was unusually quiet. They loaded us down with fruit and flowers -and absurd advice--a merry noisy party as the train came thundering -in; merry and noisy except for the few who were pale and silent with -something wretchedly painful tugging at our hearts and rising in our -throats. - -Hurried kisses and hearty handclasps to the girls and boys, and -then--my sister! We had not thought it would be so hard. It was like -tearing one’s body apart. Never till that moment had we realized what -we were to each other. We had never been separated more than a week in -our lives, and here was this train ready to bear me away from home, -away from my precious sister, into a life in which she was to have no -part! The agony as they separated us (for we clung in desperation as -the men shouted “All aboard!”) was the most cruel thing that had then -come into my life. - -When at Syracuse, after putting us on the sleeper, Father left us, -another pang was added; the last link was snapped. I can see him now -trying to look cheerful as he waved to us from the platform; and I -trying to keep the tears back till the train should bear us from his -sight. Never a word of all the anxiety and misgiving he and Mother -must have felt! The train moved off bearing the two girls with aching -throats and tear-stained faces--two girls who had never left the home -shelter, bearing them rapidly away in the darkness to the unknown city -to begin the study of medicine. - -Soon reacting from the sadness of parting, after the lumps had left our -throats, we became excited, even gay. Everyone had advised us what to -do on a sleeper; had warned us about thieves; told us of queer amusing -things which happened to inexperienced travellers, and we were fairly -spoiling for an adventure of some sort. But as our fellow-passengers -seemed strangely indifferent to us, we began to feel it was going to -be quite uneventful. Still, though detecting no one who looked like a -thief or a cut-throat, we hid our purses and watches with care, and I -kept my hat-pin within easy reach, in case any one should molest us. We -found some difficulty in fastening the curtains of our bed; there were -great gaps between the fastenings; men passing down the narrow aisles -would drag the curtains aside. It was a novel and not at all reassuring -experience--we girls cooped up on that narrow bed, undressing in -the dark stuffy place, right in the sound of men’s voices, with men -continually passing. It seemed then, and to this day it seems, a kind -of indelicate thing to disrobe in the proximity of a carful of strange -men, with only insecure draperies to insure privacy. - -In our apprehension and unsophistication, we thought this continued -brushing aside of our curtains must be done intentionally. Not then -realizing how narrow the aisles were, or that it was not the same -person going by repeatedly, we grew angry: “If I hear him coming again -I shall grab the curtains together and hold them, so he can’t brush -them aside,” I said resolutely to Belle. The steps soon came again, the -curtains began moving. I made a desperate grab to hold them together, -but, oh horrors! what happened! - -“What’s wanted?” I heard in calm, clear, gentlemanly tones, and then -learned that I had also grabbed the coat of a passer-by! - -Chagrined, I stammered, “I--I--thought----,” and suddenly realizing my -mistake, felt the impossibility of explaining my awkward blunder--the -man had doubtless inadvertently brushed past, as had the others, in the -narrow aisle. His innocent coat-tail released, he passed on. Wondering -in shame what he must have thought of us, we suddenly awakened to the -realization that no one was inclined to molest us; that our school -fellows had been telling us “yarns”; and we had better lie down and try -to sleep. So, using the hat-pin to fasten the refractory draperies, we -lay down to sleep, though fitfully, the long night through. - -As we breakfasted from our lunch-boxes in the morning, we felt years -older; how long it seemed since we had left the little village amid -the drumlins! We were in a new world. It was raining when we reached -Boston, which did not add to our light-heartedness. - -How queer to see so many strange faces; everyone so busy, so intent -upon his own concerns, oblivious to the forlorn girls transplanted to -the strange city--everyone but the horrid, importunate cab-drivers -who leaned out from their stalls, and beckoned and called to us, -bewildering us so that we were a long time in settling upon one who -looked less villainous than the rest. We drove directly to the College -to matriculate. The unwonted scenes, the poor sleep, the irregular -meals, and the rain, all contributed to our gloom; but the Dean’s -letters--we had a friend at court! - - -How forlorn we must have looked, and pitiably young and inexperienced -for such an undertaking! The janitor eyed us curiously, and to our -request to see the Dean said he was not there then, but that Dr. -Caroline Matson was the one to call for--“She sees the new students.” - -She came into the room. Shall I ever forget the chill and depression -she brought with her? A short, stout, middle-aged woman with light -brown hair, a turned-up nose, a pink and white complexion, spectacles, -and penetrating steel-blue eyes. She looked us up and down and through -and through. I never felt so utterly small and insignificant. I think -she said “Humph!” when, in desperation at her scrutiny, I faltered, -“We’ve come to study medicine.” I tried to add that we wanted to see -the Dean; that he had written us; was expecting us; but she interrupted -me. The Dean was not to be seen then; we were to register, fill out -certain blanks, answer the questions, and then write an essay of a -given number of words setting forth our reasons for studying medicine, -_if we had any_; or write on any topic we chose. Then she left us. - -Glancing furtively at each other, we each read the dismay that -neither dared express. I think we felt her ears were as sharp as her -eyes and that she would hear the lightest whisper. We almost feared -she could hear our thoughts. For an hour or more we wrote on the -questions and the essay. Then she came and told us we were to meet -others of the Faculty to be examined orally in Latin translation, -physics, and chemistry. What a blow! Coming from New York state where -the all-powerful Regents reigned, we had supposed that our Regents’ -certificates and our academic diplomas would exempt us from all -examinations. - -“We don’t have to be examined,” we ejaculated in unison. - -“You don’t? Are you college graduates?” (Sarcastically) - -“No, but we have our Regents’ Certificates and pass-cards.” - -“Regents’ certificates?--what are they?” - -Had the bottom fallen out of everything? The Regents, THE REGENTS--that -tyrant for which we had toiled so long, whose coveted seal we had on -our precious diplomas! _And she doesn’t even know what the Regents is!_ - -We learned several lessons that bitter hour. Our explanations, though -lame, must have been intelligible, for, moderating a little, she -explained that they had no such system in Massachusetts, and that it -would be necessary to qualify in certain studies since we were not -graduates of a college; but that as we were so recently out of school -(and this seemed reprehensible on our part), we would probably have -no difficulty. Then she examined our papers. Those cold eyes passed -rapidly up and down; once in a while she would look up, sometimes ask -a question, then read on. She could not have been conscious of the -torture she inflicted, or she would surely have been easier on those -sleepy, hungry, homesick girls, so completely at her mercy. Now as I -dimly recall what my essay was, I wonder that her sarcasm and harshness -were so moderate. I remember I quoted from “Lucile” about the mission -of woman being “to help and to heal the sick world that leans on her.” -She grunted when she put my paper down, and I breathed freer. Then, -taking up Belle’s, she gave an angry snort--something had acted like a -red rag to a bull: - -“Minnie Isabel Washburn! Is that your name?” - -“Ye-es, ma’am,” Belle timidly confessed. - -“Were you christened that?” (Glaring at her) - -“I wasn’t christened, I was baptized,” Belle corrected boldly, the -Baptist in her rampant--her religion was something for which she could -show courage even in this encounter. - -“Well, it won’t be tolerated here. When _will_ mothers learn to give -their children sensible names? Doctor _Minnie_ Washburn! How will that -sound?” and she almost annihilated us in scorn. Belle was speechless, -Belle the assured one, to whom I had looked for leadership and help in -all these new experiences; Belle of the boasted self-confidence, of -the undaunted courage! It was a strange sight to see her cowed, but -that woman’s face and voice were enough to intimidate any one. Without -thinking, surprised and scared at my own voice, but goaded to it by the -pain she was inflicting, I ventured: - -“I don’t suppose Belle’s mother knew she was going to be a doctor when -she gave her that name.” - -My! how she turned and glared at me! Our eyes were about on a level. -I don’t know whether I flinched or not; I have a recollection of a -superhuman effort to glare back, but dare say I weakened. I remember -her look seemed to say: - -“You little upstart! who asked you to speak?” Then she announced: - -“Well, it can’t go down ‘Minnie’--that’s settled. You will have to drop -that and just keep the ‘Isabel.’” - -“But I can’t drop it (Belle was almost crying)--it was my grandmother’s -name; I’ll have to write home and ask my father first.” - -“No time for that--the way you register to-day, that way your diploma -has to read. We will have to see the Dean about this; but you may as -well understand we will have no ‘_i-e_’ names here; we graduate women, -not babies. I’ll see the Dean.” - -Out she went. Belle and I looked at each other hopelessly. “If _that_ -is what women doctors are like, I don’t want to be one,” each of us -thought, and knew the other’s thought. - -Disheartened, disillusioned, tired, sleepy, hungry, far from home, -our Regents’ certificates counting for nothing, this great unfriendly -building, the dull sky, and we not knowing where we were going to stay -that night--all this and more we felt as we looked at each other and -tried to keep back the tears. - -And then SHE came back and told us to go across the hall to the Dean. - -We saw the sign “Faculty Room,” and went in. Rising to greet us, coming -with both hands extended, his ruddy face and smiling eyes beaming a -welcome, a short, stout, gray-haired man waddled toward us, enveloping -us in his benevolent presence. It was a wonder we did not throw -ourselves into his arms. Taking us by the hand he beamed and we basked -in the sunshine of his fatherly welcome. Many a time in the years that -have passed I have wished I could tell him what he was to us girls that -day. I think I did essay it once, three years later, when I came to -see much of him. I have always loved him for that welcome. He is gone -now. A remarkable man, overflowing with energy and tact, a champion -of Homœopathy in its early days in Boston--the University, in fact, -Homœopathy in general owes more to him, probably, than to any other -man in New England. We came in time to hear him criticized by certain -students; sometimes heard it said that he carried his politic measures -to the point of insincerity; but I never had the slightest reason for -changing the feelings toward him which were born that day. Though -subsequently seeing some of his limitations, I admired his exceptional -gifts--his indomitable energy, and his wonderful executive ability, -while his warmheartedness won my lasting regard. I did change my -opinion of Dr. Caroline Matson, but of that later. - -How tactfully the Dean went to work to soothe Belle, and yet bring -about the proper registering of a name that would be dignified and in -good taste as a physician! - -“‘Minnie’--let us see--that is your first name? I suppose you are fond -of it, but it doesn’t sound just right for a physician, does it?” - -Under his kindly glance Belle explained that she had never used that -name, that she had always been called “Isabel” or “Belle,” but that as -the paper asked for her full name, she had given it. - -“Quite right, quite right; well now, if that is not the name you are -accustomed to, why not drop it? Anyhow, your name is a long one, -‘Isabel Washburn,’ what a fine-sounding name! ‘Dr. Isabel Washburn’--I -like that.” - -“So do I,” said Belle, getting confidential, “but I can’t drop -‘Minnie,’ because it is my grandmother’s name; my father, I’m sure, -would object.” - -This gave him pause, but he was equal to the occasion: - -“Of course, of course you can’t drop your grandmother’s name-ah, -but-ah--why, it is all as clear as can be now--‘Minnie’ is only the -nickname for ‘Mary’--your grandmother’s name was Mary, even if they -called her familiarly ‘Minnie’; and all you need to do is to use your -grandmother’s real name instead of her nickname.” And he beamed on her -benevolently. - -Belle hesitated, but his charm of manner won the day. The alteration -was made, the obnoxious “Minnie” gave place to “Mary,” and we were -smilingly turned over to other members of the Faculty, who questioned -us on chemistry and botany, in which, I believe, we did fairly well. -We read the easy Latin at sight, conjugated a few verbs (I remember -how they tried to conceal their smiles at our faulty pronunciation--we -knew it was faulty, for we had shifted from the Roman to the English -method, and our hybrid pronunciation was enough to excite mirth). When -it came to physics, always a difficult study for me, we floundered and -failed ignominiously. I’m sure I did the worse, for Belle could reason -out such things pretty well, while I never could. We were “conditioned” -in physics, and in a month’s time were to be examined again. Although -they were very kind, we felt disgraced. Realizing that we had failed in -one study, and probably had been leniently passed in others, we felt -ourselves the ignorant, homeless creatures that we were. They told us -to come the next day at ten for the opening lecture. - -Copying several addresses from the bulletin board, we trudged out of -the big building, with our satchels and lunch-boxes in our hands. -A fine rain was falling; it seemed later in the day than it was. -We were adrift in that great city. Deciding to look up none of the -addresses till the morrow, we started for the Young Women’s Christian -Association, of which we had heard before leaving home. Belle thought -that when we got out to Washington Street she could get her bearings -and easily find Warrenton Street, where the Association building was. -But on reaching there, she could not be sure whether to go up or down; -so we plodded on, not knowing whether we were going toward or away -from our hoped-for destination. Everyone we accosted was kind, but no -one knew where Warrenton Street was. Car after car would go by, but we -did not know what one to take. The only policemen we could discover -were on the cars. We laughed miserably as we thought of our parents’ -injunctions to “ask a policeman.” The Boston policemen didn’t like -walking in the rain. - -On and on we trudged, our arms aching from the satchels, and, much -of the way, harrowed by uncertainty. Finally someone told us we were -nearing the street in which the Y. W. C. A. was located. How good it -was to spy that sign, and how like a shelter the huge building was as -it loomed before us! The street was narrow and dismal (it was even on a -sunshiny day) and on that dark day looked especially unpromising, but -our goal was reached; our strength and courage were well-nigh spent. -Shelter, refuge--what meaning in those words, and how soon we had -learned the need of them in this big, strange, rainy Boston! - -The girl who answered the door-bell, a slow-moving, stolid creature, -replying to our request to see the Superintendent, said that she was -at dinner; that we would have to wait. It was then after two in the -afternoon. Of course we would wait; we asked for nothing better. We -volunteered that we had come to engage room and board. - -“I’m sorry, but the house is full,” she said. - -Belle dropped into a chair. She had gone through so much! Her vaunted -courage was proving a broken reed. I stood there, desperate, not -knowing which way to turn. On the way thither it had gradually dawned -upon me that Belle’s courage was rapidly oozing. I had had to exchange -satchels with her and carry her heavier one (though she was taller and -larger than I), as she had declared she could carry it no farther. It -was a novel position for me--to be the leader; but we tacitly changed -places during that long rainy walk. - -I looked at Belle, a forlorn heap in the chair. I saw that stolid girl, -waiting for us to go, since she had told us there was no room--to go -out in the rain, no shelter in view! I felt the humiliation of our -position before the girl who was showing impatience for us to start, -but summoned enough spunk to say, “Please tell the Superintendent we -would like to see her when she is at liberty.” - -Leaving us with the parting shot that “Every room in the house is -taken,” she went away. - -Bursting into tears, Belle declared she would go home on the morrow; -she didn’t want to study medicine--had never wanted to--only did -it to please her people--didn’t like Boston--hated Dr. Matson, and -didn’t want to be a woman doctor any way; she would go back and teach -school. Her outburst astonished me. Pitying her, and agreeing with -her in part, her giving way put me on my mettle. So, having sense -enough to know that we were both worn from the physical and emotional -strain, and that, dark as things were, they seemed darker because of -our exhaustion, I sat down and, opening our lunch-box, fairly forced -the food into Belle’s mouth, and devoured some myself. The messenger -girl passed the door several times, peering in curiously; she looked -as though she were going to tell us we must not eat in the waiting -room, but passed on. It must have been an unaccustomed sight to her. I -myself felt the unfitness of it all, but did not care; we were nearly -famished; it was the desperation of self-preservation. - -As we ate and talked, Belle drooped less, and we soon got interested -in the coming and going past the door. Happy, laughing girls passed -and re-passed, running to catch the elevator, peeping in at us with -half-veiled curiosity, and moving on. How envious we felt at seeing -them greet one another--everybody knew everybody else in Boston, except -these two miserable girls who knew only each other. - -We kept looking at the clock; we tried to jest, wondering what that -woman had for dinner that kept her so long. We must have sat there an -hour, expectant, anxious. The messenger girl seemed to have disappeared -for good. At last, desperate, I started out down the strange corridor, -and there met her: - -“Hasn’t the Superintendent finished her dinner _yet_?” I queried. - -“Oh, my, yes, an hour ago--I forgot to tell her you were waiting.” - -I must have looked my wrath, for she went off in short order, returning -soon with a tall, stern, handsome woman, the Superintendent’s -assistant. This lady heard our tale calmly, looked at us critically, -and told us the house was full; she was sorry, but she would give us -addresses of boarding-places near by. Belle declared she could not stir -another step to look for a place. At this vehemence the calm lady -lifted her eyebrows, but said nothing. I must have said in my most -supplicating tones, “Can’t you make room for us some way, just for -to-night--we are _so_ tired,” for she deliberated, then said, “We will -go and see what Miss Dillingham has to suggest.” And she ushered us up -to the office of the Superintendent. - -Dark and gloomy every corner of that building had seemed that rainy -afternoon, but as the door opened, a cheerful fire, and an atmosphere -of warmth and ease and home enveloped us. Sitting at a desk was -a stout, red-cheeked, red-nosed woman with bright gray eyes. She -looked up, nodding a greeting to us, and listened to her assistant’s -explanations. - -“I’ve told them I don’t see how we can accommodate them,” the younger -woman said, not unkindly but dispassionately. I remember admiring her -stately grace as she moved about the room, but feeling from the way she -closed her lips that we had little to hope from her. - -“Why have you come to Boston?” queried the Superintendent as she rose -and came toward us. - -“We came to study medicine,” I said, and tried to explain further, when -my voice gave way, and I lost the self-control I had been maintaining -all day against such odds. I turned to Belle and she took up the tale, -but broke down, too. Then the good soul gathered us both in her arms, -held us close to her broad bosom and let us sob out the grief that -refused to be suppressed any longer. - -Then, conferring with her assistant, after some directions about -changes, she rang for the bell-girl and told her to have room 60 -prepared for us at once; they would manage to keep us that night, and -to-morrow would help us find a boarding-place. She then told us the -supper hour, and the time for evening prayers, and, advising us to get -a nap, said we would feel like new creatures by evening. - -The clean little room with its two narrow beds and scanty -furniture--what a haven it was! Exploring our surroundings, and -removing the dust of travel, we lay ourselves down in our little -white beds and quickly fell into a sound if not untroubled sleep. We -must have slept several hours. The first thing I was aware of was the -singing of a hymn in a distant part of the building. It was dark. I -wondered where I was. Low sobs from the other side of the room brought -me to my senses. The singing made me homesick, my throat ached, my own -tears started, and creeping out of bed I went over to Belle, and there -we sobbed away in our misery, while those young voices on the floor -above sang: - - - “Jesus, Saviour, pilot me - Over Life’s tempestuous sea; - Unknown waves before me roll, - Hiding rock and treacherous shoal. - Wondrous Sovereign of the sea, - Jesus, Saviour, pilot me.” - - -Our cry out, we felt better. Belle experimented with the gas, finally -succeeding in lighting it. (It was a week or more before I felt safe in -doing it--I disliked that sudden noise just as it ignited, it made me -jump; and I always felt doubtful whether I had turned it off, too, and -had to call Belle to come and see if it was leaking.) - -As the supper hour was long past, we ate the remnants of our lunch, -looked out on the strange street with the hurrying passers-by, explored -the bath-room, and, after much investigation about the fixtures, took -our first baths in a bath-tub, and went to bed for the night, in almost -a cheerful frame of mind. We talked long in the darkness, getting -better acquainted than we had in all the years of school together. -Never especially congenial, as children contending together for the -supremacy of the things we espoused--Republicanism and Methodism -_versus_ Democracy and the Baptist faith--over these in former years -we had waged war; but there in the darkness we discussed earnestly and -amicably our individual faiths (or doubts, now, in my case), our hopes, -our ideals, coming to a better understanding than ever before. - -In the morning the sun shone gloriously. In the great dining room -a hundred or more girls were seated. No doubt we showed by our -awkwardness that it was our first venture into city life; but we had -a grip on ourselves, and felt equal to the day’s experiences; they -couldn’t possibly be worse than yesterday’s and, I felt exultantly, we -had lived through them. As she left the dining room the Superintendent -nodded kindly to us, later sending for us to come to the office. There -she told us they would manage to keep us a week, or until a room could -be secured for us at the branch Association on Berkeley Street, a newer -and better building, and much nearer the College. This was indeed -good news, and we started off for College with almost pleasurable -anticipations-so bright was the sun, so crisp the October air, and so -eager were we to see what was in store for us. - -I remember well those first walks to and from the College; our -perceptions alert, everything so different from what we were accustomed -to; the ordinary street scenes, the ways of the people, the peculiar -pronunciation of the passers-by, even of the newsboys--everything was -food for wonder, amusement, or ridicule to the two village girls: Why -didn’t they build their side-walks on a level, instead of making the -pedestrian step down at every crossing, and then up again? Gradually -we learned that these marked the ends of blocks. We did not like the -houses built all together, they looked queer and dismal. We marvelled -at the huge dray-horses, and laughed at the queer herdics tumbling -along; we puzzled over the street cries; we looked with interest at -the “Tech” boys as we passed them on their way to the Institute of -Technology, and felt a community of interest with them, as well as -with the Conservatory students, as, crossing a little park, we saw -them file into the New England Conservatory of Music. On nearing the -College we saw the medical students coming briskly from all directions, -nearly all of them carrying what seemed to be part and parcel of their -equipment--the ubiquitous brown-leather Boston bag. - -A thrill of expectancy went through me as, turning into Concord -Street, we felt ourselves a part of this life. The building looked -quite familiar on seeing it for the second time, and despite our -disheartening experiences of the previous day, I went up the steps -eagerly, in half-suppressed excitement. - -It was some days before Belle ceased her threats of going home, and -she was always more or less of a malcontent. I am sorry to say we were -not very harmonious roommates, though we never openly quarrelled. If I -received higher marks than she did in our trial “exams,” she usually -made herself and me wretched; if I met with special cordiality and -friendliness, her ill-natured comments often took the savour out of -what would have been pleasant experiences for me. I frequently found -myself guiltily trying to conceal things of which I would ordinarily -have been frankly glad, just to save a scene. There’s no denying that -she was inordinately jealous, and it was a temperament I had never come -in contact with before. Though seldom airing our differences, there -was, with me, I know, a good deal of unexpressed irritation. Sometimes -I would go in the clothes-press and shake my fist at her wrapper, a -garment which seemed peculiarly to personify her. This relieved me a -little. - -New as it all was, I felt at home in Boston at the start, and was -disposed to like everything. Happy and interested in my work, I also -revelled in the good general library at the Y. W. C. A., in the -churches, the lectures, the Art Museum, the symphony concerts, the -quaint old parts of Boston, the Common, the Public Gardens--it was all -life, and more abundant than I had dreamed would be mine. And people -liked me. One of my weaknesses in later years--this liking so to be -liked--then it was merely an innocent pleasure to feel, as I usually -instinctively felt, that I was generally liked. - -As a class we were on friendly terms; the ages ranged from girls in -their ’teens to women of perhaps thirty-five; the men were mostly -in the twenties; a few were older. Two of the young men were always -talking to Belle, between lectures, against women studying medicine. -She would rehearse their arguments to me, especially toward the close -of the year, telling how they laboured with her to give up medicine; -that it unsexed women; that they didn’t care a rap about most of the -women in the class, but hated to see “nice girls” like her and me keep -on with the course, and at last turn out like Dr. Matson and some of -the masculine senior girls. - -I thought then, and still think, that there is nothing in the study -or practice of medicine that need make a woman less womanly. It ought -rather to make her more so. By reason of being a woman she may lack -some qualities that go to make the ideal physician, but, if so, this -limits her as a physician; it need not detract from her qualities -as a woman. But few women, and by no means all men, physicians, -possess the mechanical skill and other qualities that make a good -surgeon; but the general practice of medicine, I think, is not beyond -the mastery of many a woman’s mind and strength. If a capable woman, -with a well-trained mind, and with self-mastery, engages in the study -and practice of medicine and fails, it is, I believe, rather because -stronger interests attract her than because she cannot master it. And -as for masculinity as seen in women physicians, those same women, as I -used to point out to Belle, were masculine before they began to study -medicine--would have been so in any walk in life. We occasionally saw -Dr. Anna Shaw around the College--she had graduated there some years -before--distinctly the masculine type. Many of the women of the faculty -were charmingly feminine; and, better still, some that were not so -charming were strong and womanly, and commanded the respect of their -_confrères_, both as women and as physicians. - - -It was months before either Belle or I ceased to shudder when we saw -those steely eyes of “Dr. Caroline” fastened upon us. As she was -professor in anatomy, we saw much of her the first year. Her lectures -were thorough, painstaking, and interesting. But, though excellent as -an instructor, she scared the life out of us at quizzes. She would -call each student by name, then pause--time for every eye to fasten -upon one--then a searching look into one’s eyes, and the question was -fired. I never answered satisfactorily, even when I knew well the -answer, she disconcerted me so, making me tremble to the very marrow -of my bones--those bones she knew so well! She had a system of marking -at quizzes, giving each student a plus mark for correct answers, ten -of which would count one on his final examination. The boys called her -“Our Caddie.” We even got so that we did ourselves. The incongruity -of the “_i-e_” name, applied to HER, particularly pleased Belle and -me. But we learned to respect her, as did all the students. It was -rumoured that she never treated any student with geniality till he -had passed her chair in anatomy; it was also rumoured that it was -one of the hardest things to pass that chair. Occasionally we caught -sight of her friendly manner to some of the upper-class students, and -fairly revelled in her rare smiles when we saw them bestowed on some -lucky senior. She was transformed when she smiled. And in spite of her -mannish stride, and her abrupt, brusque ways, she had certain womanly -traits which we rejoiced to see: she blushed exquisitely, and had -pretty dimpled hands with pink finger tips--I used to note them when -she passed the trays with the anatomical specimens, and her dainty way -of using the towel after handling them. I have said that she was a -middle-aged woman, but I wonder if she was not younger than that: in -those days I regarded every one past the twenties as middle-aged, or -old. - -“Dr. Caroline” instructed us that first year, in microscopy, too, and -was very exacting. I had no special aptitude for it, and was afraid -of making blunders. She was so deft, and I so awkward in preparing -specimens, often breaking the fragile cover-glasses and spoiling my -bits of tissue which she doled out to us as precious morsels. How -the smell of the oil of cloves which we used in the work brings up -those sessions in microscopy--the students seated at the long tables -“teasing” their specimens with the fine needles, and mounting and -labelling the minute scraps of tissue! - -We had private quizz-classes among ourselves: Four of us girls met -for study in the evening--I say girls, the two others were no longer -girls; one was probably twenty-five, the other perhaps near thirty. -The younger of these, Miss Thorndike, was also from the Empire State, -a bright, capable person, used to city life, a striking, winning -personality, and one who had herself well in hand. She had some -masculine ways which she tried rigorously to overcome. She seemed to -know the ropes of college life pretty well; she was sophisticated, -and we were not and, realizing our inexperience, she exercised a -chaperonage over us so tactful that we were not aware of it till years -after. Miss Wilkins was a typical strenuous New England woman, prim and -sensitive, who constituted herself our avowed chaperone, directing, -scolding, and mothering us; making peace between us, and dictating to -us when we much preferred to paddle our own canoes. Though fond of her, -we often teased her, sometimes deliberately doing things to shock her -(how easily she blushed!); yet we always ended penitently with, “but -Miss Wilkins is such a good woman!” And she was, and withal very human -and tolerant of our uncurbed, undisciplined ways. I realize now how -much we owe to hers and Miss Thorndike’s kind and wise supervision. - -We rented bones to study the first year. I recall the amused feeling -I had the night I carried home my box of bones: Crossing the park, as -I met passers-by, I thought, “Wouldn’t they open their eyes if they -knew what is in this box!” Here, as always, the incongruity, the hidden -reality, appealed to me. - -One day at the Y. W. C. A., when it was too cold to study in my room, -taking Gray’s Anatomy and my rented femur, I went out and sat by the -radiator at our end of the hall; there was but little passing to and -fro and I was soon absorbed in reading Gray and tracing the various -facets and foramina on the huge thigh-bone. - -“Young woman, is that a human bone?” a voice called to me severely from -the other end of the long hall. - -“Yes, would you like to see it?” I answered--how innocently, I cannot -say. I am under the impression that even at the start I recognized her -horror, and did it mischievously, but with an air of innocence as I -held it toward her. - -“You horrid thing!” she gasped and disappeared in her room. This -disconcerted me: She was the head-laundress of the institution, and she -and the Superintendent were great friends. I well knew she was angry, -but I was a bit angry, too. I didn’t like being called names, and had -high ideas of the respectability of my pursuit; I knew it was neither -horrid nor disgraceful to study anatomy, whatever she in her prim, -prudish way might think. Getting more and more angry, I could study no -longer. - -That night, dear, sensitive Miss Wilkins came to me in perturbation: -I had offended Miss Tyler; she might complain of me to the -Superintendent. I got on my highest heels of dignity: Miss Tyler had -offended me; I was sitting in my end of the hall attending to my own -affairs when she accosted me; and when I politely answered her, even -offering to show her what I was interested in, and about which she -seemed so curious, she had insulted me, rudely called me names, and -slammed her door, and the episode had spoiled my afternoon’s study; and -did not Miss Wilkins herself think that the cause for complaint was on -my side? - -Then it was that Miss Wilkins laboured with me. At first I was -obdurate, and even in the end did not quite agree with her; but so -persuasive was she, that I promised not to study my bones in the hall -again, and not to offend Miss Tyler, or any one else, by what was to -them unquestionably an offensive sight. She reminded me that we must -not expect everyone to look upon these things from the scientific -standpoint; that we must respect the prejudices of others; that we -surely did not want to make ourselves conspicuous or obnoxious, and -bring reproach upon women medical students. She struck the right note -there, knowing how I recoiled from Dr. Matson’s mannish ways, and that -I had said I would rather not be a doctor at all, if I had to get -coarse and masculine. As she showed how timid and conservative Miss -Tyler was, she made me feel it my duty to refrain from further wounding -her sensibilities. - -How we observed, and insensibly estimated, our various instructors! -Our professor in physiology was a diffident, scholarly man, stiff -as a poker; dry and ponderous as a lecturer. We liked the chemistry -professor, and liked the laboratory work, yet chemistry was for me -the hardest first-year study. Nowadays when I see certain chemicals -that we used in experiments, I get a sudden vision of my desk in the -laboratory, with the test-tubes, the gas-burners, the retorts, the -filter-papers, and all; and can even see the faces of the various -students as they stand at their desks heating solutions; holding -others up to the light--now one bends to record something on a chart, -now there’s a crash of broken glass, a rustle and a stir, perhaps a -giggle, as some unlucky student blunders in an experiment. How it all -comes back at the sight of a bottle marked Cupric Sulphate, or H_{2} -SO_{4}! What a witty lecturer we had in the History and Methodology of -Medicine--a short, fidgety man with big blue eyes and benevolent face. -He had a funny way of pulling at his collars and cuffs while lecturing, -as if they choked him and he wished he could take them off. - -When early in the first year our courses in dissections began, I was -all eagerness--the untried always having its charm for me. My name -being at the beginning of the alphabet, it fell to me to be one of -the first six students to work on the first subject. I had bought my -dissecting-case from one of the “middlers”; my long-sleeved apron was -ready; and I awaited impatiently the day, little dreaming what I was so -eager about. - -Assembled in the dissecting room that first day to see us begin were -many middlers and seniors, as well as the sixty or more in our own -class. Each “subject,” as the cadavers are called, is apportioned in -six “parts,” lots being cast for the “parts,” six students working -simultaneously on a body. Half the abdomen and the right lower -extremity fell to me. My partner on the other side was a young woman, -older than I, but very shy and reserved. Other students drew the head -and neck, the chest and upper extremities. - -That first day as we entered the dissecting room there lay the body, a -man’s body, stiff and stark, on the slanting zinc-covered table. The -arteries had been injected with red wax, and much of this loose wax and -other extraneous matter was clinging to the skin of our subject. It was -horrible to see the naked body. I had not thought of that. I don’t know -what I had thought of, surely not that--and this room full of onlooking -students! - -The Demonstrator in anatomy gave us a serious talk, inciting us to -earnestness, cautioning us against carelessness, levity, or other -unseemly behaviour, after which he told us to set to work. The first -thing, he said, was to sponge the part assigned to us, then make our -incisions, as we had been previously instructed, and proceed with the -dissections. - -I shall never forget the repugnance as well as the embarrassment I -felt at beginning our task. The young men in our class, as new as were -we to it all, were awed as well as we, but those horrid middlers and -seniors looking on with amusement! I felt my face getting redder and -redder, and Miss Bigelow’s cheeks looked as though they would burst; -but with downcast eyes we kept at work, probably taking far more pains -than we needed to. I can see just how gingerly we held the sponges; the -wax stuck; we thought we had to get off every speck. Then Miss Bigelow, -without looking up, whispered, “What shall we do with the pail?” - -“Empty it, I suppose,” I snapped out; and getting up courage enough -to glance round the room, spied a sink. Stooping, I picked up the -loathsome pail and, with blazing cheeks, started across the room, -feeling that a great indignity was being undergone--to have to do this -at all was bad enough (I still think it was janitor’s work), but it was -intolerable to do it before those idle middlers. - -Before I had taken many steps a young man in our class came up, took -the pail from me, and in a soothing tone said, “Please let me--now the -worst is over, Miss Arnold.” The tears started at his kindness. The -other young men must have felt ashamed, for they soon rallied round -the table, showing us how to make the first incisions, how to hold our -scalpels and tissue forceps, in fact, giving us many useful hints. We -had had the theory, but to make the actual incisions, to lift the skin -and deftly dissect it from the tissues beneath--was different from what -we had imagined. - -Going from student to student, the Demonstrator instructed and -encouraged each in turn. Soon the room, thinned of its spectators, -took on a different aspect: the novices bent over their work with -interest and absorption. The painful emotion I had felt at seeing -those bodies, stripped and at the mercy of our little knives and -forceps, soon gave place to genuine enthusiasm. I dreaded the feel of -the cold skin, but once that was removed, I was all interest; one then -lost sight of the human side, and saw only the beautiful mechanism. -How wonderful it seemed when I had the external abdominal muscle laid -bare, and its structure disclosed, and this and the other muscles and -their adaptations seen! Some days later when one of the girls, working -on an arm, had the deltoid exposed, I was surprised to hear one of the -assistant demonstrators (a woman) say to her, “It is a pretty muscle, -isn’t it?” “Pretty” seemed such an incongruous word to use, but I -soon learned to admire the well-dissected muscles, though rather than -“pretty” I should have called them “beautiful.” - -The instructors demonstrated the viscera, which, with the muscles and -other “soft parts” were removed piecemeal, and disposed of daily. -Whitman’s tremendously realistic line, “What is removed drops horribly -into the pail,” always takes me back to the dissecting room with its -repulsive odours and its sorry sights. But our growing interest did -much to mitigate the repellent features. - -The actual dissection was interesting and easy for me, but it was not -easy to demonstrate the muscles and groups of muscles, for it was -always difficult to comprehend their action. Never having been able -to understand levers and pulleys and mechanical things, I could not -reason out things which were so obvious to others. It was absurd, after -getting the muscles nicely dissected, with their points of origin -and insertion before my very eyes, to be unable to deduce what their -actions were. I had no “gumption.” This inability on my part puzzled -the Demonstrator and his assistants--the senior students, who moved -about from table to table, listening to our recitations whenever we -would get a group of muscles exposed for demonstration. One dignified -senior who was usually on hand to hear me recite, was painstaking in -trying to make me understand their action: “Why, can’t you see?” he -would ask; then, convinced that I could not, would try to drill it into -my head. His dignified air awed me considerably, and I was demure and -respectful to him, always calling him “Doctor” as, in the freshness of -our first-year’s awe of them, we supposed we had to call the seniors. -But one day, when in the reading room, I saw him try to kiss one of -the senior girls, my awe vanished; after that I was a trifle pert and -independent. It was funny how my whole attitude then changed toward -him. I suddenly saw through the mock dignity he carried while in the -dissecting room. In vain he tried to impress me with his gravity, I -only laughed in his face. So we soon got on fairly friendly terms, as -much as a humble junior and a “grave and reverend senior” could be. -Sometimes I surprised him looking at me with a quizzical, half-amused -look that changed to a frown and an attempt at dignity, when he saw -I was observing him. I imagine he quite enjoyed the deference of my -earlier manner, and was not a little annoyed at the discovery which had -disillusioned me. - -Some weeks after I had seen him trying to steal that kiss, when I -was one day working on the head and face, he came up to hear me -demonstrate the facial muscles. The action of the muscles had got to -be a kind of joke between us, still he always laid particular stress -on that, persisting until I understood, and when practicable usually -requiring me to illustrate the action. That day I had been dissecting -out the _Orbicularis Oris_--the round muscle of the mouth. After I had -described it and its relations, he asked smilingly, “And the action?” -I replied that it was used to pucker the mouth, as in whistling, -and--and (mischievously) in kissing--_if you can_. He blushed -furiously, knowing then, positively, that I had, on that occasion, seen -the girl slip out of his grasp. Assuming a mock dignity he said, “I -have a mind to require you to illustrate the action--it is within my -province, you know.” Then _I_ felt cheap, and blushed furiously, too. -Later in the afternoon the Demonstrator himself came round and slyly -asked if I was ready to demonstrate the action of the _Orbicularis -Oris_ yet, so I knew the senior assistant had told him about it. - -We had been told that no parts of our subjects might be taken from the -dissecting room--a necessary prohibition, as the College pledged itself -to bury the skeletons intact. (The boys used to say it was so there -would not be so much confusion on Resurrection Morn.) But each year -students were intent on purloining a hand or a foot, or some part, as a -souvenir. Because forbidden, of course I had this silly ambition, too. -(We were on our honour, else it would have been easy.) I bethought me -how I could get around the restriction: Our Anatomy said that sesamoid -bones were small unimportant bones sometimes found in the tendons, -not properly included as a part of the skeleton. The Demonstrator had -urged us all to hunt for sesamoid bones, meaning, of course, the small -adventitious ones that were a rarity. Herein I saw my chance: One day -while working around the knee, as the Demonstrator stood watching me, I -asked: - -“Doctor S----, have any sesamoid bones been found this year?” - -“No, I have heard of none.” - -“They are not properly a part of the skeleton, are they?” (Innocently) - -“Oh, no, no, they are very unimportant affairs--interesting only as -anomalies,” he said pompously. - -“Then (demurely) I suppose I may keep all the sesamoid bones I find in -my subject, mayn’t I?” - -He laughed and said, “Yes, you are welcome to all the sesamoid bones -you find,” and started to walk away. - -“Thank you, Dr. S----,” I said, with ill-concealed triumph, “I’ll take -this patella when I go home to-night.” - -He started, coloured, looked annoyed, then amused. He was fairly -caught, for the patella, though of course a legitimate part of the -skeleton, is formed in the tendon of the _Quadriceps Extensor_, and -is described by Gray, because of its mode of development, as a kind -of sesamoid bone--a fact which had somehow stuck in my memory, as -unimportant things will, while others of greater import sifted through. -The Demonstrator walked away looking a little chagrined, but later I -saw him laughing on the sly with the seniors, and before he left he -came back and said, “You may take your ‘sesamoid bone’, Miss Arnold; -you have earned it.” - -I had not thought out how I could contrive to get a souvenir from my -next “part,” but this same Demonstrator unwittingly helped me out. -I was at work on the wrist, and as he stood looking on he asked, -“Have you found any more ‘sesamoid’ bones?” I said No, but just then -the little pisiform bone, not much bigger than a pea, stood out so -conspicuously that, seeing how easy it would be to sever it from the -other small bones, I purposely made a careless cut, and the little -thing rolled on the table. - -“Oh, my!--well, you surely wouldn’t have me put that mite in the -pail--and it won’t stay on the wrist _now_.” - -He knew, and I knew that he knew, and he knew that I knew that he knew, -that I did it purposely--his question, the prominence of the tiny bone -with its slender attachment, put it in my head--“Opportunity makes the -thief.” So he let me have the pisiform, but shook his head as though -he thought me incorrigible; and after that rallied me on what ruse I -would resort to with my next “part,” as I could hardly take the head, -or any of the vertebræ. I have these bones somewhere now. They gave me -a lot of bother to get clean, and of what earthly use are they? Yet -perhaps as much as many of the things we scheme and work for. It is the -endeavour that counts, and it was fun to outwit the Demonstrator. So we -managed to get some amusement out of the dry bones, but were glad when -the long weeks were at an end and we could go out in the sunshine after -lectures instead of working in that unsightly upper room. - - -One of the memorable experiences of that first year was an afternoon -spent with Laura Bridgman. Helen Keller’s achievements have since -familiarized us with what wonders can be done in teaching one who is -deaf, dumb, and blind, but when Dr. Samuel G. Howe attempted to teach -the child, Laura, it was pioneer work, and the difficulties were -well-nigh insuperable. - -Miss Wilkins and I were invited to meet Miss Bridgman by Mrs. Lamson, -who, under Dr. Howe, had been one of the first to teach Laura to -communicate with others by means of the sign language. Mrs. Lamson told -us of those early struggles, how overjoyed child and teachers were -the day they succeeded in making her understand that certain signs -made upon her open hand represented the door-key which they had put -in her hand. When the import of this one thing, for which they had -toiled long, dawned upon the shut-in soul, she was a freed being; she -went about eagerly touching other objects, teasing in her mute way -to be shown their “sign,” too. Slow, infinitely wearisome were those -first steps in her education, but after a certain point, progress was -astonishingly rapid. She had not the distraction other learners have; -her thirst for knowledge was intense; her memory phenomenal--a thing -once learned became a part of her; she wore out all her teachers with -her insatiable desire to learn. - -Among other things Dr. Howe earnestly wished to test whether the human -mind, without suggestions from outside, would, in its development, -evolve the idea of a Supreme Being. Here was an unprecedented -opportunity to test it, for, shut in as she was, Laura had no means of -learning anything except through her teachers. It would be a valuable -contribution to psychology to learn for a surety whether, unaided, her -mind would conceive the idea of a Deity. So for years they planned and -laboured with this experiment continually in view. Assistants were -rigorously instructed to exclude any hints or teachings which would -suggest worship or religion--anything which could in the remotest -way give her a glimmering of such ideas. Laura was showing wonderful -progress in development. Dr. Howe’s efforts seemed on the way to -success in this important test, when one of his teachers was called -away at a time when he himself was in Europe. The substitute, though -carefully enjoined to observe the precautions so jealously practised, -actuated by untimely zeal, and believing it to be her duty to thwart -Dr. Howe in his experiment, deliberately enlightened Laura about the -main orthodox teachings: she told her she had a soul to save from -eternal damnation; that a just God stood ready to pardon her manifold -sins, and so on. Laboriously she poured into Laura’s listening fingers -the intricate orthodox instruction concerning which she had hitherto -been kept in blissful ignorance. - -One can imagine the difficulties encountered in expounding to this -deaf, dumb, blind, and bewildered girl (whose only religious training -had been daily examples of loving-kindness), the puzzling doctrines -that then passed for religious teaching. But in that, as in all else, -Laura was an apt pupil, and on Dr. Howe’s return from Europe he found -the careful forethought and labour of years destroyed by that fanatical -teacher. He was nearly frantic with rage and disappointment. I myself -can never think of that bigoted interference without my own breath -coming fast in anger. - -When we saw her, Miss Bridgman was a tall, spare woman, perhaps not -more than fifty, though she seemed much older to me than fifty seems -now. Pale (she wore blue spectacles over the blind eyes); her dark -brown hair was parted over a refined face which had a non-fleshly -look, very mobile, very sensitive--a quivering, changing face with -the soul very near the surface; her lips were thin and very red. Her -long white hands were marvellous in their rapidity, receptivity, and -expressiveness. - -Mrs. Lamson talked to her by swift touches on the palm, Laura’s -lightning fingers replying on her friend’s hand--a marvellous sight, -those two silently communicating, by touch alone, all the complicated -things which the instructor interpreted to us. - -The one word which this mute woman could articulate was “doctor.” In -youth she had accidentally uttered the syllables and on being told what -it sounded like, had eagerly practised until she could articulate the -word. Though intelligible, it was distressing to hear it, and I was -glad when she resumed talk on her silent uncanny fingers. - -“I don’t think it is nice for women to be doctors,” she said, on -learning that we were medical students. When her friend told her she -ought not to say this, she inquired, “Why not, if I think so?” They had -never been able to convince her that politeness sometimes constrains us -to conceal our thoughts. She even added, “Tell them I do not think that -women can be as skilful as men.” But she soon asked us to prescribe for -her eyes, explaining that the lids were sometimes sore. It struck us as -novel to be asked to prescribe for Laura Bridgman’s _eyes_. Her friend -told her we were only students, and had not yet learned to prescribe, -but added, “_I_ can tell you something that will relieve them--if you -will get some of the iron-water from a blacksmith and bathe them, it -will help the soreness.” - -“What is a blacksmith?” asked Laura--“Is it one who colours things -black?” - -There she had been all her life learning far more complicated things -than this, yet this familiar occupation was unknown to her! It was a -pleasure to see her teacher impart to her this information; to see the -eager, childlike delight as the knowledge became her own. We saw why -this aged face gave the impression of perennial youth; why we thought -her then, and still think of her, as a child; she had the freshness and -curiosity of a child; every contact with her fellow-beings opened new -vistas to her mind; every explanation begat other inquiries; she was -tireless in her endeavours to learn. Human strength was not equal to -the avidity she continually showed. - -As we were leaving she said, “Please ask them if I may touch their -faces, then I shall know them _when I see them again_.” - -Those white fingers twinkled over every part of my face--“the moving -finger” read, and seemed to read with uncanny skill. I was uneasy, -except that it was done so delicately, done eagerly, yet lingeringly. -It was as though she were probing my soul to find what manner of being -I was. She felt my hair, my shoulders, my hands. I cannot recall now -whether she made any comments. Then she did the same with Miss Wilkins, -whose ready blush mounted while restively submitting to those searching -fingers. - -Laura paused and began talking to Mrs. Lamson. The latter laughed, -shook her head, replied on Laura’s fingers, seemingly arguing a point. - -“What does she say?” insisted Miss Wilkins. - -“She says that you are old and, when I told her no, she insisted. I -told her you were not old, but were older than your friend, and then -she cornered me by saying, ‘Ask her the year she was born.’ She always -was obstinate under evasion.” - -Miss Wilkins blushed deeper than ever, but enjoyed Laura’s ready wit, -though forbearing to satisfy her curiosity as to the tell-tale year. - - -Though we attended strictly to business, it was not all work in those -days; yet we had little time or money for amusement. But in Boston -there is much to see and learn at little cost. The churches themselves -are an education, and I was an inveterate church-goer, hearing Phillips -Brooks the oftenest of any, but Minot Savage frequently, occasionally -little old Cyrus Bartol (whom someone called “the moth-eaten angel”), -Edward Everett Hale, James Freeman Clarke, Phillip Moxom, George -Gordon, and others. - -When we had been only about two weeks in Boston a Harvard “medic,” -introduced by a Michigan cousin, called upon me. He was a bright, -dignified young man. The acquaintance proved pleasant and stimulating -throughout the college course. It seemed good to have a caller in the -strange city, and one who knew cousin Etta, and we were soon on the -best of terms. Suddenly I thought of Belle upstairs alone, and went -for her, and we three had a lively time, “Westerners” that we were, -comparing the Eastern ways with ours. We giggled and chatted and made -sport of the queer things we had encountered; mimicked the New England -pronunciation, and told him about “Our Caddie”; while, in turn, he told -us bits of his experience, of various places of interest, and how to -get to them. Belle was especially vivacious and entertaining that day. -But, after a little, she and he struck several points of variance, and -differences that began in a jest soon became heated arguments. They -were both Baptists, but he was liberal and she strait-laced; and while -at first it was fun to watch them spar, I grew uneasy as I saw Belle’s -right ear reddening--her danger signal. When she had asked him which -Baptist church he attended, instead of designating it decorously, he -had solemnly replied, “The church of the Holy Bean-Blowers,” referring -to the four figures on its steeple with long gilt trumpets held up to -their mouths. When Belle remonstrated, he declared with mock gravity -that they were assuredly blowing beans all over Boston, and everybody -would have them to-morrow morning for breakfast. - -On leaving, Mr. Sergeant said that Canon Farrar was to preach the next -day at Trinity and that if he might he would like to call and accompany -me there. Had I been to Trinity yet? and heard Phillips Brooks? There -would probably be a big crowd, so, if I pleased, he would call early, -that we might be near the doors when they opened. - -No, I--we--had not been to Trinity yet, I said, but that I--_we_--(with -an inquiring glance at Belle) would be pleased to go. (I had not the -slightest idea who Canon Farrar was, but did not ask.) Naming an early -hour, and not including Belle, though I had, he took his leave. Belle -was furious, declared she would not go, but did go when the hour came -the next day. - -There was a big crowd waiting by the closed doors of Trinity. Belle, -being tall, was left to shift for herself in the crowd. I remember how -pleasant it was--an utterly new sensation--to be piloted and shielded -and gently pushed along in that well-bred crowd by my new acquaintance. -Towering above me he smiled down indulgently as we were jostled this -way and that. Soon I was swept off my feet and packed so closely that -the crowd bore me along, Mr. Sargeant near by assuring me that there -was no danger; that this was only the eagerness of the Bostonians to -attend church. Presently the big doors opened; the surging mass of -people carried me forward; in the vestibule I found my footing, and we -were soon seated in the great, dark, holy Trinity. - -We heard the English divine whose “Life of Christ” I have since read. -His voice was not big enough to fill the church. I could not understand -him, and was not at all impressed, but for other reasons the day -was memorable. I was strangely moved by the church itself. When I -go back to Boston now, one of the things I care most to do is to go -down the little side street by which I approached, and come suddenly -upon Trinity as I saw it that first day. The vine on its gray walls, -the doves around its tower, the very stones in its huge pile, have -an inexplicable charm for me; and within--it calmed and satisfied -me; it seemed a worship in itself, that dim interior whose details -gradually became discernible to my unsophisticated eyes. I question -if any old-world cathedral could now have so profound an effect upon -me as Trinity had on that girl fresh from village life, who had seen -only the humble little churches of the home-town, or occasionally a -more pretentious but commonplace church in a small city. Those glorious -stained-glass windows! And the organ! Church and music stirred me, if -the English divine did not. - -(A few years ago, one summer day, I went into Trinity and sat long in -the obscurity--the solitude, the silence, and the enveloping peace -were inexpressibly soothing. I seemed again to feel the uplift that -had always come on hearing Phillips Brooks. I thought of all that had -happened to me since, as a girl, I used to hear him pour out his rapid, -inspired utterances. How directly they always came to me! Tossed with -doubt as I was, I never heard him without receiving help. For years he -had been an uplifting influence in my life, and although I had never -spoken to him, his death (when I was practising in U----) was a real -loss to me--something precious then went out of my life.) - -As we came out from Trinity that day, our new acquaintance proposed -going into the Art Museum. Acquiescing promptly, I was annoyed to find -that Belle was scandalized--“The Art Museum on _Sunday_! No, indeed!” -And she and Mr. Sargeant began sparring, he getting very sarcastic and -she very angry; but we ended by going in for a short stay, though the -mental atmosphere was not propitious. - - -It was always a welcome break in my evenings of study when the gong -would signal our room and “Theresa” the bell-girl, would announce -through the tube, “Miss Arnold has a gentleman caller.” It was almost -never any one but Mr. Sargeant. Down to the big reception room I would -rush, eager to meet him, and not having artifice enough to conceal it, -or not caring to. Other girls, receiving callers in the same room, -would keep them waiting; and when they did come would enter with -indifference and dignity, so unlike my prompt response to the signal. -But we were both “Westerners” and understood frankness, while most of -the young people there were from New England. Sometimes there would be -several young men ranged around the room waiting. As each girl would -appear, she would stand poised in the door-way till she discovered her -caller, then, making directly for him, would be more or less oblivious -to the others throughout the evening. We learned on entering the room -to nod to the other “steady” callers, but there was seldom further -interchange among us. As it neared ten o’clock, the young men would sit -with watches in hand, talking up to the last minute, when “Theresa” -would sound the gong; they would then start with a rush for the door, -and we would hurry to our rooms with a pleased sense of almost having -transgressed the rules; for there was but little time after that signal -before lights had to be out throughout the building. - - -We had had a funny initiation, after the first two or three weeks in -Boston, when we had moved from the Association building on Warrenton -Street to the one on Berkeley Street. It was then that we came -especially under the chaperonage of Miss Wilkins. That first night, at -the table assigned us, we found some bright girls whom we recognized -as students of some sort, as they evidently did us, but students of -what, all were unaware. One fascinating girl, in a light, bantering -manner, informed us of the rules and regulations of the place. We -liked her vivacity, her gestures, her imitative powers. On learning -that we had just come from the other building, she raised her eyes in -reminiscent horror--she too, had been there. In a serio-comic way she -expatiated on the disadvantages, with an exaggeration and dramatic -power that won the whole table; she declared the lights had to be out -at eight-thirty; that the tea-cups were hewn out of the solid rock; -(they were the thickest cups I ever saw); and that no man’s voice had -ever been heard in the sacred precincts. She then asked us how we had -liked there, for in Boston they never say “How do you like _it_?” We -told her we liked _it_ well enough, but it was too far from our work, -and too noisy to study much--that there had been several elocutionists -who had ranted and howled so much that we found studying almost -impossible. Her amusement at this egged Belle on; she grew vivacious -in elaborating and rehearsing our tribulations on this score, becoming -elated as they laughed gaily at her recital. And when we said that -if by any chance the elocutionists gave us any peace, the musicians -drummed and vocalized until the last state was worse than the first, -fresh gales of laughter arose. Significant glances passed among our new -acquaintances; and then the vivacious one solemnly warned us that she -feared our trials had but begun; for here, she said, in addition to -elocutionists and musicians who infested the place, there were night -prowlers--medical students whose midnight calls disturbed the whole -house. If we heard the door-bell ring vigorously at unseemly hours we -must not think it meant fire or other catastrophe--it would only be -the summons of the “medics” to their nocturnal sprees. All this was -mingled with frank and rather disparaging comments about women medical -students; and by unfeigned rejoicing when someone volunteered that a -bunch of the “medics” had left yesterday; and that the staid spinster -whom they pointed out to us at another table (our own Miss Wilkins) -was the only one of the obnoxious ilk remaining. Belle and I exchanged -glances but held our peace. But on stepping into the elevator, our -table-mates with us, Miss Wilkins came also, with the matron, and there -introduced us to that sober lady as her class-mates who had come over -to-day from the other building, so as to be with her, and nearer the -College. Our new acquaintances, astonished at this disclosure, and a -bit discomfited, soon rallied; the vivacious one declared that we were -now even, since she and her room-mate were elocutionist and musician -respectively, and that the others at our table belonged mostly to one -or the other of those reprehensible classes. - -A delightful friendship grew out of all this; especially with the two -girls from Maine. Agnes, the vivacious one, was studying elocution; -Anna, the staid, music--the one all life and vigour; the other quiet, -sombre, phlegmatic. The sprightly Agnes would amuse us by stirring -up her chum--poking her in the ribs, she would say, “Anna, Anna, -animation!” and Anna would laugh and blush and rouse herself to please -her whimsical friend. They went with us on Saturday afternoons on our -sight-seeing expeditions, and to lectures, concerts, and church; and -in the evening, for the half-hour after supper, we usually allowed -ourselves a chat in their room, or in ours, before buckling down to -study. They were curious about our work, as were we about theirs. It -was fun to hear Agnes, who attended the Brown School of Oratory, exalt -it at the expense of the Emerson school; and to see her toss her head, -and watch her nostrils dilate, when she argued with the Emerson girls. -Sometimes we went to their recitals. Anna used to play for me by the -hour, when I had time to listen, shyly pleased that her music pleased -me; she was too susceptible to anything I said or did, and would have -formed one of those extravagant friendships of which we were seeing so -many in Boston, had I been so minded. - -Our life at the Y. W. C. A. building had much in common with -boarding-school life--though less restricted in many ways--a community -of women, its walls seldom echoed to a man’s step or voice, except in -the evening when callers came. It sounded good to hear the deep tones -of “Dan,” the janitor, when he brought trunks to the rooms, or was -otherwise called up from the basement. Even the elevator-boy was a girl. - - -As our medical books accumulated, we had need of book-shelves, but to -buy a book-case, even the cheapest, was not to be thought of. There -were so many expenses to be met, so many fees at College for the -different courses, books to get, bones to rent, chemicals and breakages -to pay for, board and laundry bills and the like, that we cut down -on all else as rigorously as possible. I remember how my heart would -sink at some new item of expense coming up at the College, and how I -dreaded to write home about it, knowing well what a sacrifice it meant -there. But to occasional expressed misgivings of mine, that I had -undertaken anything requiring such an outlay, Father would always write -reassuringly: “We shall manage somehow; don’t worry. One of these days -you will be where you can earn money, and then we shall be glad you -undertook it.” How often these cheery messages came to me during those -years! - -One evening we sallied forth to a shoe store and bought a long, narrow -pine box for ten or fifteen cents. “Where will you have it sent?” the -man asked. - -“We will take it ourselves,” we replied, much to the man’s amazement -and amusement. And Belle and I merrily carried the long box two or -three blocks to our boarding-place. People turned and looked at us; -street urchins guyed us, asking if it was our coffin; but to their -jibes we answered good-humouredly--it was sport for us as well as for -them. Standing the thing up on end, and making shelves of the lid, we -covered it with blue paper-cambric, and when our medical books were -in it, we were as proud as any girls in Boston; and it cost us about -thirty cents! - -We had the diversion of gymnasium practice one evening a week, after -which we would come down to our room for quizzes, sitting around in our -“gym” suits, which rather embarrassed Miss Wilkins, and correspondingly -tickled us. Miss Thorndike did it, too, so she couldn’t very well -criticize it openly. - -Some evenings, sitting in our rooms studying, we would hear the street -cry, “Swee-et cidah, five cents a glahss!” We feared it would be -frowned upon by the staid matron if we succumbed to this enticing call, -but as the cries came nearer our mouths watered. One night, deciding -to risk it, seizing the hot-water pitcher and some change, down the -stairs I stole, and sliding out the side door, lurked in the shadow of -the building till the man and his cart came close to the curb, when, -guiltily making the purchase, I stole upstairs. Safe in the room, we -had our spree, becoming as exhilarated as though it had been champagne. -Such simple pleasures--how they come back as I recall those student -days! - -One evening Belle and I closed our transom tight and lit a cigar which -one of the men students had given me at college, daring me to smoke -it. (And for a girl to smoke in those days was--well, most unusual.) -How it smarted the lips! I didn’t like it a bit, but smoked it to the -bitter end. And then we were scared, fearing the odour would penetrate -the hall. Quickly airing the room, we sat down with our books and our -bones; and none too soon; for down the hall came the matron, sniffing -and declaring she smelled cigar smoke. We heard her high-pitched voice, -heard her tapping on the doors and making the inquiry; but when she -came to ours we were bending over our big books, one with a skull in -her hand, the other with a long bone which was receiving close scrutiny -as, in answer to her knock, we said “Come,” and looked up with feigned -annoyance at the interruption. Startled at what she saw, she made a -hasty retreat, or would surely have noticed that the smell of smoke was -stronger there than elsewhere. - -Another escapade promised to be more serious: One Sunday afternoon -while reading in our room a light flashed in our window; it came again -and again. We soon discovered, in a building about two blocks away, -a young man with a hand-mirror and another with opera glasses. We -dodged back whenever they tried to use the glasses, but as the flash -kept coming, we drew our shades for an instant, piled our skull and -cross-bones on the window-sill, then lifted the shade. Such antics as -they went through! They were certainly taken aback. Feeling that we had -checked them, we resumed our reading. Soon again came the flash and, -looking out, to our amazement we saw on their window-sill also a skull -and cross-bones! They were doubtless Harvard “medics.” But just as we -were elated over the discovery and the curious coincidence, we heard -the matron and housekeeper’s voice as they came down the hall on an -investigation tour. - -“It must be in one of these rooms, right along here, either on this -floor or on the next,” we heard the matron say, and her fussy little -tap was heard on door after door. When she came to ours no bones -were in sight; one girl sat quietly writing a letter, the other was -apparently taking a nap. A low “Come” from the one writing, and a hand -held up in warning as the head peeped in, lest the sleeping room-mate -be disturbed, satisfied the guileless matron that we were innocent. -Explaining that some young ladies on that floor, or the floor above, -had evidently been answering signals of some young men across the -way, and that she was anxious to find out who it was, and put a stop -to it, else it would bring disrepute upon our building, she left us, -apologizing for the interruption. Thus ended the flirtation between the -Boston University skull and the skull from Harvard! - - -The first real sorrow of my life came to me that year: One forenoon, -as we all piled out from the lecture room and rushed to the mail-rack -for our home letters, a tall blond youth who was usually on hand to -lift down my microscope and sharpen my dissecting knives handed me the -home letter which was always too high on the rack for me to reach--the -letter which never failed to come on Tuesday noon. Running with it to -the cloak room, eager for the home news, I read: - - - Grandpa is very ill. The Doctor says he cannot get well. “Tell - Eugenie I shall never see her again,” he said last night. Perhaps - you can write him a letter we can read to him. You better not try - to come home. It is too far, would cost so much, and would break - into your studies so. - - -How the sunshine vanished as my thoughts flew to that little bedroom -where he lay--my dear, touchy, indulgent grandfather! I did not go to -the lecture that afternoon, but stayed in the library and wrote him a -farewell letter. I should like to see that letter now. I wonder what I -wrote; I know nothing more genuine and tender ever went from one soul -to another. Besides a loving farewell, which his approaching death made -possible for me to express, reticent as I was by nature and training, -it contained, I know, a passionate assurance that it would be well with -him where he was going. I knew that Mother was praying and thinking, -“Oh, if he were only prepared to go!” Something of this might be in -his own heart, too. I thought of his ungodly life, of his profanity; -but against these I weighed his uprightness and his big loving heart, -and _I knew_ that these would count--count with _what_ I was no wise -sure; but I knew that it was right thus to try to ease the terrors -of his last hours, if such were troubling him. It was the passionate -protest of my struggling mind, becoming tinctured with Unitarianism -and Universalism, against the suffering that I knew was Mother’s (if, -indeed, it was not Grandpa’s also), with her Methodist way of looking -at things. Somehow, I could see my grandfather, sturdy to the last, -scorning weakly to repent, even to escape the terrors of the Unknown -into which he must soon go. - -He never saw that letter. Whether he became unconscious before it -reached there; or whether Mother in her zeal felt that it might prevent -his last chance of repentance; or whether, because of its passionate, -perhaps hysterical, character, it was deemed by my parents better -withheld, I never knew. I was unwilling to inquire when, months later, -I reached home. Mother said it seemed best only to tell him of my -good-bye. Perhaps it was; but I wonder if he didn’t know without -seeing it--I felt very near him that hour in the library framing my -farewell, and learning for the first time what it means when Death -comes to our own. - - -After some months, Belle and I took a larger room at the Y. W. C. A., -and a girl in the class ahead of us joined us--a quiet, amiable girl -who acted as a kind of buffer between us, after which we got on much -more comfortably. - -One evening she took me with her to a confinement case on which she and -a senior student were engaged. It was my first experience in dispensary -quarters, and the sordid surroundings, the mean tenements, the poverty -and misery were a revelation to me. Everything was untidy and unclean. -I could not bear even to sit on the chairs. The night was long; the -groans of the woman were painful to hear. Being only a junior, with -no knowledge of obstetrics, I had little intelligent interest in the -case. I gathered from the low conferences of the students, after their -frequent examinations, that all was not progressing satisfactorily; -and some time after midnight they told me they would need to call -in the professor in obstetrics, since it promised to be a case for -instrumental interference. Undergraduates were not allowed to assume -charge of such cases unaided. - -The senior student and I went for the professor. I had never been on -the street at so late an hour, and felt a pleasurable excitement in the -adventure. I dreaded most those mean streets through which we had to -go before reaching the more respectable quarters. We had gone only a -short way when our progress was arrested by a night-prowler, though no -more formidable one than a goat. On nearing Boylston Street we met a -few men and saw an occasional policeman. Everyone we passed showed more -or less curiosity, and one policeman halted near us, but said nothing, -Miss Farnsworth’s obstetric bag perhaps indicating to him and others -that we were out on some legitimate errand. - -Presently my heart almost stopped: A man stepping alongside Miss -Farnsworth had caught step and was walking by her side without a word. -Glancing up at her in apprehension, I saw her face was pale and stern, -but she looked straight ahead, apparently oblivious of his presence. -Soon I felt her crowding me, and saw he was pushing close to her side; -but she neither slackened her pace nor betrayed awareness of him. My -heart was going like a trip-hammer, but somehow I felt secure, she -seemed so unmoved. Soon the man ceased crowding, lifted his hat, and in -a deferential tone said, “I beg your pardon, ladies,” and walked on. We -walked on, too, not speaking till he had disappeared from sight; then -the imperturbable young woman, with trembling voice, told me she had -heard that that was the best way to treat such an encounter, but that -it was the first time she had had to test the advice. - -Professor S---- went back with us and delivered the child. - - -I heard Lowell lecture two or three times that first -year--conversational talks and readings from the early English -dramatists. I liked his scholarly face and voice, and felt the charm -of his manner, but recall almost nothing of his talks. In reading he -pronounced ocean “o-ce-an.” - -One day in walking down Tremont Street, as we halted at Miss -Thorndike’s boarding-house, we saw a stout, middle-aged woman in the -window, who nodded pleasantly to Miss Thorndike: “That is the poet, -Lucy Larcom,” she whispered, to our awed surprise. - -We used to go to King’s Chapel just to see Dr. Holmes, who always -sat in the same place in the gallery--the little old man, looking -somewhat sleepy and very remote, but very fitting in that quaint old -meeting-house. I first read his books in Boston, and it was such a -delight in walking across the Common to realize that it was amid these -very scenes that he had written the “Autocrat” and the “Professor.” - -It was a notable day when we went to Cambridge and visited Harvard -University, the Old Craigie House, the Washington Elm, and Mount -Auburn. Then there were the trips to Charlestown and Bunker Hill, -and the Navy Yard--these soon after our arrival there--it all seemed -like stepping out of real life into a novel. What a glamour there was -over everything! I remember my awed feeling on gaining admission to -Longfellow’s home, when, standing in the darkened study, we saw his -table, his books and papers, they said, just as he had left them. I had -then scarcely emerged from the spell of his poems, and, as we looked -on the River Charles that afternoon, and thought of the poet standing -in the very places where we stood; then, on returning to Boston across -the long bridge, saw the lights reflected in the dark waters, and the -stream of people hurrying to and fro, it all seemed a beautiful, sacred -experience, linked as it was, with the Sunday afternoons at home, when -I used to sing Father to sleep with “The Bridge” and “The Day Is Done.” -“The Bridge” may have meant London Bridge, but to me it will ever be -that long bridge spanning the Charles, over which we returned to Boston -after our pilgrimage to the poet’s home. - - -Mary A. Livermore’s lecture on Harriet Martineau was an event of that -_annus mirabilis_; I sent reports of it home to our village paper, -having previously written up several of our noteworthy excursions in -and around Boston. This had begun by Brother letting the editor of the -paper read one of my home letters, which he subsequently published, my -first intimation of it being its discovery in the paper. - -I heard Joseph Cook lecture on the Indians, and heard Will Carlton read -some of his own poems, and tried to be impressed with each, but was -not. But I heard Beecher and was impressed without trying. He lectured -on the Conscience; he said some persons’ consciences were like livery -horses--they kept them all saddled and bridled and ready to let, but -never used them themselves. - -My first play in Boston was Booth in “Hamlet,” and I was a bit -disappointed, having expected to be swept off my feet; instead, I -found myself coolly watching it all, interested, but calmly, almost -critically so, if a girl at her first real play _can be_ critically -interested. But when I saw J. Wilson Barrett in “The Poet Chatterton” I -_was_ moved, and forgot everything but the woes of that ill-fated youth -whose suffering and tragic death Barrett made so real. My throat ached -and the tears fell fast as the frenzied poet on his knees before an old -chest frantically destroyed his rejected manuscripts. I wonder if the -same thing would not seem melodramatic now. - - -Toward the close of our first year several of the students were invited -to Cambridge to visit the Agassiz Museum, and take supper with one of -our class-mates. It was the first time I had been in a home in all that -year, and I shall never forget the feeling that came over me after -those months spent in a large institution with its huge dining room, -and a hundred or more girls at table: to sit down in a real home -once more, and see a real mother pouring tea; to hear “Anna” called -by her given name, and see all the intimate home life, was a precious -experience. Until then I had not realized how homesick I had been. I -wondered if they knew how beautiful it all was--they seemed so calm -about it, so unconcerned, while in spite of all I could do my tears -were crowding fast. No one but Belle had called me by my given name -since I had left home, eight long months before; that “Anna” in the -mother’s voice made me hungry to hear my own name. I recall how odd it -sounded to hear them speak of “Mr.” Longfellow, and “Mr. Agassiz,” as -they recounted every-day things about them. From their talk one would -think they came and went around Cambridge like ordinary persons! It -seemed as if this casual manner of speaking of these great men must be -assumed. - - -Among the revelations of that first year were the vehement women -friendships we saw in Boston. Of course I had known of extravagant -girl friendships, schoolgirls, but these were women, and they acted -like lovers. There was something unpleasant in it to me, even before I -learned, as I did in later years, that such companionships sometimes -degenerate into perverted associations. Not that this was the case -in any of the women I knew, but I had no liking for the peculiar, -absorbing feminine intimacies I saw at the College, at the Association, -and wherever I had near views of the lives of New England women. Even -“Our Caddie” had a beautiful senior student who adored her--a tall, -dark dignified maiden. They were said to be inseparable outside of -college precincts; a strange contrast, this pair! There were several -“pairs” in the senior class, and among the “middlers,” and even with -the juniors they sprang up like mushrooms. They gazed at each other -soulfully; they lived and thought in unison, communicating by glances -rather than by the crudity of the spoken word. I felt inclined to -ridicule them, yet there were some who were restrained in conduct, and -who seemed so unmistakably congenial that their attention for each -other, singular as it was to me, commanded respect. Still I was wont to -say that if ever I did fall in love, it would be with a man. - -It seemed to surprise the students of both sexes when it dawned upon -them that Belle and I were not that kind of friends. Miss Thorndike, -our Buffalo friend, attracted the prim Miss Wilkins in this same way. -It amused Belle and me to see Miss Wilkins actually blush at little -attentions from Miss Thorndike; but Belle herself soon succumbed to the -strange attraction: One night after a quiz held at Miss Thorndike’s -room, Belle having lingered behind a little, on joining me, grasped my -hand and fervently whispered, “Genie! Miss Thorndike kissed me good -night!” I could feel only pitying amusement at such extravagance. Miss -Thorndike evidently enjoyed such triumphs; she tried to get me under -her spell. The more I saw of her, I saw that certain girls and women -were always falling a victim to her. Years later a sickly, neurotic -girl became so absorbed in her as to become almost estranged from her -family; she lived merely to bask in the Doctor’s presence--distinctly -an unhealthy relation. My own instincts from the first led me to -avoid such associations. In the years that followed, coming upon -such attachments, I clearly saw how it hampered women in their work, -the “vinewoman” acting like a parasite to the more rugged, energetic -personality; the latter having a multiplicity of interests, while the -clinging vine would be wretched at any interests in which she did -not have the lion’s share; in fact, was always chary of sharing her -inamorata with others to any degree. - -There was a lackadaisical girl in our class, several years older than -I, who had been thus inclined toward me. I did not understand it at -first. She followed me about, trying to absorb my time and attention, -eager to do all sorts of little services for me; but I quickly put a -stop to it, though having to seem unkind in doing it. And there was a -married woman in our class who attempted a like attachment. One night -when several of us were discussing this topic, I must have spoken -of myself as bullet proof, as I ridiculed such folly. Suddenly this -student seized and kissed me, not once or twice, but several times, -fiercely, almost brutally. Surprised and indignant, I was actually weak -and unresisting for a moment, the others looking and laughing while -this aggressive creature triumphed and sparkled as she said, “There! -that is the way I would make you love me!” There were but two ways to -treat her assault--as a jest, or an indignity--I chose the former, -and shunned her throughout the rest of the course. I had disliked her -glittering black eyes and her personality anyhow, and this incident -only strengthened my instinctive repugnance. - -Still another student, one of the juniors when I was “middler,” showed -a romantic inclination toward me: I had befriended her in little ways -because she seemed forlorn, and because I remembered every little -kindness shown me during the first year. She was of the pronounced -masculine type and seemed to glory in it, was careless in dress; -unprepossessing, and with a heavy voice. She was docile as a lamb with -me, and I succeeded in getting her to abandon some of her mannish -ways, and to be more mindful of her appearance. She would have been -my willing slave; but her devotion was irksome and I nipped it in -the bud; I neither wanted to adore, nor to be adored. Even at their -best, these inordinate attachments seem like outlets into a false -channel--the natural one being impeded. They affect me much as does a -woman’s silly devotion to a pet dog when, failing to find its natural -outlet, her maternal love degenerates, descending to the dog-kennel, -instead of blessing the nursery. - - -The religious qualms and questions of my school days were still -actively disturbing during that first college year, and I did not -cease trying to get on comfortable footing concerning them, though -knowing it could never be on the old footing. Miss Wilkins, a good -orthodox Congregationalist, listening sympathetically to my doubts and -difficulties, attempted to help me, finally urging me to let the doubts -go and just pray. I tried hard to follow her advice. On my knees alone -I prayed earnestly, but could get no awareness of a listening Father; -still I prayed, but soon, to my shame and sorrow (and, yes, to my -amusement, too), my mind having wandered, I found myself repeating the -branches of the axillary artery which I had been studying that evening! -I arose with a helpless feeling, convinced that it was useless to try -further. The next day when I told Miss Wilkins, grieved, but a bit -amused, too, she shook her head--at a loss whether to scold or to pet -me. - - -As soon as our first-year “exams” were over I was wild to get home. -Shall I ever look forward to anything with the eagerness I looked to -that first home-going? Belle, who had gone at the Christmas holidays, -was less eager. I had set the date of arrival a day later than I -intended reaching there, just to surprise them. When, on nearing Utica -we saw the fertile Mohawk valley, in such contrast to the stony, -more picturesque scenery of New England, we grew wild with delight. -This was the home country; we were no longer on alien soil. And when -the drumlins came in sight, we jumped from side to side of the car, -hungrily regarding them. The conductor and the few passengers smiled -indulgently; they knew we were going home! That final twenty-five-mile -stretch was interminable, and when, at the last stop but one, three -miles from our station, we saw our own drumlins, and the familiar -houses and trees, my heart leaped for joy. My eyes were blinded with -happy tears when the train pulled in. - -There was the very platform on which I had stood in the darkness months -ago and torn myself from my sister’s embrace! There was the dear old -rattly “stage” and the familiar driver to take us to the village! How -good everyone about the station looked! I felt like hugging everybody. -Our trunks were put on; the horses started; the bells jingled; the -windows rattled in the old coach as we jolted along all too slowly over -the mile that lay between me and Home! - -It was a beautiful summer evening. I glanced hungrily from the -windows at every familiar sight--it all seemed so real, yet so -incredible--here were the old scenes just as I had known them, -unchanged, when so much had been happening to me! “Unchanged?” But -there was a change, a glamour over everything, a light that never had -been, and never could be again--the light in which one sees a dear, -familiar scene on returning to it after his first absence! When we got -to the “corner”--the top of the hill that leads down to our house--I -climbed out and ran ahead to surprise them before they should hear -the stage-bells. I can see myself now, flying down the hill in the -June twilight, and running up the steps into Mother’s arms, almost -before she knew who it was. Home again, among the four beings I loved -best in all the world! If one wants to know how much he loves home -and family, let him go away in his youth to a distant city for long -months, then let him come back to that shelter and learn to the full -the blessedness, the sacred joy of all that is comprised in that word -“Home”! - -How late we talked that night! Neighbours and friends flocked in to -see the wanderer; how good they all looked! but how odd their voices -sounded--every _r_ in their words stood out with such distinctness, -after hearing the broad _a_’s and the softened _r_’s of the New -England pronunciation. I spoke of the peculiarities of the New England -speech; how funny it had seemed to hear the College professors speak -of idea_r_s; how the chemistry professor talked of soda_r_ ash, -and, unless she was very careful, the Maine elocutionist called her -room-mate “Anna_r_”; of how affected it seemed to omit their _r_’s in -words where they should be, and insert them where they did not belong. -I said I had noticed a decided difference in Belle’s speech, although -she had ridiculed it as much as I did when we went there. While I was -speaking of this, a smile went round the family circle, finally they -laughed outright. - -“What are you all laughing at?” I asked, a bit nettled. They said -they guessed Belle was not the only one who had taken on the Boston -pronunciation. - -“Do you mean me?” I asked incredulously. - -“We certainly do.” They had been amused ever since I had arrived to -note the change in my speech. - - -After we had been home a few days my mark in anatomy came. Belle and I -had been so scared when we had gone into “Our Caddie’s” examination, -that we had cared little about what marks we would get, if we could -only squeeze through. On opening the envelope I thought there must be -some mistake, for there was my name and number and my standing (in “Our -Caddie’s” own handwriting)--“100 plus 1.” She had deigned to write on -the card: “This means that you stood ninety-nine on your paper, and, -with twenty perfect plus marks in quizzes, it makes your standing 100 -plus 1. One other in the class stood the same.” Miss Thorndike was that -other. It was always a puzzle to us both that she and I received this -high rating from the exacting Dr. Matson, for others in the class were -unquestionably better students than we were. My rejoicing, however, was -keen--until I thought of what Belle would say; but she was off in the -country, and I did not see her for some weeks; still there _was_ that -fly in the ointment. - - -During that vacation I took the agency for a book called “Milestones,” -and went about the village canvassing--distasteful work, but I cleared -fifty dollars by the means. One day when storm-stayed in a poor little -house on the east side of the town, an unforgettable experience came -to me. I usually found my best customers in such houses, and rather -enjoyed their rapt attention as I expatiated on the treasures in the -book; for, discarding the printed tale which the publishers had advised -agents to use, I adapted myself to each audience in turn, selecting -for bait the pictures and articles that I thought they would best jump -at. Sometimes, under their interested attention, I would wax eloquent. -I always knew in advance when an order was forthcoming, but enjoyed -quite as much getting my victim on the hook as securing the order. -As I waited that day in the little house till the rain should cease, -a big, strapping neighbour, rushing in out of the storm, puffing and -red-faced, blurted out, “John Stevens’s girl’s dead--died at four -o’clock.” Little did she or the others know! To them it was just a -piece of village news, yet this girl was my dearest friend! I had known -her death was near, but to learn of it in that squalid home, and from -this loud-mouthed woman, seemed a desecration. I sat very still till -the rain ceased, hearing their talk as in a dream. - - -Our old cat’s time had come to go that summer, and I decided that -I might relieve it of its existence, at the same time that I could -add to my knowledge of comparative anatomy, and give the children -in our street some instruction as well. So, improvising a place in -our back-yard under the Baldwin apple tree, I started out bravely to -chloroform the cat. But its writhings were too much for me; and Sister -and our neighbour, Walter, had to take that part off my hands; the rest -I did without a qualm, instructing the big-eyed, eager children about -the muscles and viscera, and enjoying the amusing questions they asked. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -THE “MEDIC”--_Continued_ - - -Our Caddie’s greeting was a pleasant surprise when we went back -to College that second year. Stopping me and beaming on me, she -congratulated me warmly on my anatomy paper: - -“Frankly, Miss Arnold, I was astonished when I learned it was your -paper. You seldom did yourself justice in quizzes, it seems.” Even to -this graciousness I was so constrained I could only blush and look -pleased; but some years later when she visited in the city where I was -practising, and I was driving out with her and another woman physician, -I confessed my former fear. How she laughed and melted! Then, turning -suddenly, she asked in her old manner, - -“Did you think I would eat you?” For an instant I almost trembled, as -in the old days, but her merry smile soon followed. Since then the -utmost cordiality has existed between us. - - -The second year in College was the busiest. We had more studies, more -instructors, and a more varied life in every way. They lectured us on -disease-conditions and on the remedies to be applied. There were the -various clinics in the dispensary department--throat clinics, chest -clinics, women’s clinics, surgical clinics, children’s clinics, and so -on, where, under the various instructors, we were required to examine -and diagnose cases and to watch the result of treatment. Patients too -ill to come to the clinics were visited in their homes by the senior -students, and by the “middlers” after the first half of their second -year. Before taking cases, however, we went with the seniors on their -visits to get a little familiar with the work. Once on going with a -senior to an obstetric case, we found the baby already born, and the -cord tied and cut! A half-witted sister of the patient met us at the -door; the woman lay on the bed with no sheets on it; the new baby, -naked and cold, was crying vigorously; and, playing on the bed beside -the mother, was a little five-year-old who had been there through the -labour. It seems when the baby came and the patient had told her sister -to cut the cord, the sister refusing, the woman had sat up in bed and -cut it herself! - - -What a mass of instruction was thrust upon us that second year! I -enjoyed most the lectures of our professor in _materia medica_. A -charming man, enthusiastic, fluent, apt at illustration--a more -ready and engaging speaker I have never heard. Taking all he said as -gospel-truth, I was not a little disturbed toward the close of that -year to hear the seniors insinuate that he never spoiled a story for -the truth’s sake; that he would tell of some wonderful case one year, -ascribing the favourable termination to a certain remedy, and the next -year would forget and tell of it under quite another remedy! Each -disclosure of this kind came as a shock; it was so difficult--it is, -even now--to believe that people are not what they seem. - -One man, our professor in pathology, never swerved one jot or tittle -from the truth. This trait was so strong that he seemed always to be -telling us what _not_ to believe; he was for ever exposing shams and -false theories, dubbing them “all fol-de-rol.” He gave us clear, -concise pictures of diseases; told what measures to adopt to relieve -them; what remedies to rely on, so far as remedies could be of -service; but never failed to impress upon us that “the books lie, and -doctors lie,” if they claim that cases follow the typical courses so -beautifully pictured; or that remedies, however well selected, will -invariably relieve. There was a touch of peevishness in his attempts -to make us chary about believing the stock statements in the books. -I had a great liking for him; his earnestness appealed to me. Abrupt -and brusque as he was, on the rare occasions when he smiled, his smile -had that distinctive charm that an infrequent smile always lends to a -stern, serious face. He was an excellent offset to the optimism and -enthusiasm of our professor in _materia medica_. - -(A few years ago he came on as guest of honour and read a paper at our -State Medical Society meeting in Brooklyn. He looked much older, his -hair was thinned and white, but his voice had the old scornful ring, -and carried me back to those student days in Boston; every familiar -inflection was a fresh delight; and to make it more realistic, there -was dear Dr. Wilkins who had come on, too--the Miss Wilkins who had -so mothered me in college--past and present were strangely blended -that day: on the platform Dr. “Conrad,” whose tones made me a student -again; by my side the class-mate who had sat with me in the old days -and listened to those same tones; while all around me were also friends -and associates of to-day, else I surely should have felt myself a girl -again and back in the old lecture room.) - -Our professor in throat diseases was no favourite with the students. -He had a smooth face, china-blue eyes, and wore a brown wig. We -thought him vain, and knew he was irritable; and we failed to get -much out of his lectures or clinics. Once I asked him to go with me in -consultation to a home where I suspected my case was diphtheria; he -went and, confirming my diagnosis with alacrity, hurried out of the -house, showing such personal apprehension that it made me feel a bit -contemptuous. He asked me if I were not afraid of it, and advised me, -wisely, to send the case at once to the city hospital, which I did. - -The same professor whom we had had the first year in the History -of Medicine, instructed us in diseases of the chest; friendly and -approachable, he gave us good lectures and valuable clinics. - -The Dean, bless his heart! lectured to us on surgery. He always seemed -in a hurry; he was an easy talker. Some of the students were inclined -to belittle his skill as an operator, though admitting that he had been -an excellent surgeon in his palmier days. Anyhow, he had force and -charm, and was an indefatigable worker, and a warm-hearted, tactful man. - -In obstetrics we had an able man, friendly, alert, conscientious, and a -good instructor. - -The professor in diseases of women was a pretty, fascinating woman, -a general favourite; she had a big practice over on the Back Bay. We -students thought her charmingly inefficient as a lecturer; it was a -pleasure to look at her, and to listen to her, but her lectures were -thin, and her clinics disappointing. I could so seldom find what she -would tell us we ought to find in the cases, and when I would say I -couldn’t, she would smile in her bewitching way and say, “Oh, but you -_must_, it is there”; and then I would try again, often unsuccessfully, -while she seemed to have little aptitude to make me find the thing in -question. Somehow, we got in the way of not taking her very seriously; -but, come to think of it, it is hardly fair to single her out as the -cause of my stupidity, for there were clinics of the other professors -as well, where I failed to find conditions we were told existed. I -suppose it was the untrained student’s incapacity for seeing, hearing, -and feeling what the trained clinician sees, hears, and feels so easily. - -The man who lectured to us on gunshot wounds always came in the -amphitheatre as though he had been shot out of a gun himself. His -lectures were clear and to the point. - -The lecturer on electro-therapeutics was a pleasing, gentle person; the -one on diseases of children a trig, dapper little man; and there were -other branches--medical chemistry, skin diseases, diseases of eye and -ear, and so on--assuredly a busy year. - - -When, the latter half of the year, we were allowed to take cases, they -were assigned us in alphabetical order. Each student before receiving -his degree must have himself managed at least thirty medical, five -surgical, and three obstetrical cases; although he was at liberty when -necessary to ask a senior to accompany him, and, in grave cases, to -call on the Faculty. - -All that we knew of our cases till visiting them in their homes was the -name and address furnished by the house-physician at the Dispensary. -How exciting those first calls--wondering what we should find! I well -remember the first visit I started out alone to make with my new little -medicine-case under my arm: “Lynch, 846 Albany Street” was the legend -supplied at the Dispensary. - -The place was in a somewhat better locality than many I had visited -in company with seniors. Mounting the stairs, I knocked in some -trepidation as I realized I was about to undertake alone my first -patient. What would it be? Should I be able, after examining her, to -know what ailed her? and what to do for her? A strapping big Irish -woman came to the door. - -“Does Mrs. Lynch live here?” I asked in as professional a tone as I -could summon, to which she grudgingly admitted that she did. - -“I am the doctor from the Dispensary, I would like to see her.” - -“_I_ am Mrs. Lynch,” she said, without opening the door further, “but -I’ll have you understand my son is pretty sick--it is no time to fool -around; I sent for a doctor, _not for a little girl_.” - -I can see myself as I stood there; can feel just how taken aback and -indignant I was; how helpless I felt; but it was only momentary. -Pocketing my anger, I said quietly but firmly, “_I_ am the doctor who -has been sent to you; if your son is very ill, you must let me see him -at once.” She hesitated, but I added that if, after I prescribed for -him, she preferred to have a _man_ doctor, in the morning, I would send -one instead. I chose to relinquish the case, if need be, on the ground -of sex rather than youth, thus seeming to preserve my dignity. - -She wavered as though not intending to let me in, but I looked at her -compellingly, and, with an ungracious snort, she led the way to the -sick-room. - -There lay a young coal-driver of twenty-five, with high fever, pains -in head and limbs and around his heart, and the fear that he was going -to die--a case of rheumatic fever. He looked disappointed as I came -in, but was civil; he was too apprehensive to reject even my feeble -help. After listening to the history of the onset, I took his pulse and -temperature, asked my questions, which at first the mother refused to -answer, but her son answered them; and, as the examination progressed, -she herself vouchsafed bits of information, showing some lessening -of hostility. Prescribing, and giving strict and explicit directions -about medicine and diet, on leaving, I said, “I will come early in the -morning to see how he is; if you then wish a male physician, I will -have one sent for the next visit.” She was less uncivil as she showed -me out. - -I prescribed _rhus toxicodendron_. That very afternoon the lecturer -had discussed the remedy. My case seemed made to order for it. Though -prescribing without a moment’s hesitation, still I rushed home and -looked up my notes, and studied the subject in the books, finding to my -satisfaction that the remedy was well prescribed. In those days one had -abundant faith that the remedies, if correctly applied, that is, if the -true _similimum_ be found, would do all they promised. My class-mates -laughed at my rebuff, but congratulated me on effecting an entrance, -and on the selection of the remedy. - -Early in the morning I hastened to my patient. At the door the big -woman met me with the warmth and cordiality that only an Irish woman -can Show when so disposed: - -“Come in, Doctor, come right in; my son do be feelin’ better, God bless -you!” - -Of course he was better; had I not given him _rhus tox_ when all his -symptoms called for it? I have since wondered what I should have -thought, or done, had my patient failed to respond to the remedy; but -there he was, surprisingly better, it was plain to see. - -It was my time for revenge: Treating the woman’s warmth with the same -apparent indifference that I had her insolence, I allowed myself an -outlet for my satisfaction in cordiality to my patient. Going carefully -over his symptoms I found him indeed better, though still far from -well, and this I told him. Mixing fresh medicine, and giving fresh -directions as to his care, I told him he ought to get on nicely now; -and then, turning to the woman, said, “To-morrow I will have one of the -male physicians make the visit.” - -The patient began to protest, and the woman herself to show -disappointment: - -“Oh, no, Doctor, I guess you’ll do as well as anybody.” But I wickedly -replied that I thought she would be better pleased to have another -doctor, and I could easily arrange it. Then she pleaded with me not to -throw up the case--no one could do so well--her son would get worse -if he had a change of doctors, and so on. So, not wishing to excite -my patient, and thinking I had punished her enough, I condescended to -keep the case. He made a good recovery, and Mrs. Lynch was one of my -staunchest advocates after that, recommending me to her neighbours -in glowing praise. She also recommended her son to me: “Mike do be -thinkin’ a lot of you, Doctor, for savin’ his life. He’s a good boy, is -Mike, and will make someone a good man; he gets twinty dollars a month, -and has no bad habits, Doctor. Sure an’ a woman might do worse. But -Mike says, he says to me, ‘Now, Mother, you do be talkin’ nonsense--the -Doctor ain’t for the loikes of me.’” - -I can laugh now at the rebuffs I met on account of my youth, not only -when in College, but even when practising in U----, but it was hard -to laugh at them then. Hence, I suppose, the dignity I instinctively -assumed to make up for my short stature and lack of years. I learned, -toward the close of my medical course, that it had been customary among -the students to speak of me as “the dignified little Miss Arnold.” -This dignity was no pose. I was dreadfully in earnest, and felt keenly -this drawback to success. There was Miss Wilkins in the same class, -no older than I _as a doctor_, but her years and her spectacles were -passports to immediate acceptance, and she got credit for being wise -where I was scarcely tolerated. Exasperation was no name for it! I -lost one obstetrical case in my third year just because of this: After -I had made my first visit, the patient sent me a polite note saying -her husband was unwilling to go so far as my boarding-place for a -doctor; that she would have liked to have me, and hoped I wouldn’t -be offended--all a pretense--she was afraid to trust herself in my -hands. Under this suddenly terminated record in my note-book I wrote -with a sigh, “Oh, for the bonnet and spectacles of Miss Wilkins!” Even -within a few months of graduation, while shopping for a cloak, I was -chagrined to have the saleswoman tell the taller, but younger, girl -who, accompanying me, acted as spokesman, “Oh, you will have to take -_her_ into the misses’ department.” The “misses’ department,” indeed! -and I almost ready to take my degree! and I would have to be taken -in--I could not even go there myself! It amuses me now to recall what a -sore point this was with me. - - -During my second year, Sister came on to Boston to take up nursing. -What delight when she landed there! She looked so pretty, and I was -so overjoyed to have her there, so proud of her, so eager to show -her about and introduce her to my friends! She had been over to the -hospital only a week when one day, between lectures, one of the young -men came to me and said, “Miss Arnold, there’s an awful nice little -thing out in the hall wants to see you.” Just then another rushed up -and said, “Miss Arnold, if you’re not in here, you’re out in the hall, -and you want to see yourself.” I ran out and found Kate in her nurse’s -garb, smiling, blushing, and enjoying having these young men dance -attendance on her. I was flattered that they had seen so marked a -resemblance when she was so much more attractive than I. - -Not wishing to pledge herself to the two-year course, Kate stayed -at the hospital only during the probationer’s term, deciding that -she would go home and say Yes to the wooer to whom distance was -lending enchantment. But she occupied herself with private nursing -in and around Boston till I went home in June. Once she just missed -an opportunity to go as companion to the invalid wife of Dr. Oliver -Wendell Holmes, but an unkind Providence prevented--she having accepted -a case in that city. How I bewailed her untimely absence--actually -to have been in the same house with the dear Autocrat! I was almost -tempted to go myself--medicine or no medicine. - - -During that second year, Dr. “Conrad” asked for volunteers for -drug-provings among the students: A drug was prepared for each prover -with directions for taking, and whatever symptoms were experienced -while taking it were to be recorded in a little book, whether we -thought them due to the drug or not. The provers were enjoined not to -compare notes, but to turn in their reports at a stated time. I was one -of six to volunteer. - -For a few days I had only the slightest symptoms to record, but after -that there developed an intestinal disturbance which gradually became -pronounced. I began to get interested, wondering if it was really -the drug that was responsible--those tiny tasteless powders--so, -doubting it, kept on with the medicine. I suppose I was a little -skeptical because of a rumour that they always gave some of the provers -_saccharum lactis_, and that not infrequently records were turned in -with a long string of symptoms, when the provers had only been given -_sac. lac._ Naturally I did not want to attribute symptoms to drug -action if I were not taking a real drug; so, though growing worse and -worse, I kept on with the proving. The day came for our examination in -pathology by the very professor who had solicited the provings--our -skeptical pessimist. Uncomfortably ill by that time, I could hardly -hold out to take the examination. Miss Wilkins had insisted that if I -did not go to see Dr. “Conrad” immediately afterwards, she would go -herself, so as I handed in my paper, I told him I was ill, and would -like to call at his office in the afternoon. I added that I was one of -the drug-provers, but was not sure whether this illness had anything -to do with what I had been taking. He bent upon me those scrutinizing -eyes, his face stern but kindly, and said, “Poor child, why didn’t you -tell me before? How have you sat through the examination? Go home at -once, and come to me at two o’clock.” - -That afternoon I went to his office on Commonwealth Avenue--a luxurious -place, a side of life that, as students, we saw only from the outside, -our entrée in Boston houses being chiefly in those of the Lynches, -the Sullivans, and O’Gradys. The kind, fatherly look he bent upon me -as he drew me in his office and listened to my confused, embarrassed -tale, was worth it all. Weak and in pain, I was unable to tell a clear -story. He snatched my note-book, read the symptoms, looking up every -few minutes, then read on, after which he gave me a soothing talk, and -I have loved him ever since. Though commending my zeal, he deplored the -fact that I had carried it to the extent of suffering so much. - -“No one else did it--no one else did it,” he scolded, half to -himself. “They turned in their worthless notes before the time was -up, pretending they had taken the drugs faithfully when I knew they -hadn’t; some of them got symptoms on taking _sac. lac._--a good list of -them! but you wanted to be sure yourself--that is the only way to get -at the truth.” - -Who would not have been willing to suffer to get this from the stern -Dr. “Conrad?” Rigidly prescribing my diet and rest, he gave me some -medicine and sent me home in his carriage, calling on me that evening -to my delight. In two days I was as well as ever. I learned later that -it was _mercury_ that I had proved, but in so weak a potency that he -had been surprised at the results. - -That same year I experimented with _atropine_ in my eyes (a silly, -risky thing to do), applying it just to see how I would look with the -pupils widely dilated, little knowing how it would incapacitate me for -my work. Putting in a tiny bit just before starting for College one -morning, by the time I got there I could not see to take notes or to -read, and it was only a day or two before “exams”! - -For one of the meetings of our College Society, I was given the -subject _materia medica_ to treat in any way I chose. Having just been -reading the “medicated novels” of Dr. Holmes--“Elsie Venner” and “The -Guardian Angel”--I thought it would be fun to take a case described -in one of them, as given in the nurse’s report, ask the students to -diagnose it and prescribe, leading them at the start to think it a -_bona fide_ case. The one I chose, I myself diagnosed as one of _globus -hystericus_, and decided what remedy I would give, were she a real -patient. Then it occurred to me that it would be interesting to know -what our professor in _materia medica_ would prescribe for such a case -in real life; and that it would add to the interest if I could tell the -students that I would give them Prof. S----’s prescription after they -had submitted theirs. - -I had no intention of deceiving the professor when I first thought of -going to him, but growing bold on arrival, as I handed him the paper -with the symptoms copied off verbatim, told him I was especially -anxious to prescribe carefully for this case, as it had come into my -hands from _a prominent old school physician_. - -As he read, his eyes twinkled at the nurse’s phraseology; he looked up -at me once or twice, curiously, as I sat there scared, then, at what -I had done. Seeing my pencilled diagnosis with a question mark at the -bottom, he said: - -“Yes, you have diagnosed the case correctly beyond a doubt, and now for -the remedy--I see you have three suggested, but first, let me know more -about the case.” Then he plied me with questions. By this time I was -greatly embarrassed; a suspicious twinkle in his eye, as he remarked -that the nurse herself must be a unique person, made me uncomfortable. -Finally he queried, “Who _is_ this ‘old school physician’ who had the -case?” - -“Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes,” I confessed timorously. - -How he laughed! Hastening to explain and apologize, I told him how I -had come to present the case to him, and that only on the spur of the -moment had I conceived the idea of offering it as a real case. He had -seen from the start that there was something queer, but was at a loss -to unravel the mystery. After a jolly chat about it, he discussed the -symptoms as seriously with me as though it had been a case in real -life; so I went to the Society meeting in great glee, hoodwinking them -until their answers were turned in, then telling them the whole story. - - -The experiences of that second-year vacation kept pace with the advance -in our studies. Uncles, aunts, and cousins, school-mates, neighbours, -and chance acquaintances came rehearsing their aches and pains, -expecting me in my inexperience to help them promptly. I took them -all seriously. I was a good listener, but was often of little further -help. So many of them had complaints about which we had as yet had no -lectures. Still I had the hope and confidence that go with youth, and -the temerity to “rush in” where the more experienced might fear to -tread. - -The coloured woman who did our washing asked me to attend her in -confinement--her confidence in me was touching; for, although we had -had our lectures in obstetrics, and I had been to a few cases with -seniors, I had then managed none myself. But Josie had had several -children so would be likely, I thought, to have an easy time; and, if I -should need help, I could call on Dr. Campbell--the physician for whom -I had had the girlish infatuation. - -It was a hot Fourth of July when they called me. Josie’s poor little -home was a paradise in neatness and order compared to those I had -frequented in dispensary practice. I felt quite elated at the prospect -of managing a case alone. But from my first examination I felt -uneasy, seeing that I had a different condition to deal with than any -encountered in my limited experience. As labour progressed, to my -consternation I found the cord, instead of the head, presenting, so -knew that I had a case of transverse presentation--one which would -require turning and speedy delivery to save the child. Of course I was -incompetent to do this, nor would it have been lawful to attempt it, -being an undergraduate. - -Dr. Campbell responded promptly to my summons, performed version, and -delivered the child and the adherent placenta. I managed the after-care -without difficulty. Josie was glad of her enforced rest in bed. In the -days preceding her confinement I had gone past her house and seen -her, big with child, standing at the ironing-board, late at night, -thus supporting her family while her great lazy husband, John Wesley -Freeman, would loll about all day, then sit by her at night and read -the Bible and exhort as she stood ironing. True to his name, he felt -called to preach, and, failing a larger audience, preached to poor -Josie, in and out of season. While I kept her in bed, the lazy fellow -had to shift for himself or starve, as his swarming offspring were too -small to be of service in the household. - -One morning, on finding Josie worse, and learning that John Wesley -had been preaching to her the night before, and scolding her because -she had fallen asleep, I berated him soundly. It was a good time to -chastise him generally; to warn him against deeds of omission and -commission. So I set forth how near Josie had come to losing her life, -and said she probably would not live through another pregnancy. When -I had done, in his drawling, falsetto voice, and with a sanctimonious -air, he said: - -“Yes, Miss ’Genia, I reckon she was mighty sick, but she’s gettin’ -on now, and you know, Miss ’Genia, the Bible says we chillun must be -fruitful and multiply and ’plenish the earth; and, Miss ’Genia, we -sholy must do as the good Book says.” - -More exasperated than amused, I snapped out: - -“Well, John Wesley, I think you have done your share toward being -fruitful and multiplying and replenishing the earth--I guess the Lord -will excuse you if you turn around now and help Josie to support the -ones you have on hand.” - -But he didn’t; he continued compliant to his favourite text; and after -one or two more evidences of his cheerful obedience came, Josie left -her wash-tub and ironing-board forever and replenished the earth with -her worn-out body, able no longer to be fruitful and multiply at -the rate John Wesley thought necessary in order to fulfil the Holy -Scriptures. - -All that summer I attended an old man dying of Bright’s disease, -prescribing for him and helping his over-burdened wife in nursing -him. It was hard work--those bed-sores, his extreme emaciation and -helplessness; but I then learned the luxury of feeling myself really -useful. I knew I was helping to lighten burdens growing well-nigh -unendurable. Yet how critical I was in my heart of the poor wife when, -the morning I went there early and found her carrying out blankets and -pillows to air, I heard her announce, with a relief in which there -was no attempt at concealment, “Well, he’s gone at last!” She let me -do the autopsy. I invited Belle and Dr. Campbell. I can remember the -appearance of those worn-out kidneys far better than the details of -many a later autopsy. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -THE “MEDIC”--_Concluded_ - - -There were four hospital appointments of one year each open to the -seniors, each student receiving board and laundry, and giving in return -his or her services, except when attending lectures. I had already -declined a position as house-physician at Lasell Seminary, to which -one of the retiring seniors had recommended me, hoping to secure the -next hospital vacancy on January first, though letting go the bird -in the hand with considerable hesitation. Either position would be a -great help financially, but the one at the hospital, if I could obtain -it, would offer exceptional advantages from a medical point of view; -besides would hold over six months after graduation. - -We three applicants were in turn called before the Faculty and -questioned as to our past life and experience, our standing in college, -and our dispensary work. Not having thought to supply myself with -letters of recommendation, I was not a little disturbed when the other -girls showed me theirs. My turn came last, and I was considerably awed -on entering the room where the professors were congregated, even though -the dear Dean, and Dr. “Conrad,” and the friendly professor in _materia -medica_ were among the number. My work in the Post Office, and my two -terms of country school-teaching were all I could think of when they -asked me what I had to offer in the way of experience as to fitness for -the position. - -Our humorous little chest professor, Dr. C----, could not resist a joke -at my expense: - -“I see your standing in anatomy is 100 plus 1--ahem!--ah--just explain -to me, won’t you, what this means? Does it mean that you know one more -thing than Dr. Matson knows about anatomy--or one more thing than there -_is_ to know?” - -I snickered at this, but quickly sobered and explained about the plus -marks in quizzes counting on our final marks; and, his eyes twinkling, -he professed his curiosity satisfied. Then some of the others put their -queries, and finally they let me go. - -In the adjoining room we three sat in suspense while they talked us -over, each of us dreading yet hoping to be the lucky one. Presently Dr. -C---- came to us, no pleasantry now; he looked really uncomfortable; -fidgeting at his collar and cuffs, and glancing from one to the other -of us, he said apologetically that they were sorry there were not three -positions vacant, so as to give us all a chance to demonstrate our -ability, but--hm! hm!--since there was only one, they had decided in -favour of--ah--Miss Arnold. - -I felt almost guilty at being chosen, but the other girls were very -comforting, and the welcome the house-staff gave me, when I went -downstairs, was cheering indeed. It was a great load off my mind--no -more board to pay, to say nothing of other advantages. While the -house-staff were questioning me as to the “grilling” I had received, -the faculty meeting having dispersed, some of the professors dropped in -the office. Dr. S----, in a charmingly facetious way, told the house -officers why he voted for “Dr.” Arnold (with a low bow to me as he said -that the title I was to earn next June was now mine by courtesy)--he -had voted for her, he said, because she once brought him a “novel” -patient from a prominent old school physician--no less a person than -Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes! Another spoke in a more serious vein--my -work in the Post Office he thought ought to have helped me to learn -adaptability; but the irrepressible little Dr. C---- said he had chosen -me because even Dr. Matson was willing to concede that I was more than -perfect in anatomy. - - -Valuable as was the year in the hospital, I got all too little out of -it, considering what it offered. The daily association with trained -physicians and surgeons, and familiarity with illness, with hospital -methods, with surgical technique, were among the unquestioned benefits. - -The three of us who were undergraduates had to work particularly hard, -as there was the college work to keep up, as well as the exacting -demands of ward and operating-room work. - -Though on the medical side for the first six months, I had the -anesthetizing to do for a time. It was disagreeable work. Often all -would go well and, interest centring on the operation, no one would -notice the humble etherizer. Again, though I was seemingly just as -painstaking, the patient would become cyanotic, and I would have to -remove the cone, pull out the tongue, and perhaps resort to other -measures to reëstablish respiration. If the operator noticed this, -I would get very nervous, especially if it happened when a certain -irascible surgeon was operating; for, impatient of the slightest delay, -he would scold before the whole class. If I anesthetized so lightly -that the patient moved, or--horror of horrors!--if he began retching, -how mortified I was! And if I made the opposite mistake of pushing the -ether too far--the agony I suffered, even after he was out of danger! -to think how near he came to death through my incompetency! It all came -easier after a while, but I was distinctly relieved when, after three -months, I was graduated from the ether-cone, and promoted to “running -instruments,” though there were trials even here. - -So many surgeons, each with his different methods--it was no easy task -for a beginner who knew little about the technique of operations, and -had no special aptitude for anticipating just what instruments were -needed and when. I think I never made a specially good assistant. I -was not mechanical enough myself; but it was a pleasure to attend some -of the surgeons--those who were cool and collected; who remembered our -inexperience; who explained ahead their probable procedures, and called -out clearly the name of the instrument they wished, if we did not -anticipate them. - -One of the operators, though skilled, was so nervous he would fairly -jump up and down if one handed him a pair of forceps when he was not -ready for them, or gave him the wrong retractor, or if the cat-gut -broke when tying off arteries. Original in his methods, still he -expected one to know what he wanted, no matter what, in his confusion, -he said. He would throw a knife across the room if it was not sharp -enough, or was not just to his fancy; and how he would scold and abuse -us at times!--seldom at private operations when just the house-staff -was present, but on clinic days when the entire student-body was -assembled and also visiting physicians--at such times he was especially -nervous and would make the fur fly. - -“_Can’t_ you tell what I want before I want it?--never did see such -stupid assistants.” “Who sharpened these knives?” “Who prepared this -cat-gut?” “_Can’t_ you keep your patient under ether--have I got to -operate and etherize, too?” - -How furious we used to get! We were all in the same boat, though I -am sure I was more stupid than the others, especially when he was -concerned. But he would come around afterwards, while we were washing -up instruments (and at the same time resolving that we were fools to -stay on there and take his abuse), and by a few words he would, as -it were, pat us all on the back; say we had helped him out of a very -trying operation; that he never meant what he said when operating, -and so on. And, so potent was his penitent manner, we were usually -mollified--till the next time. As an operator we respected him; his -cases always did well. We knew he was hot-headed, and that afterwards -he was always ashamed of his temper; we also knew that others had lived -through just such experiences, and that other students stood ready to -take our positions if we abandoned them. - - -Serious were the daily events by which we were surrounded, but the -irrepressibility of youth asserted itself. Mingled with the memory of -solemn scenes and grave responsibilities are recollections of many a -jolly hour within the hospital walls. I recall in this connection the -initiation that our colleagues, Fenton and Laidlaw, gave me shortly -after I went there. I roomed with Dr. Thorndike who had gone on the -house-staff three months before. One night shortly after we had gone -to bed we suddenly smelled _amyl nitrite_ so strong that we got up -to investigate. All was quiet in the hall and in the private rooms -near by--the odour was clearly more penetrating right there in our -room. After considerable search we found a tiny moist streak on the -floor--those young doctors had injected a hypodermic syringeful of -that pungent drug through our key-hole! We turned out our light and -went back to bed, chagrined that, lurking about somewhere, they had -doubtless heard us and known that we had risen to their bait. Soon we -heard stealthy steps outside in the hall, then a squirt and a splash, -and through the key-hole came a bigger stream--this time they had used -a large syringe and injected strong ammonia. Of course we were forced -to vacate and air our room--just what the besiegers wanted! They, -and we, got all the more fun out of these practical jokes because we -could not risk disturbing the patients, and also had to be guarded -lest the wary matron, or the night nurses, discover our pranks. We -were not above the pranks, but did not wish to impair our prestige as -house-officers. - -One evening Laidlaw, looking sober as a deacon, came to the office and -requested us to repair to an upper room for consultation. He looked -so dignified we knew something was up. Closing the door upon us, and -solemnly unbuttoning his coat, he revealed a fat mince pie. After we -had discussed it to the last crumb, and I had voted it the best pie I -ever ate, he informed me it was a brandied pie. In those days I refused -pies or sauces if I knew they contained brandy or sherry. Having -wheedled the cook to put a double dose in that pie, he and the others -chuckled to see the little teetotaller partake of it so greedily. -At that time I was gullible, fairly docile, and must have been rare -sport for the more sophisticated three. The young men lectured me in a -fatherly way, and really did me a good service in getting me over some -of my unduly prim ways. The first college year I had been so “proper” -I would not let my father see me in my “gym” suit; yet before the year -was over Miss Thorndike and I, to shock Miss Wilkins, had had our -tin-types taken in those suits! One morning at the breakfast table, -at the hospital, I was shocked to find a pencil sketch of two young -women gymnasts, a rough sketch which implied that the one who made it -must have seen this tin-type. Knowing it to be the work of Fenton and -Laidlaw, I was distressed to think they must have seen the original; -but was greatly relieved to find that Dr. Thorndike and a girl friend -had simply described it minutely to them, so they could make me think -they had seen it. After that Miss Thorndike’s friend, seeing how I -was given to straining at gnats and swallowing camels, made a clever -sketch of a prim maiden sitting in a large chair, the arms and legs -of which were covered with gloves and stockings, while a statue of -Venus (draped) stood near, and the maiden, holding a fan between her -face and the draped statue, was absorbed in a book of Zola’s! Though -I had never read a word of Zola’s I saw what a clever hit this was at -my inconsistencies. Still I did not consider myself prudish; I could -discuss medical topics freely with any one without embarrassment; but -did not like jesting about certain matters; and perhaps, when in dead -earnest, _was_ rather slow in seeing the funny side of things. So the -others claimed I needed some shocking and disciplining to get me over -my squeamishness, and perhaps I did. I remember how Fenton scolded me -one day for objecting when he started to brush the lint from my gown: -“There’s no sense in your being so prim--I don’t want you to be as free -and easy as Miss ---- is, but you certainly do carry modesty too far.” -He was so fine and honest, I know I profited by that and other advice -of his. - - -We sometimes read aloud together in the evening, oftenest from -“Pickwick Papers,” having uproarious times there in the office, with -no patients or nurses near. One evening, when Dr. Thorndike was away, -Laidlaw brought in a book saying, “I’ve found a brand new author--they -say it’s great--let’s try it.” It was Amélie Rives’s “The Quick or the -Dead.” We began it gaily and innocently, at least I did, reading aloud -by turns. From the start it was very fervid, and soon I, and I think -the young men also, began to be embarrassed. Just as I was feeling -uneasy and wondering how I was going to get out of it, a bright little -woman physician whom we all knew, passing the office door and hearing -our gales of laughter (for we were making all sorts of fun of it to -relieve our embarrassment) stopped and asked what we were reading. She -looked surprised on being told, but made no comment about it, and as -she turned to go, asked casually if she could speak with me later, when -I was at liberty. Glad of an excuse, I said I could stop then, and went -with her. Telling me that she had read the book, she said she thought -I would find it quite impossible to go on with it with the young men, -and suggested, as a way out, that I slip down to the office after they -had gone to their rooms, get the book and read it, then tell them I had -already finished it; they would then, she said, read it by themselves, -and soon drop the subject. - -That night I did as she advised. They grumbled and rallied me about -being so eager that I couldn’t wait to finish it with them; but they -soon let the subject rest. For years I blushed whenever I heard that -book mentioned. It is the only book I ever read that I feel ashamed to -admit having read, though now I have only the faintest recollection -what it was all about. - - -Our hospital life was a full one--much work and many emotions crowded -in the days: patients coming to be operated; many operations meaning -life or death, and even the less serious ones always approached by the -patients with dread and apprehension. It fell to the house-officers -to receive and reassure patients and their friends; to calm their -anxiety; to inspire their confidence in the operators, and their hope -for the outcome. Sometimes the apprehension of the patient, and his -forebodings, so weighed me down, that I found it difficult to be very -reassuring; but I learned in time to disregard these, and was then, of -course, of more help to the patients. - -I recall one case in which the surgeon found such complications that -there was nothing to do but bring the operation to a close, with the -hope that the patient could rally from the anesthetic and have some -minutes with her friends before the end. As she sank steadily, with -what breathless but orderly haste we worked! That drawn, tense look on -the surgeon’s face, the awful stillness in the operating room! Actuated -by one motive, the assistants were so many extra hands for the surgeon, -anticipating his needs to the letter. Restoratives were applied, every -conceivable means was employed to counteract the collapse into which -the patient was sinking. Giving his entire attention to the field -of operation, and working with marvellous rapidity, the surgeon was -taking the last stitches, when we told him she was gone. Nervelessly he -dropped his hands, leaving Laidlaw and me to finish the stitches and -apply the dressings. The look of agony on the face he lifted to us was -a revelation. I had never realized till then what the taking of such -a serious case means to a surgeon, and was more especially impressed -as I had thought this particular surgeon cold and self-centred. A few -minutes later he came to me, his voice shaking, and asked if, as a -special favour to him, I would go down and speak with the friends, and -tell them carefully about the outcome. Not an easy thing to do, but I -felt so much compassion for him I would not have hesitated had it been -twice as hard. Sometimes our patients were poor and obscure; again, as -in the above case, from well-known Boston families--the extremes of -life met in that little hospital of about one hundred beds, and scenes -grave and gay alternated in rapid succession. - -One day a big demonstrative fellow under etherization caused me no -end of embarrassment: It was an emergency case sandwiched in between -others, and they brought him in the operating room only partly -anesthetized. It was a day when the room was full of students. I was -busy, passing back and forth, getting things ready, when in the maudlin -loquacity of that first-stage of ether he threw out his arms and begged -me to come and hold his hand. They tried to quiet him, and to push -the ether, but he took it poorly and resisted vigorously, and kept -addressing to me many endearing epithets as he entreated me to come -and hold his hand. Of course the students enjoyed it, and suppressed -titters passed along the rows of spectators. My face reddened -furiously. I tried to keep out of sight as much as possible, but with -the persistence of one partly under ether, he kept calling, “Let her -come and hold my hand--let the little angel hold my hand.” - -The students were highly amused, and even the surgeon, who ordinarily -never betrayed amusement in the amphitheatre, showed a suspicious -twitching about the mouth, and finally, the entreaties continuing, -said to me, “Dr. Arnold, I think perhaps it will quiet him if you do -as he requests.” There was nothing to do but comply. I had to step -up to the table and hold the big baby’s hand, to the delight of the -students--especially to one Breynton, one of the house-staff over -at the Dispensary, who, having been a victim of some of my practical -jokes, rejoiced at my discomfiture. - - -When Fenton’s term of service ended, and he went to practise in a -neighbouring city, he left the rest of us disconsolate. We four had -had such good times together. He was a fine, manly fellow, very -kind to the patients, conscientious, impatient of pretense--it was -he who had lectured me about my prudishness. He had a keen sense of -humour and a fine sense of honour; and the friendship begun in those -hospital days has been one of the most satisfactory in my life--a real -_camaraderie_. We did not take so kindly to his successor, Dr. James--a -genial but presuming youth, harder to keep in place, more daring, more -flirtatious. It wasn’t long before James was teaching me to dance in -the amphitheatre, after we would get the instruments put away, he -whistling the music. I soon saw that that would not do. But we often -played and sang together; he had a fine tenor voice. Dr. Thorndike’s -term expiring shortly after she took her degree, and no one applying -through that summer, there were then but three of us to do the work -previously shared by four. - -Our Commencement was held in Tremont Temple, the whole University -participating--an immense affair, very impersonal, it meant far less to -me than our modest little Commencement of Academy days. Coming, too, -in the midst of hospital work, it was but an event in the day. Still, -I remember a thrill, as of something achieved, when, filing across the -platform with hundreds of other students, I received my diploma from -President Warren. Each department of the University sat in a body; -each student stepped upon the big platform as his name was called out; -his diploma was handed him; and the generous applause from his own -student-body sounded very good, as (if a “medic”) he walked down the -steps on the other side, a full-fledged M.D. Most of the graduates were -immediately confronted by the vexed question of where to “locate,” but -those of us in the hospital had six months’ grace before that bugbear -stared us in the face. - - -My thesis, on “Heredity,” consisted mainly of quotations from -authorities I had consulted in the Public Library. The original matter -in it, feeble and inadequate, was chiefly a protest against the -marriage of the unfit. I was ardently espousing the cause of Eugenics -before there was such a cause, or at least before Galton’s seed-sowing -had found a friendly soil. There was an unscientific portion about -pre-natal influence, and plenty of advice to prospective parents as -to the need of influencing the unborn, so as to make them beautiful -of body and soul. There is nothing, I am convinced, that the Young -Person hesitates to advise humanity about just as he himself is -about to take his plunge into the sea of life. Slumbering somewhere -in the dusty archives of Boston University is my lengthy thesis -on Heredity--slumbering? but a thing has to live to slumber--this -offspring of mine never had any life--it was still-born. - - -Shortly after Commencement I went to W---- to visit a former -class-mate, and also to see Dr. Fenton who had “located” there. He had -called at Dr. Carson’s on my arrival, and it was agreed that she and I -would go to see him the next day in his new office. - -That afternoon it popped into my head to dress up as an old woman and -make him think for a moment that he had a new patient. Combing my hair -down over my ears, putting on spectacles, and a black gown, bonnet, and -veil, I looked very like a little elderly widow. Dr. Carson waited at a -near-by drug-store. The lame woman in black hobbled up the steps to the -young doctor’s office. His door was ajar. (He was expecting Dr. Carson -and me.) I purposely halted as he came toward me, that he might take in -my general appearance before I spoke, the better to aid the disguise. - -He looked, I thought, a bit disappointed not to see his friends, but -the look gave place to one of quiet attention, and even a gleam of -pleasure at acquiring a new patient. I saw as he invited me to be -seated that he had no suspicion of me, and consequently, could scarcely -articulate for laughter. Not having expected to deceive him, except for -an instant, I had not thought up a story, but, suppressing my giggles, -and assuming the Irish brogue, I began a story about my sick daughter. - -His questions, so to the point, so professional, so serious, nearly -convulsed me, but turning my suppressed laughter into pretended crying, -to gain time to concoct a story, I claimed to be too distressed to talk -about what was troubling me. - -The Doctor gravely offered me a fan, which act, together with his -guarded manner, started my risibilities afresh. He showed clearly that -he was annoyed at this queer person, but was doing his best to be -patient with her. I had gone so far, it was imperative to invent some -story to account for my distress, and to my own surprise I told him, -with many haltings and outbursts of grief, that my daughter, though -unmarried, was, I feared, “in trouble”; and I had come to him for help. -(This from Miss Prim who, a few months before, would not let this young -man brush the lint from her gown!) Would he come to see the girl? And -my tears and sighs broke forth afresh. - -He looked grave and sympathetic, yet somewhat suspicious. As his -questions became more searching, I was consumed with shame at the -thought of how I should feel when he knew the truth. But I was in -for it. I was a strange-acting old mother with my aborted giggles -transformed to sobs and sighs. He grew more suspicious, saying, at -length: “I think you will be more comfortable, and can talk more -easily, if you remove your veil.” - -Then I was scared. Perhaps he recognized me; perhaps he had all along; -but now, disgusted at the lengths I had gone, was taking this way to -punish me. Still, so long as he kept up the pretense, I would not -throw up the game. But from that time on I was decidedly uncomfortable -and every answer I made, was made with the double feeling: Perhaps he -knows, and is getting even with me; and, If he doesn’t know, this is a -tremendous success. - -As his inquiries progressed, I was heartily ashamed at the answers and -details I was forced to submit to keep in character. This continuing, I -grew hysterical in earnest, acting more and more extravagantly, while -his suspicions were more and more aroused, or his anger--I could not -tell which. He grew very stern. Sitting back in his chair, he said -decidedly, “I shall discuss this no further with you until you remove -your veil.” - -I would have given anything then to get away. I felt sure he knew me. -That veil had got to come off. Delaying, I fumbled with it, dreading to -meet his eyes when my own were uncovered. As I cried and fumbled, my -hands trembling in earnest, the veil caught in the trimmings, and he -got up to help me. His face was softening, he looked sympathetic again. -Then he _didn’t_ know me after all? or, was he carrying the sorry -jest as far as he could? The veil at last removed, I looked up in his -face--afraid of him, and ready to cry at what I had done. We gazed at -each other for an instant, and then--I saw such a look of astonishment -as I have seldom seen--he had not suspected me at all! - -He was so overwhelmed with mortification that my own mortification -vanished, and I confessed that I had been on pins and needles most of -the time, fearing it was he who was getting the joke on me. What gales -of laughter went up from that office! We had such a hilarious time we -almost forgot to summon Dr. Carson who was impatiently waiting outside. - -Dr. Fenton made me promise to try the same trick on Dr. James, the new -interne, on my return to the hospital. He did not dream of asking me to -keep it from Laidlaw; he declared they would have to admit that I had -wiped out all our old scores. And when I told the story to Laidlaw, how -delighted he was! though he could hardly credit that Fenton, knowing me -so well, could have been so long deceived. - -“How could he--your voice, your hands, your eyes, even with veil and -spectacles--incredible!” Yet he revelled in it--that demure, prudish -“Little Arnold” would do such a thing. “You! _You!_--we thought we knew -Little Arnold, but we didn’t.” - -He was tickled at Fenton’s suggestion that I try the thing on James, -and eager for me to start at once, begging me to let him be near to see -the fun. But I only half promised, fearing I could not carry it through -if any one in the secret were about. - -One night when I knew he and James were to be in the office, telling -them I expected to be occupied most of the evening, so would not -myself be down as usual, I borrowed some toggery from a patient, and -arrayed myself in my widow’s garb; and, slipping out by a side door, -came in just before dusk at the front gate, hobbling across the lawn -and up to the hospital in plain sight of the young doctors sitting in -the office window. - -College and Hospital are in the same enclosure, and outdoor Dispensary -patients were expected to be taken care of over at the College; we of -the hospital-staff, being supposed to refer all cases applying there -to the Dispensary department. But knowing that James was eager for -obstetric work, and that he would be likely to snap up any he could, I -hoped by my tale to get him out as far as the street with me (to attend -my daughter in confinement) before he should discover my identity. - -Jack, the bell-boy, came to the door: Might I see the house-doctor? -“Which one?” he asked--“the medical or the surgical doctor?” If -Laidlaw, who was the surgical interne, came, I should be undone; he -would know me, and I could not keep in character with him looking on; -so I said, “Oh, the medical--don’t say anything to any one but him.” - -The boy lit the gas in the waiting room and went for Dr. James. I -quickly turned it low. - -James came, curious and important. Using the Irish brogue and the -expressions used by Dispensary patients, I explained that my daughter -was in labour and that I wanted him to hurry as fast as ever he could -to save her life. He was not at all suspicious. But not yet having -had an obstetric case, and learning that it was a _primipara_ (first -birth), he anticipated trouble, and was averse to tackling it alone. I -knew of what he was thinking, so feigning impatience, related symptoms -which would impress him with the need of haste. Would he come, or not? -Yes, he would come, but he must take the house-surgeon also, as he -might need assistance with instruments. - -Fearing the game would be up if Laidlaw appeared on the scene, I -protested vehemently: I would have no one else; one doctor was enough; -my daughter’s condition should not be known to everybody--that was -why I had come here instead of going to the “Dispensatory”; I was no -pauper, and would pay him well, if he would come alone. He wavered, -then excused himself for a moment. I could hear him and Laidlaw in -the office discussing it. Finally Laidlaw said, “Tell her it is -customary--that you won’t undertake it under other conditions.” - -I was annoyed at Laidlaw for making it more difficult for me. James -came back, conciliatory and persuasive: it was liable to be a serious -case; my daughter was young; he must take help with him; it would cost -no more than for one, and the utmost secrecy would be preserved; the -house-surgeon would go with him and assist if need be, otherwise he -must decline the case. - -I said to myself, “It is mean of Laidlaw when he knew I wanted to do it -alone. But he’s bound to see me in the act, and I guess I can keep a -stiff upper lip if he can.” By that time, too, I was fairly confident. -“Let him come, then,” I said, “but hurry.” - -They soon came with their obstetric bags, James excited and flurried, -Laidlaw quiet and dignified. He gave me a curt “Good evening”; and, -with directions to Jack to ask Dr. Arnold to come down to the office, -as he and Dr. James had been called out, we three went down the steps, -I hobbling and stooping, but hurrying along between them. At first I -was a little more self-conscious with Laidlaw along, but by the time -we had gone a few steps, instead of being longer provoked at him for -coming, I was glad; it was such fun to be sharing it with him; his -acting was perfect; he was cool and self-controlled, and James was so -unsuspecting! - -Laidlaw asked me a few of the usual questions. Answering in character, -I looked slyly out of the corner of my eye, expecting him to exchange -surreptitious glances with me occasionally, but he looked straight -ahead, sober as a deacon, probably afraid of disconcerting me. -Presently he put other questions, and still no betrayal of anything but -the apparent situation. Suddenly it dawned upon me that neither he nor -James knew me! Then I _was_ set up! This was a triumph I could never -have dreamed of--since he had heard the story of the trick played upon -Fenton, and knew I intended trying it on James, too! It was incredible, -but I soon saw, beyond doubt, that he was as completely taken in (or -out) as was James. I had said to myself: “If I can only get James out -on the street a way with his bag, it will be all I will ask.” And here -I had them both! - -In the course of the walk I promised them five dollars apiece for -their services, if they would bring my daughter safely through. After -walking a few blocks, I began to be anxious, as there was now no one at -the hospital to attend to emergencies. They, of course, thought I was -there. I must bring this to a close speedily. - -Assuming an hysterical manner, so as to draw their attention more -closely to me, and thus bring about the disclosure, I even took off -my veil, walking in the glare of the street lamps--all to no purpose; -the more I tried to reveal myself, the more I concealed myself; they -only tried to hush my noisy grief and to pacify me. Once Laidlaw helped -me to adjust my bonnet, which I nearly knocked off, purposely, by my -wild jostling against them, but all in vain--the wilder my conduct, the -better my disguise. We were now several blocks away from the hospital. -I saw I must terminate it some other way. - -Walking up some steps of a darkened house, I pretended to fumble for -my keys, and, waiting till they had followed so close that their faces -were on a level with mine, I turned, and in my own voice said, “Haven’t -we carried this far enough?” - -James, to whom my other masquerade was unknown, was dazed, he ran down -the steps, leaned against the house, and stood there speechless, his -face hid in his hands. Laidlaw--took me in his arms; he could seem to -find no other mode of expression. Tired from the walk, and the heat, -and weak from laughter, I found it a comfortable position--but was too -intent on flying back to the hospital to stay in it long. - -Dignified and unemotional as Laidlaw was, he let himself go that night; -his manner was charming. I basked in his generous praise as I imagine -an actor basks in the applause of his audience: - -“You’re a revelation, you’re an actress, you are wonderful! Why, Little -Arnold, is it really you? Oh, James! James! you don’t _know_ what she’s -done--you don’t know _half_ of it!” - -And as we hurried home, they half-carrying me between them, the young -doctors and the crazy-acting little widow traversed the Boston streets, -hilarious over the whole proceeding. Laidlaw explained to James what -a signal triumph it was, in that he had not only known of the joke on -Fenton, but also knew that I intended trying a similar one on him. This -appeased James’s chagrin somewhat, still he was badly cut up over it; -but Laidlaw magnanimously gave me all the credit imaginable, fairly -rejoicing in having been so duped by me. As we neared the hospital, -however, it dawned upon both of them what laughing-stocks they would be -when the thing was noised around, especially when Breynton and Hummel, -of the Dispensary-staff, learned of it; so nothing would do but that -I should try the same scheme on them. They assured me I could do it -easily, even with them looking on; and as they would let Jack know -that they were back and within call, I need have no compunctions. So, -dropping behind, while they sauntered up to the College steps where -Breynton and Hummel sat smoking and complaining of the hot night, I -soon came hobbling up to the group. And Laidlaw and James soon had the -satisfaction of seeing Breynton and Hummel walk off with the little -widow--and in the course of an hour, walk back again, chagrined beyond -words, but somewhat mollified when they learned that their colleagues -had also been victimized in the same way. Each man rejoiced that the -others were in the same box. The double, yes, triple, hoax, served for -conversation for many a week. If one would instance some proof of the -density of the others, he would soon be silenced by fresh proofs of -his own asininity. “It was a famous victory” was their ever-generous -verdict, and it only cemented the _camaraderie_ among us. - - -As the time approached for Laidlaw’s term to expire I began to be -wretched, at first hardly realizing, much less acknowledging to myself, -that it was because he was leaving. I was even less friendly, less -responsive, and, as the time drew near, more inclined to stay in my -room than usual. Dr. Reynolds, a keen little woman who was much about -the hospital in those days, suspected the cause of my glumness. One -evening as she was calling on me and rallying me on moping in my -room alone instead of staying down in the office, a knock on my door -arrested her banter. - -“Who’s there?” I called. - -The door opened a crack, and Laidlaw’s voice announced, “_I’m_ -here--you are wanted down in the office.” - -“Who wants me?” - -“_I_ want you,” and with that he pushed open the door, and to his -confusion (and mine) encountered Dr. Reynolds’s merry, mischievous -eyes, the occurrence, of course, only serving to confirm her in her -belief that there was something more than good-fellowship between us. -Laidlaw and James often rang my bell of an evening, summoning me to the -office, when it was only they who wanted me. They knew that I never -dared disregard it, for fear it might be a call to the wards; once down -there, I was usually easily persuaded to stay. - -That night after Dr. Reynolds left, I went down, but when reading aloud -was proposed, did not fall in with the proposition--the good times -we had all had together were so soon to end--I was in no mood for -reading aloud. We sat near each other, each busy with his own book, -or pretending to be. Later, having dropped my book, I was looking out -of the window, fearing Laidlaw would see my tell-tale face, when, -presently, taking me by the shoulder, he gently turned me round facing -him: - -“What are you doing, Little Arnold?” - -“Thinking.” - -“_Don’t_ think.” It was all he said, but his tone, and my silence, were -tacit acknowledgment--we understood each other better then, and after -that he did not chide me, as he had before, for not caring that he was -so soon to go away. - -Those last days of his stay were very hard, and when the day came when -he assisted at operations for the last time, and we were clearing -up afterward as usual, we laughed a sort of hollow laughter, laughed -at anything and everything; at the awkwardness of the stuttering -little student, his successor--we tried to find funny things to talk -about--anything so long as we kept away from what was uppermost in our -minds, and allowed no silences. - -When Laidlaw left, James was away on his vacation, and a likeable -little German student, who was acting as substitute, was very -acceptable to both of us, we three being very congenial. When Laidlaw -put out his hand to the German to bid him farewell, he attempted to be -jocose, but failed sadly; then, - -“Take good care of Little Arnold, Old Boy,” he said, and, turning to -me, drew me to him and would have kissed me; but, fond as I was of him, -I couldn’t do that. He looked pained. By this time I could no longer -control my tears; this surprised and perplexed him: - -“Why, why, why--Little Arnold, why, you _do_ care!” and standing dumb -for an instant, he wrung my hand and went slowly out and down the -steps; and I--I felt I had lost my last friend. - -I had to give way and weep in spite of the presence of the little -German. He was very good to me then, and always. I think he then -thought that it was a more serious attachment than it was; he chided me -for not bidding Laidlaw a more affectionate farewell--could not seem -to understand why I did not, since I cared so much about his going. -That evening, picking up a copy of Emerson’s essays I had been reading, -and seeing it was the essay on Friendship, with a searching look he -asked, “And is it only friendship that I see between you and Laidlaw?” -When I stoutly maintained that it was, he seemed half credulous, half -doubtful, but in his naïve foreign way said appealingly, “Then, Little -_Racker_, be _my_ friend, too.” And we were warm friends after that. - -In a few days came Laidlaw’s first letter; it gave me a thrill of joy, -but I am bound to confess that even before it came (after the acuteness -of the grief was over) I had grown surprisingly cheerful, so much so -that I was ashamed of myself for not continuing to feel as wretched -as when he went away. I reproached myself, but all to no purpose. -Every day brought its duties; added responsibilities now fell on me; -the new interne had to be taught “the ropes”; and, while I missed my -good friend at every turn, I could not mope and pine. But I could not -understand myself--how such wretchedness, such utter wretchedness, -could be so short-lived! - - -A few weeks before my own term of service expired I had a hard time -with septic infection--a serious inflammation in my thumb, probably -contracted while assisting at an operation. I was tired out, and the -thing took a severe hold on me. They temporized for a time, but finally -decided I must take an anesthetic and have the nail removed and the -deeper tissues thoroughly cleansed. As we were short-handed at the -Hospital, I dragged around when I should have been in bed. - -I shall not soon forget the feeling I had on learning that I had -actually to surrender myself to an anesthetic, to submit voluntarily -to that which would rob me of consciousness. It was horrible to -contemplate. It seemed such a momentous thing--not the operation, of -course, but the taking of chloroform. I wrote a letter home the night -before, to be posted in case I did not survive. One would have thought -my year in the hospital would have made me more callous to such things. -I myself can hardly understand why it was so painful to me to face -this experience--just like any other patient. Somehow, I had always -felt outside of such things, a mere spectator, though considering -myself a sympathetic one. But, until then, I had not dreamed what dread -consumed the souls of the patients whom I had so lightly encouraged to -submit to the inevitable. - -Extracting a promise from “Polly,” the nurse, that if I showed any -tendency to loquacity she would send everyone from the room, and -would remember to tell me all I said, I braced for the ordeal. That -morning, omitting breakfast, visiting my patients as usual, I put up -prescriptions, and helped prepare the amphitheatre for an operation -that was to precede mine. Then, looking in on the young patient before -he went to the anesthetizing room, I told him I was going to give the -surgeon a chance at me after his operation. He said afterward that my -cheery way of speaking made him ashamed of his trepidation, so that he -went to his operation with more courage than he had believed himself -capable of. He little knew how I quaked internally--it was awful--that -thought of having the chloroform steal away my senses! - -After helping with that case, I slipped off to my room to get ready, -expecting to return to the amphitheatre for my own operation; but, -while I was undressing, “Polly” rushed in to say that Dr. Paxton would -operate in my own room. This was a relief. Soon they came: Higginson, -the new house-doctor, carrying the tray with instruments and dressings, -James with the chloroform and the inhaler, and Dr. Paxton in his -operating gown. - -Lying down on my little white bed, with an outward semblance of -composure, I inhaled the chloroform. The surgeon listened to my heart, -and, after assuring me it was all right, began himself to give me -the anesthetic. The first few breaths were not so bad; then I felt -the stuff insidiously stealing through me. “Ah! how sweet it is,” I -remember saying--a peculiar, sickish sweetness that I can never smell -now without recalling the scene and my growing terror of the drug -as its effects crept through me, faster and faster, and I impotent -to stay its power. I remember noting and analyzing my sensations as -it progressed; remember the feeling of confidence in Dr. Paxton’s -assurance that it was all right; then I opened my eyes and saw James -bending over me. He had the inhaler now, and was looking at me with -such a pitying gaze that I felt sorry for myself, and told myself -I must be careful or I should whimper, which would be disgraceful. -Still it kept stealing on, and yet I knew what they were all doing. I -heard preparations; heard the new doctor stutter as he tried to ask -about something, getting so tangled up that it made me want to laugh, -but reminded myself I must not. It was all so curious--to be able to -think these things and yet to feel this creeping, creeping up slowly, -surely. Ah, now I am almost gone--an instant of rebellion--it must not -be, I cannot succumb; but, following quickly, came the realization -that it must be, and that I must not struggle. Once more I opened my -eyes and looked at them all--poor “Polly”! the tears were streaming -down her cheeks; and James looked wretchedly unhappy. I knew that in -another moment I should be beyond recognizing anything. They said I -gave a low, piteous cry (I seem to remember even this), and said, “I’m -going now--watch my pulse!” Even then I felt Dr. Paxton take my wrist, -and assure me in a voice that sounded very far away, “It’s all right, -Doctor, all right!” - -The next I knew I found myself in my bed with my head turned in the -opposite direction. “Polly” was moving quietly about the room; and -by my side sat Dr. James holding my hand, and smoothing my arm in a -kindly way. Scarcely a trace was left in the room of what had taken -place there. A feeling of incredulity, almost of indignation--had -nothing been done to my thumb, then, after going through with all that! -I started to ask why they had not done it, but seeing my bandaged hand, -and simultaneously becoming conscious of a newer sharper pain than I -had ever felt, I had to believe that it was all over; but how could -it be, and I not know it! Then I began laughing! I started to chide -“Polly” for letting James stay in the room; but could not do so for -laughter. James tried to pacify me, talking as though I were a sick -child--the same way I had talked to ether patients. The oddity of this -coming over me, I said, “I’m just like any other silly patient,” then -laughed afresh; and the more I laughed, the less self-restraint I had. -But, impressed with the necessity of assuring them that I knew what I -was about, I said: “I know what I am saying, and why you are laughing, -but I don’t care--I know who you are, you are Dr. James, and you’re -holding my hand, and I don’t care if you do,” and I laughed in reckless -abandon. “Polly” was distressed; she knew I would be angry later. James -looked delighted. “Do you like it?” he asked--the rogue! “Yes, I like -it--it feels so big and strong.” How he shouted! That shout sobered me. -In no time I was completely myself--no more aware than before, but with -the Censor at the helm. - -After that James used to try to squeeze my hand, reminding me that it -was my real self that had spoken then--in wine (and chloroform) one -speaks the truth. - -Shortly after that two fingers on my left hand became infected, and -again I had to be lightly anesthetized and operated. By that time I was -so much run down they kept me in bed for days, taking excellent care -of me--a rather delightful experience. The visiting physicians and -surgeons called; the nurses were more than attentive; the Dispensary -house-staff came over and read to me, and groaned to think they had -been debarred from my operations. Breynton said he would have liked -nothing better than to have given “the little angel” the anesthetic; -and James told him he would have been welcome to the job, but -mischievously added that he was willing to watch me come out of the -chloroform. It was much harder after that to keep James within bounds. -One day when “Polly” had gone from the room a minute, he grabbed up -my hair which lay across the pillow, and winding it around his neck, -buried his face in it for an instant. Astonished and angered, I felt -wronged and insulted. Half-contritely, half-teasingly, he tried to -laugh me out of my wrath, and “Polly” coming in just then, I was -obliged to act as though nothing had happened. On his good behaviour -after that, he never transgressed so seriously again. I could never -think of that impulsive act of his without my cheeks burning with shame. - - -My own time soon came to leave the hospital. The night before, I went -over to the College, went in each empty room, lingered in the halls, -and even down in the stuffy Dispensary quarters. I thought of all that -had happened during the time since Belle and I had first entered that -building on that rainy October day, and wondered what changes would -come before I should see the place again. Even then the girl who had -entered College seemed a different person from the one who was leaving -Boston on the morrow. In the same way I went about the hospital, loth -to break with it all, and trying as it were to gather up the spent life -I had lived there. It was with a queer kind of satisfaction to note -that they all seemed sorry to see me go. I felt jealous of the new -student, my successor; felt pained that I was no longer necessary; that -the routine would soon continue as smoothly as ever. As the hour drew -near I felt tenderly toward everyone--patients, nurses, the janitor, -the bell-boy, even the opinionated English nurse, “Wraggie,” for whom I -had no real liking. - -As they all crowded around the door-way at my leave-taking, and the -other house-doctors came over from the Dispensary, I saw regretfully -that Breynton was not among them; the night before he had said he would -surely see me again. But as the cab left the hospital grounds and I -leaned out for a last look at the College, I saw Breynton signalling -the cab-man to stop--he had stationed himself there at the entrance -to say good-bye. It touched me to see his altered manner--instead of -his jovial hectoring ways, a big brotherly fondness and regret showed -in face and voice. A warm handclasp, then, as the horses started up, -his wholesome smile shone out encouragingly, and he said in his old -bantering way, “So _this_ is the last of the ‘Little Angel’!” - -The cab whirled me to the station, the same station where Belle and I -had landed three and one half years before when we had come to this -strange city--the city I was now leaving with such a store of memories! -It had grown very clear, it always will be dear--my beloved Boston! - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -THROUGH THE GATE OF DREAMS - - -Much of the good fortune that has come to me has come unsought: Shortly -after returning home from Boston an elderly friend of our family, an -invalid who spent her winters in Florida, invited me to go there with -her. In my somewhat reduced state of health the invitation was most -opportune. - -My first glimpse of New York, as we stopped there on the way, made -Boston seem small. - -We started for the South at night. I was a bit timid at going so far -from home with the frail little old woman who had tuberculosis, and -already had had alarming hemorrhages, and who calmly told me that she -would probably die while in the South that winter. With only a kit -of medicines and my inexperience to cope with what might arise, I -felt rather helpless; but my patient had a stout heart and a cheery -disposition, and was soon enjoying my enthusiasm for experiences and -scenes which had become an old story to her. - -We reached Palatka at sunset one night in February, so the calendar -said, but how soft and sweet the air! how like pictures every scene on -the street! The palm trees looked artificial, and the orange trees, -with both blossoms and fruit on them, reminded me of the toy trees -belonging to the Noah’s Ark with which I had played in childhood. -Darkies were everywhere, real darkies, with their soft voices and -shiftless ways. We had rooms in a fine old comfortable house with -a Southern family, and a typical Southern darkey to wait on us who -crooned Negro melodies as she lounged around and occasionally did a -stroke of work. Her deliberation and her dialect were most amusing. -When reminded that her tasks were still undone, she was always “jes’ -a-fixin’ to begin to get ready” to do them. - -Oh, the delight of the senses that first night under Florida skies! -I stepped out on the balcony into a moonlight such as I had never -before known--and the delicious odours, the caressing air, the outline -of those unfamiliar trees in the garden below! I heard the fountain, -and smelled the sulphur water as it trickled in the moonlight, and, -gazing on the dreaming view, was stirred by the soft, sensuous beauty -of the night. Something seemed to awaken in me: I was happy and sad: -lonely, yet wanting to be alone. It was as though something very -beautiful ought to happen; my heart seemed ready to burst with either -joy or sorrow, I hardly knew which. I suppose all the loveliness made -me homesick without knowing it; and that I also vaguely felt that -here, in all this sensuous beauty, life--my life--lacked something, -perhaps always would lack something--Juliet was on her balcony in the -moonlight, but only the roses were climbing to whisper to her; only the -fountain trickled to her half-formed thoughts. - - -At the hotel where we took our meals we made acquaintances, but -found none especially congenial. I could not sit on the veranda and -play cards, as most of the women did. There were no young people, -no children, and few books were accessible. On rainy days the time -dragged. Several little excursions on the St. John’s River, and down -Rice Creek, varied the monotony of visiting old plantations and -orange groves, and strolling along the quiet streets basking in the -sunshine. The indolent life was a welcome change after my arduous year -at the hospital, and for a time I was content to drift and dream. I -enjoyed most the evenings when, in the hotel parlour, my patient would -play on the piano. Her touch had a peculiar charm. She could bring -the men in from the office; the darkies from the kitchen would peer -in at the doors; people loitering on the street would come up on the -veranda; even the women would stop their stupid cards and furtively -wipe away the tears, as the frail little figure sat at the piano, and -the thin white fingers twinkled over the keys, playing “Ben Bolt,” “By -Bendermeer’s Stream,” “The Harp that Once Through Tara’s Halls,” and -a host of other ballads and dance-tunes. Sometimes she would sing a -ballad, and the pathos of her voice made one’s heart ache. - -She always left the piano with liquid eyes and a delicate flush on her -cheek that made me apprehensive. Music stirred her so much that she -permitted herself to indulge in it but infrequently. How she loved life -and youth, and what a young heart she had to the last! - -A coloured folks’ meeting which I attended there was like the things -one reads about: The preacher’s text was “Under a Palm Tree”; he -pronounced it “pam” tree, and nearly convulsed us with his big words -misapplied. An “experience meeting” followed. Beginning quietly, the -experiences and prayers gradually increased in fervour and unction till -finally the dusky worshippers were all on their knees--one eloquent -supplicant held forth in a lengthy, moving appeal, while the others -kept up a monotonous undertone--a weird, melodious sing-song, with -interjections of “Amen!” “Hallelujah!” and “Bless de Lawd!” as they -swayed and chanted in an abandonment of religious fervour. - -At St. Augustine symptoms of “malaria,” which I had developed while in -Palatka, suddenly left me. (Our “Dr. Conrad” used to say scornfully, -“‘Malaria’ is simply a convenient term to express the unknown.”) -What invigoration! what skies! and the sea! Stealing away to the Sea -Wall and old Fort Marion, I would look far out across the waters -and dream--of what, I know not--just dream. Keen as was already my -realization that life is real and earnest, I was yet reluctant to pass -through “girlhood’s Gate of Dreams”; I well knew that on my return -North I must decide where I should begin to practise; must engage in -the work for which the preceding years had been preparing me; but there -on the old Sea Wall I could still hold back from the oncoming Future. - - -On our return we spent some delightful weeks in Washington; saw -hundreds of children on Easter Monday at their egg-rolling on the White -House lawn, and heard their united voices as they greeted President -Harrison when he came out to watch them, with Baby McKee in his arms. -In New York, we witnessed the splendid spectacle of the Washington -Centennial celebration; and then, in early May, returned to our little -village amid the drumlins. - -Spectacles and parades have never much interested me, but, besides the -Washington Centennial parade, I recall one other (a few years later, -however) which stands out significantly, more especially because of -my own reactions to it. As a girl I had always been more moved by -history or fiction dealing with any other nationality than with my own. -When, as children, we had played at being Somebody Else, I chose to -be French, Scotch, German--anything but American! The romance of the -distant, the unattainable! In school I was never interested in American -history, but the history of Greece and Rome--what charm they had! - -I actually believed myself wanting in patriotism--a Girl without a -Country--till, one summer when visiting in Buffalo, I saw a G. A. R. -parade. Parades as parades I abominated, but tried to show a polite -interest when my hostess, Dr. Thorndike, announced what good seats she -had been able to secure. I learned something about myself that day. I -had never supposed I would go across the street to see a president, but -when McKinley rode by, and I saw his kindly face and gracious responses -to the crowds’ salutes, something stirred within me. Suddenly I got a -conception of what it meant to be a president of a great republic. I -seemed to realize that it was a nation doing homage to its government, -as well as to its chief executive, when the cheers and huzzas greeted -our president. It was the first time I had ever thought of him or -another as _our_ President; it was really the first time I had felt -myself a part of our nation; and it was a thrilling awakening for -one who had always believed herself wanting in patriotism. What had -done it? Partly the sight of the army of soldiers, I suppose; but I -believe it was largely due to the way in which McKinley responded to -the greetings of the crowd. There was that in his manner which seemed -to say: “I am proud to be your servant; you appear to exalt me, but it -is our nation and the office that you exalt. I am one with you, and -will do my best to serve you, or rather, to conserve the honour and -interests of our nation.” Always after that, the thought of McKinley -was blended with gratitude that I was no longer a Girl without a -Country. - -This stirring of patriotism when he rode by was a feeble forerunner of -what I felt later, when I saw on a banner the name of Cayuga County, -and of the Post from our home town--saw in the old soldiers the remnant -of the Company of which two of my uncles were a part. The faded, -tattered flag they carried stood to me for the one under which they -had marched away; and, though scrutinizing the ranks in vain for their -faces, still I knew the men marching past were among those with whom my -young uncles had gone to the front. I began to understand what Mother -had always felt when the soldiers had marched by on Decoration Day: she -would get away by herself, and, coming suddenly upon her, we would find -her weeping--the martial music and the sight always bringing back those -dreadful years when her young brothers went away to the War. My Buffalo -friends were surprised at the change in my attitude toward parades, for -before the day was over I grew enthusiastic enough to suit the most -exacting--and why not?--that day I was born an American! - - -An old schoolmate living in U---- had written me that there was a -good opening there for a woman physician, and as Father’s business -took him to that city every month or so, I decided to investigate the -possibilities there rather than in New England, where, personally, I -was more inclined to go. Accordingly, Father called on the leading -woman physician in U---- (herself a graduate of Boston University) and -reported her as eager to have me come and look the field over. - - -I had a long wait in Dr. Wyeth’s reception room that afternoon in -July, as there were many patients ahead of me. Each time she came out -and smilingly said “Next,” I scrutinized her to learn what manner of -woman she was. I saw a tall, well-built, middle-aged woman, rather -spare, of erect carriage, with a quick, nervous step. Her soft brown -hair was ’wavy and streaked with gray; she had clear blue eyes and a -fair skin with pink cheeks. Her face had a weary look, but her smile -was kind, and I noted her long, white, capable-looking hands. Quietly -distinctive in dress, she gave one the impression of being untrammelled -by her clothing, yet by no means unmindful of her appearance--there -were certain little touches that showed her feminine side, businesslike -as was her manner. On the whole I approved of her. She seemed to have -all the business capability of “Our Caddie” without her masculinity. I -saw her surrounded by evidences of prosperity; heard her spoken of as -a successful physician and a noble woman; and thought with admiration -and wonder, “Will the time ever come when I shall be a real woman -physician--established, successful, and as independent as is she?” - -At length she ushered me into her private office, and our acquaintance -progressed rapidly. We liked each other instantly; she urged me to -come there; gave me sound advice; and prophesied advantages to us -both should I come. Practically alone, so far as sister physicians -were concerned, she craved one with whom she could affiliate, for -although there were three other women physicians in the city, one was -intemperate and impossible, one a “bluffer,” and the other, though -bright and well-educated, was so lacking in self-confidence as to be of -no practical help in consultation. - -At the Doctor’s home that night I met her mother, who had one of the -sweetest faces I ever saw; it was framed in brown ringlets which hung -in a waterfall under her cap; her hair was less tinged with gray than -was her daughter’s--a sweet-souled woman, hospitable, with a good word -for everyone; a clinging nature that called out the protective instinct -in all who met her. I saw that the numerous relatives of the Doctor’s -leaned on her and looked to her as to an oracle, and that she lavishly -spent herself for them. It was “Dr. Sue” here, and “Dr. Sue” there; and -as I came to see more of her, I used to wish she could get away for a -long holiday and forget that she had relatives or patients depending -upon her. I have never known a life more beautifully and unselfishly -lived than that of this noble woman--so resourceful, so ready, so full -of reserve strength, even when worn and tired almost to the point of -exhaustion. - -The business proposition which the Doctor made was that I share her -office, taking different office hours; pay the rent for a year, and -receive, in turn, the benefit of her office furnishings and medical -equipment. She would call me in consultation whenever she had an -opportunity, and turn over her practice to me whenever she went away, -as she would do in a few weeks, if I would come soon. - -How my head whirled that night as I pondered the proposition! The -cost seemed stupendous--twenty-eight dollars a month for office -rent alone!--but on reaching home and talking it over with Father, -we decided to accept her terms. So in mid-July Father and I started -for U----, I with my trunk and books, my medicines, and few surgical -instruments, and Father with the money to pay a month’s expenses, -and a big fund of hope and faith in his daughter’s ability to make a -success of this momentous undertaking. When I look back and see how -inexperienced I was, how little I knew of the world and of life, I -wonder at my audacity; I wonder still more at the faith my friends had -in me, and at the confidence and respect which Dr. Wyeth showed in my -ability and opinions; but to such faith and confidence I owe largely -what success I have attained. - -How busy Father and I were that first day, making my few purchases--a -small desk being the main one; making arrangements for my business -cards in the papers; ordering stationery; renting a lodging-room; and -looking up a boarding-place! I recall the gown I wore--a dark green -serge which Sister had made for me--very plain, as I had insisted, and -suitable for a staid physician. - -In a building adjoining the office building, I found a furnished room -which I sub-rented from a woman living there, though just as I went -there she went away for a time. I have never had such a desolate -feeling as I had those few nights when, after closing the office, I -climbed the stairs to that lonely little room, the halls echoing to my -steps. And I kept thinking, “I am paying eight dollars a month extra -for this loneliness!” So it was not many days before I asked Dr. Wyeth -if she minded if I slept in the office, using her operating-chair as -my bed; arranging a place behind the draperies for my clothes; and -making a few other little additions which would suffice for my needs, -yet not detract from the professional appearance of the office. She -had no objection, but thought I ought to have a more comfortable bed. -The change was made, and few who visited the office ever knew that I -lodged there. For four years I slept on a narrow operating-chair, never -thinking it a hardship. - -Sending a month’s rent to the woman of whom I had engaged the room, I -wrote her why I had decided to give it up. Replying with a menacing -letter, she tried to intimidate me into keeping the room. Scared, -though knowing I had made no compact with her for a stated time, I -anxiously awaited her return to town, when I called upon her. Pale with -rage, her eyes blazing, she denounced me as a liar and a hypocrite, and -said she would blast my reputation in U----. I did not know what to -make of such conduct. It was the first time I had ever had threatening -or abusive language used to me. I had been perfectly honourable with -her, but she was wildly unreasonable. I could hardly speak for the -dryness of my mouth as she continued her vituperations, and when I -escaped from her presence, it was as though from the den of a wild -beast. For some time after I was uneasy, but she never took the steps -she threatened. I learned later that her mother was insane, and that -she herself finally lost her mind. - - -Under the head of “Business” in one of the city papers, the day after I -went to U----, were two items only, the first telling of a new doctor -(my humble self) locating there, and the other of a new undertaker -having set up in business. Accidental as was the juxtaposition, it was -nevertheless a bit startling. - -One of the men in the office of the firm for which Father was then -travelling had recommended to him a boarding-place for me near my -office, and I had engaged board there at once. Although disappointed on -seeing the fellow-boarders, knowing I could not afford a high-priced -place, I had decided to grin and bear it; but when Dr. Wyeth learned -where I was boarding, she said it would not do at all; she named two -places, either one of which would be desirable. On asking what they -charged, I found that one was two dollars more a week than I was -paying, the other one dollar more. So, telling her how necessary it -was to count the cost till I could get a footing, I said I had better -make no change. But she earnestly and emphatically opposed my staying -there; said it was poor policy, would immediately tell against me--a -bit of worldly wisdom that I strongly rebelled against--a dollar a -week more just to please Mrs. Grundy and board in a more aristocratic -neighbourhood! I was full of impotent rage at such a state of affairs, -and Father had much the same feeling, but having great respect for -Dr. Wyeth’s judgment, I reluctantly made the change. Immediately I saw -that she was right. The people with whom I then came in contact were -cultured; the whole atmosphere was desirable; and, in a short time, -through acquaintances there, I was engaged in work which did much to -introduce me well in the city. - - -“In the leisure of your first few months’ practice” was a phrase which -one of our professors had often used in lecturing to us, and through -this facetious reiteration, I was prepared for a long wait before that -first patient should arrive. But my second day in the city, the woman -physician who had an office adjoining ours asked me to see a case -with her. It was a servant in a fine house next to the home of Roscoe -Conklin. As it was a case of varicose ulcers such as I had seen dozens -of in the Dispensary clinics, I was able to make a positive diagnosis, -and confidently to advise the Doctor as to treatment, for which she was -grateful and gave me a dollar and a half--my first fee. This physician -was rather pompous, and not well grounded in medicine. She had a fair -exterior, an open countenance, and a big, motherly figure, but she did -not inspire confidence in me, yet she was kind-hearted and disposed -to be friendly. When, some months later, Sister came to visit me, -and the Doctor learned that we were sleeping together on that narrow -office-chair, she insisted on our using the unused folding-bed in her -office. - -As a neighbour she was something of a nuisance, for whenever she knew I -was alone in my office she would come in and stay the entire evening. -I tired of her talk, and soon resorted to subterfuge to rid myself of -her: I would open my waiting-room door (which rang a bell whenever -the door opened); would pretend to usher someone in, and then try -to simulate the conversation of two persons, also moving about the -office, rattling instruments, letting water run, and so on. Knowing she -could hear some sounds from her office, I hoped she would think I was -engaged, and so stay away. Sometimes I would read aloud, so she would -think I had someone in there. Perhaps she heard more distinctly than I -thought, and saw through my deception. My most serious grudge against -her was for trying to destroy my ideal of one of our much-loved New -England poets. She had lived in the same city with him and claimed to -have been a frequenter in his home, and she met my glowing enthusiasm -for him with the rehearsal of gossip about an intrigue between him and -some woman friend. I did not believe her story, but it shocked and -angered me, and I detested her for mentioning it. I must have been -pretty severe, for she grew apologetic and conciliatory, and never -afterward talked to me about such things. Her story may or may not -have been true, but I smile sadly now at that girl who looked out upon -the world with such unbounded faith in humanity; who held such rigid -notions of right and wrong; and suffered such painful shocks on finding -both good and bad mixed in the same individual. - - -I had been practising nine days when I received my first office call. -The time had seemed very long since that day after my arrival, when -Dr. M---- had called me in consultation. I had begun to feel that -the waiting time was going to be no joke. But on that momentous day, -a working-girl strayed into my office. Listening to her symptoms, I -prescribed as carefully as I could, calmly took the seventy-five cents -office-fee, and ushered her out in my most professional manner. When -the door had closed upon her, I literally danced for joy; the capers I -cut would have made an onlooker laugh--or cry, for it had its pathetic -side. There was so much at stake; it meant so much to me, to my family, -and friends--and here was the beginning! a patient had actually come -to me! I had to be careful lest the physicians whose offices were -each side of mine should hear my demonstrations. I ran to the mirror -and stood on tip-toe (it was hung high for Dr. Wyeth), and looked for -sympathy into my own sparkling eyes, and saw my flushed face, and felt -half ashamed, and wholly elated, as I nodded and smiled to myself. Then -I skipped about the room again, until I remembered my new account-book -with its lone entry. Proudly making my second entry, I then recorded -in my case-book the patient’s symptoms and my prescription. I do not -recall that she ever came again, but hope the _bryonia_ which I gave -her for rheumatism helped her as much as her coming helped me. - -This was my red-letter day, for scarcely had I become presentable from -the elation of that first call when another patient came. I felt like -an old hand at the business as I gave her the medicine and carelessly -took the office-fee. Although I had had patients for two years in -dispensary and hospital, these were the first who had paid me for my -services. A check for several months of my present salary, put into my -hands this minute, could not produce the elation I felt at receiving -those paltry office-fees. - -As though that were not enough for one day! My cup literally ran over -when, in the evening, the telephone rang and there was a hurry call -from the hotel across the way. Seizing my medicine-case, which I had -heretofore been unnecessarily carrying in my walks about the city (in -obedience to Dr. Wyeth, though I felt like a hypocrite in so doing), I -flew down the stairs and across the street where I found the patient--a -nervous, impressionable girl, whom I had no difficulty in quieting and -relieving, at the same time alleviating her mother’s anxiety as well. - -As I went through the hotel corridors I walked on air; my heart was -beating tumultuously. I wanted to shout for joy. A band was playing in -the street, making it harder still to maintain decorum until I could -reach my friendly office--that office where I had spent so many lonely -hours waiting for the door-bell to ring! that office which had this day -witnessed my triple triumph! - -A few evenings later the bell rang. In the waiting room stood a tall, -lanky old chap. - -“Hello, thar! Whar’s Doctor Sue?” - -I told him Dr. Wyeth was out of town for a week or two and that I was -taking her practice. He looked at me comically; his face underwent some -kind of contortion which I suppose was a smile, as he said: - -“Ye be? Wall, I vum! I don’t know just how that’ll strike Betsy. -Ye--ye’re used to old wimmen? Ye’re jest a-studyin’ with Doctor Sue, -I calk’late--No? Ye’re a full-fledged doctor, be ye? Wall, wall, -no harm intended--I’m jest a-wonderin’ about Betsy--she’s kind o’ -cantankerous.” He scratched his head and eyed me. - -“Wall, ye may as well come along and see what ye can make out with her.” - -Inquiring his name and where he lived, I said I would call as soon as -my office hours were over. - -“I’m Uncle Bill Gilmore--live in West U----. Ye git off the car at -V---- Street, and ask the fust one ye meet whar Uncle Bill lives, and -he’ll tell ye. Doctor Sue’s doctored us ever sen’ she hung out her -shingle. Betsy sets great store by her--don’t know how she’ll cotton to -you--ye mustn’t mind if she’s a leetle peppery.” - -Off he went, and I, to maintain the dignity of my office hours, -waited, though I could just as well have gone with him. “Betsy” -“cottoned” to me all right, and thereafter they called me whenever Dr. -Wyeth was out of town. - -During October and November, the Doctor being away, I was busy and -happy--busy mostly with work which would have been hers had she been -there, but with occasional patients who came to me. How the sight -of my old account-book brings back those days--my struggles, hopes, -exultations, and dismays, and Father’s visits! He came to the city -every few weeks, and always after the greeting and home news were -over would ask with assumed indifference to see the book. And I would -watch him look it over--the tears often coming to his eyes as he saw -evidences of a streak of good luck. And what a lively interest he took -in my rehearsal of experiences and descriptions of people and incidents! - -Spendthrift that I am, I practised the strictest economy those days; -but then, as now, I would walk miles to save a carfare; then, on -occasion, suddenly launch out in some expenditure that proved how prone -I was to strain at gnats and swallow camels. - - -That first year I saw a great deal of Dr. Holton, a timid, -conscientious, romantic person several years my senior. She was much -addicted to novel-reading and prone to neglect things which she knew -would have contributed to her success. Her comments on her own failures -were most amusing; she had the real Irish wit, and enjoyed a joke on -herself. As she urged me to, I often visited her during her office -hours, usually finding her with nothing to do; we talked over books, -cases, people, and experiences, and got on famously together. I throve -on her expressed admiration of certain qualities which I had and she -lacked. She would comment on the friendliness of the County Society -members toward me, and how easily I talked with them, while she, who -had long known them, felt so abashed in their presence. She said they -treated all women physicians better since I had come among them. I told -her they would treat her in a more friendly way if she were not so -shrinking and apologetic; that they took her at her own valuation. But -how I used to wish they could hear her witty and caustic remarks about -them! They little dreamed how keen she was because in their presence -she was so Uriah-Heepish. - -The men respected Dr. Wyeth, but her reserve and apparent coldness -stood in the way of a really cordial feeling. She had started in -medicine when much more antagonism had existed between men and women -physicians than obtained when I began the study, and had never quite -overcome the feeling that the men considered the women as interlopers. -She used to say it did her good to see the frank, fearless way in -which I spoke to Dr. Torrey, the surgeon of whom everyone else, even -the other men, stood in awe; she declared I could smile and talk him -into anything I wanted to. Occasionally he asked me to anesthetize his -patients, and, knowing I had been in hospital service, would sometimes -inquire what I thought of this or that procedure, and I would tell him, -without hesitation, which Dr. Wyeth and Dr. Holton would never have -dared to do, though having as decided opinions perhaps as I had. - -Dr. Torrey was a sandy-haired man with a mouthful of fine teeth and a -ready smile; jovial yet irascible; a bachelor; always well-groomed; -and with the ego ever on duty. He had a habit of preparing papers for -the medical society, whirling in and asking to be allowed to read -them right away, as he had an important engagement. Everything would -be set aside for him, and, on finishing, he would whirl out again, -indifferent to all other papers. I had watched this happen on several -occasions; then once, when he asked me to write a paper, I spoke out in -meeting and said that I would, if he would have the uncommon courtesy -to stay and listen to it. A little chagrined, but amused, he really -did better after that. Dr. Wyeth said that if she had attempted to say -that to him, she would have incurred his lasting enmity; and Dr. Holton -declared that the very thought of her undertaking it paralyzed her; yet -my temerity made him more friendly than before. He was something of -a nettle in disposition, and because I laid hold with a firm grasp I -didn’t get hurt. - - -One of the leading physicians, Dr. Lord, turned practically all -his gynecological cases over to me. This physician had great charm -of manner, an engaging smile, and the most infectious laugh I have -ever heard--a valuable asset in the sick room. But what an alarmist! -His patients were always being saved as by fire. He could make most -persons believe that black was white, and when confronted by his -irresistible manner, I was almost as ready as others to espouse his -various medical fads, though I soon found that his fad of to-day was -ousted by that of the day after to-morrow. What a study the different -ones among my _confrères_ were! Dr. Hood, another of them, boarded -where I boarded the first year--a big, lymphatic man with a smooth, -fat face, eyes that could smile merrily, but a mouth that drooped at -the corners as though with a perpetual grievance. He looked profound, -but was not. Always chivalrous in his treatment of women, his courtesy -had a Southern flavour. His friends and associates were chiefly -women, and, I am bound to say, he excelled them in gossip. He had a -never-failing curiosity, seemed interested in everybody, remembered -details, was a capital _raconteur_. Delightful as a table-companion, -but as full of sarcasm and prejudices as a dressmaker’s pincushion is -of pin-pricks; back-biting was, in his case, one of the little foxes -that spoiled the vines. Never busy, never in a hurry, he apparently -never cared whether he had any professional work to do. He knew how -to cook better than most women can; would on occasion go into the -homes of his patients and prepare special diets; more than that, he -could knit, crochet, and embroider, and they used to say that he made -most of the trimming for his step-daughter’s underwear when she was -preparing her wedding trousseau! Dr. Chapin, another brother physician, -was a mild, easy-going man, somewhat lacking in decision, unassuming, -conscientious, dependable; never one to make a big stir, but one of a -class now fast disappearing--a typical family physician. Besides these -in our own school of medicine, there were a few of the old school -physicians with whom I became friendly. - - -Early in October of my first year of practice, through the secretary -of the Y. M. C. A., who boarded where I boarded, I was engaged to make -the physical examination of about two hundred women who were to join -the ladies’ club of the gymnasium. Professor Barton, the Physical -Director, called on me and explained the work: each applicant was to be -examined as to heart and lungs, general nutrition, and abnormalities; -and certain measurements were to be taken so that the Director could -ascertain what parts needed special development. - -The Director himself was a fine specimen of physical manhood, past -forty, slightly below medium height, a strong, masculine frame, -vigorous, energetic; dark brown, penetrating eyes, black hair, a firm -chin--a forceful personality. Almost boyish in his love for his work, -his enthusiasm was contagious. Firmly believing in the efficacy of -body-building to form mind and character, his work was his religion; -and so impressed was I with its importance, I consented to undertake -it without the question of compensation for my services being even -mentioned. The ladies came to my office, I gave the greater part of my -time for a month to the work, and the only remuneration I received was -my ticket to the gymnasium class for a year! The Secretary had probably -left the question of my remuneration to the Physical Director, and -he probably thought the Secretary had arranged it; while I supposed -that, in time, one or the other would attend to it. So when the -ladies, on being examined, asked what the charges were, I foolishly -said, “Nothing”; therefore, I came out with no financial gain whatever -when, but for my timidity in speaking up when engaged for the work, I -should have realized, at the very least, two hundred dollars; while, -the probabilities are, it would have amounted to double that sum, had -I let each lady pay me, as the most of them evidently expected to do, -when I made the examination. The whole thing is rather characteristic -of my way of dealing with financial matters when my own interests are -at stake--a trait which I share in common with my father. But the work -was interesting, and by its means I gained a speedy introduction to the -“Two Hundred” of U----, while the gymnasium practice was beneficial to -me. - - -Early in my practice, when I had but few acquaintances in U----, I -became intimate with a certain family, through having the wife and -children as patients. My old school-mate had moved away shortly -after I went there, and as I had no place to go during Dr. Wyeth’s -office hours, I got in the way of spending a good deal of time in the -Richards’s home. Mrs. Richards, a woman of tall, handsome figure, was -a mild, placid woman, an excellent housekeeper, kind and motherly. She -made me welcome in her home; her boys, of whom I was fond, were fine -little fellows. The freedom with which I came and went in their home -was delightful. The father of the family was a forceful man of keen -intellect, impulsive, ardent, magnetic, and of ungovernable temper -when aroused. He was alive to all that pertained to the development -and guidance of his boys, and got in the way of coming to my office -of an evening to borrow books and chat awhile about them; he said it -did him good to discuss these matters with me, and he was glad to have -my influence on his boys. He was frank in his liking for me, and his -occasional calls were welcome in my lonely evenings. Sometimes he would -say: “I fear I come here too much--I don’t want to do that; Jane likes -to have me come--but if you mind, you must tell me.” - -It was perhaps after a half dozen calls that he began telling me about -his early life, of his proud and passionate mother, and of her second -marriage to a man so vastly inferior in race and breeding that his -childhood and youth were made utterly miserable. As he recounted some -of the experiences of his boyhood, and the shame and rage he had often -been made to feel because of taunts concerning his step-father, I -felt a great pity for him, and was able to understand, in a measure, -his curious outbursts of temper of which he told me. Later he began -speaking more freely about his wife, of her goodness, but also of her -limitations; her incapacity for companionship, her unresponsiveness. -Because of all this, he said, he especially appreciated my kindness to -him, and thanked God he had found such a friend; he thought we could -be of help to each other, and was sure I understood him as no one else -ever had. That night when he left he held my hand longer than his wont, -and I felt an uneasiness, combined with an unwonted pleasure. - -At his next call he found me upset over the elopement of the husband -of a favourite cousin. Those horrid headlines in the paper referred -to someone I actually knew! It was a relief to discuss it with a -friend. This talk led to a discussion of kindred topics. Afterward, as -I tried to recall our conversation, it seemed to me it had been on a -particularly lofty plane. I could seem to remember nothing which led -up to what happened. I remember that the large willow rockers in which -we sat got gradually nearer, and that the first I knew he was holding -my hands and looking in my eyes, and I was permitting it with less and -less resistance, a dangerous fascination, a kind of paralysis stealing -over me that held me spellbound. He was talking, talking breathlessly, -ardently, on his knees by my chair. I think he wept over my hand and -put his head in my lap; and there I sat like one dazed--conscious of -all he said, but only half able to reason, and, for a time, seemingly, -wholly incapable of stemming the tide of his passionate outburst. -I seemed to live ages in what must have been only a few minutes. -Presently I roused myself and then, like one in pain on awakening, -felt wounded to the very soul--a stain was forever on my womanhood--a -married man had confessed his love for me! Suddenly I saw what in -my blindness and ignorance I had only vaguely divined in the weeks -previous--all, all had been leading up to this. - -A deadly faintness came over me. I fell back in my chair, conscious -still, cruelly conscious, but passive, limp, and mute. He must have -taken this for acquiescence, for he kissed me--on the cheek, near the -neck. _It burned me_, and aroused me. I sat up, passive no longer. - -What I said I do not know, but he felt my anger and shrank from it. I -almost tore the spot from my face in the vehemence with which I tried -to eradicate that burning kiss. That angered him to the point of fury, -and my words enraged him more. While I had been in that passive state, -and he was covering my hands with kisses, he had said he would wait -years for me, if need be, if I would only tell him that I would love -him when he was free. On finding my tongue, I bitterly denounced him -for that; told him if he were free I would not marry him; that I could -never love him; and by then I must have experienced a marked revulsion -of feeling, for I loathed him. - -Growing fairly black with rage, he became threatening; accused me of -leading him on, or at least of permitting his love, only to thrust -it back upon him. He took me by the shoulders roughly, looking into -my face with rage and hatred. I looked steadily back. I had a vague -realization of his great strength, and of his fiendish temper when -aroused, but was at that instant beyond physical fear; my desperation -at what I then felt was an ineradicable stain upon my soul was so -extreme that mere danger to life was as nothing. I must have met him -unflinchingly; I think I even said, “Kill me if you like!” Then a -terrible remorse came upon me. Suddenly I seemed to feel wholly to -blame, and with that began to soften towards him; he softened then, and -wept. One thing he said then pierced me to the heart: - -“Why did you do it, Doctor? Why did you let me love you--life was -hard enough before--why did you do it?” And as he talked that way my -agony grew apace. I believed myself guilty--responsible for it all; I -believed (what I knew later was not true) that I must have seen it all -from the beginning--my consent to his calls, our handclasps at parting, -were blackest evidence of the steps I had permitted to lead up to this. - -My remorse and misery changed his attitude entirely; he then began -accusing himself. Presently we fell to discussing it more calmly. But -at the recollection of my scornful words, the fire leaped in his eyes, -and a malicious purpose again plainly showed itself: - -“You could never love me if I were ‘the last man on -earth’--you--_girl_! You don’t know what you are saying. Do you want to -rouse the very devil in me? Don’t you know that if I were free, free -to make you love me, you would be mine--_mine_! I’d make you take back -those words--I’ve a mind to make you take them back--_I’ve a mind to -make you love me now_!” - -He was sitting or kneeling beside me, his face close to mine. I looked -in his eyes, and the very devil of daring and adventure must have been -in me at that instant, for I was fully conscious of a challenge passing -into my look. I think I said no word, but fairly defied him to make me -love him--if he could. He fixed my glance imperiously, and with his -face close to mine he hissed: - -“Kiss me--on the lips--kiss me! You don’t dare to--_you’re afraid_!” - -His lips came closer, his eyes flamed. I had a wild desire to do -as he commanded--not because I wanted to kiss him, for I hated him -again--such rapid revulsions of feeling swept over me--but just to -prove to him that his words were false--that I dared to kiss him and -still would not love him as he boasted. I had a curiosity also, a real -desire to know if there could possibly be such potency in a kiss. -But the instant of wavering could not have been long. At that crucial -moment my guardian angel (surely I had a guardian angel than) turned -my eyes from his compelling gaze to the top of the book-case by the -wall where stood the photographs of my father and mother. Instantly the -spell was broken. The power he had regained over me, after my first -repulsion had subsided, was dispelled by the sight of my parents’ -faces looking down at me. But oh, the agony then! The remorse I had -felt earlier was as nothing compared to this. I cannot recall clearly -what followed. I know my defiance of him gave place to self-loathing -and self-castigation. It must have been shortly after that a profound -prostration supervened--the conflicting emotions were having their -effect upon my physical self. My pallor must have been extreme for -he became alarmed; he called to me; he chafed my hands, and pleaded -with me to rally, to speak, to live. I heard it all and knew all--was -never more aware in my life--but was powerless to stir, almost, it -seemed, to breathe. Finally, the faintness wearing away, I was again in -possession of all my faculties, but, oh, so cold, so cold! and with the -consciousness of an ineradicable stain on my soul. - -It was then after midnight. All at once I became aware of the -compromising situation should he be seen leaving my office at that time -of night. I was disturbed, too, as to what Mrs. Richards would think -of his staying so late, yet was afraid to have him go. I was afraid to -be alone, afraid of my own thoughts. I clung to him, my fear of him -all gone--the danger now all gone--for my weakness appealed to his -strength, and his one thought then seemed to be to restore and help me. -He urged me to come home with him; he would carry me, if necessary; we -would together tell Jane; she would understand; or, should he rush home -and get her, and have her come and stay the night with me? he did not -dare to leave me there alone. But all this time I was getting where I -could think and plan for the future. When, previously, in helplessness, -I had clung to him, it was as though I must make him take it all back, -wipe it out; yet I was acutely conscious of the irrevocableness of it -all, I had only clung in desperation--like two drowning persons must -cling--no longer blaming him, but in utter wretchedness that together -we had brought this on ourselves. - -Now I was clearer. I began to talk. I told him he must never come there -again alone. Then, as I thought of Mrs. Richards and the boys, and how -they loved and trusted me, I broke down completely. I felt I could -never again look into their faces; never enter their home, nor again -have the happy times we had enjoyed. This he opposed vigorously. He -asked nothing for himself, he said, but for her and the boys he pleaded -that I would not be so cruel: they needed me; I had brightened their -lives; he was more patient and kind when I was there, even when he knew -I was coming; I helped him to control his temper, they all knew it--if -I deserted them now, it would add to their misery. I suppose I then -promised to go to their home as usual. I, having completely rallied by -that time, he left me, himself looking worn and penitent, and showing -unfeigned concern at my wretchedness. - -As I opened the door to let him out, every sound in the quiet building, -every fall of his foot down the stairs, struck me with dread; and when -I found myself alone in the room, my terror increased. I did not dare -to move; every sound I made increased this feeling; I was afraid to -undress; afraid to open out the operating-chair and make my bed; so, -wrapping a blanket around me, I reclined on the half-opened chair and -slept from sheer exhaustion. - -When I awoke, the terrible consciousness was there that _it was all -true_; that it was not an ugly dream. Then I drank my first bitter -draught of the cup of life. I had thought I had known sorrow before; -thought I had suffered; but then, then, I knew that never until -then had I realized what suffering is. “It _isn’t_ true”--“It _is_ -true,”--fast upon the one thought, said as though the very force -with which I uttered it would undo the truth, would follow the other -inexorable sentence, “It _is_ true.” - -The events of the next few days, even my first meeting with Mrs. -Richards, are gone from my recollection. I remember one thing, though: -The next day, at my boarding-place, at dinner, a little Chatterbox of -a woman spoke of how pale and wretched I looked, then, babbling on, -told me that, having dropped into Mrs. Richards’s that morning, she -had found her suffering from a severe sick headache. It seemed as if I -must cry out in remorse and despair. In my hypersensitive condition I -felt directly responsible for her suffering, though she had suffered -similarly for years. I seemed made up of two entities, the one being -stabbed by this chatter, and by my own self-reproaches, and the other -calmly and indifferently replying to my table-mate, discussing the -most commonplace affairs. I marvelled at my own unmoved exterior, -marvelled at everything going on the same in the street, at the office, -everywhere--the same as the day before--when all was so changed in me! - -The first time I saw Mr. Richards after that was in his home, the -family having sent for me to come to the house for supper. Already -there, and dreading to meet him, I heard him run up the steps briskly, -_whistling as he came_! He called out cheerily, “Are you in there, -Doctor?” It was a shock to me. I had so dreaded to meet him; had -thought of him as suffering from remorse as I had suffered (had he not -said with contrition that he would ask God to forgive him?); and here -he was whistling, and a love song! Again I recoiled from him, and with -it came a sickening sense of being alone in my misery, and of having -wasted more pity on him than he deserved. I was pretty severe when we -spoke of it later, but think he succeeded in mollifying me somewhat, -though I began then to think that his religious talk was largely cant, -and so ceased to have much patience with his asking God to forgive him. - -My friendliness with the family continued, but I never received him in -the office after that, unless Mrs. Richards, or the boys, came with -him. Later I learned a great deal of their home life which I had only -divined before--learned that he was a very different man when I was -there from his ordinary self; that the boys’ fondness for me, though -genuine, was only a part of the reason why they were always so eager -for me to come there, the other part being that Dad was always so jolly -and good then, and things went so smoothly. - -One evening while he and his wife and I were sitting on the veranda, -the boys came home, greeted us, and passed on into the house, after -which their father followed them, and we heard them in earnest -conversation. Soon they were talking angrily. Mrs. Richards hurried -in, and shortly after, I heard a cry of distress, and then her voice -calling, “Doctor, come--_come_!” - -Rushing in, there in the dining room I saw what nearly paralyzed -me--the father, looking more like a fiend than a human being, had his -younger son by the throat, while the elder boy, white with terror, -stood on one side of the table, as far from his father as he could get. -The mother was closing windows and doors, so that the neighbours could -not hear, and was all the time beseeching the boy in jeopardy to say he -did it: “Say it, Tommy, or he’ll kill you!” - -With no clue as to what it all meant, I only knew that here was an -enraged man, beside himself, and that his son, though in danger of -being choked to death, was defying him, standing out about something -he had been accused of. I took no time for thought, but, feeling -exultantly, “Here, I have some power over him--now I can expiate my -wrong,” rushed between the struggling father and son, tearing at the -man’s fingers as they clasped the boy’s neck. He tried to push me away, -looking as though he only half realized who I was; but, pulling at him, -I interfered with all my strength, calling to him. Presently he warned -me: “Doctor, get away if you don’t want me to hurt you, too--I warn -you--I will not be thwarted--he _shall_ confess.” - -But I felt I must save the boy; must exert to the full my influence -over this enraged man. I don’t know what followed, or just what I did, -except that we three were being dragged around the table, and that I -kept my hands on those powerful hands that were grasping the boy’s -throat; and soon I stood looking into the eyes of that crazed creature -for what seemed an eternity--it was probably only a few seconds--all -the force of my being bent on making him relax his hold. Gradually I -felt his fingers loosen, his eyes ceased to glare with that lurid rage, -and at last his hands dropped limp; the boy was freed, and the man and -I confronted each other in breathless silence. - -“Thank God! Thank God!” hysterically cried the mother, while the older -boy tried to hush her cry. - -But the calm was of short duration. A second rage succeeded the first. -At the thought that I had seen this exhibition of his wrath, and that -further concealment was futile, he sprang at the boy again. Tommy ran -round the table. I sprang again at the father, and a second contest -took place. I can only remember clinging to his hands, and holding his -gaze, and hearing the frightened woman scream to me to be careful, or -he would attack me as he had attacked Tom. - -How the storm subsided I cannot recall, except that he gradually got -control of himself, though the looks he cast at the boys showed that -his rage was only sleeping. His remarks to me were to the effect that -the game was up; I would loathe him now; I may as well know him now as -they knew him, and, though I had prevented him from carrying out his -threats, he would know the truth yet--he would wait till to-morrow--but -punish those boys he would, and I need not think I could prevent it. -Then he left the house. - -We breathed freer after he was gone, but looked at one another in -dismay, feeling it was only a lull in the storm. They depended on me -for help, but how was I to help them? It seems that evening at the -“Gym,” he had seen the boys hobnobbing with some others whose habits he -had warned them against; he thought they acted guilty when he came upon -them, and had been awaiting their return home to confront them with his -suspicions. Their denial had enraged him, hence the terrible scene. - - -All the woman’s disguises were now laid aside. Previously she had tried -heroically to conceal the unhappiness in their home life. Many a time I -had detected her anxiety when the boys had been saying or doing things -which she feared might anger their father, but, on meeting my glance, -she would summon a smile and change the subject. Now it was all out. - -We talked it all over. She was afraid he would desert them now, as he -had threatened doing of late; but what she feared most was his coming -home late in the night, after I had gone, and dragging the boys out of -bed and repeating the scene; or, if just sullen, he would wait till -morning, and then give the boys a thrashing; his smouldering anger -would flare afresh--and, God pity them all! They implored me not to -leave them. It was a miserable evening that we spent listening for him. -I heard him come in late in the night, stalk about his room, and fling -off his shoes. How I pitied the woman lying there, afraid to speak, -feigning sleep, recoiling, as she must, from that man’s presence, yet -welcoming that rather than that he should go across the hall to where -the boys were sleeping! - -In the morning she came to my room, heavy-eyed and anxious, dreading -what the day held for them. He did not come down to breakfast. They -seemed to think the storm had got to come--that it was only being -postponed while I could stay with them. - -Reassuring them as best I could, I went upstairs to him. I had no -definite plan, but knew I must in some way extract a promise to let the -matter drop, at least not to punish the boys till entirely over his -anger, he had heard them calmly; and that, if he did punish them, I was -to be present. - -There the great black creature lay, his face sullenly turned to the -wall. What should I do? My instinct told me what. And here I recall the -complexity of feelings I experienced: the shrinking from him at the -recollection of his brutal rage; the thought that I had calmed that -rage somewhat, and could still more if I could conquer my repugnance. -Then came the recognition that I could only do it by exerting my power -as a woman over him--the discovery of a power that shortly before -had made me sick with remorse. Then came another thought: If, though -unwittingly, I have acquired this power over him, and have suffered it -to develop to the point it has with no object in view, why not now, -with this worthy object, take advantage of the influence, and compel -him to do my bidding? It was similar reasoning to what I had used the -night before, if my rapid thoughts and impulsive acts could be said to -be the result of reasoning. This morning’s course was more deliberate, -though hardly as much so as this statement of it would seem to imply. - -Stepping to the bed I put my hand on his shoulder and tried to have -him look round. He snarled savagely, turning farther away. I remember -keeping my hand on his shoulder and trying to get him to turn over and -talk to me. I sat on the bed and pleaded with him. After he did turn, -he looked at me searchingly for a while, and, when he spoke, expressed -surprise that I would ever speak to him again. I don’t recall what I -said, but suddenly he looked at me sharply and said: “See here! I have -a great big thought--is it true?--tell me! Do you care for me more than -you have let me know, but have fought it because it was right to---- Is -it so? _Is_ it?” - -And I, seeing him melting under my influence, and knowing that I had -set to work deliberately to bring this melting about, anxious to gain -my ends, conscious of what a fiend he was when thwarted--I did not have -the courage to contradict him outright; and, if I did make some half -dissent, was at least keeping my hold on him, literally, by the touch -of my hand, while wondering how far it would do to let him think he -was right--enough at least to gain this point about the boys, so he -would take back his threats and let go the punishment. I was conscious -of making some compromise with my conscience on the ground of the -exigencies of the case; conscious that the look in his eyes, before we -were done talking, was that of a tamed, or, rather, subdued, animal, -instead of an angry, morose one; yet I really did nothing except -just to be my undisguised self--soft and pitying and tender to this -man whose evil temper I now understood. I let him see that I did not -despise him, even for this revelation; but that I wanted to help him -and them; still I did not entirely dispel that thought which had come -to him, and think I hoped he would continue to think that perhaps it -was true--for a time, at least. - -Downstairs we all talked it over together, and he gave me his word -before them all that that should end it. And it did. - -My intimacy with the family increased. I felt their dependence upon me, -and was easier now that he frankly showed his interest in me before his -wife; it seemed to take the sting from the recollection of that tragic -night in the office. - -One evening, weeks later, at their home, they began jesting about my -marrying, speculating as to the kind of man I would be likely to love. -I did not like such talk. (Once, earlier, when he had been trying to -make light of what had happened, to reassure me and dispel my remorse -he had said, “You will marry some good man one of these days, and -forget all about this.” Aside from other considerations, entirely apart -from this, I had previously declared that I should never marry; but now -in my hypersensitiveness over it all, I actually thought I had lost -the right to marry--I knew I could not marry without confessing that a -married man had made love to me, and that I had listened to him, and I -fully believed that any honourable man would despise me for this. I was -in dead earnest. In vain he had tried to point out how little I had to -be remorseful about; deaf to his arguments, I thought them put forth -only because of his own callous depravity.) And so I was angry at him -now for bringing up this question in his home; but continuing, he said: - -“Jane, the Doctor says she will never marry--do you know why?” - -I was afraid he was coming out with the whole story. He turned on the -boys, who were showing an eager interest in the talk, saying, “Boys, go -in the other room”; then, turning to me, said, “You say you will never -marry; you think you are strong enough to stick to that; you pride -yourself on being independent, but--_if I were free_, I’d make you -marry me, _and I’d make you love me_! You couldn’t help yourself. Oh, -you needn’t mind Jane--she doesn’t mind--do you, Jane? She knows me, -and knows I love you--I’d show you what your resolutions would amount -to--_if I were free_!” - -This, accompanied with poorly veiled excitement and a daredevil look, -and said to me _before her_, in their own home, made me speechless. For -her sake I had done my best to appear ignorant of his special interest -in me; but here he was boldly confessing it, and, in a way, challenging -me again to withstand him. It roused my scorn and contempt, and I fear -I showed it that night. - -So, little by little, the disguises dropped away all around, though -our friendship continued. As I became busier in my work I went less -frequently to their house. Subsequently he confessed to me an intrigue -he had had some years before. This shocked me, and lowered him further -(as well as myself) in my esteem, for, in trying to win me he had -claimed that I was the one woman to him; and, while having admitted -that it was wrong to confess his love, he had declared that something -in me made it impossible to help it, and so on; and, in my ignorance -and vanity, I had believed him; had doubtless condoned his wrong for -this very reason. This later confession of a previous infatuation--even -a guilty one--made all this in which I had had a share seem not only -more wrong, but more sordid; and, too, it gave a deep wound to my -self-love. I was getting my eyes opened to life and human nature at -a rapid rate. Other revelations of his temper and character, as time -passed, made me sick at heart, but gradually out-growing the acuteness -of my remorse, I learned in time rather to exult in the fact that I had -not been more deeply compromised. - -After a time the family moved away. Years later I saw them again. They -seemed to be getting on well. We then discussed calmly the earlier -times. I found much of my bitterness and denunciation toward him had -moderated. I had by that time seen more of life; had learned to be more -tolerant; understood him better. He told me that he had never ceased to -be thankful that my own steadfastness had prevented him from ruining my -life; that, whether I chose to believe him or not, bad as he had been, -he had never meant to wrong me; that he had always esteemed me above -any woman he had known; and that no one in the world, knowing of his -baseness, had shown him the tenderness and tolerance and helpfulness -that I had shown. He talked over my own life and subsequent experiences -with me, and gave me sound advice. He understood me better than I -had understood myself. I am bound to say that his retrospections and -prophecies were alike sympathetic and penetrating. - - -During that first year’s practice, a few weeks after this regrettable -experience which had cast such a shadow over me, I saw deep into the -tragedy of the life of a young girl who came to me for succour. She -was only nineteen; she refused to give me her name or address, but -haltingly told me her story, and expressed her fears. It was some weeks -before I could either dispel or confirm her fears, during which time -my hold on her was precarious; but she came again and again, both of -us hoping against hope as long as we could. On the day when I had to -acknowledge to myself and her that what she feared was true, I seemed -to grow years older. Though I had now been graduated in medicine a -year, my worldly wisdom was very limited, and here was a desperate -girl looking to me for help--a pretty, round-faced, red-cheeked child, -unsophisticated, undeveloped. She resolutely refused to tell me the -name of the young man concerned, saying if he were willing she would -not marry him. She did not mind what she suffered if only her parents -did not find out. Her mother would die if she learned the truth. When -she found I could not help her in the way she had hoped, she was in -dire distress. I tried to persuade her to send her mother to me and -together we would plan something, but she would not consent; if I could -help her to go away and keep the secret from everyone there, she would -go and have her child honourably; if not, she would go to someone who -would help her in the other way. I felt I must save her from that crime -at all costs, and my earnest convictions must have impressed her, too; -for she then begged me to think out some way by which it could be -arranged. - -Knowing the resident woman physician in a Home in a distant city, where -they took girls who had gone astray for the first time, and found homes -for their babies, I took steps to get her admitted there. While our -plans were pending, the girl came to me almost daily; she had nowhere -else to go. During these interviews, I was struck by the fact that she -seemed all intent on concealing the consequences of her wrong-doing, -but showed little remorse for the wrong itself. I could not understand -this; but, as I came later to see more of such cases, I learned -that by the time the poor creatures are certain of their condition, -the acuteness of remorse has spent itself--they are confronted by a -desperate condition calling for action, and their need of escaping -detection then overrides contrition. Not appreciating this then, I was -puzzled and hurt at the girl’s apparent callousness. As an accomplice -in the scheme for getting her away, I was throwing myself so completely -into the situation that I shared her shame. I verily believe I felt -her sin and remorse more than she did _at that time_, though there’s -no telling what she had felt earlier. The knowledge which I had so -recently gained had made me aware of the dangerous fascination between -the sexes, or I might have been less sympathetic with her; as it was, -I came to be almost glad of an experience that enabled me to help the -poor girl more understandingly than I otherwise could have helped her. - -At length we learned the cost and requirements at the Home. She could -manage the cost, but how were we to get her away, and keep her away all -the months necessary, so that her family and friends should be blinded -to the facts? Her already changing figure made it imperative that -she go at once. Persuading a friend in the country to take her a few -weeks to board, it was still necessary to devise some excuse for her -going that would appeal to her family. As her mother knew that I had -been treating her for an “anemic condition,” it would be, I thought, a -simple matter to persuade her that her daughter needed to get away for -a change of air, so I told her to bring her mother to the office. - -The woman came, solicitous about her daughter. She rehearsed her -daughter’s symptoms; was afraid she was going into a decline, or had a -tumour growing, or some other serious condition. The mother was very -deaf; I thought her blind also, for she evidently suspected nothing. -Reassuring her as well as I could, I persuaded her to let Hetty go -to my friend’s for two weeks, well knowing that after once getting -her away, we must invent some other excuse for a longer stay. Right -there in the mother’s presence, owing to her deafness, we perfected -the plans. I shudder when I think of that hour; when necessary to talk -at length about details, to avoid suspicion, I would go to a distant -part of the room a little out of range of the mother’s vision, and, -appearing to be busy there, would, in a low voice, give my directions. - -Our scheme was for her to stay with my friend for two months, if -possible, writing back home frequent encouraging letters as to her -marked improvement in health, thus gaining consent to remain away. -Later she was to state that my friend, Miss Hurd, a semi-invalid, had -grown attached to her and had invited her to go on to New England for -a little visit. If this worked, and she obtained permission to go so -far from home, we were to have Miss Hurd become so ill while away as to -require Hetty’s services as a nurse, thus accounting for her long stay -in Providence. - -It proved even a harder undertaking than I had bargained for. It was my -first experience in downright, sustained deception; but there was much -at stake, and I was bound to carry the thing through. - -Hetty had been at Miss Hurd’s only three weeks when they felt they -could keep her no longer--the neighbours were getting curious, and the -family was uneasy about the whole situation. So it was decided to have -Hetty go on to Providence early. As a matter of fact, Miss Hurd came -on to U---- to visit me, so they came that far together, Hetty going -on to New England. Meeting her at the train, I could offer only a few -hurried words of direction and encouragement, and the train bore her -away in the darkness. Homesick and frightened, she could not get off -that train and seek her home, but must journey on, alone, at night, to -that strange city, suffering, dread, and wretchedness ahead of her! - -About two weeks later her mother appeared at my office, this time in -great distress. Miss Hurd opened the door for her--the very young woman -with whom her daughter was supposed to be in Providence--but of course -she had no suspicion as to who she was. The woman demanded that I write -and tell Miss Hurd that her daughter must come home at once: people -were thinking it queer that Hetty was staying away so long; someone had -even intimated that she was married and was going to have a baby--they -were saying all sorts of things. There that deluded mother sat and said -to me: “You and I know that it isn’t so; we know the poor girl has been -sick, and that she is taking care of this invalid friend of yours; but -they have made these insinuations and her father is furious; he says -she must come home at once and put a stop to such reports--he says that -under the circumstances her duty is to herself and not to Miss Hurd.” - -I used what persuasion and arguments I could, and assured her I would -communicate immediately with Miss Hurd and Hetty, and tell them how -matters stood here, though I hated to distress the poor child with -such reports being circulated about her. She agreed it was a great -shame, and, too, just as she was so happy and feeling so like her -old self. As soon as she had gone, in the same room where she had -been sitting, Miss Hurd sat and, heading the letter from Providence, -wrote to the girl’s mother, begging her to let Hetty stay another -month at least, pleading her need, and her physician’s opinion that -a change of companions just then would be very prejudicial to her--a -letter which the family could show to doubting friends, thus allaying -suspicion. This letter, inclosed in one to Hetty, was sent back with -the Providence post-mark, and the family quieted down. - -This was near a month before the baby came--an anxious month for me, -what must it have been for Hetty! The baby died in two weeks. I felt -relieved; it simplified things; but Hetty’s grief was real and deep: -“Oh, Doctor, my baby is dead!” she wrote. She was not a “Hetty Sorrel,” -after all, as I had sometimes thought her, but a sorrowing mother, her -shame and fear of detection--everything--forgotten in her anguish over -the death of her illegitimate baby! - -The night she came home, meeting her train, I went with her to her -door. I longed to go in and help her face her family; but that could -not be. She had brought back to me all the letters I had written her, -with a lock of her baby’s hair--a tiny silken curl which the doctor had -cut from the dead baby’s head. The pathos of it! the little curl was -folded in a powder paper, and put in a tiny box marked “mourning-pins.” - -“I don’t dare to take it home with me, but you will keep it for me,” -she said. - -We had been preparing her family for her altered appearance: she was -supposed to be worn out from caring for the invalid, and, the last two -weeks, to have had a severe attack of dysentery. By her manner of dress -she was to arrange that her figure should appear much as when she went -away; but, oh, her face!--they must have been blind, indeed, if they -could not see that it was not, and never would be again, the round -girlish face they had known. It was the face of a saddened woman. Her -grief for her baby was pitiful, and she was denied even the comfort of -that little lock of hair! - -Months later she told me her people never learned the truth, but I -sometimes felt that they must have surmised more than they let her -know; and yet, perhaps not. By a ruse I got from her subsequently -the name of her child’s father, making her think I knew it when only -suspecting it--a strange thing this--the woman’s loyalty in shielding -the man! My little “Hetty Sorrel” began to show the more heroic traits -of “Hester Prynne.” I kept in touch with her for several years. - -When Dr. Wyeth learned of all this, she was frightened at the risks I -had taken, and begged me never to undertake a case like that again, -unless some other member of the family be taken into confidence. But -the poor girl had said that it would kill her mother; that her father -would kill her lover; and that, if they knew the truth, she might as -well kill herself; so I had yielded to her entreaties for secrecy. Had -she died in confinement, I knew my letters to her, and hers to me, -would vindicate me, proving that there had been no crime--merely the -attempt to help her to keep her secret. - -Only a short time after this another girl came to me in the same -trouble. Here the circumstances were different: She had no relatives in -this country; she was English, twenty-three years old; her lover was -Irish, and a Roman Catholic. She frankly told me his name and where -he worked, and said he drank some, but she was willing to marry him -if he would have her, but she doubted if he would marry her. I told -her to send him to me. When he paid no attention to this request, I -wrote, asking him to call. This also he ignored; then I called at his -boarding-place and left a note saying I should be under the necessity -of calling upon him at his place of business, unless he came at once -to see me. This brought him to the office. He was a factory hand. He -had a dogged air. While sounding him, to see if he would marry the -girl, I had spoken of seeing the priest, which evidently impressed him, -for he said, “You can make me marry her, but I won’t live with her.” -Then I took another tack: Of course I could make him marry her, but I -wouldn’t do that if he was not man enough to marry her willingly--such -marriages could only bring misery; and anyhow, I understood he was a -drinking man, and Molly was too good a girl to be tied to a man with -such habits. He sneered when I spoke of her as being a good girl; that -roused my wrath. I told him he was a coward to get a girl in trouble -and refuse to stand by her, then sneer at her in the bargain; that the -least he could do was to help her financially, so she could go away -and have her child where her acquaintances would be none the wiser, -and she could take up her old life again, untrammelled by the stain -and disgrace. I made him see that she had got to face all the pain and -danger and disgrace, and that he certainly ought to make it easier for -her by paying her board in a Home, and the expenses of her confinement. - -He rose to the occasion, and went out of the office with more -self-respect, and commanding more respect from me, than when he had -come in; and in a few days, when he sent me money for several months’ -board, I arranged for Molly’s admittance to the Providence Home. It was -a much easier affair to manage than the other. But as Molly’s money -began to give out, Mike’s manliness oozed out, too. As he ignored her -appeals, I wrote for him to call on me again. The days went by and he -made no sign. Meantime, a letter from the doctor told me that Molly’s -son was born, was already adopted, and that Molly had a place as a wet -nurse for a premature baby which was being raised in an incubator. -Molly’s bills were still unsettled; if Mike was to help any more I -must compass it then; she would need all she could earn for future -necessities. - -Calling at his boarding-place, I found he had just gone back to work. -Hurrying toward the factory, I saw him ahead of me, sauntering along, -all unconscious of who or what was overtaking him. Coming up behind -him, I spoke his name. Turning, surprised and sheepish, he faltered, -“I was going to come to the office to-night.” Looking in his eyes -I announced, “Mr. Dagon, your son was born day before yesterday.” -Conflicting emotions showed in his wretched face--astonishment, pride, -joy, were quickly followed by shame and humiliation, as he realized -he had no right to be proud of being a father. The words “your son” -had roused the man and the father in him, but the painful feelings had -quickly supervened. My anger melted as I saw his pitiable state; but, -knowing him for a shifty fellow, I realized I must get him to commit -himself in regard to the money. He promised to bring it that evening; -then asked in a shamefaced way more about Molly and the boy. I told him -of the baby being adopted by a childless couple almost before it was -born. - -The practice in that institution was to encourage the prospective -mothers to keep their babies, face conditions, and live so correctly -afterward that people would overlook the wrong-doing; but the girls -were offered the alternative of giving up the child; the decision, -however, had to be made before the child was born. Molly had decided -to give up her baby. When it came, she wanted it back; but it was too -late--it had been pledged to these people, who had immediately taken -it away. They had taken Molly’s name, left her a name and address that -would always reach them, and had agreed to let her hear from the child -once a year, on his birthday; but she was not to see him, and he was -never to learn that she was his mother. - -As I explained all this to Mike, he listened in silence till I said -she was to be a wet nurse for a feeble baby; then he fired up, looking -black and angry. “I should think she’d be ashamed,” he said, “to nurse -a strange baby, and let her own be brought up on a bottle.” - -“Whose fault is it that she has to do this?” I retorted. “She wanted -to keep her child; she would have borne the disgrace; would have come -back openly with it in her arms, had you stood ready to support her and -it; but you would have none of it; you wouldn’t even send her enough -money to pay for her board and medical care. She couldn’t face the -world, weak and sick, in disgrace, in debt, and out of work, with a -helpless baby; she had to decide as she did that her child might have -a good home, and she be free to support herself. And now, after it is -too late, after you have neglected her, you dare to blame her for what -she has done! Don’t you suppose she has suffered, and will suffer, more -than you can ever know? Hasn’t she everything to bear, and alone; while -you, who have gone scot-free, have the face to blame her for what you -have forced her to do!” - -He was man enough to be ashamed, and lamely said so, and then, of -course, I pitied him. He came in the evening with the money, asked for -more particulars, and showed the best there was in him. - -In time Molly returned to her old work in U----. She had developed -remarkably. Association with persons of refinement had helped her; she -wanted to better herself; was full of plans for going to night-school, -and for seeking worthier associates. She was hungry for news of her -baby, and its adopted mother was soon better than her word, writing to -her, and continuing to write every few months--letters full of his baby -ways, which Molly would bring to me with all a mother’s pride in her -boy, but with a cruel hunger that most mothers never know. - -In a year’s time Molly came to me saying that a young carpenter wanted -to marry her, a good steady fellow that she liked, but that she would -not marry him and not tell him about the baby; and if she told him, she -feared he would cease to care for her. We agreed that there was but the -one right thing to do, and though feeling sure he would turn against -her, she heroically promised to do it. A few days later she came to me -with a radiant face: she had told him her story; he had “been good” -to her; had even said they would take the baby to rear if she could -get it; but, alas! she was pledged not to seek to do this. They soon -married and had babies of their own. - -The queer thing about the little “John Alden,” as Molly’s baby was -called, is this: he had the same effect that adopted waifs have often -had in childless homes--within a year or two the foster-parents had a -child of their own, which naturally called out the mother’s strongest -love; still she wrote Molly that the little John was as dear as ever. -But after a second child came, and then reverses, Molly and I detected -a change in the letters. I fancied the foster-parents would not be -sorry to relinquish the care of the little fellow; but whether or not -the question was ever really broached I cannot remember, if indeed I -ever knew. - -These were only two of several similar cases which fell into my hands -during my years in U----. Dr. Wyeth told me I had had more of them -than she had had in all her years of practice. Nothing that has come -into my professional life has yielded me such unalloyed satisfaction as -the help I was able to give these girls. Sometimes I have had to go to -parents and break the news, in one case, actually had to plead with the -girl’s mother for mercy and kind treatment of the misguided girl. Much -of my work as a physician has been inefficient and faulty--this I know -better than any one else--but this work is the best I have ever done; -and it is work that I was perhaps better prepared to do in the right -spirit because of that regrettable personal experience during my first -few months of practice. - - -After a year’s time I was cosily established in an office of my own -across the hall from Dr. Wyeth. What a good time I had getting my -furniture! Not a cent was spent without careful planning. My rooms were -modestly but attractively furnished, and I was happy in the change. I -had a small waiting room, a large private office, and a little room -where I kept my gas-stove and household appliances--an improvised -kitchenette. I could choose my own office hours now, so had better -ones, and my practice steadily increased. Then I reduced expenses -further by getting my own meals and caring for my rooms. What cosy -suppers we had when Father came in town, or when friends came to see -me! But I lived frugally, and accounted for every quart of milk, or -pound of beef, or box of cocoa, every postage stamp, and carfare; I -think, on the whole, there was little that I bought which I could have -done without. If I purchased a book, or spent more than was absolutely -necessary in some such way, I skimped in table supplies to even up -matters. Eating alone, as I did most of the time, very little sufficed -me; but once in a while I would get downright hungry, then would buy a -beefsteak, and was sometimes so ravenous I could hardly wait to get it -cooked. It was worth the abstinence to have the appetite I occasionally -had. - -Dr. Wyeth’s kindness and helpfulness did not abate when I moved to -my new office; she always left her keys with me, so I had the use of -her books, and telephone, and her operating-chair for a bed for my -occasional guests--a similar chair of my own now serving as bed for me. - - -One day, while sitting in my new office, a queer-looking old farmer -came in. He blinked and stared around as I stepped out, and asked, -“Where’s the Doctor?” - -“I’m the doctor.” - -“Oh--a woman doctor!” - -He continued to stare; then, as he recovered himself, said musingly, “I -never saw one before.” - -“Well, what do you think of It?” I felt like asking, but probably -inquired in my politest professional manner what I could do for him. -He told me about his wife. I made an appointment for an examination, -and shortly after she came. The little woman, between fifty and sixty, -was suffering from a long-standing cancer. I hated to tell her the -truth; she caught eagerly at the slightest hope. There was but little -to expect at that advanced stage from an operation, and I told her so, -but she wanted the benefit of that little; so Dr. Wyeth and I operated, -and for a time she was more comfortable; but later her symptoms became -distressing; yet how she clung to life, even to the last! - -One day, toward the end, her husband came for me to go out to their -home and see her--one of the queerest drives I ever took. The man -appeared elated, though from his report of her symptoms her death -seemed imminent. I had told him that there was probably little that -I could do if I went to see her, and he had seemed divided between -pleasure at my going and miserliness at having to pay for the visit. -While I was getting instruments and dressings ready, he looked about -the office in undisguised interest and curiosity, commenting naïvely -on what must have been the cost of various things; asking if I had a -big practice; what I did when I had to go out at night; if I didn’t -sometimes wish I had a man to help me; and if I wasn’t lonesome in the -evening. - -When we stepped into his buggy, he started up his fine horses with -a flourish, proud to show them off. I must have spoken approvingly -of them, for he said, “_You_ like to ride fast, don’t you? So do I. -_She_ don’t; she says it hurts her.” Passing some children along the -country road, when I waved a greeting to them, he observed, “_You_ like -children? So do I. _She_ don’t--never could bear to have them around.” - -I found the poor woman near the end, and told him it could be a -question of only a few days at the most. His comments on the way -had prepared me for his callousness at this news, but not for what -followed. Instead of driving me right back, as I wished, he insisted -on showing me all about the house and barns, and even out to the -hill-meadow, where he had a fine view of the city. He acted like a boy. -As we stood on the hill-top, he expatiated on the extent and value of -his farm; on his stock and barns; on the improvements he meant to make; -all of which was tiresome to me; but he finally arrested my attention -by the remark. - -“See what a fine place this would be for a doctor to live; she could -come out here after office hours, and could drive into the city in no -time with horses like mine.” - -More of such talk followed--I hardly knew whether to be angry or -amused--the conceited, unfeeling old wretch was apparently making a -tentative proposal to me there in his home, his wife within a few days -of her death! (I learned some weeks afterward that he had for some time -previous been in the habit of stopping at a neighbour’s and talking -excitedly about the “little Doctor”; wondering what her practice -amounted to, and whether she would want to give it up, if she married, -or keep on with it.) - -“What’s the damage?” he asked, as we were driving home; and when I -named the charge for the visit, he sighed as, slowly drawing out his -wallet, he said regretfully: “That’s just what I got for the last calf -I sold.” - -I don’t recall much about him after that, except that he dropped into -the office a few times for prescriptions for himself, and once brought -me some fruit and some Christmas greens; but if he pushed his hints -further, I have forgotten about it. - - -It was during my years in U---- that Sister’s marriage took place; that -Grandma died; and that Kate’s first baby was born--events of great -moment to me. I recall the feeling of sadness and irrevocability that -night as the train bore Sister away on her honeymoon. It was harder, -though, to see her leave, a year later, after a summer spent at home, -for she was then about to become a mother, and was going so far away; -but, well and happy, she was full of plans for getting settled in her -new home, and her chief regret was Grandma’s approaching death with the -certainty that she could never see her baby. - -When Grandma died we were all anxious to know just the nature of the -heart trouble from which she had suffered so long. Our family physician -had refused to do the autopsy; and, incredible as it seems to me now -(so important did it seem then), I said, “I will do it since Dr. -Hall will not.” I asked Dr. Campbell to be present; his right hand -was disabled, or he would have spared me the ordeal. There, in that -little bedroom, the Doctor and my father looking on, on my twenty-third -birthday, I made the examination which revealed to us the cause of -those agonizing attacks from which Grandma so long had suffered; but it -was little more than a careful study of the case ought to have shown -during life. In these later years I have thought with horror of the -girl that stood there that afternoon and cut through the breast that -had nourished her mother; through the dear breast that had pillowed -so often her own childish head; down, down, into the poor, out-worn -heart. It was a horrible thing to do. Now, try as I will, I can hardly -see how the thing could have presented itself to me so as to make -it seem imperative to take that unnatural step. Father, who was as -tenderly attached to Grandma as an own son could be, had to leave -the room before the work was done. A merciful something kept me from -feeling about it then as I do now. Yet I knew then, and know now, that, -hard as it was, it was easier to do the work myself--for it was done -reverently, and from a rigid sense of duty--than it would have been -to stand by and see even the most considerate of physicians lay the -investigating hands of science upon the body of my grandmother. - - -As Sister’s husband was just starting in the practice of medicine in a -little New England village, and as he had had no experience with such -cases outside of his college work, both he and Sister wished me to be -with them at the time of her confinement. I also wished to be there, -and was planning my work accordingly when, to my consternation, I -received a telegram saying: “Read Isaiah IX 6, and come immediately. -Both doing well.” Rushing across the hall into the rooms of my -neighbours, the Randolphs, I cried, “Give me a Bible, quick! I’m afraid -my sister’s got her baby!” And so it was: “Unto us a Child is born; -unto us a Son is given.” - -What disappointment and anxiety I felt as I journeyed there! It -seemed unbelievable that she could go through all that, and I not -with her. I felt resentment toward the little being that had come so -inopportunely--there she was in her new home, not yet settled, among -strangers, all unprepared for what had been happening in the last -twenty-four hours! - -When I saw her, pale and weak, but smiling through her tears as she -guarded the little bundle by her side, I felt an added resentment -toward that bundle. I did not even feel drawn to it when I saw the tiny -red face; but when he lifted up his voice and wept, the cry, so weak -and helpless, went to my heart; from that instant I loved him. - -During labour, when they had told my sister that the child would be -there before morning, she had exclaimed, “It isn’t so--it can’t be -so--Genie can’t get here--I won’t have my baby till Genie gets here!” -They laughed at us both for our disappointment over the precipitate -outcome. - -I stayed with them two weeks--a strenuous, anxious time--and, the very -day I left, was taken with what later proved to be gastric fever. -Stopping over in Concord a day and a night to see Laidlaw, and have -dinner with him and two other class-mates living near, I was so ill -that evening that I had to leave the dining room, and that night -Laidlaw and his landlady were up with me most of the night. Journeying -next day as far as Worcester, I was detained there for two weeks at Dr. -Carson’s, where she and Fenton (of the hospital days) took excellent -care of me. It was the first time since childhood that I had been -“down sick,” but, soon recuperating, I went back to my work in U----. - -From that time onward my interests widened--two centres now--Home, -and Sister’s home; everything that happened in that New England home -was of great moment to me. The baby’s growth and development were -topics of never-failing interest. When they came home the next year, -how infinitely richer life was with that baby in our midst! How much -more wonderful than ordinary babies--his winsome smile, his soft pansy -eyes, and that first tooth! I suspect that for the next three years, at -least, I taxed to the limit the tolerance of my friends with numerous -little stories about my sister’s phenomenal child. - - -The most intimate, and certainly the most far-reaching, influence -which came to me during my life in U---- came through the Randolphs--a -physician and his wife who had their home, and the Doctor his office, -on the same floor of the building where I had mine. Perhaps a little -slow in making friends, they made up for that in steadfastness and -helpfulness as time passed. The Doctor was then probably forty years of -age--a tall, large-framed man, with a superb head, a fine brow, a firm -mouth and chin, a face always pale, but eloquent with the determination -to rise above suffering. Neurasthenic, crippled since youth from an -injury to one knee, he was subject to frequent breakdowns, was seldom -free from pain, and his work, confined to an office practice, was done -under great disadvantage. I think he has the kindest eyes I have ever -seen--eyes that look deep into the soul, seeing all its frailties and -struggles, its triumphs and defeats. To the needs of all who came his -comprehension and ready help were assured. - -Of Mrs. Randolph’s friendliness one felt less certain; she had even -a repellent manner with strangers; she must weigh them in the balance -before acceptance, no taking on trust with her. A trim little body, -keen of perception and sharp of tongue, she gave one, on meeting her, -a sense of openly taking one’s measure. Sometimes you could fairly -see her making up her mind; and her “Humph!” was eloquent of her -unflattering conclusion. Although really kind-hearted, her range of -sympathies, when I first met her, seemed narrow, her judgments harsh -and often faulty; it seemed easy for her to condemn and sentence -others before she had half the evidence. As time passed it was a study -to see her growing and expanding under the Doctor’s more tolerant -influence and example, and with her increasing knowledge of life and -human sorrows. Sometimes it would be just a mild, “Oh, Ethel, Ethel!” -as she would rail at something or somebody; sometimes he would laugh -indulgently at her caustic and often accurate “sizing up” of persons -who could not, as she would boast, “pull the wool” over _her_ eyes, -as they could over “Dearie’s”; again he would drop a word or two that -would enlighten her--some extenuating explanation; some recital of -good in the one she was condemning. If she pried about any of his -patients, his lips would be sealed, but though replying to her abrupt, -unwarrantable questions so as not to betray professional secrets, he -would, in so doing, help her to view more charitably what she was so -readily inclined to condemn. There were times, though, when she would -close her lips with a snap, unconvinced, though silent; again she would -say she did not believe he knew what he was talking about; or, if he -knew, he himself did not believe what he was saying; but more often -she would stop her tirade and make a wild dash at him, patting his -benevolent face as she exclaimed, “You old Dearie! You think the whole -world is as good as you are!” and sometimes she would include, “You and -Dr. Arnold--she’s ’most as good as you, but not quite.” And he would -smile at her as one would at a spoiled child. - -Her devotion to him was beautiful; she tried to keep him from going -beyond his strength, for patients, recognizing his tolerant, helpful -nature, made many demands upon him; his wife called it imposing upon -him; and if she had dared, would often have berated soundly the -“whining women” who came to him for help and stayed so long after -office hours. I have seen her follow such persons with her scornful -glance as they came out of the office, when I knew she was making a -tremendous effort to keep her tongue between her teeth. All this, and -much more, I could see or divine in my four years’ association with -these friends. I saw, too, that as the years passed and sorrows came, -she softened and broadened, never, however, losing her spiciness, and -never judging either me or “Dearie” as critically as we deserved, -however severe she might be with the rest of humanity. She has -continued one of my staunchest friends through all the years, and -somehow I am always the better for the thought of her unbounded belief -in me. - -Months before our intimacy grew, she knew of many of my makeshifts -and economies, for she kept a sharp lookout upon everything going on -in that vicinity--not only in her doctor’s practice, and in mine, but -also in that of the other physicians in the huge office-building. I am -sure she could have told any one of us what patients were in the habit -of coming to our offices, how long they usually stayed, and many other -facts gleaned in her numerous little journeys through the corridors. - -I spent many evenings in their rooms, and borrowed books from the -Doctor’s large library; looked after them when they were ill; and -they looked after me that I should not get ill, she in practical ways, -and he in help and counsel of an immaterial but quite as essential a -nature. As we became better acquainted, she would scold me because -I did not have a “decent bed”; would upbraid me for not going more -regularly to my boarding-place; or not getting myself more substantial -meals. Sometimes when I would come in, worn from a hard case, and too -tired to think of supper, she would come and march me into their rooms -and, in her brusque but kind way, insist on my taking a cup of tea, -or some hot food: “I’ll get the beefsteak into your stomach first, -and then Dearie can talk to you about your ‘case’--but not a word -till I have my way”; thus would she domineer over me, chide me for -neglecting myself, and scold Doctor for not scolding me. There was no -nonsense about her; she had no patience with half measures, or with -procrastination when promptness was indicated. - - -It was on a blustering evening in March, during my second year of -practice, that something came to me through Dr. Randolph that was -the beginning of one of the dearest and deepest joys of my life. And -yet another decade was to pass before I was to experience the great -friendship toward which a chance act of the Doctor’s on that wild March -night so inevitably contributed. - -I had been attending a case of puerperal fever, a patient of Dr. -Wyeth’s--the Doctor having been suddenly called out of town shortly -after the confinement. For two weeks or more it was an anxious time -for me. The patient was in a serious condition; she belonged to an -influential family; friends and relatives were solicitous, some -officious. On my first visit I had found the condition disturbing, and -it grew rapidly more so. Pressure was brought to bear on the husband -to dismiss “that girl doctor” and employ someone more experienced. My -professional skin was painfully thin in those days--it seemed such a -crime to be young. I felt such comments keenly, and though I could not -have blamed the husband had he yielded to the requests of the friends, -he did not. The case pulled through and was a real triumph for me, -and later some who had sneered at “the girl doctor” came to her for -treatment. But it was a strenuous time, and I was worn and anxious; and -in the evening, on returning to the office, it was a great consolation -to talk over the case with Dr. Randolph, and listen to his helpful -suggestions, or his emphasis of the encouraging symptoms. - -On that eventful night in March, though my patient had then passed the -danger-point, I was in that overwrought state where I could bear to -talk or think only of her. Recognizing this, Dr. Randolph discussed -the case with me briefly, congratulating me on the patient’s assured -safety, then said firmly: “Now we will dismiss this from our minds. -You are going to rest while I read something to you that will make you -forget Mrs. Leighton and her pulse and temperature; so lie down and be -quiet.” I obeyed. - -Seating himself in a big chair beside me, he opened a little -olive-green volume and read to me an essay called “Strawberries.” - -Jaded, anxious, and overwrought as I was, the crispness and freshness -of that essay came to me as the most welcome and delicious restorative -I have ever known. I forgot my cares, forgot the blustering March -outside, I was transported to summer and sunshine, bobolink music, and -the joy of life in heaping measure. My very soul was steeped in summer. -I sniffed the clover-scented air of those high upland meadows where -wild strawberries grew. I stooped low, parting the grass and daisies, -gathering the fragrant berries, while the breath of June meadows came -up in my face, and the light and warmth of June skies enveloped me. - -The essay finished, Dr. Randolph wrote on the fly-leaf of the book -my name and the date, and gave it to me. It was “Locusts and Wild -Honey”--the first book of John Burroughs’s that I ever owned, or knew. -Were there nothing else to be grateful to the Doctor for, the bestowal -of that book, and of all that it later brought into my life, would make -me forever deeply his debtor. - -For two or more years it was the only book of this author that I -owned; but as soon as I could indulge myself in book-buying, his -were the first that I secured. I remember so well the three-quarters -guilty feeling I had in ordering them; it was such unmitigated -self-indulgence; they were so distinctly a purely personal pleasure, -and I had so long schooled myself to regard self-indulgence as -reprehensible. Here was a sober little Stoic taking almost her first -dip into epicureanism; she had many qualms of conscience, but many -thrills of pride as well, each time that another olive-green volume was -added to the row. The “Strawberries” had done it! Doubtless God _might_ -have created a more seductive and more delicious berry, but doubtless -God never did! - -It was many years after I had grown to know and love the author through -his books before I met him face to face. Through his writings I had -learned to love all outdoors; to feel a kinship with Nature which -had deeply enriched my life; and at length there came a day when I -journeyed to his home, sat by his hearth, and felt a deepening of the -sense of comradeship that I had felt in reading his books. He became my -friend. Many years later I even gathered strawberries with him and Dr. -Randolph from the upland meadows of which he had written in that essay -which was the means of bringing this rare friendship into my life. - -Dr. Randolph had a nickname for me which had grown out of our reading -James’s “Psychology” together. There had been a good deal said in the -early chapters about “psychosis,” and one day in my attempts to be -funny I had said something about “psycho_sis_” being undignified--that -James should have said “psycho_sister_”; hence he had dubbed me his -“psychosister.” - -There had been a time, when my intimacy with the Randolphs began, that -I had felt uneasy at the growing friendship. There was charm in the -companionship with him, and sympathy and congeniality between us; and -when his hand rested on my shoulder in a kindly way I was moved by it, -also by the gentleness and consideration he invariably showed me; but -I soon began torturing myself with doubts and fears. The fact was, I -was no longer innocent: one man, who had no right to, had grown to care -for me more than he should, and I began to wonder if this friendship, -too, might not turn out in that way. I shrank from such an ending to so -beautiful a friendship, then blushed with shame at my unfounded fear. -I was experiencing for the first time what, I think, is one of the -saddest things about transgressions--the feeling of suspicion toward -others that grows in us as soon as we have done wrong ourselves, or -have even nibbled at the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and -Evil. But I soon put aside this fear as unworthy of my friend, and -enjoyed the intimacy of which I have written--a friendship with which -I am still blessed, and which has been one of the most enlarging and -ennobling of my life. - -Interests outside of medicine claimed some of my time, of which -activities in the Working Women’s League, emergency lectures to a -Girls’ Friendly Society, and to nurses in one of the city hospitals, -membership in a German class, in a Browning club, even in a Plato -club, were among the chief. The Browning club, especially, proved -intensely interesting--three or four married couples, three spinsters -(including myself) and one bashful bachelor. None of us, except Dr. -Randolph, knew anything about Browning when we began; the club was not -started in the reverential spirit that I fancy most Browning clubs are. -At first we ridiculed ourselves and Browning not a little; but if we -came to scoff, we remained to pray--or, if we first endured our poet, -then pitied ourselves, we ended by embracing Browning. But the last -stage was slow in coming; we struggled and puzzled and got entangled; -we were helped out by Dr. Randolph, and amused by Mrs. Randolph, -who would not stand--only up to a certain point--what she could not -understand. She would blurt out, “Oh, mercy! let’s stop this moonshine, -and read something we _can_ understand.” And we soon learned that hers -was the sensible view--there was so much that was lucid in Browning -that we came in time to pity the too-easily discouraged readers who -stopped short at the stumbling-blocks. - -The Plato Club, conducted by the Universalist minister, was an -incongruous affair--the clergyman, a young lawyer, a factory girl -who wrote poetry, a Vassar graduate, teachers in the seminary, two -seamstresses, a choice assortment of “old maids,” and the “girl -doctor.” They met at my office. I got very little from Plato as we read -it, but the incongruous assembly was a perpetual delight. In a few -months it petered out, but the young lawyer and I formed a club of two -and read Emerson together Sunday evenings (until he became engaged), -and thus cemented a friendship which has grown and strengthened with -the years. - -Another of the Browning Club friendships has also proved of lasting -delight. Marion Rockwood, a bachelor-maid who had a studio two floors -above me, was a splendid, energetic creature with a glorious soprano -voice. Both too occupied to see much of each other, we called a -greeting in the morning and at night as we went through the halls. I -loved to hear her trilling away up there in her sky-top, as she went -about busy with household duties, as I with mine. In the years that -followed, reverses and sorrows have come to her, but she has sung on -when her heart was heavy; sung to supply losses that would have crushed -one less stout of heart. Now a great happiness has come into her life; -but whatever of joy or sorrow comes, she will always be the dauntless, -inimitable creature I knew in the old Browning Club days. - - -The first taste of real wild life, the first taste of any woods life, -since the camp-meeting days, came to me one summer while in U----, -when, joining a jolly crowd of young people, with three elders, we -camped on Lake Piseco in the Adirondacks for two happy weeks. - -After leaving the outposts of civilization, driving over a rough -corduroy road for many miles, we camped on that wild mountain lake in -a log-camp; rowed, sailed, fished, swam, tramped, climbed mountains, -and, one memorable night, having followed all day the T-lake trail (a -blazed trail through the deep forest), slept on a bed of boughs in an -open camp. Another night we paddled out with a jacklight and saw a deer -feeding among the lily pads--a never-to-be-forgotten sight. How flat -and cramped and artificial seemed the city life to which we returned -after those care-free days in the woods! But I was soon again absorbed -in the routine of practice, and in the human problems confronting me. - -One of the saddest things in connection with my practice was the -loss of a little patient with capillary bronchitis, a lovely child of -three. I had done all I could to save her, had had good counsel, and -had fought desperately. The defeat came to me as a terrible blow. I -reproached myself for not having relinquished the case, feeling sure it -was my incompetency that was at fault; that some other physician might -have saved her. The continued confidence which the family showed in me -was consoling, but I think many such experiences would have tempted me -to abandon medicine entirely. - - -After the third year of practice, my outlook as a physician, though by -no means brilliant, was encouraging. My practice was steadily growing, -my interests widening, friends and acquaintances increasing. Economy -was still necessary, but I had passed through the trying time when -expenses far exceeded income, through that when the income crept up -till it equalled expenses, and on to that when it exceeded them. Now -each month when Father looked over my books he nodded satisfactorily. -To him my success was assured. - -At this juncture came an urgent call to leave all that I had gained and -engage in an entirely new field of medical work--the care of the insane -in a distant part of the state--a branch of medicine toward which I had -had a strong leaning in College. - -I found myself in an unenviable state of indecision, but the seductive -letters of the genial Superintendent at the institution at M---- -decided me to go to Albany and take the Civil Service examination, -and, that being satisfactorily passed, to go on to M---- on a visit of -investigation. The visit was most enjoyable; the new life and work drew -me powerfully; the assured salary was a great temptation, promising -freedom from financial strain; the friendly physicians I met there--all -conspired to make me consent to return there for a trial month, as soon -as I could arrange matters in U----. - -The weeks that followed were busy and exciting. I cleared up my work as -well as I could for the month’s absence, but, not willing to burn my -bridges, retained my office. It was gratifying to see that patients and -friends were unreconciled, even rebellious, at the possibility of my -leaving. My evenings at this time were spent mostly with the Randolphs. -I knew I should never meet friends like them again. As the days passed -we drew nearer in sympathy; we had grown so in the habit of one another -that the thought of separation was painful. Sometimes we sat long -together saying little, not daring to trust ourselves to speak; then -perhaps she would make a dash at me, hug and kiss me vigorously, and -rush from the room, only to rush back again, angry at herself for this -betrayal of emotion. Popping her head in the door, she would call to -the Doctor: - -“Come, Dearie, you better come home, too--before you get to -snivelling,”--thus saving the situation. - -When we said good-bye, the Doctor told me, haltingly, that he could -never hope to express what a help I had been to both of them, and to -him in particular--“I think you know it, and have known it, and I don’t -know just how I am going to get on without my little ‘psychosister.’” - -Although my leaving was ostensibly for a trial month, I felt it was -probably the termination of my life in U----. Toward the last, one of -the surgeons gave me a farewell dinner, and there were luncheons and -teas and cosy little suppers among my intimates. And at length came -the night for leaving. I took my last supper in the home of Dr. Wyeth -where I had always been so warmly welcomed; and she and a jolly crowd -of the Adirondack campers went to the train to see me off. With Dr. -Wyeth I parted with the keenest regret; her help and loyalty had been a -steady light along my path. I knew I was leaving her the lonelier for -my going, but she would say no word to keep me from what looked like -increasing good fortune for me. - -Alone in the train I gave myself up to a good cry. I could get -no sleeper till half the journey was made. As I sat, forlorn and -disconsolate, the sole occupant of the car, the train-man came in -and sat down at the farther end to eat his midnight lunch. He must -have pitied my loneliness, for presently he came toward me carrying -his piece of pie on the cover of his dinner-pail, and half-shyly, -half-gruffly, placed it on my lap. The act touched me, and the pie -seemed to take the lump from my aching throat. And when I carried back -the cover, I felt so much lighter hearted that I sat and chatted with -him till we came to the junction where I took the sleeper for M----. -Early in the morning, on reaching the city, I was welcomed to the large -institution where my work has since been for so many years. - - -Here my life has gone on--a busy, eventful, and, I trust, a useful -one, among persons grievously afflicted, hampered as they are by -vagaries and abnormalities, yet capable of tender affection, of keen -appreciation for services rendered, and of a degree of companionship it -would be hard for an outsider to comprehend. It has been a life rich in -compensations, whatever of deprivation and of limitation it has held; -above all, a life rich in friendships--friendships staunch and leal and -priceless. And it has been crowned in the later years with a signal -friendship which has yielded a measureless satisfaction--a friendship -and comradeship with one whom the world calls great, yet who made a -place in his heart and life for the “Child of the Drumlins,” as he was -wont to name her. - - -The termination of this record at the beginning of a new epoch in the -writer’s life--an epoch when all the lines of character were converging -to maturity--gives the reader of necessity a sense of incompleteness. -The whole record, as I try to see it from the reader’s point of view, -seems to be like - - - “one stone stair ... - Ascending, winding, leading up to naught,” - - -because perforce the superstructure is missing. Yet one who follows the -writer’s efforts to gain the image of her own soul may perhaps learn -herein the better to know his own and also the souls of others; learn, -too, that each of us proceeds on the lines of his own development; -and that all that comes into the mature life is but an extension, an -unfolding, of all that went before. “Our to-days and yesterdays _are_ -the blocks with which we build.” Would that we had builded better! - -If it were possible to treat the subsequent epochs as candidly as the -earlier ones are here treated, they would not be found lacking in -moving events, in dramatic moments, even in tragedies--some in the -lives of those closely knit to one’s own, some of the soul only, some -in the outer life--but all this cannot be viewed objectively; it is too -close--it is a life of yesterday and to-day, while the other, detached, -and seen through the Spell of the Past, is as a tale that is told. - - -THE END - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LIFE UNVEILED *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: A Life Unveiled</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:0;'>By a Child of the Drumlins</p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Anonymous</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: November 12, 2021 [eBook #66717]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Martin Pettit and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LIFE UNVEILED ***</div> - -<div class="mynote"><p class="center">Transcriber’s Note:<br /><br /> -Obvious typographic errors have been corrected.<br /></p></div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_i" id="Page_i">[Pg i]</a></span></p> - -<h1>A LIFE UNVEILED </h1> - -<hr /> - -<div class="center"><img src="images/title.jpg" alt="title page" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_iii" id="Page_iii">[Pg iii]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold2">A LIFE UNVEILED</p> - -<p class="bold">BY</p> - -<p class="bold2">A CHILD OF THE DRUMLINS</p> - -<p class="bold">WITH AN INTRODUCTION<br />BY<br />JOHN BURROUGHS</p> - -<div class="center space-above"><img src="images/logo.jpg" alt="logo" /></div> - -<div class="center space-above"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div><i>Ce livre est toute ma jeunesse; je</i></div> -<div><i>l’ai fait sans presque y songer.</i></div> -<div class="right">—<span class="smcap">De Musset</span></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p class="bold space-above">GARDEN CITY<span class="s3"> </span>NEW YORK<br />DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY<br />1922</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv">[Pg iv]</a></span></p> - -<p class="center">COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY<br />DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY<br /> -ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION<br />INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN</p> - -<p class="center">PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES<br />AT<br />THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.</p> - -<p class="center"><i>First Edition</i></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[Pg v]</a></span></p> - -<h2>CONTENTS</h2> - -<table summary="CONTENTS"> - <tr> - <td colspan="2"></td> - <td><span class="smaller">PAGE</span></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td colspan="2" class="left"><span class="smcap">Introduction by John Burroughs</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_vii">vii</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td colspan="2" class="left"><span class="smcap">To the Reader</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_xi">xi</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td colspan="2" class="left"><span class="smaller">CHAPTER</span></td> - <td></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>I. </td> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">The Family Tree</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>II. </td> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">The Roof-Tree</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_14">14</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>III. </td> - <td class="left">“<span class="smcap">A Child Went Forth</span>”</td> - <td><a href="#Page_42">42</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>IV. </td> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">In the Old Paths</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_71">71</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>V. </td> - <td class="left">“<span class="smcap">As Twig Is Bent</span>”</td> - <td><a href="#Page_94">94</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>VI. </td> - <td class="left">“<span class="smcap">Bred in the Bone</span>”</td> - <td><a href="#Page_119">119</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>VII. </td> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">School Days</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_134">134</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>VIII. </td> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">The “Medic”</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_172">172</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>IX. </td> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">The “Medic” (Continued)</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_229">229</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>X. </td> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">The “Medic” (Concluded)</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_245">245</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td>XI. </td> - <td class="left"><span class="smcap">Through the Gate of Dreams</span></td> - <td><a href="#Page_273">273</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[Pg vii]</a></span></p> - -<h2>INTRODUCTION</h2> - -<p>I fancy that this “Child of the Drumlins” did not know she was living -amid drumlins when she passed her youth there. She knew them only as -the long, smooth, loaf-shaped hills that were scattered over her native -landscape, upon which she saw cattle grazing and grain ripening, and -upon which she roamed and played in the freedom of childhood.</p> - -<p>These curious-looking hills are found in certain parts of New England, -and in a large section of the central and western parts of New York -state. They would suggest artificial mounds were they not so large -as to preclude all idea of their being the work of man. They were -indeed made, but not by human hands. They are the work of the great -continental ice-sheet which tens of thousands of years ago crept slowly -over a large part of the Northern hemisphere, giving to the landscape, -among many other strange new features, these long, low, rounded hills, -called by the geologists drumlins, amid which the “Child” passed her -early life. Carpeted with grass and often dotted with trees, these -peaceful pastoral elevations are seldom more than a quarter of a mile -long, and perhaps a hundred feet high. Their trend is in one direction, -from northeast to southwest—the general course the ice-flood took. -They are simply huge heaps of clay and water-worn boulders shovelled -together by the gods of the Ice Age, though just how it all came about -the geologists are not clear. But there they stand, making a marked -feature in the landscape. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[Pg viii]</a></span></p> - -<p>To the Land of the Drumlins, rich in its early associations, the -writer of this narrative turns, giving a moving record of real life -which to me makes fiction insipid. It presents the natural history of -an American girl in the last quarter of the nineteenth century. (And -why should we not have such a history, as well as that of much less -interesting animals?) Herein we see pictured typical and representative -conditions and individuals which contributed to the development -of a dreaming, aspiring girl into a woman of serious purpose and -substantial achievement in a strenuous and useful career. A notable -piece of work of permanent literary and psychological value, it sweeps -one along by its intrinsic interest, its candour, its playfulness, -and its seriousness. Childhood memories, trivial and signal events, -portraiture, incidents, form a picture of real life convincing as -only real things can convince. Through it we look into a heart and a -life. It is life. One sees the writer from her forebears up. With what -admirable art she brings certain scenes before us! One is present, -sees and feels them all, and shares her inmost thoughts and emotions. -One’s tears stand trembling at the doorway; smiles and laughter are -irresistibly evoked. The feeling with which the writer has invested the -narrative is the principal source of its charm and value; it is that -which makes us a sharer in all her life. The book does not appear to be -written, but rather an unveiling of memories, with an entire absence of -literary consciousness. Her mind seems transparent; her life like an -open book before her where she can trace every passage. Does she forget -nothing? Few persons can see themselves objectively and at the same -time achieve such self-analysis.</p> - -<p>One is carried along by the rush and spontaneity of the record, as the -author evidently was in writing it. In her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[Pg ix]</a></span> passionate confession, -faults and errors are courageously set down. One rejoices to know that -there were imps in the girl who shows at the same time such a serious, -earnest nature, such a vibrant, susceptible personality. One likes her -for her pranks and her naughtiness, her stubbornness, her primness, -and her deep attachments. She piques one and leads one on, a willing -sharer in all her experiences. One comes to see that he is always to -expect the unexpected from this demure, enigmatic creature who, though -preserving her own individuality, is so like all girls of her time -and race. And it is this universal appeal which gives the record its -value: other girls and women, other youths and men as well, will see -themselves in this “Child of the Drumlins” who summons her past before -us so vividly that we, too, live over again the days of our own youth.</p> - -<div class="right"><img src="images/signature.jpg" alt="John Burroughs (signature)" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi">[Pg xi]</a></span></p> - -<h2>TO THE READER</h2> - -<p>Have you ever reached a time in your life when all that had gone before -seemed cut off from the present; when you felt an imperious need to -review whatever had gone to the making of the You; when the preceding -years, full as they had seemed, were barren of that which made the -present so vital; when, because of that barrenness, they seemed to -have belonged rather to the life of one you knew than to your own? If -you have, you will understand the motive that sometimes leads one to -deliberate self-study and self-delineation.</p> - -<p>He who honestly undertakes such study is pledged to candour at all -costs. Beginning by reviewing his ancestry and environment, he also -tries to recapture some of those earliest, evanescent sense experiences -and memories of childhood. He peers into that mysterious borderland -between childhood and youth; surveys the formative influences, -the outstanding events, the proclivities, longings, aspirations, -achievements, struggles, temptations, successes, defeats—reviews -them all, tries to estimate their influence, and to recognize their -possible reappearance, in other guises perhaps, in his present self. -The dawning of religious emotion, sex consciousness, the gradual -transition from the receptiveness and naïve simplicity of childhood -to the wilful caprice of adolescence (with its blind gropings, its -heightened emotional life, its contradictory moods, its evolution of -self-consciousness and social consciousness)—all these phases he -passes in review and weighs, hoping to form a just<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xii" id="Page_xii">[Pg xii]</a></span> estimate as to -their effect upon his personality as he alone knows it.</p> - -<p>One cannot compass this survey until one has passed beyond the -seething period of adolescence which merges so insensibly into that of -maturity. Immaturity, maturity—the difference is only of degree; the -child <i>is</i> father to the man; the psychology we trace in child life -is fundamentally the same that obtains when the individual achieves -that self-control and balance, that steadiness of aim, that harmonious -union of bodily and mental powers which characterize maturity. Until we -understand this merging and blending of experiences that make up a life -history, we may regard as trivial the fleeting events and memories of -childhood which the psychologist knows are significant and far-reaching.</p> - -<p>In the rapid setting down of what comes crowding into the consciousness -as the canvas of one’s life unrolls before him, one is not especially -concerned with the orderly sequence of events; mental associations -are intractable forces to deal with; a certain looseness of exterior -matters is inevitable; the eye cannot look both in and out at the -same time. What really matters is that one accurately read one’s own -consciousness, without mistakes, without self-deception, without wilful -deceit. Unless this is achieved, one cheats one’s self.</p> - -<p>Perhaps the record is made for self alone; perhaps for another; in any -case not for the public; and yet as the years pass, and the events -recorded have become so remote as to seem dissociated from the present -self, it may happen that the question of sharing the record with others -arises—a question which gives pause to the autobiographer with scant -claim on the public.</p> - -<p>“Who is this,” he imagines the reader inquiring, “who so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xiii" id="Page_xiii">[Pg xiii]</a></span> confidently -asks us to share all these details of her life?” And then there -comes to mind that statement of Carlyle’s: that the humblest life, -if truthfully presented, would be of absorbing interest; that a true -delineation of the smallest man and his scene of pilgrimage throughout -life, is capable of interesting the greatest men, since all men are -brothers, and since human portraits, faithfully drawn, must be of all -pictures the welcomest on human walls.</p> - -<p>And so the story goes forth. If it faithfully depict the psychology -of child life, of adolescence, of dawning maturity, devoid though it -be of plot and, as a whole, of dramatic interest, it may yet, as a -typical human portrait, justify itself; may aid the young to a better -understanding of their own natures, and help those no longer young -to a keener remembrance, a deeper sympathy, and a broader tolerance -concerning the struggles, problems, and complexities that beset the -young lives around them.</p> - -<p>This book of my childhood and youth, written many years ago, is as -sincere as such a thing can well be, and this constitutes its only -excuse for being. Unless I have told the naked, unblushing truth, -why pretend to unveil my life?<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" >[1]</a> If I have concealed faults and -follies, what is there in common with your life as you alone know it? -Doubtless you yourself would shrink from the deliberate self-analysis -and self-revelation I have made, and yet may find herein natural human -reactions which tally with your own inarticulate experiences.</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="smcap">L’Innommée.</span></p> - -<h3>FOOTNOTE:</h3> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1">[1]</a> The names in the narrative are, of course, fictitious.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xv" id="Page_xv">[Pg xv]</a></span></p> - -<h2>A LIFE UNVEILED </h2> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xvi" id="Page_xvi">[Pg xvi]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>I once wandered in a beautiful garden. It had high walls which made -one feel safe and sheltered. There were many flower-bordered paths, and -some that were stony and rough. There were broad open spaces, dark, -wooded corners, cosy nooks, and friendly trees. Openings in the wall -gave glimpses that made one’s heart beat faster and that filled one -with queer restless feelings, half pleasure, half pain.</i></p> - -<p><i>There came a day when I left the garden and started on a long journey. -I have never been back. Sometimes I have wanted to go back, but the -great gate can never open from the outside.</i></p> - -<p><i>When we lose our Edens, you and I, is it any wonder that we sometimes -pause in the journey, and long to recapture the days when we played in -the enchanted enclosure? What if, some day, one creeps back close to -the wall, holding up the magic mirror he brought away with him? What -if he gets glimpses that help him to continue on the way? What if he -lets you peep into the mirror, too—the mirror which will reflect the -garden you played in, the paths you trod, the flowers you gathered, the -playmates you knew?</i></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> - -<p class="bold2">A LIFE UNVEILED</p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER I</span> <span class="smaller"><span class="smcap">The Family Tree</span></span></h2> - -<p>I seem always to have lived a life apart from the obvious one, seeing -the strange contrasts, the incongruities, the dramatic moments, though -always these things were unexpressed. Those about me had no inkling of -what was passing in my mind. Perhaps it is so with all children. One -can only know one’s self, and that so vaguely.</p> - -<p>I was born near the foot of a drumlin. Their smooth level crests broke -the horizon line of my native village. Amid the drumlins I shared -in all the little world they bounded. On the summit of a drumlin my -kindred lie buried, and back to the drumlins I shall one day turn—back -to the commonplace little village where my life began. The village has -not grown in all the years, either in population or importance; on the -contrary, it seems to have dwindled to tiny dimensions. Whenever I go -back there now, the houses and the prominent buildings look smaller, -the drumlins lower, and all the distances are lessened to a surprising -degree. I look at the one handsome residence the village boasts and -ask, Is that the house I used to think so imposing? Are those the -grounds so illimitable to my childish eyes? And is this the same hill -near Grandfather’s barn that was so steep when three happy children -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span>clambered over it in search of sorrel leaves? What a paltry patch -of ground Grandmother’s garden now is! yet there was a time when, -engaged in one of the tasks of my childhood (that of picking Grandma’s -raspberries and currants), her garden bounded my little world which -then did not seem little at all. Nor was it; for while moving among the -currant bushes, my fingers busy, my thoughts roamed far afield—out -past the hop vines in the rear; out past the clump of big red “pineys” -in front, and the corner where the smallage grew; past the snowball -bush, even past the oxheart cherry tree; through the little blue gate, -and out into the big wonderful world beyond. No, it was not a little -garden; it was a very big garden then; some unkind trickery has been -at work these later years to make it the poor cramped little enclosure -which I viewed last summer through blinding tears.</p> - -<p>And Grandma’s old house, too. How low the rooms are now! There was -a time when, caught up in the arms of an uncle, and seated on his -shoulder, the laughing faces below me seemed remote indeed to my -half-pleased, half-frightened eyes. How tall I feel, almost stately, as -I enter the rooms now; and what a chill and gloom strike to the marrow -of my being to find no longer the dear old wrinkled face to greet me! -To see the same paper on the walls, the same clock on the mantel, the -same familiar things at every turn, worn and faded, but still there, -while that cherished face, and those beneficent, toil-worn hands, and -the tired, pain-racked heart are gone forever!</p> - -<p>No one was ever so hospitable as Grandpa and Grandma. “Just sit by -and have a bite of something,” Grandma would urge, unaware that she -was dispensing a blessing instead of asking a boon. Their meals were -frugal—no recollection of bounty comes to me, except at Thanksgiving -or other<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span> family reunions; but Grandma’s bread and butter, her -warmed-up potatoes, and her sugar cookies (with caraway seeds in them), -touched the spot as no other food ever did or can. Then she used to -place a cup of tea (green tea, it always was) slyly by my plate, -saying: “I guess your Ma won’t care this time if you take a little.” -I can see the little brown tea-pot now as she brings it from the back -of the stove; the silver lustre sugar-bowl with its ribbed sides, and -the nick on the knob of the cover; the blue dishes; the Britannia -spoons—no one but Grandma had Britannia spoons—and the thin, pointed -silver ones; the yellow-handled knives; and the funny little two-tined -fork that Grandma herself used—the rest of us had forks with three -tines.</p> - -<p>There’s the Boston rocker in which Grandpa sat of a winter evening and -peeled apples for drying. I wonder where his little old “shoe-knife” -is. “What makes your hands tremble so, Grandpa?” Sister would ask; but -in spite of the tremor he peeled a heaping pile of an evening.</p> - -<p>“Eunice, fetch me a bigger pan,” he would call to Grandma, busy in -kitchen or buttery; and how testy he got if she didn’t understand, -or brought the wrong pan! I shuddered when he spoke that way to her, -and wondered why it was; and her meek face and humble silence made -me love and pity her the more. I never learned not to mind Grandpa’s -angry tones. It was “his way” with her. His voice, as I remember it, -was almost always harsh to her, but never to me, never to me. He was -always indulgent with me, and with all of us children—except when we -hung around the barn at milking-time—then he would forget himself, -and one would have thought he was shouting to Grandma or to the -cows instead. We learned not to put his temper to this strain very -often—his hospitality<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span> did not extend that far. I don’t know how much -an incident of my babyhood engendered this feeling: Grandpa had a white -cow, a gentle, well-behaved “critter,” but one day when they took her -calf away, maddened, she made a dash at me, playing near; caught me on -her horns, and ran up the bank of the tow-path, while Mother looked on -paralyzed with fear. As Grandpa and a neighbour ran up the bank, the -cow ran faster, then tossed me wildly in the air.</p> - -<p>“I didn’t know whether you would fall in the water or on her horns,” -Mother used to say; “I expected to see you drowned in the canal or -horribly wounded; but Mr. Mintline caught you in his arms—Grandpa sold -the cow the next day.” Mother’s voice always trembled in recounting the -incident.</p> - -<p>Since then I have always been afraid of cows. If the peaceable -creatures come slowly toward me, try as I will I cannot walk slowly -away. I breathe freely only when the fence is between them and me. By -some childish twist of the imagination, so vivid was the impression -made upon me by hearing of being caught on the horns of that old white -cow, I believed myself to have been injured by the act, and was quite a -big child before I learned that certain anatomical mark on my body—the -little deep dimple in the abdomen—was not made by the horns of that -angry cow. It needed the confirmation given by seeing my sister’s and -other children’s bodies similarly marked to disabuse my mind of that -belief.</p> - -<p>I remember when in my early ’teens I would meet that -neighbour—Mintline—an unkempt man, who had long since forgotten his -share in my life, I would think, “He caught you in his arms,” and -would smile to myself at the incongruity as, fluttering past him on -the street in my pretty muslin gown, I was acutely conscious of the -contrast with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span> his rough, untidy clothes. Turning and looking after -him I would say under my breath, “<i>You</i> don’t know, but I do, and I’m -grateful to you, even if you have forgotten it all.”</p> - -<p>Grandpa, as I have said, was impatient and irascible; he was easily -moved to profanity; but he was a man of probity of life and character -and a hater of shams. His sense of humour was keen, also his sense -of justice. He was a mason by trade; had built the brick church in -the town, the old Academy, and a few other fine old brick buildings -standing there to-day. I used to look upon these with pride, saying -to myself, “Grandpa built that—and that”; though, since my earliest -recollection, he had not worked at his trade. He led an active life -up to his eighty-sixth year about his village farm, with his cows and -his pigs, and his haying in the low-lying meadows. I can see him now -riding his black horse, straight and sturdy, on his way to the pasture -with the cows. Often they were wayward and the boys in the street would -annoy him. I used to feel chagrined beyond words when I heard him -swearing at the cows, or at the boys, and saw him brandishing his whip -in the air. Mother felt the same. I could detect a look of relief on -her face those days when Grandpa rode peaceably by with the cows.</p> - -<p>Grandma was not pious, she was a saint. Though a church member, she -seldom went to church. Toiling from morning till night, she endured -hardship, harshness, and pain with a sweet reasonableness that endeared -her to all. Grandpa’s impatience and shouting never provoked complaints -from her. She seemed to think his quick temper and deafness excused him.</p> - -<p>In contrast to her hard workaday life I was always dreaming of the -romance of Grandma’s early days. Filling in related facts with fancies, -I pored over her early<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span> picture with its quaint arrangement of gown and -hair, rejoicing in traces of her girlish beauty. I liked her quaint -name, Eunice (a cousin of hers, a courtly old gentleman, used to -call her Eu-ni’-ce—that was beautiful, but Grandpa uncompromisingly -pronounced it Eu’-nis); I liked the names of her sisters, -too—Thankful, Peace, and Nancy.</p> - -<p>In retrospect I mourned with my great-grandfather Albro when he lost -his young wife and had to scatter his baby girls among their relatives. -Near neighbours, John Gear and wife, had begged for little Eunice, then -less than two years old. Though he let them take her, he had refused -their repeated requests to adopt her. But one morning the neighbours -were astonished to find the Gear house dismantled and deserted, the -couple having stolen away in the night. They were bound to have that -child. No trace of them could be obtained. That was in 1813. They -easily escaped detection, though for years the poor father inquired -diligently of chance strangers and travellers for news of the fugitives.</p> - -<p>The Gears journeyed to a distant county. Eunice was reared in ignorance -of her real parentage. Even when she married, her foster parents were -loth to let her leave them. Her own home and children soon claimed all -her thoughts, and she lived on unaware of the tragedy in the life of -her father.</p> - -<p>There was a certain youth, Otis Sprague, to whom Grandma had been -attached before marrying Grandpa; at least, she went to parties with -him. (I can’t tell just how much of this is my own romancing, but I -convinced myself he was a disappointed suitor.) He left home in the -early years after Grandma’s marriage, journeying to Washington county, -the home of his ancestors. (I used to make believe he left because he -could not bear to see Grandma<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span> the wife of another.) Visiting among his -kindred, he came upon his uncle, my great-grandfather. As usual, the -old man inquired of the traveller what parts he had come from, and then -ventured, “Did you ever chance to meet a man, Gear—John Gear?”</p> - -<p>“John Gear? Why, yes—there’s a John Gear lives in our place. I know -him well.”</p> - -<p>I could see the old man trembling with joy—the long-expected answer -come at last! Faltering as he tried to frame the next question, he -hesitated so long the young man thought him a little daft:</p> - -<p>“And did you—has he—is there—did you ever hear tell of Eunice—a -child with big blue eyes and”—then he broke off, afraid to question -further—she might be dead, or, if living, must be a woman now.</p> - -<p>Otis had his own reasons, I was confident, for remembering Eunice. He -knew just how those wistful blue eyes looked, and how the soft brown -hair waved over her forehead. Seeing at once that this meant more to -the old man than he could express, Otis answered the unasked questions; -told him there had been a Eunice Gear, eldest daughter of John Gear -(for the childless couple had later had children born to them). She -had married a young mason a few years ago—Crandall by name—quick -tempered, but a good fellow; they had two babies when he came away, and -he guessed there was another one a-coming. Yes, he went to school with -her—took her to a party once.</p> - -<p>Then I saw the scene that followed—the broken explanations of the -joyous father—questions, answers, hurriedly uttered, and the growing -eagerness of both men as they supplemented for each other the missing -information about the lost-and-found Eunice.</p> - -<p>Enraged at the Gears, on his return home Otis told<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> Grandma the story -of her abduction, and gave her the messages from her father and sisters.</p> - -<p>After that, one hope dominated Grandma’s life—to save enough money -to go to her father. Loving the Gears, her heart yet yearned for -the father and sisters she had never known. But her children came -near together; money was scarce; means of travel were difficult and -uncertain; two children sickened and died; and the years went by with -her hope unfulfilled, an infrequent and laboured correspondence being -the only link between them.</p> - -<p>After many years of careful saving, the little hoard was thought -sufficient for the trip. The children were old enough to be left with -Otis’s sister, and Grandma set out on her long journey.</p> - -<p>There were no railroads then. She went on the canal “packet.” This -scene was very real to me. I could see her starting, loth to leave her -little family, yet eager to go; timid at the thought of the enterprise, -but impatient at the slow-moving boat. I’m sure she often walked on the -towpath to relieve excitement and suspense. I wonder how long it took -that snail boat to make the trip. Parts of the journey were made by -stagecoach.</p> - -<p>On reaching her old home she found her sisters, but her father -had moved to Warren County. More than that, he had had one or two -strokes of apoplexy and could no longer converse; he would, as the -sisters said, “say one word when he meant another.” Her money was not -sufficient to meet the additional expenses; the extra time it would -take was a serious drawback to the anxious mother; then there was her -father’s inability to talk with her; so, torn between conflicting -interests, hampered, anxious, and sore beset, she abandoned the quest, -renounced her long-cherished hope of reunion with her father, and -turned her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> face toward home and family, drawn by a half-defined fear -lest they get scattered, too.</p> - -<p>During Grandma’s last years her sister Thankful came and lived with -her—two feeble old women, united in infancy, separated throughout -their long lives, reunited just before the end! We children called her -Aunt Unthankful: her presence added much to Grandma’s burdens, but no -murmur passed the patient lips; nor would she suffer criticism of the -poor soul who had found refuge in her home and heart.</p> - -<p>As a girl I was keenly alive to the pathos of my great-grandfather’s -life, and to the deferred, then all-but-accomplished hope in Grandma’s. -My own mother’s cherished hope of one day taking Grandma to her -childhood home was also doomed to unfulfilment; and with a curious -prescience I used to ask, “Will the dearest hope that sleeps against -my own heart meet a like rebuff?” Had the tired, saddened woman found -her father at the last, I wonder if his failing mind could have grasped -the truth. Perhaps he would have turned away in bitter disappointment -when they had tried to make him understand; unable to articulate, but -thinking, “That is not my baby Eunice that John Gear stole from me.” -Perhaps he died hoping, believing, that his little Eunice would still -come back.</p> - -<p>As a child I remember being gathered into Grandma’s arms, conscious of -an infinite tenderness, inarticulate but encompassing. I used to look -up into her pale, weary face and wonder why she had to work so hard. I -loved to stroke her soft cheeks; was mystified by the wrinkled flesh -that hung beneath her chin; and her poor hands with their enlarged -joints and crooked fingers—it seemed as though they must hurt to be so -bent; vainly I tried to straighten them. It was such a puzzle, too—the -contrast between age<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> and youth as I saw and felt it in Grandma -and myself when patting her face with my chubby hand. I looked and -marvelled and questioned, then gave up questioning, and rested my head -on her breast, content to be folded in her arms.</p> - -<p>There was a pink china teapot with a broken spout high on Grandma’s -pantry shelf. I never saw inside it, but a delightful jingle came from -its capacious depths. In it Grandma kept pennies, nickels, half-dimes -and dimes, and those tiny, three-cent coins I haven’t seen since -childhood; yes, and there were the large three-cent pieces and the -two-cent coppers that one sees no more. Grandma had a way of urging us -children: “Now take a nickel for all your trouble,” just as she had of -urging us to help her empty the old brown cookie jar. Although there -were no injunctions concerning a reasonable amount of cookies, we were -taught at home that we must not accept Grandma’s nickels (her milk and -yeast money) for the errands we did; and to our credit, be it said, we -refused them as a rule, even when we had to summon all our strength to -refuse. I can see now three pairs of red-mittened hands quickly drawn -away as Grandma would press the tempting coins, first on one, then the -other, of her little helpers. Sometimes the nickel would fall into -the pail, and we would fumble to get it out, while Grandma’s siren -tones would urge: “There, run along home like good children and mind -Grandma, just this once.” Ah, Grandma! many an enticing temptation of -yours did our childish strength withstand! Would that the forbidden -sweets and glittering coins Life has proffered had oftener met a like -renunciation! And yet, can one ever really say that he would change -anything that has become a part of him, of his experience—that, if he -could, he would blot it out, make it as though it had never been? </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span></p> - -<p>So used to serving was she, instead of being served, Grandma seemed -always to ask aid under protest; her gratitude was out of all -proportion to the service rendered: “You poor child, when will you get -paid for all you do for Grandma?” was the burden of her talk, though -the “poor child” fairly doted on running errands for her. “Four pounds -of white sugar, two of light brown, half a pound of green tea, and a -ball of Babbitt’s concentrated lye”—this refrain I would con over and -over on my way to the village, lest I forget it while loitering to -watch the boats crawl under the canal bridge.</p> - -<p>How many hours I have spent down in her cool sweet cellar over the -little red churn, the dasher going up and down, up and down, while I -said aloud my favourite poems—after Grandma had gone upstairs. Many -a pat of butter has gathered under the dasher while I rehearsed the -winning of Juliet, Othello’s speech to the senate, Portia’s speech to -Shylock—extracts from Cathcart’s Literary Reader, which was my first -introduction to real literature.</p> - -<p>Men do not gather grapes from thorns, or figs from thistles. As -Grandma’s life had been one of service, so her daughter, my mother, -was untiring in devotion to her mother; and so, too, I am glad to say, -Mother’s children have tried to emulate the filial examples set them. -By way of contrast I am reminded of a story illustrating hereditary -tendencies: A boy was arrested for beating his father; the injured -father defended his boy thus, “He can’t help beating me: I beat my -father; my father beat his father; and my son’s son will beat him—it -runs in our family.” I am glad it runs in our family to love and revere -our parents. Yet, there was Grandpa with his habit of profanity, the -son of a Baptist clergyman! Mother used to marvel how he could have -grown up that way, since his father, who used<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> to take boys to tutor -in his own home, was said to have given him and them a very strict -up-bringing. His mother, Katrina Klincke, born in Alsace, was an -inexorable housekeeper. Her exacting ways have cropped out in full -force in one of our aunts; and in later years I’m not sure but this -great-grandmother wields an influence over my sister and me—we cannot -be comfortable in disorder or slack housekeeping, nor—more’s the -pity!—can we let any one else be.</p> - -<p>My paternal ancestry is French and, probably, Scottish. Father used to -say we were descended on his father’s side from one of the celebrated -French Revolutionists, an intimate of Napoleon’s and Josephine’s; -but my grandparents and great-grandparents were born in the Land -of the Drumlins. When, some years ago, the memoirs of our reputed -French ancestor were published, bringing to light his brilliant but -unscrupulous career, I took a mischievous pleasure in sending Father -the particularly scathing comments concerning “our ancestor.”</p> - -<p>My father was the fifth child in a family of ten; his father died in -early adult life, presumably of tuberculosis, though Father would never -admit it. Two of his sisters had the same disease, and, because of my -resemblance to one of them, and my not robust health in childhood, I -was something of an object of solicitude in early girlhood, though -all fears on that score vanished long ago. I have heard that my -paternal grandfather drank to excess, and know that one of his sons -did, which may largely account for my father’s life-long zeal for the -Temperance Cause. His mother, of Scottish descent, left with a large -family, was brave, strong, and resourceful to an unusual degree. Their -little log-house being miles away from a neighbour, once during a big -snow-storm lasting several days they had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> nothing in the house to eat -but potatoes and salt. “But we ate them and were glad to get them,” -said Father, who added, “We can never know how much inward anxiety -Mother felt at such times, but whatever it was, none but herself ever -knew.”</p> - -<p>We children called her “the other Grandma,” for she then lived “way -out West” (in Michigan), and we never saw her but once. I remember her -serious face, which could look very merry when she smiled; and her -black gown with a purple stripe running through it. She was at our -house on one of my early birthdays and helped us smoke glass to look at -a total eclipse of the sun. When she died, a cousin came running down -the hill waving a yellow paper and saying breathlessly, “Grandma is -dead!” <i>And she smiled when she said it!</i> A sensitive girl, overcome -with the importance of being the bearer of such news, her smile, I -know now, was a purely nervous manifestation; but I could not judge -her leniently then. Moved by the grief of my parents, I wept to see -them weep, but the shadow passed quickly; not so the resentment I held -toward that cousin for her untimely smile.</p> - -<p>As youth passes one longs for fuller knowledge of the lives that -preceded one’s own. We are the result of all that has gone before, -but how often important figures are missing; and even when not, how -inexplicable the sum total is! Lives cut off in our childhood and -youth, or perhaps before we were born, may have endowed us with this -or that constitutional bias, this weakness, that strength—to which of -them do I owe this fault?—is this trait, for which I am commended, my -own, or my great grandmother’s?—insoluble complexities, yet how we -seek an answer, here and there, as we study our tree of life from the -roots up!</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER II</span> <span class="smaller"><span class="smcap">The Roof-tree</span></span></h2> - -<p>If my father had married a certain sweetheart of his early youth, and -Mother a suitor to whom she almost became engaged, what would have -become of me?</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>Should I be I, or would it be</div> -<div>One-tenth another to nine-tenths me?</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>I often asked myself this question. But after each of my parents had -had a preliminary romance, they met at a Methodist prayer-meeting, and -each knew from the start what the outcome would be.</p> - -<p>Mother was then a school-teacher, Father a dry-goods clerk. Both were -born in log houses; both reared in the frugal way of their times; the -snow often blew in on their coverlids through chinks in the logs; they -slept in trundle beds; wore homespun clothes and calf-skin shoes, -and had their education at the district schools to which they walked -through the woods following marked trees. Born amid the drumlins less -than fifty miles apart, all their married lives—more than fifty years -together—have been spent in the little village where they met.</p> - -<p>In the early years of their marriage Father had a travelling wagon -called a “Yankee Notion and Boot and Shoe Store.” Brother, several -years my senior, would tell with pride of Papa’s big wagon and the -iron-gray horses. In girlhood I spent hours upstairs, when supposed -to be putting the large closet to rights at the spring housecleaning, -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span>sitting on the floor poring over Father’s letters to Mother, written -during those years. How like a romance to find those letters so full -of solicitude and love!—comments on Brother’s baby ways; admonitions -to the adopted brother; words of love to Mother—strange to get this -glimpse of my parents; to see the young father’s pride in his boy; and -to read these unrestrained expressions of devotion! For the father I -knew, though affectionate and kind, was a more staid, reserved person -than the one in the letters. Now the baby boy was grown up, the adopted -brother scarcely a memory, and the girl who was not born when the -letters were written was reading eagerly the ardent words that had -gladdened her mother’s young heart!</p> - -<p>The circumstances of my brother’s birth strongly appealed to my -imagination: My parents had given up hopes of a child some years before -he came. Father’s health had long been precarious—a persistent cough -and exhausting night sweats were wasting him rapidly. Mother, at his -side day and night, facing his approaching death, was facing a hidden -dread as well—the fear that she was now to become a mother. As the -weeks passed and the fear became a certainty, she determined to spare -Father the knowledge, thinking it would kill him outright. She almost -prayed for his release before the truth must be apparent. How she -dreaded the scrutiny of the Doctor, and Father’s questioning eyes! -How she resorted to evasion, artifice, and concealment! But one day, -suddenly changing her mind, trusting in God to help him bear it, she -told Father that the child they had hoped for so long was actually to -come.</p> - -<p>Instantly he became electrified with the glad tidings. Summoning -unknown funds of strength he cried, “I must live, <i>I will live</i>!” It -was a greatly improved patient that the Doctor found the next day, and -recovery, though slow,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> dated from that time. (It was probably arrested -tuberculosis.)</p> - -<p>Many years later Father’s health again seemed precarious—dizziness, -and numbness of the arms, caused the physician to prophesy approaching -paralysis. I remember this as my first sorrow. I was perhaps fourteen -years old. When Mother told me what the Doctor had said I flung myself -on the bed in a paroxysm of grief. My Father was going to leave me! -The utter helplessness and wretchedness of us all without him! It -was an hour of agony. But there stood Mother with her own grief, and -mine. This calmed me. I must help and comfort her, instead of giving -way like this. The storm passed; but the days, weeks, and months that -followed were shadowed by this dread, which, however, proved less -well-founded than it had seemed; or else Father’s change in his mode -of life effected a decided change in his condition. Closing out his -boot-and-shoe store, and travelling again for the same firm for which -he had travelled as a young man, he recuperated markedly. Now, in his -seventy-second year, he is in fair health, alert, enduring, and with -keen intellectual vigour—a man of undaunted courage and unconquerable -optimism.</p> - -<p>I have often wondered how it would seem to have more than one brother -and sister; it always seems as if all the love I have went to these -two, and that there would have been none left for others; or at least -that it would have had to be divided up, leaving each the poorer—one -does not have to divide for brother and sister—the love you give a -sister is peculiarly hers, the love to a brother peculiarly his, but -how is it that large families have enough to go around?</p> - -<p>Death has never come nearer to me than when my grandparents were -taken. Not unmindful of this escape, I think of it often now. Once I -thought, “Death can never take<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> away my father and mother, my sister -and brother,” but of late I am losing the feeling that none of the -calamities of life can come nigh me; and, instead, find myself trying -to think what it would be like to live on if one of them were taken.</p> - -<p>Once when Brother was a lad of perhaps twelve, during an attack of -inflammatory rheumatism, his heart acted so badly that Sister and I -were sent for in great haste to come home from school. The attack -passed, but after that illness his disposition was altered; he was -more irritable, with a temper much like Grandpa’s. He would domineer -over us, as big brothers will, speaking sharply over trifles, and he -and Sister would quarrel. I did not quarrel, but would grieve over his -harsh tones. I never could endure angry tones, they always made me -shudder. Noting this susceptibility, Brother was more patient with me -than with Sister, who would get miffed easily and talk back. My tears, -which came easily in those days, always melted him. Consciously or -unconsciously, I ruled him to some extent by this weakness.</p> - -<p>Once in school a boy whispered maliciously, “Genie, Art is reading a -dime novel.” Now I had never read a dime novel, but having strait-laced -notions of how wicked they were, my whole soul rose in denial—<i>my</i> -brother do such a thing! No! But seeing Arthur bending over his -geography with unaccustomed diligence, something in his absorption -told me that <i>what that boy said was true</i>! The tears flowed fast. Ah, -the bitterness of that knowledge! Someone—the same boy, was it?—told -Arthur his little sister was weeping because he was reading a dime -novel, and at recess he berated me; I cried the more bitterly; he then -consoled me in his half-scolding, half-wheedling way, finally promising -not to do it again. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span></p> - -<p>And when he first learned to smoke! We were skating on the canal at -noon-time, I skating with a girl that Arthur was “sweet on.” Suddenly -he skated past us with a braggadocio air, <i>a cigar in his mouth</i>! -Carrie and I gave one look at each other, one swift, comprehending -look—if Arthur had robbed a bank or stolen a horse we could hardly -have felt worse. We tacitly sat down and took off our skates, and, -heavy-hearted, went ’cross-lots to school, the skates dangling from our -arms, and the lumps in our throats choking us. I cannot remember that -we talked about it; it was too awful to discuss. And that defiant look -of Arthur’s, how it cut! Our grief-stricken faces must have worked on -his conscience, for in the afternoon a note was passed to me (I’ve no -doubt he wrote to Her, too), in which Arthur said:</p> - -<blockquote><p><span class="smcap">Dear Sister</span>,</p> - -<p>Why did you leave the ice this noon? We had a good time.</p></blockquote> - -<p>Then as if in afterthought,</p> - -<blockquote><p>Did you feel bad because I was smoking? I won’t do it again.</p> - -<p class="right">Your loving brother,<span class="s3"> </span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Arthur</span>.</p></blockquote> - -<p>He kept his word for a long time; then, whenever he would break it, -there would be tears and repentance and fresh promises. Similar scenes -occurred the first time I smelled his breath and learned that he had -been drinking. Heart-breakings, attempted denials, then confessions, -promises, struggles to keep them, followed by lapses, penitence, and -tears.</p> - -<p>“I’ll never do it again, Genie,” used to make my heart bound with hope. -The tears no longer come now. Something too deep for tears is felt -when the poor fellow, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span>thinking he can keep his word this time, says -penitently, “I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t do it again, Genie.”</p> - -<p>This weakness of Arthur’s has been almost the only sorrow in our -family. We each react to it in different ways, according to our -temperaments. Father’s watchfulness, and the necessary work and care -that are occasioned by this infirmity; his forgiveness, seventy times -seven; and his optimism, are his ways of meeting the conditions; Mother -suffers, pities him, and prays that with the grace of God he will yet -be able to conquer; Sister, seeing the sorrow that follows in the -wake of such indulgence, loses patience with a weakness she cannot -understand, upbraids him, and chides the rest of us for lenience; yet, -in spite of herself, breaks through her resolutions and, in practical -ways, dispenses timely aid; and I, knowing it to be a disease, perhaps -largely an inheritance, am bound to regard it charitably. Trying -to throw around him what safeguards we can, I am thankful for the -periods of well-doing, and can but be merciful when defeat comes. He -tries hard, never stops trying, and suffers keen remorse at times. It -is unspeakably pitiful, and especially in later years, since he has -children of his own and sees how they suffer through his infirmity.</p> - -<p>Who knows how much inherited tendencies in certain ancestors, the poor -state of Father’s and Mother’s health before and at the time of his -birth, and that critical illness when a lad, may have had to do with -giving him an organization seriously hampered from the beginning? How -can any of us blame another for a given course since, if we were that -other, and were confronted with identical conditions, we should have to -react to them in the same way? We make the mistake of saying virtually, -“If I were <i>you</i>, I would be <i>I</i>” whereas, the truth would be, “If I -were you, I should <i>be</i> you, and do as <i>you</i> do.” </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span></p> - -<p>But all my life with Brother has not been under a cloud. He used to let -me go fishing with him (though I had to keep very still); sometimes -go with him down to the pasture after Grandpa’s cows; and often when -he went alone he would bring me back a flower—usually a syringa, -“cabbaged” from a bush that overhung a fence we used to pass. This -stolen sweet was precious to me, largely because he gave it, perhaps -partly because it was stolen.</p> - -<p>One especially joyous memory is that of a visit to a cousin in a -neighbouring village, and the happy time we children had there one -sunny forenoon. Three things contributed to our pleasure: Brother and -Sister, who usually bickered a lot, were amiable; the spearmint was -luxurious and abundant; and we followed a path across a meadow to a -spring—little things, simple things, but that particular day with its -keen joy of life is a red-letter day in my memory. That was the one -spring of my childhood. To this day the taste and smell of spearmint -bring all this back, and I mentally substitute “spearmint” for -Tennyson’s “violet”—</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>Who can tell</div> -<div>Why to smell</div> -<div>The violet recalls the dewy prime</div> -<div>Of youth and buried time?</div> -<div>The cause is nowhere found in rhyme.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>I never go past the little town nowadays without looking longingly -at that farm from the car-window and wondering if the spring and the -spearmint are still there. At times I have almost decided to get off -the train and seek it, but have never dared—it would be a needless -pain to find my one little spring gone dry.</p> - -<p class="space-above">The name of my mother’s rejected suitor was Fairchild. If she could -have overcome a certain inexplicable <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span>repugnance and married him, “then -I might have been a fair child,” I used to think, with a mental play -upon the name; for I knew myself to be a very plain little girl. I -suffered over this fact; could see myself objectively—greenish-gray -eyes, a long nose, a prominent forehead—I hated the sight of my -face in the glass, yet would torture myself with scrutinizing it, -searching for some redeeming thing, but ending with, “No, there’s -nothing, <i>nothing</i> nice about it.” My facial angle I used to study -with a hand-glass, mentally cutting about half an inch from my nose, -pinning back my ears, and thinking how nice it would be if the straight -uncompromising hair would grow low in ripples on that ugly forehead. -But, opposed to anything artificial, I would, not bang and curl my -hair as the others girls did. Looking at certain girls that I now know -were plainer than I, I wondered pitifully if I looked as well as they, -afraid of deceiving myself with such cold comfort.</p> - -<p>All of which shows how self-engrossed and morbid I was; what capacity -for self-torture I developed early. I was constantly reading of -beautiful persons. I lamented secretly because my mother was not -beautiful. I loved her none the less, but had such a craving for the -beautiful, which Fate had cruelly withheld from me and my mother. I -have often been ashamed of this feeling; it seems as though a child -should so love its mother (and such a mother!) that her face would have -to be beautiful to it; but it was not so with me. And it was one of -my bitter childish and girlish griefs that Mother would not take more -pains always to appear at her best. It seems pathetic, how pleased I -used to feel when she would wear particularly becoming gowns, or take -special pains with dressing her hair. Unable to overcome this feeling, -I have always envied one with a beautiful mother. My mother’s heart and -soul are<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> beautiful, but there was always this yearning for beauty of -face as well as of character.</p> - -<p>Once, as a child, when impersonating Summer at a school exhibition, -crowned with roses and bedecked with garlands of flowers, elated by it -all, I sang so much better at the concert than I had at rehearsals as -to surprise every one, myself included. Best of all I overheard someone -say that I “really looked pretty”; that she never knew before <i>that my -eyes were black</i>! How I treasured that statement, though knowing it was -only a temporary condition!</p> - -<p>I have no doubt I exaggerated my ugliness somewhat for, in addition to -youth and health, I had a clear dark skin, good teeth, unusually fine -and abundant hair, and a well-formed body. The one thing I took pride -in was my hair. It was a pardonable pleasure that I felt in contrasting -my long heavy brown braids with the wisps of hair many of the girls -had. But when I was perhaps sixteen, working too hard in school and -with my music, my hair came out so rapidly that one day a girl sitting -behind me leaned over and whispered, “Why, what has become of your -hair?” Bitter were the tears I shed that night! “<i>That</i> is going, too!” -I cried in my wretchedness. But it did not all go; I still had more -than the average girl. Even to-day I sometimes get a sudden sense of -that schoolgirl’s pang at the threatened loss of her one beauty.</p> - -<p>In babyhood I received a burn the shock of which nearly cut short my -life: Tied in a high chair and placed before a stove, I was pushed over -by some frozen clothes which a “green” Irish girl had brought in from -the yard. The under part of my chin rested upon the stove, leaving its -imprint, when I was snatched from it.</p> - -<p>As I grew up I grieved over the scar thus sustained. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> became morbidly -sensitive over it, though consoling myself somewhat that it was not in -a more conspicuous place. I envied children and girls their smooth soft -chins. It seemed to me the sweetest part of a girl’s features—that -white, smooth place under the chin. When a child I would never play “Do -you love butter?” although I liked to see the buttercup’s yellow shadow -on the chins of the other girls. When my turn came I always drew away, -painfully embarrassed.</p> - -<p>As a young girl I used to think it would be lovely to faint away. When -we “made believe,” I usually chose to be French, to have black eyes and -red cheeks, and to faint away on critical occasions. But after studying -physiology and hygiene, and acquiring more sensible views, I scorned -these earlier ambitions, and ridiculed the silly girls who pretended to -swoon when vaccinated; and who turned pale and asked to leave the room -when the skeleton was brought in to the physiology recitations.</p> - -<p class="space-above">There were only eighteen months between my sister’s age and mine, -and, although I was the elder, she dominated me. There was almost no -difference in our heights, and not much in our figures. She had a -pretty face with fairer skin and sunnier hair. Unobserving persons -thought we looked alike. Dressing alike until we were sixteen, we were -often asked by strangers if we were twins. Those who mistook one for -the other could not have been very discriminating, for with the marked -difference in our natures, there must have been, even in childhood, a -corresponding difference in our looks. I was quiet, shy, and dreamy; -Kate lively, active, outspoken. She had to take the lead because I -would hang back. In church, when we were little things, she would fix a -place for my head on her lap, then pull me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> down and pet me, whispering -to me to keep still and go to sleep; and, although I knew I should have -been the one to play that rôle, I would submit, while she carried out -to the finish her assumed dignity.</p> - -<p>How quick-witted she was! One summer Father had a certain pear tree -that yielded only a few choice pears which he was jealously watching. -We children had been admonished not to touch them. One day as Father -walked around the yard, he hesitated before the ripening pears, then -passed on. We thought him waiting unnecessarily long: one was surely -dead ripe. That afternoon, while he was taking his Sunday nap, Kate -picked that pear. She had just bitten into it as Father appeared. -Putting both hands behind her, she edged backward in the yard till she -stood under the astrachan tree, frightened, but “gamey.”</p> - -<p>“Katherine, come here,” Father called sternly.</p> - -<p>She came slowly, hands behind her and mouth full of the big bite she -was vainly trying to swallow.</p> - -<p>“What have you in your mouth?”</p> - -<p>A gulp, and she said, “Nothing,” opening wide her little mouth.</p> - -<p>“Let me see your hand.”</p> - -<p>Out from behind her came the right hand.</p> - -<p>“Let me see your other hand.”</p> - -<p>Back went her right hand, out came her left, the pear still invisible.</p> - -<p>“Let me see both hands,” said Father relentlessly.</p> - -<p>Quick as thought the little minx lifted her leg and, hands still behind -her, thrust the pear between her thighs, and calmly held out both -hands. Father’s anger vanished.</p> - -<p>Kate never resorted to deceit, and almost never to untruths, unless -hard pressed. While my own hypocrisies were subtle, hers were palpable. -But I long cherished<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> resentment for one offense—an unusual one -with her: Mother had a bed of choice tulips—her special pride, our -special temptation. Kate succumbed one day, picking nearly all of them, -and with such short stems they were useless. Mother’s anger really -frightened Kate, who declared, “Genie did it.” Though denying it, I -probably acted guilty, for Mother believed her. (I always blushed -and looked the culprit in school if a general accusation was made; -and if any one rapped on the door and asked if a certain article had -been found, I used to feel so uncomfortable it is a wonder I was not -accused of having stolen it—self-conscious little snip that I was!) -To punish me for my supposed falsehood Mother put red pepper on my -tongue—a practice which a cousin had told her that she followed with -her children. It was terrible, and was all the worse because I was -innocent; though I’ve no doubt it was good for me, for I was more given -to prevarication than was Sister.</p> - -<p>My tendency to exaggerate was the cause of my fibs; they were -usually harmless ones; facts never seemed startling enough; I liked -to embellish them. Then, too, I was always making mistakes about -quantities or anything with figures or distances, and some of my -misstatements should be set down to this weakness rather than to -deliberate deception. In this very matter, years after, when speaking -of this red-pepper punishment, I used to say that my mother put a -teaspoonful of red pepper on my tongue. I can’t remember that any one -ever questioned or corrected the statement. I probably told it mostly -to children. It is only within a few years that, telling the story -again, my own common sense, so late to develop, showed me that that -must have been a gross exaggeration—a teaspoonful of cayenne pepper on -a child’s tongue!—the red pepper had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> punished one lie that had never -been told, but had given rise to one that I had gone on repeating until -at last I had sense enough to see that it was too preposterous to be -believed!</p> - -<p>Similarly in the matter of my weight: I had heard it mentioned—it -was probably fifty pounds—but with my usual inaccuracy for figures I -solemnly protested that I weighed five pounds, standing my ground even -when corrected, till the absurdity of it was shown me.</p> - -<p>I remember, too, hearing Mother talking with some women about how -young a certain neighbour was when her daughter was born. In telling -the school girls about it later, I announced that Mrs. H—— was only -five years older than her daughter Ida. Shouts of derision greeted my -statement, but I was firm. One big girl called me “little fool,” and -I suffered I know not what ridicule. It was partly an exaggeration, -partly ignorance. Grasping the main fact, that the mother was very -young when her child was born, and having forgotten how young, but -wanting to make my story worth while, I had resorted to a positive -statement which I stoutly maintained. I could not see why those girls -should doubt my word, even if the statement was startling. <i>Of course</i> -it was unusual—that was why I had cited it. I have a fellow feeling -for the Vassar student who, when asked by the resident woman physician -what her paternal grandfather died of, and not knowing, but wishing not -to seem ignorant, said, “I—I think he died in infancy.”</p> - -<p>For years I was not a little given to reporting bright things people -might have said, as though they had said them. It was such fun to -embellish commonplace events and comments with additions of my own. -Whenever I would tell these untruths I always had a queer feeling -(almost of disappointment) to find that nothing happened<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> to me; that -no one questioned them; and that everything went on just as before -the lie had slipped off my tongue. I don’t know whether I expected -Ananias’s and Sapphira’s fate, or what, but I expected something, and -nothing happened!</p> - -<p>This tendency to exaggeration and misstatement, and, on occasion, to -deliberate falsehood, I have tried conscientiously to overcome. In -fact, for years I swung far to the other side. Now, in matters of fact, -I think I am more often scrupulously accurate than not. If I cannot -be accurate, I refrain from giving a definite statement. My special -training in later years of course helped in this respect. But it was -earlier, when I became a “Christian,” that this tendency appeared to me -in all its heinousness, and in striving to overcome it I became, for a -time, almost morbidly conscientious.</p> - -<p>One day in school the word “conscientious” came up for discussion. I -was not present, but learned from one of the girls that “Prof” had -spoken out in school freely, using my name as an example of what -conscientiousness meant. But my wise little sister (and how I loved -her for it!), though pleased at the reference to me, went to all the -girls she thought likely to mention it to me, and cautioned them not -to. When I learned of it, from one who never could keep a secret, I -asked why Sister didn’t want her to tell me. “Oh, she said it would -make you proud, or something like that.” And she was right. I was too -self-conscious as it was, and vain, in a demure kind of way. Kate knew -my weaknesses.</p> - -<p>Sister’s deceits, as I have said, were such funny ones; they never -deceived any one—were never really intended to; they were only -desperate measures resorted to when in a tight place, their drollery -usually serving to protect her from punishment. As a rule she and -Brother managed to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> quarrel when left to their own devices. I played -the peace-maker between them, and have done it ever since. One Sunday, -when we stayed home from church, they got into a wrangle. Spiteful -words led to threats, and Kate was soon chasing Arthur round the room -in childish rage, I trying to intervene. In the squabble my belt fell -off—a black shiny belt with a metal buckle. As Kate could not reach -Arthur, she grabbed up my belt and, brandishing it in the air, chased -him, trying to hit him.</p> - -<p>Crash! went the buckle against the rosewood mirror. When Father and -Mother came home and saw that crack in the mirror, they saw also three -guilty apprehensive children. Brother and Sister pitched in, telling -about the quarrel, who did this, and who did that. “I don’t care about -who started it, or who kept it up,” said Father, “I want to know who -broke that looking-glass—the one to blame for that will be punished.”</p> - -<p>“Genie is to blame for it,” Kate promptly rejoined.</p> - -<p>Father looked at me in surprise, Arthur opened his mouth in wonderment, -while I stood dumb and guilty-looking beyond question. Then Kate added:</p> - -<p>“Arthur hit me, and I chased him with the belt, and the buckle broke -the glass, <i>and it was Genie’s belt-buckle</i>!”</p> - -<p>She escaped punishment.</p> - -<p class="space-above">We had fewer playthings than children have nowadays, but for that very -reason they meant more to us. I had but two dolls in my childhood -and one is still—living, I was about to say. One was a leather-head -doll, with painted cheeks, black hair, and blue, blue eyes. But in the -beginning of her career she met a strange fate—a boy much bigger than -I snatched her from me and bit off her nose before my very eyes! This -was one of my earliest griefs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span> I hated that boy but cherished the -noseless doll for many years.</p> - -<p>Later Kate and I had big wax dolls whose eyes would open and shut and -who would cry when we pressed a little place in the pit of the stomach.</p> - -<p>We played with them only on state occasions. They were kept up in the -“front bedroom” in a bureau drawer. I saw them a year ago. They had on -the same scarlet wool dresses trimmed with narrow black velvet ribbon, -but the dresses were moth-eaten and the dolls showed the ravages of -time.</p> - -<p>Occasionally, other relatives joining us, we had a family Christmas -tree—perhaps only four or five in our childhood. But there was always -the hope of one, and when there was one, the joy recompensed for the -lean years. One Christmas tree at Aunt Lucinda’s at which some Western -relatives were present, stands out vividly—the big house overflowing -with people, the smell of the dinner preparing, the air of mystery -of the elders as they went to and fro to the parlour with various -parcels; and then, at last, when the doors swung open and we got -that first glimpse of the blessed tree! But how was my joy modified! -Making our way, pell-mell, grown-ups and children, in the eagerness to -push through, someone bumped against me, driving my nose against the -door-jamb. I can feel the pain yet, and the blinding tears. Not all the -splendour of that tree could drive that pain away. After that, in a way -I had of accounting for things, I attributed a slight deflection of -my nose to that bump. I recall black walnut work-boxes for Sister and -me and a writing-desk for Brother as the most elaborate and expensive -gifts which as children we ever received. Some years there were no -gifts, except new clothing, which never satisfied the craving—except -once—<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span>our white “moss velvet hats”—these made our hearts light as -well as our heads. When there were no presents—can one ever forget the -bitter disappointment? A trivial gift means so much to an expectant -child! All in vain were we told (as we sometimes were in advance) that -no gifts could be afforded that year. We never quite gave up hope. But, -cruel as was the disappointment, perhaps the discipline was wholesome. -One year there were crosses covered with crinkly paper bedecked with -wreaths of worsted flowers, and framed in deep rustic frames. What -works of art! Almost equal to the hanging basket made of allspice that -adorned a cousin’s parlour, and to the framed pyramid of hair-flowers -that hung in our own!</p> - -<p>I still treasure a paper-covered Red Riding Hood, cut in the form -of the little lass, with the wolf crouching at her feet, the text a -metrical version, charmingly illustrated. I must have had it since I -was seven or eight years old. I knew the verses “by heart,” and have -heard Mother tell that I used to recite them and other long pieces in -my sleep. A bottle of oil once made a spot on the book and the paper -is yellow with age, but I still cherish it and would part with many a -choicer possession sooner than with this childhood treasure.</p> - -<p>In this connection I recall that when I was perhaps in my early ’teens, -the instinct of acquisition developing, I went about the house placing -my name upon all my belongings—every book and picture, even on the -bottoms of little toy vases, a porcelain lamb, and so on. As to Red -Riding Hood, I seemed to think it fitting to write my name in a big -sprawling child’s hand, every letter a capital, with the notion, I -suppose, that it would be thought that I had written it there when -a child. I even selected a date, reckoning back as well as I could, -and putting it upon one of my early<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> birthdays. In the same way I -mutilated a quaint book that had belonged to Grandpa, by writing his -name on the fly leaf, and the legend, “His Book,” in what I considered -an old-fashioned hand-writing. Some years later, coming upon these -evidences of my silly deception, my cheeks burned with shame, and I -erased the false records.</p> - -<p>Fondness for my own belongings did not prevent me from a cruel piece -of vandalism in regard to a cherished possession of my sister’s: She -had made a clove-apple by sticking a greening full of cloves, and -hiding it in a cuff-box in the upstairs closet, had declared she was -going to keep it till she grew up. Laughing at her, I said it would -decay, but she maintained that it would not. On rare occasions, as if -it were a religious rite, she would peep into the box and sniff at the -apple, vouchsafe us a sniff also, and put it carefully away. As it -dwindled and dwindled, her attachment strengthened and strengthened. -I believe she kept it six years. Although I had often threatened to -throw it away, she never believed I would. But one day, whether out -of spite, or because of my strenuous housekeeping, I did it, probably -silencing my compunctions by thinking she was too old longer to indulge -in such nonsense. But her grief and anger on learning of the loss were -so moving that I was conscience-stricken, and would then have given -anything to have restored the treasure. She scorned all attempts at -extenuation. It is with real shame that I confess this misdeed—more, -perhaps, than I feel for later, graver ones. I know now that as one -of her treasures it should have been respected. Anything that another -really loves—a toy, a bauble, an idol, a comforting superstition—why -not let him keep it as long as he can?</p> - -<p>We were a happy and harmonious family as such things go. I do not mean -that we never said a cross word to one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> another; such families, I -fancy, exist only in Sunday-school books. There was not always unity; -our parents sometimes differed; Father was critical and methodical; -Mother forgetful and wanting in system. She was tried by Father’s -smoking and inordinate croquet-playing, and he was tried by her -procrastination; at such times fault-finding was forthcoming. Sister -and Brother had early and late unpleasantnesses; and, in our ’teens, -Sister and I became less harmonious than formerly, about the time, I -suppose, when we were each becoming more individual; at least, when, -ceasing to be docile, I became more assertive. But there was always the -good-night kiss all around, and Kate and I went to sleep with our arms -around each other as long as we were girls at home. I do not think we -could have slept had we let the sun go down upon our wrath.</p> - -<p>I remember the first time I omitted our custom of kissing all round -at night—the family and any guest staying with us. Some strange man -was there; when I had kissed Father and Mother I hesitated before the -man—I was getting to be a big girl—then, putting out my hand, said a -bashful good night and went upstairs with burning cheeks, wondering if -it had seemed rude not to kiss him.</p> - -<p>We were not a demonstrative family—the good-night kiss was the chief -expression of affection. I remember no fondling, no caresses after -early childhood, except the habitual ones—no spontaneous overflow of -affection at irregular intervals, such as I was inclined to, had the -others been so minded. Once in a great while Father would call us the -sweetest pet name in the world—“darling.” On these rare occasions I -was secretly overjoyed. Had he known the delight it gave me, I’m sure -he would have said it oftener. Mother sometimes jocosely called me -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span>“Keturah,” and when, in one of her rare playful moods, she dubbed me -“Keturah Ketunk,” I liked it exceedingly.</p> - -<p>I remember once—I was probably thirteen or fourteen—going into the -bedroom to bid my parents good night, when, having kissed them, as I -started to leave the bed, Father threw out his arm; and, seeing it in -the half light, and thinking he did it to motion me back, I bent down -and swiftly kissed him again—an unusual thing for either him or me. -No sooner had I done it than my cheeks got hot as fire: perhaps I had -misunderstood his gesture; he may have just happened to stretch out -his arm, and was not beckoning me at all. Upstairs I went, torturing -myself with the query which I never solved. Whether or not he had -called me back, I now know he was not sorry to get the extra kiss. Why -couldn’t I have thus comforted myself then? I suppose I was hungry for -more demonstration of affection than I got, yet ashamed to show it. -Sister, not at all demonstrative, provoked demonstration in me; the -curve of her cheek, and her long eyelashes resting upon it, appealed -to me as a child’s beauty appeals; I longed to kiss her at inopportune -times, and sometimes did not resist. Half annoyed at me, she thought -it nonsense, I suppose. As we grew up, when she would be fitting a -dress for me, I would try to snatch kisses, sometimes calling forth -her impatience, at others her laughing dexterity as she eluded me. I -admired her prettiness, but was never jealous of her, though she could -dance and skate, and do all such things, with an ease and grace I could -never acquire. Making friends more readily than I, being sociable, -lively, and even-tempered, she had plenty of beaux while I had none. -But I had friends among the beaux of the other girls. Although I did -not want them for beaux, I should have been unhappy had I not had them -for friends—I understood myself well<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span> enough to know that much then, -though the general impression among my schoolmates was that I cared -nothing for the boys.</p> - -<p>My hypersensitiveness about the life of the affections was apparent in -the way I felt when Father would bid us all good-bye: When he kissed -Mother I would always turn away. It never seemed right to look on; -perhaps, partly, because it made me want to cry; but also because it -seemed as though <i>I had no right</i>. Even to-day, if I see lovers on the -stage whose acting is good enough to give the sense of reality, I find -myself turning away—it seems too intimate for me to witness.</p> - -<p>A favourite custom in our family was an annual Sunday drive in -apple-blossom time. Father would hire a team and a sort of landau -which, on a pinch, would hold ten persons—an aunt’s family and -ours—big baskets would be stowed under the seats, and off we would -go through the country on an all-day’s drive, stopping to picnic in -some grove, or by a stream. Then on again under the blue skies, the -air sweet with blossoming trees; and the tender spring green giving -that hazy, twiggy look of early May. (That line of Whitman’s—“Rich -apple-blossomed earth”—always brings back those far-off May-times -with those perfect childish joys.) Then we would drive home in the -twilight, singing as we went, old and young joining in the songs. Happy -children, happy parents! I’m sure the apple blossom is an escape from -the Beautiful Garden. I never breathe its fragrance without recalling -those cherished drives in the Mays that are no more.</p> - -<p>Our parents were wisely indulgent, giving us treats and privileges as -they could afford them. We were brought up to go without a thing till -it could be paid for; consequently, all of us have a horror of being in -debt. Father<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> spent a good deal (considering our circumstances) on our -music, first and last, and he and Mother were ever looking forward to -our advancement. But there was always a struggle over money matters. We -had to economize and count the cost of any indulgence; but when it was -decided that we could afford a given thing, how happy, almost jubilant, -Father was over the expenditure!</p> - -<p>One of the happiest hours in childhood (I was perhaps ten years old) -was when, after spending the day from home, we returned at dusk and -were met at the door by Father and Mother looking so excited and happy -we knew something was on the carpet. And there was! In the sitting-room -our eyes encountered a change—the furniture was rearranged, and there -standing against the wall (were we awake or dreaming?) was a brand new -organ!</p> - -<p>Our joy was unbounded, our parents’ delight no less. How we smoothed -the polished walnut case; gingerly touched the black and the white -keys; fingered the stops; tried the pedals; moved the swell; and asked -to have the top lifted so we could look inside! And then Father sat -down and struck a few rich chords—those chords with their variations -that seemed peculiarly his own! Soon the music teacher came in, and -some neighbours, and the new organ sounded throughout our home, and -doubtless in our dreams that night; and the next morning <i>it was still -there</i>!</p> - -<p>Then began the lessons. Gradually the novelty wore away, lessons grew -harder and harder. Kate and Arthur, restless beings that they were, -made only fair progress; they disliked the practice. But, taking to it -eagerly from the start, I made rather more than ordinary progress. It -was as hard to get me away from the organ as it was to get Kate and -Arthur to it. I was still very young when, one day, putting aside my -exercise book, I opened the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span>Methodist Hymnal and “picked out” one of -the hymns—Boylston. I was scared, it sounded so natural—and I had -done it alone! Mother came running in to see if it was really I who was -playing.</p> - -<p>Shortly after that, in Sunday School, the organist leaving before the -close, the superintendent came to me, saying, “We want you to play the -last piece.” I tried to beg off, but no, he knew I could do it; so, in -fear and trembling, I got up and played. The treadles worked hard, and -the stool was too high, so the superintendent pedalled for me, while -the school rose and sang. It didn’t take us children long to get home -that Sunday. “Genie played the organ! Genie played the organ!” shouted -Kate and Arthur as we rushed into the house. After that this occurred -so often that my timidity before the Sunday School wore away. This was -the forerunner of a greater event: I had never touched the big organ, -but as Father was chorister, we children often sat “in the choir” -pretending to help sing. One day toward the close of the service the -bass singer, leaning over, whispered, “Miss R—— has gone home, you -will have to play for us, Genie.” Protesting, I looked imploringly at -Father, but he only nodded and smiled encouragingly. My heart nearly -thumped itself to pieces, but the wily Basso whispered, “We’ll sing -so loud, if you make a mistake they’ll never know it, and we’ll pick -out one with an easy bass.” So I undertook it. In time, as Miss R—— -dropped out more and more, I became the regular organist. Later came -piano lessons, and later still I had a teacher from a neighbouring city.</p> - -<p>When I was developing rapidly, undergoing the physiological and -emotional changes of pubescence, they unwisely put me to studying -“Thorough Bass.” A paternal aunt had been an accomplished musician, -and my parents hoped<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> I would show a like talent. How my head used to -ache over that study! As the lessons became more complicated, I grew -stupid; my health failed perceptibly and our family physician was -called. He talked with me a long time, then I was sent out of the room -while he and Mother talked; then called in again, and the little black -medicine-case was opened, while the Doctor folded the tiny powders -that, he said, as he patted my head and called me “lassie,” were to -make me strong again.</p> - -<p>The upshot of it all was I had to drop my music, not only then, he -advised, but for all time. I had too emotional a temperament, he said, -to stand the strain. (What kind of a musician would a non-emotional -person be!) But he was wise in prohibiting it then. I used to dignify -the severe headaches which I had at that time by saying I had “brain -fever.” (Girls in the books I read had “brain fever.”) But there was no -real illness, no staying out of school, though for a time my hours were -lessened.</p> - -<p>Dropping music was a real cross to me. Probably, had I been allowed to -resume it, I should have followed that as a vocation and not cast about -for another field of work. Although discontinuing the study of music, I -did not drop its practice. Music was an important part of our home life.</p> - -<p class="space-above">I remember how cruel I once thought my parents because they would not -let me go to a distant county to pick hops. One of the schoolgirls -had gone with her mother the year before, had earned a lot, and had -had a “splendid time.” As the season came round again, I “teased” to -go with this girl and her mother. I was hearing a good deal at home -about economy, economy, and Nora’s account of the money she had made -had fired me with the prospect of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span>earning great sums to relieve our -growing needs. Confident, I announced my plan. Was ever a girl so -repulsed, so silenced? They wouldn’t even hear me out. I tried to say -what Nora said, and what her mother said, but they were obdurate. -A martyr in my own eyes for a time, it was probably years before I -realized what I had asked to do. When I learned what class of young -people usually engaged in such work, I understood how “out of the -question” (a finality of Father’s) it had been for my parents even to -discuss the project. I remembered, too, how the same bright-eyed Nora -had soon left school; how she changed in manner; became coarsened; -drifted out of our lives. Strange how, years after, children become -aware of the safeguards thrown around them in youth! With this -awareness, what a feeling of gratitude wells up within one toward the -parents who have surrounded them with such wise and loving care! How -one longs to fly home and tell them of it; yet how reticent are we, how -chary of expressing this gratitude!</p> - -<p class="space-above">One of the deepest of my early griefs was when we first learned what it -was as a family to be separated; when Brother, who was a printer, went -to Colorado to work. We had been so closely bound together. I realized -the anxiety of our parents, divined the loneliness Arthur would feel, -and what it would mean to lose him from the home. What interesting and -humorous letters he wrote us, with the homesickness sometimes peeping -through! How we read and re-read them!</p> - -<p>He stayed away less than a year. Shall I ever forget the day he came -back? His clothes had become shabby; he was stained with travel, but -I almost devoured him with my eyes. How good his voice sounded—every -well-<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span>known tone; every gesture; and his laugh—my heart was like to -burst. And, oh, the joy, the security, the blessed feeling that night, -to know we were all together again under the home roof!</p> - -<p>I used to resort to various devices to keep Arthur at home in the -evening, which sometimes worked, sometimes not. The most effectual was -to slip away from the supper table while the rest were still seated, -under the pretext of wishing to try a new piece, thus getting him under -the spell of the music while he was filling the stoves and bringing in -water, so he would be drawn in spite of himself into the sitting-room. -Once there, he would hang around and read, often appearing indifferent -when I knew he was not. When he would get up to go, after I had held -him as long as I could, how my heart would sink as the door closed and -his steps sounded fainter and fainter on “stoop” and sidewalk! But I -would keep on playing long enough so as not to make it too apparent to -the others what I had been up to, though they were doubtless as well -aware of my motive as I. Sometimes he would say, on going out, “Well, -I’ve got to go now”—his way of thanking me for playing.</p> - -<p>Even when he was doing his best, there was always more or less anxiety -until Brother would come home at night. No matter what I was reading, -when ten o’clock came, unless he had come, I felt an anxious pang. -All of us felt it, though it was seldom mentioned. Mother sometimes -spoke of it, or her sighs betrayed it, but as a rule we hid our -anxiety under an assumed cheerfulness. I would listen when the steps -came on the veranda to see if there were two walking, or only Father. -Then if Father came alone, he would ask with apparent lightness, “Is -Arthur home yet?” and I would hasten to answer, “No, not yet,” just to -forestall Mother’s sadder negative with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span> its accompanying sigh. Then -we would all fall to talking to cover our fears. But when he did come, -how we strove to conceal the delight that our fears had been unfounded! -Putting up my books, but not too quickly, lest he be aware that I was -trying to reward him for coming home early, I would go to the organ, -and after making a pretense by first playing some indifferent thing, -would play and sing the songs he liked best.</p> - -<p>Oh, the safe housed feeling, when we could say good night to one -another, and not have to lie awake listening for Brother’s footsteps -that came so late sometimes, and sometimes not at all! After such -nights of watching, Sister and I would peep into his room in the -morning, to see if perchance he had come after we had fallen asleep. -And when his bed was untouched—the dread and fear of what may have -befallen him!</p> - -<p>Brother was always good company. He is witty, and easily moved by -humour or pathos. Once stir his worthy emotions and his better nature -comes to the surface, though he resists being stirred as long as he -can. A fond father, he is, on the whole, a wise one, except when his -temper, or his infirmity, gets the better of him. Like our dear, testy -grandfather in disposition, he reacts in much the same way, yet, with -all his impatience, shows surprising tolerance with certain vagaries -and eccentricities in others who, being the victims of hereditary and -constitutional handicaps, are “gey ill to live with.” Love for his -children is one of his strongest traits.</p> - -<p>A few months ago, when a maternal uncle, an alcoholic, died, Brother -took his own little son to the uncle’s coffin and there, telling the -child what a promising youth the uncle had been, explained to him -that drink had been his ruination. He wrote me that he had made the -child (only<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> three years old) understand it all; and then had made him -promise that he would never touch alcohol in any form.</p> - -<p>Poor, tempted, struggling soul! Whitman has expressed tenderly and -understandingly the feelings that always well up in me at the thought -of my brother’s struggles and defeats—“Vivas for those who have -failed!” Such need pity, help, and credit far more than we are wont to -give. Bobbie Burns knew whereof he spoke when he reminded us:</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>What’s done we partly may compute,</div> -<div class="i1">But know not what’s resisted.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Father and Mother still have hope in Brother’s ultimate -victory<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" >[2]</a>—such faith, and such optimism, combined with such -tenderness and forgiveness! I know of nothing more God-like than these -attributes as I have seen them exemplified in the daily lives of my -parents. “Like as a father pitieth his children”—what a perfect -example I have known of this infinite, compassionate love!</p> - -<h3>FOOTNOTE:</h3> - -<p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2">[2]</a> The victory came some years after this was written. My -brother now knows the triumph of him “who ruleth his spirit.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER III</span> <span class="smaller"><span class="smcap">“A Child Went Forth”</span></span></h2> - -<p>Environment—what part does it play? Its stamp is upon us, but other -forces and influences also determine our reactions and mould our -characters. Is the objective environment alone the sea in which we -swim? More significant still are the emotions which a given environment -induces in each individual. To determine these it is needful to resort -to our earliest memories. What were the things that so impressed us -that we carry them on down through the years, an inseparable part of -our inmost selves? What part have they played in shaping our characters?</p> - -<p>I have said that it was a commonplace little village where I was born, -and to another it may seem a commonplace outward life that I have to -record. But who among us will own to a commonplace inner, subjective -life?</p> - -<p>Our village, named after him who sang of the “deep and dark blue -ocean,” is a prosaic port on the Erie Canal along whose banks mules -slowly draw the heavy-laden boats. The canal divides the village -into north and south, as Owasco creek divides it into east and -west. Rising from the level landscape here and there, the long, low -lenticular drumlins form a conspicuous feature through that section -of the state. Commonplace, did I say? But less than three miles away -are the marshes of the Montezumas. What<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> strange wild feelings the -lighted skies at night evoked! “The marshes are burning!” was such an -inadequate explanation of that lurid western sky. A few miles to the -south is Goldsmith’s “loveliest village of the plain”; about the same -distance west, one reaches Tyre; as far again, and Palmyra is found; -while a little to the east sits Syracuse in all her glory—surely an -illustrious environment, this Drumlin Land, if names could make it so.</p> - -<p>In the upper and hilly part of the town, called “Nauvoo,” the house -still stands where Brigham Young lived before he became famous—or, -shall we say, infamous? He was a carpenter and painter, and several -buildings are there pointed out as houses that “Brigham” built. They -tell that the Mormon went to Utah owing a certain couple in our village -for his board, and that years after, on learning that they were to -celebrate their golden wedding, he sent them the amount he owed, with -interest for all the years.</p> - -<p>In the decrepit old hotel on the village green Isaac Singer once -lived and dreamed of the sewing-machine which later made his name a -household word. There, too, in our little hamlet faithful Henry Wells, -sometimes a-foot, sometimes on horseback, went hither and yon amid the -drumlins carrying in his shabby carpet-bags messages and parcels to the -scattered homes. Trusty and dependable, there in our little village he -laid the humble foundations of the Wells-Fargo Express of to-day.</p> - -<p>Six churches, two hotels, several dry goods and grocery stores, a -drug store, a meat market, the Post Office, sometimes a bank, a -boot-and-shoe store, cigar shops and saloons, a pie factory, a shirt -factory, the Masonic Hall—these, most of which were grouped around the -Village fountain, constituted the town life I knew.</p> - -<p>It was amid these scenes that I as a child went forth; the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> objects I -looked upon became a part of me, interwoven with my very being: the -familiar drumlins on the horizon, flowers and the wayside weeds, the -pets I cherished, the family life, our neighbours, my teachers and -playmates, the games we played, the songs we sang, the books I read, -the sunset clouds, the friendly trees, and the winding creek; and -mingled with these commonplace scenes, the sorrows, joys, affections, -hopes, and fears—all these became a part of that child that went forth.</p> - -<p>In thinking of my earliest memories, why does my mind revert to that -little old tannery down by the dam which we passed on our way to -Grandma’s? It was painted red. There was a multitude of little square, -mahogany-brown pieces of wood that covered the yard like a carpet. -There was a buzz of machinery which always frightened me (and machinery -frightens me still), and a peculiar smell always emanated from the -place. And though later a grist mill, still later a paper mill, and -then a planing mill stood there, and now for many years dwelling houses -have occupied the spot, yet as I think back to my childhood I recall -most vividly the earliest scene, and the peculiar elastic feel of those -pieces of tan-bark under my feet.</p> - -<p>Quiet and shy, I was, as I have said, dominated by my sister till -perhaps a year or two before I went away from home. More of a leader, -more practical, in those days more executive, my sister had withal -more common sense and far more initiative than I. She mothered me as -a child, and “bossed” me as a little girl, and for a long time I was -content to have it so. In truth, so established was that order of -things that she has never, I think, quite accepted my emancipation.</p> - -<p>I was more shy in Father’s presence than elsewhere, even in my late -’teens. I don’t know why, but involuntarily<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span> I became more reserved. -I myself could see a difference in voice and manner. I was not afraid -of him (though that was the way Sister put it), for I had no reason -to be, he was kindness itself, and more gentle with me than with -Kate, she being so full of pranks he often had to rebuke her. I don’t -know just what the shyness was, but I was two different beings when -with and away from my father. As nearly as I can explain it now, it -was my exaggerated love of approbation making me so anxious for his -approval that I over-exerted myself when near him, the result being a -shy awkwardness. Yet he always seemed to understand me, and to make -it easy for me. I never would ask him for favours; Kate always had to -do such things for both herself and me. “You do it,” I would plead, -and she would “sputter” and say I ought to do it for myself, but would -give in. Sometimes she made me go with her, occasionally taking revenge -by saying, “Genie wants to ask you for a penny.” Then I felt like -running away. He seldom refused us; I don’t see why I was so bashful -with him. It irritated Sister. Straightforward herself, she thought me -two-sided. I don’t know when this shyness came, or when it wore away, -but before it developed I have one memory that is significant—one of -my earliest recollections. Years later I marvelled that I ever dared do -it: I remember sitting on Father’s lap (he in a little black rocker) -and “teasing” him to tell me where I came from. It must have been when -I first began to wonder about such things. I recall how I kept pulling -his face around by putting my hands in his long brown beard; how he -would laugh and turn away, trying to avoid me; and I can remember just -how he looked at Mother as they exchanged glances. I can’t recall how -they answered me, but think they told me I would know when I was older. -(I never<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> remember being told about storks bringing babies, though I -do remember someone saying the Doctor brought them, and that God sent -them.) But that scene is very vivid to me; and afterward, when I began -to know, though imperfectly, the answer to my question, I thought of -how I had sat and coaxed Father to tell me. I would like to know just -how old I was when this question first seemed so important to me. I -recall when still very small, though later than this, being in the yard -and digging in the ground when Brother and some older boys, going by, -asked what we were doing. “Digging for babies,” we said, and it seems -as though I can remember the smile that passed between Brother and the -boys as they ran off shouting derisively, “Digging for babies!” That -must have been in the days when we used earnestly to try to dig down to -China.</p> - -<p>Although asking my father this question is one of my earliest -recollections, I think the very earliest is that of my first day in -school. I can remember just how I trotted along by my brother’s side; -how my starched skirts stood out proudly, and how my heart swelled with -excitement when, at the sound of the “first bell,” I started off to -school. Arthur was very nice to me, and granted permission (!) to two -of the bigger girls to let me sit between them. I recall the delicious -feeling of being the object of interest in the little flock, and how -they petted and entertained me. But the most wonderful thing was a -little wire frame which the teacher let me take to amuse myself with—a -frame with coloured balls big as cranberries, which could be moved -back and forth on the wires. Not long after I began going to school -regularly, and that little frame (years later I learned it was called -an <i>abacus</i>) was given out as a reward of merit. I can see now the -look of blushing pride mantling the cheeks of the favoured pupils as -they marched from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span> the teacher’s desk back to their seats bearing the -coveted trophy.</p> - -<p>One evening shortly after my first day in school, we were startled by -the alarm of fire, and saw the flames coming from the direction of the -Academy. “Goody, Goody!” shouted some boys in the street, “We won’t -have to go to school any more!” But I cried as though my heart would -break, until a neighbour came down the hill and told us it was some -unimportant building farther away.</p> - -<p>A few years ago the Academy did burn, and the news came to me with a -far keener pang than that felt in childhood at the false alarm. The -present was momentarily blotted out. My thoughts flew back to the old -building where the most tender and beautiful memories centred. Of that -place so rich in associations only ashes remained; only in memory could -I see again the old brick walls—the walls my grandfather had helped -to build—only in memory hear the school bell ring! Curious, but more -than all the furnishings—the books, the globes, the maps and charts, -the chemical apparatus—more than all the things really of value in -the building, my thoughts kept going back perversely to that dear -little wire frame with coloured balls which I had so cherished since -my first day at school!—<i>that</i> was gone past recall!—that and the -old bell! At those earlier home-comings after graduation, one of my -keenest pleasures had been to be awakened in the morning by the sound -of the school bell; it brought back so much: I was a girl again; the -past was bridged over; it stirred a host of chaotic feelings of mingled -sweetness and sadness—longing for my lost girlhood, and exultation at -the successes and achievements of to-day—the Spell of the Past was in -that bell.</p> - -<p>A fine high-school building, well equipped, now stands<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> where the old -Academy stood. To the younger generation it will doubtless mean all -that the old school meant to us, but how like an interloper it is! Only -the ground and the old trees are left—the old linden trees under which -we played, where we used to gather the tiny round nuts and eat the -sweet brown kernels that ripen in September!</p> - -<p>Once when Sister was a little thing, perhaps four or five years old, -and an aunt, in telling her Bible stories, started to make some -explanation about God, Kate interrupted her in a superior way with, -“Oh, yes, I know God—he lives over there,” pointing to a meadow -opposite our house. Astonished, Aunt Kate inquired further, when the -child added:</p> - -<p>“He’s got white hair and wears a long coat; he walks around there when -it’s getting dark.” She meant an old man with a white beard and flowing -locks who, like Old Grimes, wore a “long gray coat all buttoned down -before.” His unusual appearance as he came and went in the hay-meadows -had appealed to the child’s imagination, and she had settled to her own -satisfaction that he was God!</p> - -<p>An experience of my own, some years later however, illustrates the -marked difference in our minds and temperaments—the one given to -definite, concrete ways of thinking, and to settled convictions which -satisfy her, however inadequate they may seem to others; the other, -at that time, to vague, even mystical interpretations. And a similar -tendency exists to-day in our attitudes where temperament and personal -bent are concerned: One spring, going to a sheltered strip in our yard -where we had previously transplanted wild flowers from the woods, I -found a pale blue hepatica in bloom. I remember the directness with -which the flower spoke to me. Something in its gem-like beauty and -its completeness touched me peculiarly; my eyes filled<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> with tears. -I hesitate to write it, but it seemed almost as though the flower -whispered to me, “God.” It was an exquisite moment. The beauty and -purity of that flower spoke to my soul, and for a brief while I had a -conception of Divinity that made the day and hour memorable.</p> - -<p class="space-above">To my mother I am primarily indebted for my love of nature. She used to -take us to the cowslip woods every spring, and later to the Wintergreen -woods. We would begin coaxing to go weeks beforehand. Something sweet -and tender stirs at the thought of our excursions to those distant -moist woods in the early spring days. With what eagerness we started -off, Mother as eager as any of us! How we ran across lots, climbed rail -fences and a stone wall, peeped into deserted barns, traversed meadow -after meadow, till we came to the swampy woods where the gay flowers -grew! It was dark and wet and mysterious in those woods; we knew them -only as the cowslip woods; other woods we frequented at other times of -the year, these only in the cowslip days. I liked the crackle as we -gathered the plant for “greens.” We even ate the bitter buds raw. Often -we would slip from the mossy, decaying logs into the brown pools; we -always returned home with squeaking shoes, wet feet, full baskets, and -happy hearts.</p> - -<p>Mother used to go wading with us, too. Taking our luncheon, we would -follow the winding creek along the willows a mile or more till we -came to a little grove, a sort of natural park, with an island and a -dam, and a big swimming hole on one side of the island. Brother, who -had been to Niagara Falls, called this Goat Island; the water that -went over the dam was Niagara; and the grove was Prospect Park. Many -a time he has lain in his little bedroom, his door and ours open, -and recounted to Sister<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> and me his visit to Niagara, always getting -excited and waxing eloquent, and seeming to see it all over again, as -he talked to his willing listeners till sleep overtook them.</p> - -<p>“Down to the dam”—there some of our sweetest childhood hours were -spent, Mother, one with us, wading the stream, teaching us the names -of the flowers, and telling us what was “good to eat.” When she was -in doubt about a certain thing, and so would caution us, I was pretty -sure to taste it, thus finding out for myself that many a thing is good -to eat at which others looked askance. Some Eves begin early to taste -forbidden fruit.</p> - -<p>Up the Ditch Bank was another favourite place for our picnics—a high -grassy bank running along a feeder, and farther up a big round pond on -one side of the bank, and a long stretch of marshy creek below on the -other. From the bank, across a precarious bridge we got into “Groom’s -Woods,” where the wake robins grew, and the large white trilliums, -Dutchman’s breeches, squirrel corn, crinkle root, spring beauties, -anemones, hepaticas, blood roots, and mandrakes. Mother taught us these -names, and the names of what few birds we knew—robins, goldfinches, -humming birds, and orioles, chiefly. Each year in cherry-blossom time, -Mother would say, “The orioles are here again.”</p> - -<p class="space-above">I had a goldfinch in a cage for a time, I called it a wild canary, and -grew much attached to it, but it soon died, and after that I never -cared to have another bird. I had one cat that I loved, too; his name -was Nimrod. He got so old a neighbour took him away. They told me what -was going to happen, but when I heard the gun-shot, far away, though I -had braced for it, I was nearly frantic. I could never bear to have it -mentioned after that, and loathed the man who did it. Children’s griefs -are about little things, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> they are not little griefs. I feel sorry -for the child who suffered some of the things I remember. Mother used -to say,</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>“Poor Nimrod’s dead, he’s run his race,</div> -<div>No other cat can fill his place.”</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>And no other cat ever did. I have never cared for cats since. Cats came -and went, there was always one at home; they multiplied as cats have -a way of doing, but after Nimrod’s death I was indifferent to them. I -had one dog, too—one cat, one bird, one dog, and ever after eschewed -all pets. A little yellow dog came to our house once—from heaven, I -guess. We called him Ponto—such a big name for such a roly-poly dog! -Æolus would have suited him better, for we knew not whence he came, nor -whither he went, months later, after having endeared himself to us all. -He came the night I was brought home with a broken arm, and was such a -dear companion during my six weeks in splints that I grew inordinately -fond of him. Rheumatism attacking the arm caused me more suffering than -did the fracture itself. Ponto would cry when I cried, putting up his -paws so imploringly that, just to hear him take on, I’d stop crying in -earnest, only to cry louder in make-believe. How piteously he wailed! I -would get ashamed of myself for enlisting his ever-ready sympathy. He -left so mysteriously that we found no trace of him. One of the desires -of my heart for a year or two was to have Ponto back. I believe I used -to pray for his return. “Prayer is the soul’s sincere desire,” and my -soul surely longed for Ponto.</p> - -<p class="space-above">Another love of mine, a less responsive one, was my big willow tree. It -was only one of many trees along the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> creek, but oh, the difference to -me! Cows grazed in the pasture near by; spearmint grew in patches along -the path; the water flowed quietly. It was about ten minutes’ walk -from home, but I was in another world when there. Seated in the heart -of the old tree, I looked out upon a scene commonplace enough to the -eye—level fields and houses and distant drumlins, but ah, what inner -visions! What happy hours I have spent ensconced in that old willow! -Just a little climb (for I never could really climb a tree—I was too -afraid of getting up high), and there I sat, a queen on her throne. -Safe in the tree I was not afraid of the cows. There I read and sang, -recited poetry, and dreamed dreams.</p> - -<p>“I am monarch of all I survey,” I usually began with—the place really -belonged to me. The old farmer who came after his cows every night -thought he owned the land, but I knew and the old tree knew who was -the real owner. For years, as a child and a girl, I kept tryst with -this tree; and for years only the cows and I knew just where it was -that I went when I stole away “to the willows,” for I guarded the -exact spot jealously. Often in going past it with others, I have -feigned indifference, lest someone note its natural seat. I wanted it -all to myself. I used to feel uneasy when I had to climb down, about -supper-time; for the cows, eager for their own supper, came near the -bars and insisted on coming close to me. Although my heart beat wildly -at their approach, I would try to brave it out and look them down as -I had heard one should do. On they always came, bland and peaceable. -Facing them as long as I could, ashamed to show fright, even to cows, -I finally had to cut and run, and then how chagrined I felt! Once in -running from them, in my hurry to get under the fence, I flung my -book ahead of me, and it went into the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> creek—my beloved Cathcart’s -Literary Reader! To this day its stained leaves and warped cover remind -me of the fright I got from the harmless, curious cows.</p> - -<p class="space-above">“Oh, aren’t they cute, they must be twins,” was a remark Sister and I -often heard, long before we knew what twins really meant. Mother would -follow such remarks with, “No, there’s eighteen months’ difference -between them.”</p> - -<p>We thought “twins” must be something pretty nice, and learned to feel -the disappointment that we saw on the faces of strangers when Mother -set them right. Once at camp-meeting we were playing together, when -some ladies stopped us asking, “Little girls, are you twins?” Mother -was not near. Kate and I looked at each other and knew that our time -had come to be twins. With one accord we nodded yes, and had some few -minutes of unalloyed pleasure. Days later, while playing in our tent -door, the same lady and another passed. Pausing and noting us as we sat -with our big wax dolls (they, too, dressed just alike) the one lady -told the other that we were twins.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, there’s eighteen months’ difference between them,” said -Mother, sitting near.</p> - -<p>“But they told me they were twins,” insisted the lady. We were covered -with confusion; tears, chidings, shame, and repentance followed. Though -I am not sure whether at that time we knew what twins really meant, -still we knew very well that we were not twins.</p> - -<p>When we were perhaps ten and eleven years of age, one of our -schoolmates, a child in a destitute Irish family living in the west -part of the village, died of scarlet fever. They lived in the “haunted -house” on the hill—a house near which we never ventured, though Mother -had repeatedly assured us there was no such thing as a haunted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> house. -Now, however, because of the fever, one would have thought we would -have still kept our distance. But hearing of the child’s death, Sister -was bound to go there. The dead always had a strange fascination for -her; she wanted to feel the corpse—the last thing I wanted to do. At -noon Kate made me go with her to that house. Other children accompanied -us. Awe-struck, we crept up the hill; we glanced furtively at the -broken shutters of the windows from which a ghostly arm was said often -to beckon. Such poverty and squalor we had never before come in contact -with. We filed past the body of our little schoolmate (Kate touched the -marble forehead), awed by the presence of Death, and uneasy at what we -knew was wrong. If the ghosts of the Board of Health of to-day could -have antedated themselves and walked there, what consternation would -they have felt at the presence of those children in the fever-stricken -precinct!</p> - -<p>The bereaved mother howled hysterically. An elder sister told us they -had no underclothes to put on the dead child. Kate marched me home, -enjoining strict secrecy. Moved by the poverty and grief we had seen, -with one accord we stole upstairs and purloined a suit of our best -underclothes, secreting them till after dinner, when we ran with them -to the house of mourning, intending then to hurry back to school. I can -see now the trimming on that little white petticoat that we stole from -ourselves; we hesitated, it was such a pretty petticoat; but the need -was urgent, and, somehow, we thought it must be the very best that we -give to the dead child.</p> - -<p>The family welcomed us effusively, blessing us, or asking Holy Mary to, -as they immediately put our offerings to use; and still we lingered -on. Presently they asked Kate<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span> to go with them to the burial, bribing -her with a nice long drive; before I knew it, it was all settled. Kate -ordered me to stop my opposition, <i>she was going to that funeral</i>. She -also persuaded, or commanded, me to give her my hat, having lent hers -to the sister. Then she made me promise to go back to school and say -nothing; she would soon be home. The “last bell” had long since rung -when, bareheaded, frightened, and alone, Miss Docility ran to school, -tardily repentant over the whole strange proceedings. A wretched -afternoon! As soon as school was out, I rushed up to the Post Office -and in tears and penitence told it all to Father. I can see now his -growing anxiety on learning of our visit to that fever-stricken house; -and then of Kate’s having gone to the burial. He upbraided me for not -coming to him at once, but knew that, as usual, Kate had dominated me.</p> - -<p>“Run home and tell your mother not to worry,” he said; “we will soon -get track of her and see that she gets home safe.”</p> - -<p>Mother’s distress was pitiful. Tormenting herself and me, she -rehearsed tales of Catholic funerals where they raced horses and -got drunk—perhaps they would have a runaway—Kate might be thrown -out—hurt, maybe killed—and perhaps we would all get the scarlet fever!</p> - -<p>When Father came home to supper, no trace had yet been found of the -funeral train, though a man had driven to the cemetery—the mourners -were either driving home by some other road, or had gone on to a -near-by city.</p> - -<p>How the hours dragged! But the joy when Father came in bringing Kate, -safe and sound, her elation over the experience only a little dampened -by the fear of punishment! But she escaped it that time; and we all -escaped the fever! </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span></p> - -<p>Although I had had to drop the study of music in early girlhood, -music continued to be an important part of our home life. Other boys -and girls in our street used to gather round our organ in the winter -evenings, or sit on the veranda in summer, and sing till we had to -stop for hoarseness, the neighbours often calling to us for this and -that favourite. “Gathering up the Sea Shells,” “Pass under the Rod,” -“Jamie’s on the Stormy Sea,” “O, Fair Dove,” “We’d Better Bide a -Wee,” “I’ll Be All Smiles To-night, Love,” “Then You’ll Remember Me,” -“Juanita”—a heterogeneous repertoire, the list seems interminable. -There were certain favourites we would get Father to sing—“Bonnie -Doon,” “The Sword of Bunker Hill,” and “My Susanna”—songs inseparably -linked with home and those happy days.</p> - -<p>I used to sing Father to sleep Sunday afternoons. No matter how many -other songs I introduced, I always had to sing Longfellow’s “Bridge,” -and “The Day Is Done.” I was annoyed if he asked for the latter before -the day <i>was</i> done. I liked best to sing it as the afternoon light -began to fade and barely come in at the west window, just enough for me -to trace the notes.</p> - -<p>Sometimes of a Sunday evening an aunt and uncle would ask for more -lively songs than those I chose, for there was a long period when I -steadfastly refused to sing secular songs on the Sabbath. At their -request, I would evade and substitute; but if their insistence became -too pronounced to be set aside, I would refuse point blank. In my -unregenerate days there had been a time when I had sung “The Yellow -Rose of Texas,” “Nancy Lee,” “Putting on the Style,” “Father, Come -Down with the Stamps,” and such worldly things, but later the little -Puritan was shocked to be asked to desecrate the Sabbath with such -levity. They<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> learned to cater to my strait-laced notions. I am afraid -I was a not very pleasant person to deal with when a question of what -I considered the fitness of things was involved. (Perhaps I am not -even now.) I strongly suspect I was a self-righteous little prig for -several years. At a later period one of the schoolboys described me -to a newcomer in the town as “a nice girl, only <i>such</i> a prim little -Methodist.” Not many weeks later, that girl and I were laughing in -great glee over the description which, though it had once been true, -was then hardly applicable; but I was still living on the reputation of -a past phase of religious emotion.</p> - -<p>We had a song called “Fire Bells Are Ringing,” a dramatic account of -a fire on a wild winter night, the chorus ringing out with repeated -cries of “Fire!” One windy night in February as Sister and I were at -the organ singing this with all the dramatic power we could summon, -the wild night putting us in the mood, Father, who had been in the -kitchen popping corn, came running in shouting “Fire!” even louder -than we were. Smiling, we sang on with redoubled energy, pleased that -we had put him in the spirit of acting, too. He rushed around the room -frantically shouting, “Fire! I tell you! Girls! <i>do you hear?</i>” Louder -and more dramatic grew our efforts, and louder grew his cries until, a -still more desperate tone in his voice, and the words, “Girls! Get me -my coat, quick!” finally made us understand he was in earnest. Mother, -too, had thought him fooling and there he was, excited as he always got -at the alarm of fire, almost in despair of making any of us take him -seriously!</p> - -<p>It was a house on the street above. A fierce conflagration was under -way. With the high wind, the adjoining house of a neighbour was -endangered, and we had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> an exciting time helping our friends gather -together valuables and other belongings, though luckily the fire did -not spread. Ah! the cruel, relentless sight of that burning home! -What if it was “the meanest man in town” whose house was burning -down—everyone pitied him that wild night when they saw the pitiless -flames.</p> - -<p class="space-above">We never associated with the neighbours on our right, except -to be civil to them (and I to borrow their novels by Mary Jane -Holmes—whenever I could without the knowledge of my parents). The man -was coarse and illiterate, his wife a silly, slovenly, red-haired woman -who would sit on her husband’s lap on the doorstep in full view of -passers-by. But our left-hand neighbours, though shiftless and lawless, -were interesting and likeable. Great borrowers, always borrowing, -they would keep our belongings till we had to go after them. I would -feel chagrined to have to ask for our own flatirons, or tack-hammer, -or chopping-knife, when we needed them, but Jean, the witty daughter, -would relieve my embarrassment by her ready assurance: “Certainly, -Miss Genie, you are welcome to the irons; keep them as long as you -like—we’ll come after them when we need them again.”</p> - -<p>Formerly there had been a picket fence between our yard and theirs, -along which the “myrtle” grew, and a board fence farther back, between -the gardens; but, little by little, first the board fence disappeared, -later the picket fence—whenever they got out of kindling wood they -would take a board here, a picket there (usually early in the morning, -or late at night). In time both fences were down, and only the “myrtle” -in front and the pie-plant bed and berry bushes in the rear marked the -division between our yards. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span></p> - -<p>Mother would try shaming them out of it by wondering (to them) who -could be carrying off our fence boards, and the wily Jean would reply, -“It’s a shame, Mrs. Arnold, such people ought to have something done -to them,” when perhaps that very morning Mother had seen her slip out, -knock off a picket or two, and hustle with it into the woodshed. But -the whole family had a way with them that was irresistible, and they -were kindness itself when any one was sick or in trouble.</p> - -<p>A slack housekeeper, the mother of the family, proud as Lucifer, was a -remarkable character. She reared a large family, all “smart as whips,” -but inclined to waywardness of one kind and another—the boys handsome -and debonair, but profane and given to drink, yet more gentlemanly when -drunk than many are when sober. Although we lived near them all their -lives, the young men never spoke to Sister and me after we reached -our ’teens without prefixing our names with “Miss,” and lifting their -hats. If they stood at the wood-pile (perhaps sawing some of our -fence-boards!) when we went to the well, they would bid us a courteous -good morning, always cutting short their profanity, if indulging in it -at the time.</p> - -<p>I admired their chivalrous manners, their good looks, and their witty -talk, even though knowing less admirable things about them.</p> - -<p>The father, a crafty man, with no visible means of support, lived -mostly by his wits. He was handsome, and humorous in a droll way. -Never lifting his hand to help his over-worked wife, he would yet say -ingratiatingly, “Mother, I don’t like to see you work so hard—we are -not worthy of it.” And she, knowing how lazy he was, how it was all -talk, would beam on him, proud of his good looks—the handsome father -of her handsome<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span> sons—pleased with the affectionate protestations that -he shouted in her deaf ears. She never criticized him or her sons to -others; but sometimes her lips would shut in an emphatic way and her -eyes say unutterable things if she thought herself unobserved; but the -face she turned to others was innocent of all this. How her eyes would -shine as she watched her sons start out of the house, well dressed, -with manly carriage, and that air of distinction that never wholly -left them! and when they came home intoxicated, how fertile she was in -resources to get them quietly out of sight; how apt in concealing the -loquacity induced by a lesser degree of intoxication!</p> - -<p>An incident in her earlier days put her on a pedestal in my regard. -Jean, her daughter, a fiery girl with coal-black eyes and hair -was witty and irresponsible, as I have said, but energetic and -warm-hearted. The neighbours knew her to be capable of escapades of -which her doting mother was innocent! More than once she had been seen -creeping down the slanting veranda-roof and down the porch pillars, -from which she dropped softly to the ground. But no one dared acquaint -her mother with the fact. In the course of time Jean was missing. Her -brother traced her to a neighbouring town, and going to the hotel where -she and her lover were staying, so arranged it that when they came into -the dining-room, there he sat confronting them!</p> - -<p>Equal to the occasion, Jean, I’ll wager, showed no embarrassment, and -though her brother was bursting with rage and shame, he, too, was -mindful not to make a scene. But what a dinner it must have been! Yet -I can imagine that Jean kept the conversation going in her inimitable -way. Dinner over, she asked her brother when he was going home. “Just -as soon as you can get your things packed,” Dick said significantly. -Knowing the Norton<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> blood was up, she made the best of it and returned -with him. After that she stayed closely at home. People in general -did not know of her elopement, nor of the fact that she was to become -a mother. Both she and her mother kept secluded for months. I wish I -knew just how old her mother’s youngest child was when Jean’s child -was born. My impression is that he was at least three or four years -old. Nevertheless, it is stated as a fact, and was generally believed -in the village, that at the birth of Jean’s baby, Mrs. Norton, its -grandmother, put the baby to her own breast, and, by sheer force of -will causing the milk to flow, brought up the child at her breast! -He always called her “Mamma,” and his own mother by her given name; -and although after a time, the fact of his parentage was learned, the -family pride was saved to a great degree. People tacitly accepted the -child as Jean’s youngest brother, and he himself thought he was until -quite a lad.</p> - -<p>Not having learned of all this till years after it occurred, the -impression it made upon me was far less pronounced than when I learned -about a certain girl, nearer my own age, who “went wrong.” But I did -not learn of this little tragedy till a year or two afterward, although -when I did, I was so sorry for the girl that there was no room for -blame, and I was glad to know that Mother, knowing it all along, had -befriended her; I loved my mother the more for it. But how incredible -that such a thing had happened to one I actually knew! I used to wonder -how she could go on living and acting like other folk; how she could -meet that young man on the street; how she could fulfil her daily -tasks. Divining what she must secretly have suffered, I felt sure her -keenest grief must come from knowing that she was not as good as people -thought her. I used to wish that she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> knew I knew of it, and that -Mother had known it all the time, and yet that we felt the same toward -her. I was sure that would have been a comfort to her.</p> - -<p>A boy in our neighbourhood, a gay, boastful, light-hearted boy, who was -always whistling on the street, got into difficulties, became entangled -with low companions, and a grave charge was made against him from -which he was only partly exonerated. The first year I was away from -home, in writing to me about it, Mother had said, “Howard has lost his -whistle.” How significant that was! The merry-hearted boy was never the -same after that. These and other revelations concerning townspeople I -knew made a profound impression upon me. They were the beginnings of -my plucking the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, and -I found it bitter. Every taste saddened me. The dispersion of every -illusion was accompanied by a distinct pain. I think it must always -be so for those who believe that persons and things are what they -seem. The surface so smooth, so fair—incredible that beneath lie many -diverse strata seldom or never seen. Outcroppings come as a revelation, -and with the shattering of an ideal—inevitable sadness and pain!</p> - -<p>One of my vivid childhood experiences comes to me here—that of being -taken through the State Prison at Auburn, and to chapel services there, -and how my throat ached as those hundreds and hundreds of men in -convict garb filed in and took their places! The striped gray-and-black -cloth for their suits was made at a woolen mill just outside our -village. We sat in the gallery and looked down on the men. I have never -forgotten the pain I felt, child that I was, at seeing such a mass of -men branded with shame and crime, many imprisoned for life. I wonder -if my sympathy and tolerance for wrong-doing were not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> generated by -that early experience, when I pitied them so that there was no room to -condemn.</p> - -<p>Notes of piercing sweetness sounded through that vast auditorium as a -convict played on a cornet the prelude to “Watchman, tell us of the -night.” When they began singing I thought my heart would break. A part -of the men sang the questions, then another body of them the answers, -all joining in the refrain. Mother and all of us were in tears. Always -after that, at home, when we would sing that piece, that moving scene -would be vividly reproduced.</p> - -<p>Chaplain Searle preached that day, and I remember (or think I remember) -his beautiful, beneficent spirit as he talked to the men. (He used -later to lecture in our village, and those impressions of him became -blended with the earlier. One of his lectures was “The Sunny Side of -Life in Libby Prison.”)</p> - -<p>We saw the men march to dinner; saw their coarse fare, and peered into -their bare cells; and a great pity rose within me for their blighted -lives. To this day the sight of “Copper John”—the statue we see on the -top of the prison, on driving in to Auburn—awakens the recollection of -the painful emotions born that day when I first learned how hard the -way of the transgressor really is.</p> - -<p class="space-above">About the only plays I ever saw, until I went away from home, were -“Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” and “Ten Nights in a Bar Room,” played in our home -town, and “East Lynne” in Syracuse. These were my only preparation for -the appreciation and understanding of Booth’s “Hamlet,” which I saw my -first year in Boston.</p> - -<p>A mere child when “Uncle Tom” came to town, and too moved to do -anything but cry openly, I was unmercifully<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> tormented the next day -at school by the older girls who, having witnessed my humiliation of -the night before, jeered at and mimicked me. Curiously enough, many -years later, while visiting in Worcester, Massachusetts, I encountered -the star of this performance at close quarters: I was taken ill while -there, and the landlady of my hostess was the “Topsy” of my early -remembrance. When she learned that I had seen her as “Topsy,” she -doubled her offices in my behalf: there was a distinct improvement in -my toast and gruel, although her housekeeping was almost as “shifless” -as “Aunt Ophelia” had complained of years before.</p> - -<p>My first experience with remorse came when I was quite a little girl, -on learning of the death of a schoolmate: One of the older girls, on -seeing me weeping bitterly, looking at me coldly said, “Humph! <i>you</i> -needn’t cry—you used to quarrel with her—you know you did.” As though -I didn’t know it only too well! For years that girl’s twitting me of -those irrevocable quarrels seemed the most unfeeling thing imaginable.</p> - -<p>It was perhaps when I was sixteen that another schoolmate, going into -a rapid decline, died of “consumption.” During that summer I went -almost daily to brush her hair; she said I did not tangle it as others -did. It was painful to see her wasting daily: that ominous cough, that -sickly odour, and her pathetic hopefulness as her condition became more -hopeless! But I had a strong sense of duty then. It was about the time, -I suppose, that youthful altruism developed. Sometimes I would be so -tired from work at home that I could hardly drag myself up the hill, -and I dreaded the depressing environment. When she died they sent for -me to dress her hair. She had requested it. That seemed more than I -could do. (I have never been able<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span> to conquer my repugnance to touching -a dead body.) But there was no way out of it. After the task was done, -with which there was no one to help me except her brother, who was no -help at all, I stayed and got supper for the invalid parents, and did -other little things round the house, waiting for someone to come in who -would stay the night. But no one came. I could not leave those helpless -parents alone, so sent word home that I was going to stay, at the same -time sending for a schoolmate to come and bear me company.</p> - -<p>We had Louisa M. Alcott’s “Old-Fashioned Girl” to read, and proceeded -to pass the night sitting up in the room next to the one where our -dead schoolmate lay. The girl’s brother (the same who years before -had bitten off the nose of my leatherhead doll), kept coming into the -room and lamenting his sister’s death; then, going into the parlour, -he would weep over the body, groaning and reproaching himself noisily -for his past unkindness. The wildness of his grief, which came in -paroxysms, was terrible. I pitied him, but it was a relief when he -calmed down and went to bed.</p> - -<p>Late in the evening the undertaker came and was alone in the parlour -a long time. On coming out he asked who was going to stay over night. -Lizzie and I told him we were. “But what grown person, I mean.” On -learning that there was no one else, he scrutinized us a moment, then -said to me, “If you will step in here, I will show you what I wish you -to do.” Wondering, I followed him and learned that at midnight I was to -remove the cloth from the face, moisten it in a solution, replace it, -“taking care to press it well down on the eyes and around the nose and -lips.” I have forgotten what else we had to do, but remember that I had -to remove the folded hands from across the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> chest. (I did it by taking -hold of the nightgown sleeves at the wrist. How startled I was at the -spring the arms gave as I let go the sleeves!) He added that if I did -it at midnight, and again at three or four o’clock in the morning, it -would answer.</p> - -<p>I have done much harder things since, but never remember undertaking -anything that seemed more of an ordeal than that was then—our dead -schoolmate, my shrinking at the feel of a corpse, the mere staying up -in this remote house that night, no neighbours within call, we two -girls, with the sick parents and the remorse-stricken brother—no one -to give us moral support—small wonder that I quailed! But it had to be -done.</p> - -<p>My companion, less self-contained, and terrified on learning what was -required, began to be hysterical. It was not easy to get her interested -in the book, but we read on and on, taking turns through the long -hours, our feverish excitement increasing as the dread hour approached. -How loud the clock ticked! how every little sound about the house smote -our ears! how furtively we kept glancing at the time, pretending not to -be thinking of it! how our voices trembled! We both started in affright -as the clock began to strike twelve! Lizzie held the lamp while I did -as I had been instructed. Poor girls! They seem like someone else, -not I and another. She trembled and nearly dropped the lamp; and when -it was done, we almost ran from the room. It was no vulgar fear of -the corpse; it was the general gruesomeness, our loneliness, and all -that—the uncanny, tiny little mother, a mere skeleton; the Quilp-like -father—everything added to our shuddering dread.</p> - -<p>No sooner had we closed the creaking folding-doors and were back -in the sitting-room than my companion, heaving a sigh of relief, -said, “Now let’s go and have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> something to eat.” I could have -screamed outright—“Eat <i>now!</i> after that experience!” My hands felt -contaminated, even after repeated washings. I begged her to wait -awhile. So Miss Alcott still diverted us till I felt I could go and -eat. After that we grew cheerful, even hilarious, and then felt guilty -for laughing in that house of mourning.</p> - -<p>Long hours passed in talking and reading till we had to go in that -dread room again. Finally morning came, and with it a neighbour who -relieved us. Going home in the early dawn, the queer look of the quiet -streets, the physical weariness, combined with the night’s experiences, -made me feel years older. Stealing up the steps at home and creeping -into the hammock on the veranda, I slept until the opening of doors and -windows in the house announced the family astir.</p> - -<p>Perhaps a year after the death of this girl, another schoolmate died -of the same disease—a brilliant, beautiful girl with smouldering dark -eyes, a girl of great promise, who had made a brave fight for life.</p> - -<p>Her mother, who was given to doing things in a theatrical way, asked -four of us girls to be honorary pall-bearers—to dress in white and -follow the casket in and out of the church.</p> - -<p>At the house the general gloom and our own grief had been a strain on -us, but as we got into the carriage we calmed down from our weeping and -were trying to get in condition to face the ordeal at the church when, -just as we were driving through the main street, without any warning, -one of us <i>broke into laughter</i>! Two others followed in sympathy, -the fourth girl looking so disgusted that it made us laugh the more. -Finally she gave way, too, and we were all in a state of uncontrolled, -unreasoning mirth! </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span></p> - -<p>Although the carriage was closed, we feared the driver would hear -us, or people in the street catch a glimpse of us. Our efforts at -self-control were painful in the extreme. What would Ruth think if -she could know of our conduct? But everything we tried to say only -made matters worse. When the carriage drove into the churchyard, we -were still in a pitiable plight, and how we ever mastered ourselves -enough to step out and walk past the by-standers and on into the church -behind the casket is something I marvel at even yet. But we had had our -escape-valve, and now everything was done “decently and in order.” Long -after that, we thought with remorse of our conduct, not understanding -how blameless we were—how wrong it was to subject a group of -impressionable girls to such an emotional strain.</p> - -<p class="space-above">I recall some by-word meetings which I think had some share in my -development at a plastic period. They were conducted by the wife of -the Presbyterian minister, their object being to help us refrain from -the use of slang. That minister’s wife seems to me, even yet, the most -beautiful woman I ever saw—tall, slender, with a queenly carriage, the -smoothest, creamiest skin, bewitching dimples, jet black hair and eyes, -and slender white hands.</p> - -<p>On the street she wore a heavy veil, and when she lifted it as she came -into the meetings, it was like the unveiling of a beautiful statue. She -had a silvery voice, so different from any voice I had heard. In fact, -she seemed a little too bright and good for everyday life. We children -idolized her. Some of our playmates would not go to her meetings, -and spitefully told us she was “proud”; wore a veil to preserve her -complexion; never ate butter; and nearly starved herself to keep -slender; but, resenting these<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> rude charges against our divinity, we -continued her willing devotees.</p> - -<p>How good she used to talk to us! She began her prayers with “Dear -Father,” praying easily as she stood before us, as though talking to -a loved parent. She listened to our confessions of what by-words we -had been betrayed into saying during the week, smiling brilliantly at -times, looking grieved at other disclosures, and sometimes shocked, -but always encouraging us to try harder the next week. The by-words -permitted were, “Oh!” “Oh, my!” “Oh, dear!” and “Oh, dear me!”—these -with varying intensity were the legitimate outlets for the various -experiences and emotions of our lives! All others we must strive to -keep from saying, “with the aid of our Heavenly Father.” I think -“Grief!” was the word with which I kicked over the traces the oftenest; -but her reproving smile was not a hard punishment; and it was such a -delight to see her approval when we could make a good confession. It -was an excellent influence she shed, not the least of which was due to -her beauty. My aversion to slang (except when “right off the bat”) is -probably due to those early by-word meetings.</p> - -<p>Although the hands of this woman strongly appealed to me by their -beauty and delicacy, my mother’s appealed more powerfully—the whole -woman in her seems typified in her hands. Not small, nor especially -white, they are well-formed, and, in spite of a life filled with work, -are soft, yet firm, strong, capable, and tender. Even as a child I -seemed aware of her emotion, as well as her strength, in them. I used -to like to clasp them—such a warm, sustaining grasp! And I liked to -open them and look at the palms. She has a hollow palm (something -like my own), and all the mounds are full and elastic—a warm, soft, -brooding handclasp peculiarly her own. In my emotional nature<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> I am -more like Mother, in mental make-up more like Father. Sister’s hands -are more like Father’s, yet her physical type in general, and her -mental, is more like Mother’s. From Mother she and Brother get their -fairer skin, while mine is the brunette shade, like Father’s. How -mysterious it all is! How complex!—“Mate and make beget such different -issues!”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER IV</span> <span class="smaller"><span class="smcap">In the Old Paths</span></span></h2> - -<p>Does one ever outgrow one’s early religious training? Though he outgrow -his credulity, his faith, his observance of rite and ceremony, and -though he wander far from the paths he followed when being trained “in -the way he should go,” still must the religious influences shed round -him in those early, plastic years have their permanent bearing upon his -after life, even though sometimes so transformed as to be traceable -only to the keen student of personality.</p> - -<p>“Back to the Old Paths” was a gospel hymn I heard in the days when -those paths were traversed by my childish feet; and back to the old -paths I now turn, seeking to retrace the steps which time and disuse -have almost obliterated.</p> - -<p>Being Methodists, we children had been baptized in infancy, and -our childhood and youth had been divided into three-year periods, -diminutive dynasties, marked by the reigns of the different ministers, -events being referred to as “during Brother Gregg’s stay,” “in Brother -Carrier’s time,” “when Brother Browne was here.” What excitement toward -the close of one of those “dynasties” to see what the new minister -would be like!</p> - -<p>Father was one of the church trustees, Mother had a class in Sunday -School. Although we children regularly attended church and Sunday -School, and often <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span>prayer-meeting and class-meeting, we showed little -of the early piety which our Sunday-school books set forth. When -there was no one to leave us with at home, Mother usually took us to -prayer-meeting. All would kneel during the seasons of prayer—each -consisting of about three prayers—then would rise and sing; then kneel -for another season, and so on. I remember once awaking in shame and -confusion, still on my knees while the others stood round me singing. -Crouching there, a miserable heap on the floor, I waited for them to -kneel again, hoping no one but Mother had noticed me. But as it proved -the last season that evening, when the hymn ended and all took their -seats, the little heap on the floor had to creep up and seat itself -shamefacedly by its mother, its discomfiture unrelieved until they rose -and sang “Blest Be the Tie that Binds,” and the meeting closed.</p> - -<p>Sometimes Mother put us to bed when she went to evening meetings. It -was a hardship to be locked in the house those spring twilights with -the church bells tolling and the boys and girls calling us to come out -and play “I-Spy.” Everything called us out of doors. What was there -about that time of day that seemed made for frolic? How we pitied -ourselves when the “All free” of our playmates floated to us on the -twilight air! Once we climbed out of the window and played in the -street—bare-footed, too! Oh, the delight of our bare feet on the soft, -cool grass! But we had to climb in again soon, gloating guiltily over -the stolen liberty. We thought Mother unfeeling to leave us locked in -the house, but if we objected to the prayer-meetings she sometimes had -no alternative. We rather liked the class-meetings; there were only two -or three prayers then, and all gave their “experiences.” We knew by -heart some of the stereotyped speeches. Sometimes we would signal to -one another when it was about time for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span> certain expressions that amused -us; and again would giggle if the good brethren and sisters varied -their remarks and failed to repeat the queer things we expected.</p> - -<p>One man at a certain stage in his prayer always rubbed his palms -together, then as his voice got louder, he would rub faster and faster; -his straggling hair would fall over his face; the veins would swell in -his forehead; and he would reach a climax of frenzied petition from -which he would gradually subside, tapering to a breathless “Amen!” -Sister could repeat this prayer and his manœuvres to perfection: “Oh, -Lord-ah, we have come here to night-ah, to crave thy mercy-ah”—thus -regaling us with reproductions of “Brother Aaron” and other eccentric -ones—when Mother was not near. Mother herself, though quiet in -testimony and prayer, would not let us ridicule those who were -not. There were three or four of the brethren and sisters of the -old-fashioned kind of Methodists, who were a boon to sleepy children; -but as I grew older I wearied of their stereotyped speeches, and felt a -repugnance to their emotional storms.</p> - -<p>In the home, at seasons of special religious fervour, we had family -prayers. There was something peculiarly satisfying to me in all of us -kneeling together while Father prayed. His prayers were controlled and -rational; I never felt uneasy when he prayed; while with Mother there -was always the fear that her voice would tremble, as it did when she -read touching passages in our Sunday-school books. I could not bear to -hear the tears come in her voice, for it meant we would all ultimately -break down and cry.</p> - -<p>Mother loved the Bible. How well she knew it! It was history, poetry, -and all literature to her. How interesting she made the stories when -telling them in her own words—the story of Ruth, of Queen Esther, of -Joseph<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span> and his coat of many colours—how inseparably these are linked -with Mother’s interpretations!</p> - -<p>She loved music, too, but none of her family could carry a tune, except -one brother who died in his youth. She would try so hard to sing, -“Hush, My Dear, Lie Still and Slumber,” usually getting the first two -lines pretty well, then would flounder around, unable to get the rest. -In church she would start out bravely to sing the “Doxology,” or “By -Cool Siloam’s Shady Rill,” or “There is a Land of Pure Delight,” but -would falter and have to stop entirely before the end of the first -stanza. I have seen her almost weep because she wanted so much to sing. -At first we laughed at her—it seemed so funny, and so easy to catch a -tune—but with her it was so serious a matter that I learned to pity -her.</p> - -<p>Unless Sister was watched throughout the church service, she would -excite the risibilities of all around by her antics and imitation of -the minister. Quick as a flash she would jump up on the seat, tiny mite -that she was, and flourish her arms as the speaker was doing. Mrs. -R——, the wife of a certain pastor who made very awkward gestures, -used to say it was bad enough to see the gestures themselves, but to -see them so perfectly reproduced was much too much; still she would -laugh about it till the tears ran down her cheeks. Kate would imitate -the twisting gait and fidgety manner of a sister of Father’s so well -that a neighbour seeing her would say, “There goes your Aunt Lucinda, -boiled down.”</p> - -<p>I learned early to while away the long sermons by reading Sunday-school -books, Mother remonstrating, but often ignoring the practice, for it -lightened her duties—she was thus sure of one of us being quiet during -services. If not reading, Arthur and I were bound to titter at Kate’s -pranks. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Who is this?” she would whisper, then pull down her face like old -Aaron Wilson in the side pew, or again like Brother Schermerhorn, or -saintly Sister Brown, or lugubrious Sister Stiles. She could look like -any of them in a jiffy, and we would nearly explode, while she was -tickled to get us in such an uncomfortable plight. Mother was often on -pins and needles lest we laugh outright in church.</p> - -<p>Sometimes it would please the minx to assume a demure, reverential -air throughout the entire service. Then we almost went into spasms. -She would turn the leaves of the Bible, rise, bow her head, and sing; -would place a hymn-book behind her, as the good sister in front of -us did, halfway through the sermon, to ease her back; would use her -handkerchief in a grown-up way—all apparently unaware of her giggling -brother and sister, except when she would turn upon us a pained, -reproving glance—usually the last straw for the poor camels.</p> - -<p>I kept up the habit of reading during services till the pastor -mentioned it so pointedly in Sunday School that I had to stop. When -the sermons interested me, I no longer cared to read. I recall three -of our ministers who were liberally educated for pastors in small -churches. One, in particular, a Scotch-Irishman, was an original -thinker, emotional, with a tumultuous Carlylean eloquence. He preached -remarkable sermons. Father and I followed his thought, I think, more -closely than any one else in the congregation. He seemed to feel this, -too, addressing us almost personally, sure of sympathetic attention. -Many of his stolid hearers had no idea “what he was driving at.” -Sometimes he would labour so to bring forth his thought that it was -painful to watch him—it was as though his mind was laid bare. Carried -away with the grandeur of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> a conception, he would wrestle with it, -conquer it, and finally unfold it. His influence on my mental and -religious nature (I was seventeen then) was unquestionable, but -unsettling, seeming to increase the chaotic state of my mind; at least, -it was during his “dynasty” that I became so unsettled—doubting and -trying to think a way out of the inconsistencies I was continually -coming upon.</p> - -<p>But earlier wanderings in the old paths claim their share in this -backward glance. Tenting at camp-meeting (Auburndale), perhaps four -times in all—not four years in succession, for that would have been -too great a boon—was a keen pleasure of our childhood. How we felt the -deprivation of the blank years! What a homesick longing for our tent in -the woods when the August days came round! The woods were perhaps five -miles away. It seemed a long journey. What fun to see the wagon piled -with bedding, furniture, and tinware; to see kettles dangling below; -to hear the rattle as we sat a-top of the heterogeneous array! Then -the ride along the sunny country road to the camp-grounds! I wonder if -a part of my fascination for gypsy wagons and the life of the Romanys -isn’t due to our own gypsying in the camp-meeting woods.</p> - -<p>Mother usually shared a tent with a certain good sister, an -old-fashioned fat countrywoman who was very devout and who made good -cookies. We liked her best for the last quality.</p> - -<p>How our hearts swelled as we neared the grounds and saw the high board -fence enclosing the sacred woods! Going nearer, we heard the singing as -the sound rose through the trees. The preacher’s stand, and the tents, -were down a steep hill from the road along which we came. Jumping -from the wagon, we would go in at the little gate, for the team had -to go a long way farther to enter the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span> big gate. Wild with delight we -bounded down the hill, shouting a greeting to the lame gatekeeper and -taking care not to trip on the long roots extending into the path. Our -exuberance was always checked, partly by admonitions from our elders, -partly by the spirit of the place—there was something in the sight of -those white tents among the trees and the voices of song and prayer -floating up to us that in themselves held us in check—but ah, the -smell of the woods, and the realization that we were to dwell there for -ten blissful days! Did ever children have a more beautiful experience?</p> - -<p>Then the hunting for our tent-site, the scrutiny of its -surroundings—its relation to the various places of interest; the fun -of getting settled; of seeing the stove put up; the tent raised on its -wooden platform; Mrs. Van Aiken’s queer little cord-bedstead set up; -and the funny makeshifts of housekeeping that Mother and her tent-mate -would devise. The mere sight of a familiar kettle or a “spider” hung -on a tree at the back door, the improvised wash-bench with leaves from -the beech trees falling on the soap-dish and into the water as we -washed—these simple things provoked the most delightful sensations and -made us so happy, so happy! It is a delight just to stop and think how -happy we were.</p> - -<p>In the morning there were the walks after milk to a neighbouring -farmhouse, and the smell of the breakfast cooking under the trees as -we returned. Mrs. Van Aiken’s fried pork and warmed-up potatoes made -our mouths water; we liked her best when she was doing these things. As -the day wore on she got absorbed in sermons and religious experiences, -and became “teary” and lugubrious, making us feel our unregeneracy at -the bubbling of our spirits; it was bad enough at dinner time, but at -supper—<i>Whew!!!</i> At<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> breakfast, however, she was livable and human. -Mother was sufficiently zealous, often uncomfortably so, but not -unbearably so, as was Mrs. Van Aiken when the religious leaven leavened -the whole lump (and she weighed near two hundred). But she did make -good fat cookies, bless her heart! She scowled if we lingered on the -way with the milk, and there was so much to make us linger, even with -breakfast at the end! Ah! the smell of the woods in the early morning! -There were the places deep in the woods where we were not supposed to -wander, but where we did sometimes wander later in the day in quest -of mandrakes (they made us sick, but we never ceased to seek them, -the sickish yellow things!). There were the yellow-jackets’ nests, -our especial bane—one year a troop of us, Sister in the lead, while -exploring forbidden territory, suddenly plunged into one of those -miniature hells and were beset by those flying fiends. Such howling as -arose from our savage breasts—the Methodist shouting was for once in -the shade! Six tortured little beings ran screaming to their tents, -half-blinded from swelling faces. Pandemonium reigned. Sister and the -Presiding Elder’s boy were stung the worst; her eyes were swollen shut; -her face was unrecognizable; she was frightful to behold, and her -hands looked like Mrs. Van Aiken’s fattest cookies. I was stung only a -little, but enough to know why the others howled so.</p> - -<p>We liked to jump from bench to bench in the large circle in front of -the preachers’ stand, when it was not sermon time, but some pious -brother or sister would usually come along and tell us to stop. -Sometimes Willie Ives, the Presiding Elder’s son, would creep up to -the pulpit and exhort us eloquently, but such pleasures were quickly -curtailed, and we were made to feel the meaning of the formidable word -“sacrilege.” </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span></p> - -<p>It was the custom of some to sing the blessing at breakfast. Hurrying -along with our milk-pail past the tents, we would hear men’s, women’s, -and children’s voices mingled as the family gathered around their -tables singing to the tune of “Doxology”:</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>We thank thee, Lord, for this our food,</div> -<div>But more because of Jesus’ blood;</div> -<div>Let manna to our souls be given—</div> -<div>The Bread of Life sent down from heaven.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>This usually had a subduing effect, as did the voices at family -devotions which issued through the tent-openings. But we were little -pagans after all, and many a time did not resist the temptation to -pluck at a woman’s skirt, or punch a foot, as we caught sight of them -under the half-rolled tent folds, while the occupants knelt in prayer.</p> - -<p>Not compelled to listen to the long morning and afternoon sermons, -except on Sundays, we had to attend evening services or go to bed. But -there was much to make them endurable, especially if a certain woman -“got the power.” And, anyhow, the scene was impressive out there in the -night, the tents gleaming in the distance, and the hymns and petitions -echoing under the trees.</p> - -<p>We went willingly to the Children’s Meetings, held after dinner in -a huge tent with its carpet of straw. Certain brethren and sisters -would address the children. Many an infant convert would “go forward” -amid great rejoicing. The singing and childish “experiences” were -interesting, though then our religious natures were fortunately but -slightly aroused. I would choke up and cry softly sometimes, but was -not deeply moved—the woods being a powerful rival at that early age.</p> - -<p>But one dear old lady (she seemed old even then) I <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span>always loved to -hear. She would come in at the side of the tent, Bible and camp-chair -in hand, stoop under the tentfolds, wade through the straw, which would -cling to her black skirt (the smell of straw always reproduces this -scene), place her blue Brussels camp-chair in front of us, and open -the meeting with, “Now, Children.” I can’t remember what else she used -to say, but that “Now, Children” was so intimate and confidential—not -sanctimonious like many who addressed us. Her voice was rich with -emotion, but controlled, so as not to make her listeners uncomfortable. -(Those good sisters whose voices were on the ragged edge of tears used -to irritate me; it seemed indecent; even in my most devout days I never -overcame my repugnance toward those who “went to pieces” when giving -testimony.) What she said to us day after day I forgot years ago, but -her face, her kindly comprehensive glance, and the inflections of her -voice became a part of my consciousness, deeply fixed in memory.</p> - -<p>Years later, soon after entering the hospital where my work has since -been, the poor soul was brought here as a patient. Going on the wards -one morning, note-book in hand, eager to take the history of the -patient admitted the previous night, I found dear old Sister Mifflin, -the same who had exhorted us at Children’s Meetings years before—no -older, it seemed to me, only more broken, pitiably broken.</p> - -<p>How the scene at Auburndale came back at the sight of her face, the -sound of her voice! She was just a feeble, whimpering old woman to -the others, but to me she was those dear, dark woods with the white -tents, the holy songs, Mother, Sister, Brother—Childhood! Such a -flood of recollections surged through me that I could only attempt a -few words of consolation and postpone my case-taking till under better -control. But I told her where I used to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> know her, and she brightened -pathetically at the word “Auburndale.” And here she was now, a child -among other gray-haired children who had lost their way, while the -Drumlin Child, whose feet she had tried to lead in the old paths, was -henceforth to guide her faltering steps to the journey’s end!</p> - -<p class="space-above">I remember the last time we tented at Auburndale an instance of -Mother’s watchful care that humiliated and incensed us then, but for -which I am grateful now: We were probably fourteen and fifteen years -old when, one evening, Sister and I and some other girls and boys -stole up through the little gate and outside the grounds to some -willows a short distance away. We knew it was wrong; the boys were -new acquaintances, unknown to Mother (sons of a man who later became -our pastor); besides, we were not supposed to go beyond the grounds -without permission. But with many misgivings we set out, feeling quite -like young ladies walking out with young men—a very delectable stolen -sweet we were nibbling! Sitting under the trees while the boys made -willow canes for us, tracing fantastic designs on them, we enjoyed -ourselves for a brief period. Presently an uncle of ours went by and, -greeting us, passed on to the camp-ground. The chatting and cane-making -continued. Twilight deepened, but it was still light enough to see -that which filled Sister and me with consternation and chagrin—Mother -coming down the road, bare-headed (in those days betokening great -haste) coming rapidly toward us, and—<i>with whips in her hand!</i></p> - -<p>With one accord we all arose and meekly followed her back to the -camp-ground. Something very like hatred stirred within us at the course -she had taken to show us before our new acquaintances that we were -still children<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span> and subject to her authority. Not that we questioned -her right to require us to return, but it seemed needlessly humiliating -to come after us with whips. I think we rebelled at her carrying the -whips, and that she finally dropped them.</p> - -<p>How crestfallen we all looked, the boys whittling the canes, and the -other girls probably seeing in ours a fate similar to their own! We got -a vigorous talking-to before we were sent to bed. Our uncle, it seems, -had alarmed Mother by saying that we were lounging under the willows -with a “lot of strange fellows.” This was a favourite trysting-place -for the young people whose devotion led them into these by-paths rather -than to the evening meetings. I can laugh now at our discomfiture and -at Mother’s wrath, but it was no laughing matter that August night so -long ago.</p> - -<p>I don’t know how old I was when I “experienced religion.” Reared from -infancy “in the nurture and admonition of the Lord,” there had been, -during childhood, a period of apparent indifference to such matters; -later one of acute interest; then the lull and reaction from the -excitement of a revival; then one of renewed and deepened interest, -followed by a gradual decline in religious observances, a creeping in -of doubt and unbelief; a period of acute suffering, extending probably -over three or four years (because I could no longer walk in the old -paths); then one of lonely wanderings in strange paths, till I finally -settled down to where I now find myself, though that state would be -hard to define. Of the length of these various periods, and the age at -which some of them occurred, I am uncertain.</p> - -<p>I was perhaps fifteen When I first became “converted.” There had been -premonitory symptoms a year or two <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span>before, at Auburndale, but the -real attack came one winter during a prolonged revival. Many of the -boys and girls “went forward” long before I did. Steeling my heart I -stayed at home and applied myself to my studies with increased zeal, -for Professor Durland, a Baptist, less carried away by the revival -than many others, although attending the meetings occasionally, had -talked wisely in school about religion, urging us to be temperate in -frequenting the meetings. He reminded us that all this emotion was not -religion, and that it was our duty as students to let nothing interfere -with our studies. I was impressed by what he said, but this religious -wave was sweeping over the town, and was hard to withstand. Two young -evangelists were there with gospel hymns, moving prayers, and engaging -ways of leading souls to the Lord. Every night witnessed the conversion -of sinners who, having groaned under the burden of the conviction of -sin, finally sought salvation.</p> - -<p>Night after night I studied at home when most of the young people -were thronging to the meetings; but finally I succumbed and went -forward, to the great joy of associates, parents, and friends. But -our principal’s admonitions still acted as a restraining force, and -kept me from yielding to the extreme emotionalism influencing so -many, young and old. Why, the girls got so they held prayer-meetings -at noon in an old stage-coach in the lumber-yard near the Academy! I -went once, but the incongruity so overcame my religious ardour that -I never went again. Still I was devout and had a pretty severe and -long-continued attack. My diaries at that time, were full of religious -yearnings and strivings. I read the Bible diligently, taking a “verse” -for guidance each day. I was religious in season and out of season. -After the revival had died down, many converts backslid, but with me -this religious <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span>experience was a steady thing, of varying phases, it is -true, but of tremendous importance for perhaps three years.</p> - -<p>During the height of the revival, when the other converts joined the -church, Sister and I, having been baptized in infancy, felt ourselves -defrauded of a part of the ceremony. So intent were we on being -baptized, we prevailed upon our parents, much against their wishes, -to consent to a repetition of the sacrament. Little sophists that we -were, we made it a point of conscience, our argument being the Biblical -injunction, “Repent and be baptized.” Baptized in infancy, before we -had anything to repent of, the cart had been put before the horse, and -we were not following the Scriptures. This view grieved our parents -who had given us to the Lord in holy baptism when we were babies. To -them it seemed wrong to set aside that sacrament for a later one, but -the strenuous converts, thinking they were acting from conscientious -motives, overruled parents and pastor.</p> - -<p>Of course “sprinkling” had been the form of baptism in infancy. Now -most of the converts were being immersed. Sister chose “immersion.” -There was still another form sanctioned by the Discipline, though -seldom used—“pouring.” This was to go down into the water and kneel -while the minister, dipping water from the stream, poured it upon the -convert’s head. As usual, seeking something distinctive, therefore -conspicuous (though quietly so), I chose to be “poured.” Not that I was -conscious of it then, but I see now that the desire to be different -from the herd was largely what influenced me in choosing that mode of -baptism. Moreover, I abhorred “immersion.” The sight of it outraged my -esthetic sense. It was such a sudden transition that I, as onlooker, -experienced: the gathering of the congregation at the water-side was -beautiful; the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span> holy songs seemed more holy there; the black-gowned -pastor and the convert wading out in the stream while the hymn was -being sung; the pause, the solemn words; the yielding body as the -minister started to immerse the convert—up to this point the scene -filled me with religious awe; but from that point onward it was most -repellent—the convert’s rigidity and the struggle at contact with -water; the determined push of the minister, as he forced the resisting -head under water; and the gasping, snorting, drowned-rat appearance of -the victim when pulled out—all this was hideous. So I was “poured,” -and it was a beautiful ceremony. But many a time since I have regretted -setting aside the earlier sacrament so revered by my parents. And -yet, how can I regret it when I remember the strange, beatific mood -induced that day by the sacred rite? It lasted several hours. I have -never experienced anything like it before or since. It was hard to -come down to practical matters on reaching home. I went about helping -to get dinner in a kind of dream-state, eager to have the work out of -the way, so I could be alone and think over the beautiful solemnity of -it all. It was a real uplift of my introspective little soul, and very -beautiful while it lasted.</p> - -<p>Dressing myself that afternoon with great care, Bible in hand, I -visited a sick neighbour. She had a bad-smelling, untidy house which -I always disliked to enter, though often sent there by Mother with -delicacies. I think it was in a spirit of real self-sacrifice that I -required this of myself that day. Probably nowadays, under a similar -beneficent impulse, I should put on a suitable gown and go and clean -her house; but then I was under the spell of stories of pious maidens -who read the Bible to sick people. I can’t recall whether I actually -read to her that day, but do recall how the dingy house smelled. In -the door-yard was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> a bush of dainty pink roses, and, as she sometimes -told me to pick one, I hope she did then. It seemed queer that the only -place in town where those exquisite roses grew was in that unlovely -yard, amid those sordid surroundings.</p> - -<p>Religion was for a long time thereafter the guiding influence of my -life. Conscientious and devout, I was consumed with the desire to -be useful. Out of school I helped with the housework at home and at -Grandma’s, and helped Father in the Post Office. I do not recall much -recreation. Though sentimental, most of my sentiment took a religious -turn.</p> - -<p>The Presiding Elder and other clergymen were entertained in our home -during those years, and the silver Communion service was kept with us. -To polish this before Quarterly meetings was one of my duties; and to -prepare the bread in long strips for Communion, and in the little cubes -for Love Feast. One Communion Sunday, being indisposed and staying at -home alone, when the time came for the sacrament to be administered, I -read aloud the solemn service from the Discipline, sang, then knelt, -devoutly partaking of the bread and water (in place of wine). The hour -was a real means of grace to me. I have never divulged this before. -Much as it meant to me then, I find in myself now a tendency to -ridicule that strange little creature, and to wonder if it was not a -partial pose, albeit at the time she thought herself sincere.</p> - -<p class="space-above">I recall that during the revival at which I was converted Father -took an active part, though in a more moderate way than many of the -brethren and sisters. During the singing of gospel hymns, the workers -would go up and down the aisles and, by a sort of intuitive knowledge, -seek out those<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> “under conviction,” urging the obdurate ones to go -forward and confess Christ. One night after they had sung the hymn -that begins tenderly: “Why do you wait, dear brother? Why do you tarry -so long?” the refrain being, “Why not, why not, why not come to Him -now?” the workers sought to lead the penitents to the Throne of Grace. -The crowded house, vibrant with religious fervour, the reiterated -invitation, the contrite sinners making their way forward, were -powerful appeals to others with whom the Holy Spirit was striving. As -the last words of the hymn died away, Father, stepping up to a certain -townsman, and putting his hand on his shoulder, looked in his face -appealingly and asked, “Why not, Wilbur?” I recall the man’s stern look -as he struggled for further resistance, Father’s quiet, persuasive -tones, and, at length, the actual yielding of the man’s body as the -tension relaxed, and they came down the aisle together, the man shaking -with sobs, while the happy tears streamed down Father’s face.</p> - -<p>One particular Love Feast stands out in memory. In fact I never -went to many; they were held too early in the morning. At this one -a loud-mouthed local preacher (whose reputed private life was much -at variance with his professed religion) held forth at great length -about the wrath of God, the fear of God, and the unending punishment -God would visit upon those who kept not his Commandments. He was a -burly, blustering man who worked himself up into a state of tremendous -physical excitement during exhortations. As he sat down, breathless, -with red, sweaty face and tumbled hair, Father arose and in a few -quiet words said that the God he worshipped was a God of love; that -he liked to think of the love, not the fear, of God. Beautiful and -memorable this recollection, and all the more so that Father so seldom -expressed his religious feelings<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> in public, although he frequently -addressed the congregation at the close of the sermon, on financial -matters. It fell to him to stir up the people when there were extra -expenses to be met, church repairs to be made, and the minister’s -salary raised. Generous of time and money, he accepted the trusteeship -with the zeal that characterized him in whatever he undertook. Stating -concisely the needs, he would so plead with the congregation as to -stir up the apathetic members, sometimes fairly talking the money out -of the pockets of those whose purse-strings were tightly drawn. It was -a study to see him play upon the different ones by earnest appeal, -by gleams of humour, by eloquent pauses—his own enthusiasm, as he -announced the sums subscribed, egging others, and still others, on to -announce their grudging subscriptions. He should have been a lawyer. -What a special pleader he would have made! If he had been able to -exercise the same gifts in his own business interests, he would not -always have had to contend with the ogre, Economy. But there seemed -little self-seeking in him; his commercial spirit was never strong; his -zeal could not be aroused for personal gain, only for some Cause into -which he could throw heart and soul. I remember well his weary looks -after such sessions were over, especially if the needed amount had not -been raised. On reaching home he would unburden himself of scorn and -indignation at the parsimonious ones who had sat unmoved when the needs -of the Church were so urgent.</p> - -<p>Against the obnoxious local preacher before mentioned, Sister and I had -a special grievance: While standing one day on the creek bridge, when -he and some boys were below, fishing, we had heard him say an obscene -word as a fish got off his hook. Indignant to our finger tips, we -walked on, harbouring this in righteous wrath. And shortly after<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> that, -when he was assisting the pastor at Communion, Sister and I tacitly -agreed to stay away from the altar rather than be ministered unto by -him. Noting our failure to commune, and meeting us on the street later, -he questioned us. Kate took the initiative but we were both terrible in -our wrath. We told him we did not care to take the bread and wine from -one who talked as he did on week-days. Astonished, he inquired what we -meant; concerned and uncomfortable, he seemed divided between wanting -to know and dreading to hear. Kate said she would not repeat such talk, -but that she heard it herself on the creek bridge when he was fishing. -He looked very cheap. Having reproved this whited sepulchre, the -offended misses went disdainfully on their way. I suppose that was the -least of his sins. I fancy he felt relieved that it was nothing worse -we knew about him. Later his conduct became notorious, but he never had -more inflexible accusers than those stern maidens who upbraided him -that Sunday.</p> - -<p>Another Communion service, probably before this, stands out vividly. It -was when I was having doubts and waverings about acceptance as a child -of God, when, in Methodist parlance, I was “falling from grace.” That -day, sitting through the service, seeing altar-full after altar-full -kneel, commune, rise, and “go in peace,” I had said to myself, “I -will not go.” Steeling my heart, I sat upright, conscious of Mother’s -questioning glances, but apparently unmoved. After the congregation -had communed, the choir-members went to the altar-rail, and as the -sparse gathering knelt there, and the last notes of the hymn died away, -instead of immediately passing the bread and wine, the minister and -the young evangelist paused to see if others would come. Although the -evangelist made a moving appeal, still was I determined not to go and, -anyhow, having waited so long,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> I was too embarrassed to go. The choir -communed and left the altar. It was the last chance. No, the evangelist -still stood there, and in a few earnest words besought any who were -hanging back to come. I knew he meant me, still I tried to withstand. -In conclusion he said, “While the choir is singing the next hymn, I -know God will soften your heart and you will come”:</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>“Just as I am, without one plea,</div> -<div>But that thy blood was shed for me,</div> -<div>And that thou bidd’st me come to thee,</div> -<div>Oh, Lamb of God, I come, I come!”</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Melted by the singing, broken and contrite, alone I went and knelt -at the altar-rail. I can remember just how glad and gentle his voice -sounded; and how soothing it was as the evangelist placed his hand upon -my bowed head and prayed for the young sister who had tried in vain to -turn away the Holy Spirit. One other girl, moved by my example, came -sobbing to the altar, too—one who always followed my lead.</p> - -<p>In justice to myself I must say that there was no pose this time. I -did not want to be singled out in this way, for I abhorred betrayal of -emotion in public; to be the centre of a scene like this was painful to -me. Nevertheless, there was a great peace in my heart as I arose and -returned to our pew.</p> - -<p>When zealous young converts join the Methodist Church and “renounce the -Devil and all his works,” they give little heed to such renunciation, -only to learn later, as their religious fervour subsides, and -their social needs assert themselves, that the Discipline regards -card-playing and dancing as the works of his Satanic Majesty. I -remember when my sister was inveigled by some unconverted boys and -girls into playing cards, how I laboured with her with but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span> poor -results. She refrained for a time, but soon again succumbed to the -pastime. It makes me smile to recall how long it took me to regard -those wicked-looking cards as an innocent amusement. Not caring for -them, however, they were never a temptation to me, and I found myself -distinctly bored when by the occasional playing of Hearts I declared my -independence. I never could learn Whist or Euchre. But dancing, because -more pleasurable, seemed more wicked; and, little by little, I yielded -to the seductions of the violin and the quadrille when, at an evening -party, dancing would form the wind-up. But I never learned to dance -well. Too self-conscious, the few times that I indulged in it in those -days I suffered so from remorse that it was a questionable pleasure.</p> - -<p>Toward spring, after the revival at which we had been converted, we -attended a party given by a boy whose father owned the Masonic Hall. It -was an innocent affair with dancing and light refreshments. I imagine -we were home in our beds before midnight. But a few nights later, at -a church sociable, one of the good sisters of the church, attacking -a group of us, berated us soundly for attending a dance in a public -hall, thus forsaking Christ and espousing the Devil and all his works. -Her unjust, intemperate, and tactless accusations made me regard the -whole matter more rationally than I had theretofore. Through gossip our -little party had grown beyond all recognition. It was characterized as -a public dance. Without any foundation whatever it had been asserted -that we had had supper at the hotel—a thing reprehensible in itself; -that wine had been passed; that Sister had tasted it, but that I had -refused it. Whoever had so falsified had done it skilfully, as Kate -was then more inclined to dip into the untried than I. But we had been -near no hotel, and did<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> not know the taste or sight of wine, except the -unfermented “wine” used at Communion.</p> - -<p>This rigour of our church discipline concerning amusements which I -had come to regard as innocent pleasures, made me loth to continue -belonging to a body placing such strictures upon its members. Many -church members danced and played cards without compunction, but I was -strenuously opposed to belonging to anything to which I could not -heartily subscribe and obey to the letter. So when, a year or more -later, I left home, I requested that my name be taken from the church -books. Reluctant to accede to this request, the pastor urged me to take -a church letter, but I refused, determined not to begin my new life by -professing what I no longer believed or practised; I wanted to start -with a clean slate, since I no longer conformed to the rulings of the -church.</p> - -<p>Emancipation from the old teachings and beliefs came about gradually -and painfully. When first assailed by doubts as to teachings and -traditions formerly accepted unquestioningly, I had tried to talk them -over with Mother, but her unreasoning faith irritated me. Unable to -command my temper, I was narrowly and harshly critical; her devoutness, -her intuitions, her faith all irritated me, counting for almost nothing -with me then, when I wanted something to satisfy my reason; wanted -to reconcile the conflict between orthodox teachings, and the truths -of science as I was coming upon them in my studies. Moreover, I was -tenderly attached to the Old Paths, and Mother’s manifestations of -feelings I was trying to stifle only increased my intolerance.</p> - -<p>The church members no longer rent the same pews year after year. -Now when I go home I look in vain for the old families, or their -representatives, in their accustomed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span> places. Scattered here and -there throughout the congregation, like lost sheep, I see a few of -the brethren and sisters who in the early days sat with us “under the -droppings of the sanctuary.” I would like to see them once again in the -places that knew them in those long-gone days; would like to sit with -Father and Mother in our own pew; join in the hymns, and once again -feel at home in the old church; for, however far I have wandered from -the old paths, they must always be sacred to me.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER V</span> <span class="smaller"><span class="smcap">“As Twig Is Bent”</span></span></h2> - -<p>The books one reads in childhood and youth are, of course, among the -most potent formative influences of those periods. My post-Mother-Goose -reading consisted largely of the Child’s Bible, later the Bible -itself, and the goody-good Sunday-school books, two or three of Miss -Alcott’s, and whatever else I could find in my browsings. How I -have cried over the Elsie books and rejoiced over the Gypsy books! -Mad-cap Gypsy Breynton and pious Elsie Dinsmore were real beings to -me. Sunday afternoons I would read by the west window with the door -leading upstairs at just a convenient distance, so that when I found -my emotions getting the upper hand, I could at one step open the door, -slip upstairs and weep in secret over the woes of my little heroines. -I thought the others had no inkling what that sudden plunge meant, but -my acute little sister soon learned, and one dreadful Sunday, when -I was making a desperate move for the stairway before the torrent -should burst, she called out mischievously, “Genie, what are you going -upstairs for? It’s warmer down here.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Eugenia, it is too cold for you to sit upstairs,” Mother -intervened. With this sudden centring of attention on me at such a -crucial time, the clouds burst, the situation was revealed, and I -was permitted to go up and have it out. Bitter were my tears. It was -exceedingly painful to be seen thus moved. Such things should be -suffered in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> secret. When, shamefaced, I returned to the sitting-room, -Sister was not too deep in her book to shoot me a knowing glance, -though she had evidently been instructed to hold her peace. After that -I would feel the storm coming afar off. I learned to rise calmly; -to open the door with less precipitation; sometimes even making -an indifferent comment on leaving the room. So deliberate were my -movements, I flattered myself that no one suspected I was withdrawing -from the family circle in order to dissolve in tears. I would even -open a bureau drawer in hopes they would hear the sound through the -stove-pipe hole and think I had gone up after something. Oh, the poor, -thin artifices of childhood! Looking back and seeing how pitiful they -were, an added tenderness wells up within me for my parents who so -wisely and kindly refrained from letting me see that my little devices -were so ineffectual.</p> - -<p>There was no village library, though a Temperance Club supplied a -circulating one of which I availed myself till I learned to use the -Academy library. Then, too, I was a great borrower of books, although -we probably had more in our house than the average family in the town; -these I read over and over. “Robinson Crusoe” and “The Arabian Nights,” -I read surreptitiously in school. I revelled in “The Lady of the Lake,” -and “Aurora Leigh.” I was wont to combine reading and housework to the -detriment of the latter. While ironing sheets and towels I managed to -read at the same time, with long waits between the movements of the -iron—unless Mother came suddenly into the room, when I started up -briskly, sometimes having to fold inside a scorched place where the -iron had rested too long. Many a poem have I committed to memory at the -ironing-board.</p> - -<p>Father started to buy the American Cyclopædia when I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span> was very young—a -big undertaking, for they cost five dollars a volume. The volumes came -slowly, but we rejoiced whenever a new one was added to the row. It was -annoying enough, though, to step up to the book case and find that we -had only got to O or P, when we needed volumes containing S or T.</p> - -<p>As a girl I had a pastime of my own, a kind of mental book-collecting: -Going along the streets I would say to myself, “What books will you -have from this house?—you may have any three you choose.” Then the fun -would begin. At Grandpa’s were “Timothy Titcomb’s Letters,” and “Bitter -Sweet,” and a queer little book called “Aristotle’s Masterpiece”; at an -uncle’s were Walton’s “Compleat Angler,” “Reveries of a Bachelor,” and -“Lewie, or The Bended Twig”; at an aunt’s was “Right and Wrong, or She -Told the Truth at Last”—a fascinating big, green-covered book that I -used to weep over, pitying the heroine entangled in an intricate web -of deceit. At another aunt’s were “Wells’s Science of Common Things” -and “Sexual Science; or Love, its Powers and Uses,” by O. S. Fowler. -I valued the “Science of Common Things” because it asked and answered -questions about a lot of things I thought I ought to know, and did not -know, and never could study out, even with the help of physics—always -a hard study for me; and I liked the book of Fowler’s because it dealt -with the alluring subject in a lofty and, as I thought then, scientific -way. At still another aunt’s “Pilgrim’s Progress” and Byron’s Poems -leaned confidingly against each other, except when I disturbed them. -Bunyan was the favourite then, and for that matter is yet. At the homes -of neighbours and friends were many coveted treasures—the Embury -Poems, “Physiognomy and Signs of Character” (this I borrowed for months -at a time), Moore’s Melodies,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> Longfellow’s Poems, Shakespeare, “Fern -Leaves,” and many more. I thought one man in town very literary because -he had all of E. P. Roe’s works; at one time “Barriers Burned Away” and -“Opening of a Chestnut Bur” seemed wonderful productions, and (I may -as well confess it) I adored the novels of Mary Jane Holmes. Though -forbidden to read them, I borrowed them of our slatternly red-haired -neighbour, devouring them on the sly. I read “Darkness and Daylight” -twice or thrice, and five or six others by the same author. The only -times I can remember Father’s voice raised in sternness to me were when -he caught me absorbed in novels by that wicked Mrs. Holmes. (Mother -told me he himself once sat up all night at a hotel to read “Lena -Rivers,” and that he had wanted to name me “Lena.”)</p> - -<p>Dr. Dio Lewis was born near our village. One of my schoolmates was -related to him (and one to the wicked “Mary Jane”—I, alas! had no -illustrious kin); she lent me two of his books: “Our Girls” and -“Chastity.” I believe I am indebted to them for a wholesome interest in -physiology and physical life, and for a sudden turning from forbidden -things learned in childhood. I think it was the reading of them that -engendered a repugnance to unchaste thoughts and conversation—a -repugnance that the majority of my schoolmates did not have, and that, -for a certain period, I did not have, for I engaged in talk and stories -and conduct that later made me blush to recall. After reading Dio Lewis -I can remember refusing to stay in the midst of girls who insisted on -telling improper stories. Many a time I have been ridiculed for my -uncompromising attitude, and many a time in later years have had to -check women in their recitals of such stories, though making both them -and myself uncomfortable by a seeming pharisaical<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> attitude. I would -try to lessen the embarrassment by telling them that these things were -likely to come unbidden to the mind, polluting by unwelcome, unchaste -recollections our sweetest experiences—all of which I learned in the -Dio Lewis books.</p> - -<p>I recall this man’s once lecturing in our town; he was the first author -I had ever seen and I was somewhat disappointed to find him so like -other folk. On that occasion he confessed to some human weaknesses, -such as eating pumpkin-pie late at night—he, the High Priest of -Hygiene, lightly and shamelessly confessing this, when advice to the -contrary had been so clear in his books! In my ignorance of life I was -startled to learn that one could so earnestly preach one thing and so -lightly practise the opposite. I thought him somewhat of a fraud. I was -getting my eyes opened, and the light hurt.</p> - -<p>There was a time when I was under the spell of the poems of Emma -C. Embury, whoever she was. I borrowed a copy of her poems from a -neighbour who lent me the poems of Longfellow in quaint thin volumes; -but those of Emma C. Embury—how beautiful they seemed! Most of them -were sad; that was why I liked them:</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>Love’s first step is upon the rose</div> -<div class="i1">His second finds the thorn,</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>was the burden of one; of another:</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>The gathered rose and the stolen heart</div> -<div class="i1">Can charm but for a day.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>I would improvise tunes to these verses when I could get away by -myself, preferably down by the creek in the heart of my big willow; -but if not there, then down in Grandma’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> cellar, while she discreetly -stayed upstairs, never betraying by word or look her awareness of -anything going on below except the tiresome churning, for which she -pretended to pity me. Was she laughing in her sleeve all the time? It -would have hurt to know it then but would be a delight now if I were -sure that her hours of toil were lightened by quiet amusement at my -expense.</p> - -<p>Those sentimental, love-lorn pieces I affected at a time when my -days were so full of sunshine that I had to seek artificial gloom. -My greatest favourites among this melancholy poet’s verses were “The -Mother,” and “The Lonely One”—long poems, but I believe I could say -every word of them now, even without the aid of the churn-dasher. The -first pictured a young mother revelling in the beauty of her baby boy. -Then comes his illness and the harrowing scene as she realizes she is -to be bereft. As I recited the lines, I used to feel her rapt devotion -and her piteous grief. I identified myself with “The Lonely One” in -the same way—a love-lorn, unattractive damsel “on whose spirit genius -poured its rays,” who lived through the bitterness of seeing her hero -marry another, and then, his wife having died, turn to her for comfort, -entreating her love, just as Death was about to claim her:</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i11">She died,</div> -<div>Yet as a day of storms will ofttimes sink</div> -<div>With a rich burst of sunlight at its close,</div> -<div>Thus did the rays of happiness illume</div> -<div>Her parting spirit.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>By this time my eyes would be suffused and my voice tremulous; but the -butter had come, and Grandma would come down-cellar and pour a little -cold water into the churn to help the butter “gather”; and despite Emma -C.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> Embury and her ill-fated maidens, I would drink copiously of that -most delicious beverage, butter-milk from Grandma’s little red churn.</p> - -<p>It was a heterogeneous lot of books that I read the last four years in -school—there was perhaps more system during the last two—and though I -had little discrimination myself, I was aggrieved if the interference -of parents or teachers took the form of anything more positive than -suggestion.</p> - -<p>How fascinating I found the historical novels of Louise Mühlbach! What -cared I if they were not reliable as history? I turned unwillingly -from them to Scott at the earnest solicitation of my teachers. The -“Correspondence between Goethe and Bettina” made a deep impression -upon me. I should like to see the identical copy I read; it opened up -a new world. And a translation of Faust by Agnes Swanwick, moved me -strangely. I copied favourite passages from it in a blank book, conning -them again and again. Faust’s apostrophe to the radiant moonlight -would put me in an exalted mood whenever I read it, especially the -latter part: “Oh! that I might wander on the mountain tops in thy -loved light—hover with spirits around the mountain caves, flit over -the fields in thy glimmer, and, disencumbered from all the fumes -of knowledge, bathe myself sound in thy dew!” I copied sentimental -passages in German script. I would have blushed to have it known how -much I liked this:</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>His stately step,</div> -<div>His noble form;</div> -<div>The smile of his mouth,</div> -<div>The power of his eyes,</div> -<div>And of his speech the witching flow;</div> -<div>The pressure of his hand,</div> -<div>And, Ah, his kiss!</div> -</div></div></div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span></p> -<p>But there was no one in my little world that answered to all these -things—somewhere, some day, I might meet such a being. I was in no -hurry. Enough to know that such things had been and would be again. -Poor little Dreamer! silly little Dreamer! and all the time she was -pretending, even to herself, that she did not care for love or lovers; -that they were never to be a part of her life; that she never wanted to -marry, never would; and that she meant to live a much more serious and -useful life than one of mere married happiness.</p> - -<p>It was a perverse, contradictory inner and outer life I lived at the -ages of sixteen and seventeen, yes, and on into the twenties; no girl -ever thought more about love and possible lovers than I, yet I felt -they were never to be really for me. Even my day-dreams had barriers -interposed. I wonder if this is not unusual—do not other dreamers -dream things as they want them—when everything can be rose-colour -for the mere wishing? Is it customary, I wonder, to let dark clouds -overcast the dream-sky? As I think of it, I wonder if it was not a -kind of prescience of what the reality would be. Anyhow, as far back -as I can remember thinking of these things, mingled with the whims, -sentimentalities, and insincerities of the adolescent period, was a -conviction of these two things: that love was the greatest, the most -wonderful thing in the world, and that there would be some barrier -always to my knowing all that it might mean.</p> - -<p class="space-above">Besides the books I read, I can trace other influences that had their -part in bending the twig in the way it was to grow. In the early ’teens -Brother and I helped Father in the Post Office, out of school hours, -an occupation profitable in many ways. I had much leisure there for -reading,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> was trained to accuracy and alertness in the office-work, and -learned a good deal about human nature. The requirements furnished a -needed corrective to my tendency to dream—I could still dream, but had -to <i>do</i>, also. It was a matter of pride between Brother and me to see -how rapidly we could distribute the mail; how quickly deliver it when -the box-numbers were called out; and how well we could remember just -what letters were in the General Delivery.</p> - -<p>I was vain, too. I can remember how gratified I was at occasional words -of approbation I heard concerning my efficiency; and when crowds of -men and boys would be standing outside waiting for the distribution -of the mail while Father, Brother, and I would be darting here and -there to put the letters and papers in the boxes, trying at the same -time to keep out of one another’s way, I would think with pride that -I was helping just as much as the others were; and what a “smart -girl” I was to be doing it, too. My cheeks would flush, and I felt a -diminutive sense of power: all these persons waiting for something <i>we</i> -were doing; we held in our hands letters fraught with happiness, with -disappointment, with sorrow. I liked to have them crowd around and peer -at us through the windows and from the door in the rear that led to the -“store”; and when the work was done, and the public was at liberty to -inquire for mail, I just doted on reaching through the tiny window and -taking in the little green sign bearing the legend, “Distributing the -Mail.” And the self-centred Miss was aware just how her hand and wrist -must look as they reached through and lifted the sign from the hook -outside the window. (I forgot in cataloguing my unattractive “points” -to mention in extenuation that I did have a pretty arm and hand, and -actually discovering the fact myself, took a keen satisfaction<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> in -the discovery. Perhaps this was not all vanity, as I am especially -susceptible to beauty of form and line, wherever seen.)</p> - -<p>In looking back upon my life it seems to have been a strange, -contradictory mixture of sincerity and duplicity. I longed, -passionately longed, for sincerity and openness, anything else tortured -me; and yet I can see how influences seemed always at work to foster -complexity and duplicity.</p> - -<p>To begin with, I was always fond of playing a part. Beginning as -children do, we played at ghosts. Wrapped in sheets at twilight, -we peered into the neighbours’ windows to startle them. But I soon -wanted something less crude. One day in my early ’teens, dressing as a -beggar, I went to the houses in our street asking for “cold pieces.” -At first it was a failure, as either I or the others would giggle and -spoil it all. Finally, stipulating that the others keep out of sight, -I went alone to the Widow Earle’s and told a pitiful tale, and the -unsuspicious old soul gave me a slice of her new bread, just out of the -oven. Blessing her, I hobbled away, munching the bread under my veil. -Soon we all scampered back in great glee, confessing to the widow, who -relished the joke far less than I did the bread—no woman likes to cut -into her warm bread, then to find she has been hoodwinked! No wonder -she was cross!</p> - -<p>Each time I tried something harder. One day when visiting in the -country, I dressed as a beggar, and going to a neighbour’s, while the -good housewife was in the pantry getting me something to eat, stole her -spectacles, took my food and went my way. Returning shortly after, with -the other girls, I delivered the spectacles to the incredulous victim -of my hoax. Then, in high feather I tackled a newly married elderly -pair at the next farm, concocting my story<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> on the spot and enjoying -keenly their gullibility: I was destitute, was journeying afoot to my -daughter in a distant town, naming a town on the spur of the moment. -They asked my daughter’s name. Chancing to give the name of a new girl -who had come to school that week, I myself met with a surprise, for -the man said, “Why, <i>I</i> know the Godfreys of Groton!” Quickly I begged -him for news of my daughter, and asked about her husband whom I had -never seen, catechizing him awhile, so he would let up on me, as their -questions were proving quite a tax on my ingenuity. As I sat there -after having lunched on pears and a glass of milk, which the deluded -couple had given me, the other girls, impatient at my long stay, came -down the road. The sympathetic farmer by that time was partly hitched -up to take me as far on my way as the next village. As the girls came -tentatively into the yard, my unsuspecting victims called out to them -to come and have their fortunes told, dilating on the wonderful things -I had told them. (I had done this to pay for my luncheon.) I don’t -recall how the revelation came about, but I soon stood confessed, a -sham beggar, while the man and his wife looked sheepishly at me, and at -each other, at the mocking girls and the half-harnessed horses.</p> - -<p>Graver instances of duplicity I have to record concerning a planchette -craze, rife in our neighbourhood when I was perhaps fifteen. Although -we had had a planchette in the house for years, and I had heard how -it was supposed to write, it had long lain neglected, none of us -showing either curiosity or credulity concerning it. Our planchette -was a heart-shaped piece of black walnut, large enough for the tips of -the fingers of two hands to rest upon. Mounted upon two gutta-percha -castors fastened to short brass legs, the third leg was formed by a -lead-pencil stuck through a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> hole in the apex of the heart. When the -right hands of two persons rest lightly on the planchette, the muscular -tremor, I suppose, makes the machine move over the paper placed -beneath. Some supernatural agency was supposed to make the thing reply -to questions asked by someone present.</p> - -<p>I can’t recall how we happened to start experimenting with it, but -during one winter, night after night, neighbours and friends gathered -at our house to watch the thing write. It was rather uncanny to see it -travel, fast for some, slower for others, not at all for certain ones. -After a time we detected crude attempts at words, but there were many -trials before any satisfactory results were obtained.</p> - -<p>I wish I could recall just how my part in it began, and how much -of my conduct was conscious deception, how much self-deception. My -impression now is that at first, especially, I was to a great extent -self-deceived, although that I was by no means wholly so, I am well -aware. At any rate, it gradually came about that the planchette would -write the best for me and a certain boy in the neighbourhood, but, he -being absent, almost as well if I was one of the operators.</p> - -<p>We were closely watched to see that there was no guidance of the -thing—that no perceptible movements of our hands or arms were made. -Sometimes they even blindfolded us, for there were always incredulous -ones in the company. These would take a turn at it, and would admit -that I did not move it; they were sure I did not. <i>But I did move -it</i>, whether consciously, with my muscles, or not, I’m not quite sure -myself. I know I determined what the answers were to be, and willed -that the thing should so answer; and, although there seemed to be -little opportunity for actually directing the movements without my -partner<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> detecting it, I think I did do it, artfully and successfully; -and, little hypocrite that I was! pretended to be surprised at the -answers; or at a loss to make them out. Some of the others usually -deciphered the scrawlings, I helping out, occasionally, on a pinch; -and then we would all shout at the unexpectedness and aptness of the -replies.</p> - -<p>My parents never suspected me. As I think back on those times I see -how deep within my nature must have been the tendency to deception: of -all the crowd of young persons and adults that gathered around that -mysterious little instrument, I believe I was the only one at all -conscious of deceit being at work; and further, I believe I would have -been the last one to be suspected. My parents and the other adults -were intelligent persons, not prone to vulgar credulity; they did not -pretend to understand the writing, yet knew there was no spiritualistic -explanation—Mother would have burned the thing had any one said that -seriously, though we used to jest about the “spooks” making it go. It -was with living persons and issues that our questions dealt, and we -found it a fascinating amusement.</p> - -<p>I remember how they used to try to test it; how my parents would ask -names and things about family history that they thought no one in the -room but they themselves knew or remembered. One of these tests was to -ask for my maternal grandmother’s maiden name. It was usually spoken of -as Eunice Gear (her adopted name), but they forgot that I had noted and -remembered her romantic story, and knew her real name (Albro) as well -as I did my own. And here is where my double-dyed hypocrisy comes in: -I willed the thing to write “Eunice Albro” and, whether consciously or -unconsciously, I cannot now say, guided the movement of the machine in -the formation of the letters; but, watching it, as “Albro” was being -written, I cried out,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> feigning surprise, “Why, that isn’t right—it -isn’t writing Grandma’s name!” Father and Mother, watching eagerly, -hushed me up, and the thing wrote “Albro,” instead of “Gear.” Excited -and mystified, Father explained to the onlookers about Grandma’s early -abduction, adding that the children had probably always heard her -spoken of by the name of her foster parents. This was often cited as -the most signal triumph Planchette had to its credit. It was but one of -my many conscious intrigues with the little machine. Often, of course, -the answers were evasive or ambiguous, but I made them definite when I -could, and then they were very convincing.</p> - -<p>One night a young woman spectator asked a silent question. This -disturbed, but did not nonplus me. I knew she was having a love affair -whose course was not running smoothly, so made the oracle declare:</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>“<i>There’s many a slip</i></div> -<div><i>’Twixt the cup and the lip</i>,”</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>and although she laughed it away and said there was no sense in the -answer, subsequent events showed that I probably hit the nail on the -head. Much later I learned that a real tragedy for her was going on at -that very time. And there was that poor girl depending on such flimsy -help as this for solution of her difficulties! I tremble when I think -what indirect harm such practices may work—palmistry, and other occult -things—with impressionable, uncritical minds, swayed powerfully by the -hit-and-miss guesses of these worthless oracles.</p> - -<p>This craze continued all one winter. It was great fun, but I wearied -of it after a while. And what makes me know that I was more than -vaguely conscious of my own deception is that on “experiencing -religion” I changed so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> in my feelings about the pastime. After that, -when planchette-writing was proposed, I recoiled from it, refusing -or evading requests for the experiments, and somehow finally managed -to put a quietus on the career of the little instrument. I think I -even appeared to comply with their requests occasionally, but did -not will the thing to write, and, several failures dampening the -interest, the thing was dropped—Planchette was again relegated to the -upstairs closet. For years I never came upon the little heart-shaped -affair without a feeling almost of nausea at the part I had taken -in the mysterious writing. Thereafter it was painful to hear others -recounting, in good faith, the wonderful things it had done.</p> - -<p>Harmless as were these pastimes on the whole, it is in their deeper -significance that the gravity lies. They betray innate and grave faults -of character—a capacity for artful duplicity which grew by what it fed -upon, each triumph leading to other, more elaborate experiments. How it -would pain my parents to learn that I had been such a gay deceiver when -they thought me a demure little mouse! The experience has shown me how -easy it is, too, to delude one’s self, as well as to dupe others. I can -see how “mediums,” and all who deal in occult matters, may evolve into -veritable frauds, though starting out in the utmost good faith.</p> - -<p>For some years after most of the girls wore bangs or curled their hair -I resolutely refused to do it, on the ground that it was artificial. -Though longing for wavy hair falling softly over my high forehead, -I would not curl it—it was false, the whole idea was wrong; Nature -had denied me natural curls, and I would suffer the sight of my plain -face in the glass rather than employ artificial means to relieve its -plainness. But—when about seventeen, I did<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> begin to curl my hair, -my awakening feminine instincts, I suppose, getting the better of my -principles, such as they were. I disapproved of artificial flowers, and -for years would not wear them on my hats; but there came a time when -I weakened in this, though the flowers must be of the best—the most -natural-looking to be had.</p> - -<p>I can see now a significance back of these seemingly trivial things: -they reveal an unenviable complexity of nature. In first one thing, -then another, I have stood out against conforming to customs, if my own -ideas of right and wrong prohibited me, but alas! so often has come -the ultimate defeat—concessions to conventions, customs, overpowering -circumstances, or instincts. And, when finally yielding to that so long -withstood, I have pursued the opposite course with an almost equal -determination to make a success of the counterfeit; to give, as far as -possible, an impression of genuineness. If I curled my hair, the curls -must be as natural as possible. And the same principle has been carried -into less trivial matters. A legitimate outlet for my ingrained mimetic -and dramatic tendency would have been the stage.</p> - -<p class="space-above">When as a child I had sat on my father’s lap and coaxed him to tell -me where I came from, I had no idea of the correct answer to my -question. Though I do not remember how he answered me, I think I -may have persisted in my query because I was beginning to see the -inconsistencies and absurdities of the stories told me, but this is -purely conjecture. I remember the older schoolgirls telling me strange, -incredible things for a time, then later, one dreadful day, explaining -more correctly the real origin of babies. Shocked and horrified by -their talk, I opposed a prompt and stout rejection. It wasn’t so, I -knew it wasn’t so.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> Laughing at me, they adduced further proof. I tried -to pull away and get out of the room as I hotly declared, “It isn’t so, -I know my father and mother never——” and I choked with indignation. -They evidently enjoyed the torture they were inflicting. I was like -a hunted hare, and half my fright was doubtless due to the growing -conviction that <i>it might be true</i>. One girl pulled me back as I tried -to escape; then braced herself against the door while I faced her in -impotent rage and shame. And another informer taunted, “Little Fool! -you wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t true—your father and mother ain’t -any better than anyone else’s.”</p> - -<p>This was such a bitter experience that I have always felt strongly -the need of early satisfying these inevitable queries of children by -true, if partial, explanations, thus forestalling their enlightenment -in the brutal way it came to me, associated with impure, repelling -interpretations.</p> - -<p>For some months preceding the time of passing from girlhood to -womanhood, I stayed with Cousin Prudence, helping her with the -housework, and going to school from there. Fond of her, I was, too, -more docile in learning from her than I was at home. She was a married -old maid. “Prunes and prisms” was her watchword. Her house was in order -from top to bottom; she could tell on just what shelf, in which box, -in which corner of said box, a given article lay; and whoever helped -her had to observe a like care. She was not at all well and did almost -nothing but to help with the baking. I pitied her, and she managed to -get a lot of work out of me for this reason, and also because she had -tact, and convinced me of the vital importance of attending thoroughly -to the infinite details of housekeeping. From her throne on the couch -she would issue gentle commands and endless queries, and she had an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> -uncanny way of ascertaining if I slighted anything. But in justice I -must say I was conscientious in carrying out her exacting requirements.</p> - -<p>Methodical to a degree, it was not enough that her minute directions -were followed to the letter; she could not drop it there. When, tired -out, I sat by her couch to rest, I would have to listen as she would go -over and over the things that had been done, and the things I was to do -on the morrow. She nearly broke my back, and To-morrow’s too. Saturday -nights were trying times, for she doted on rehearsing all that had been -accomplished through the day, and all that we had in the house to eat -for over Sunday. Her husband was a prodigious eater, and she wanted -to make sure we would not run short. Then, too, it seemed to make her -more a part of these things if she could ring the changes on them; so, -pitying her helplessness, I humoured these foibles that I now know -bordered on morbidity:</p> - -<p>“You said you swept off the back porch to-day, dear? I always want it -clean for Sunday.”</p> - -<p>“Are you sure you scoured the tea kettle—nice and bright?—yes, I’m -sure you did. You won’t mind if Cousin Prue asks you about these -things, will you?”</p> - -<p>“Are the potatoes pared for breakfast? and covered with water, dear? -Because, you know, if some are out of the water they get black—yes, -you are sure, I’m glad of that.”</p> - -<p>“Let’s see—there are four loaves of white bread and two of brown, or -is it only three and a half loaves of white? And there is a jar of -sugar cookies, and part of a jar of molasses cookies; and you said -there was a whole loaf of ginger cake? and some—there <i>is</i> some, dear, -isn’t there?—of that one-two-three-and-four cake; you know Uncle—I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> -should say Cousin Richard—is so fond of that; and there are—how many -pies are there, dear—one lemon, and two apple pies? and about how much -of that custard pie did you say there is left?”</p> - -<p>Oh, how weary I got of her endless talk about these matters—the things -themselves were bad enough, though I didn’t mind them so much (only I -<i>did</i> get very tired). I was willing to wash and rinse the dishcloth -till it was sweet and white as a handkerchief, but did not like washing -and rinsing it over again after I got back to the sitting room. I -was always tempted to shirk polishing the stove, but she was sure to -detect it, or I dare say I should have slighted it more frequently, -for I never liked to soil my hands. But she had a way of commending me -that recompensed a good deal; and if there were criticisms, they were -tactfully made:</p> - -<p>“Dear, when you have rested a little I wish you would stand the broom -up the other way, you know it wears out sooner to rest on the splint -end.”</p> - -<p>“You dusted behind the mirror carefully, didn’t you? but when you get -up, won’t you just straighten it a wee bit?”</p> - -<p>“Now, after you have had a good rest, won’t you sweep off the -sidewalk?—I see the leaves have fallen a good deal to-day.”</p> - -<p>I pitied her, and I was meek in those days, but I marvel now at my -long-suffering. She was unhappy, but tried to conceal this, making -pitiful excuses which I saw through. Later she knew that I divined her -troubles, yet we each kept up a pretense of not seeing things as they -were. It was easier for her in more ways than one to have me there. I -learned later that that was why my parents let me stay with her.</p> - -<p>One day, calling me to her, with much preliminary talk, she said she -was going to tell me some things that I was old<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span> enough to know, which -my mother wished me to know. She then explained the mysteries of the -physiological changes of pubescence. My cheeks began to blaze. I -suppose she saw that she was late with her information, and, with less -than her usual tact, asked outright if I knew about it already; and I, -having learned it from older girls, along with forbidden things, and -thinking it something to be ashamed of, lied to her, pretending I did -not know what she meant. Of course she knew better, but not betraying -this, explained it all in a judicious, womanly way, divesting it for me -of the false shame with which I had come to associate it. That day, or -later, I broke down and confessed that I had known about it before, and -we were even better friends than ever after that.</p> - -<p class="space-above">It was about this time that a friend of my mother made a confidante of -me, disclosing deep wrongs endured through her husband, especially in -previous years. Whispering these cruelties to me, even when we were -alone in the house, she would interrupt her dramatic recital again and -again to make me promise never to divulge them, declaring her parents -would force her to leave her husband if they learned about it all. It -was a grave wrong to burden a young girl with this hidden sorrow. But, -nervous and sickly, she craved the sympathy I was ready to give; yet it -was a shadow which should never have rested on my girlhood. I think it -had no inconsiderable share in fostering in me the habit of duplicity. -Her husband was a moody, morose man, subject to spells of unnatural -gayety. Living with him was like living on the rim of a smouldering -volcano ready at any moment to belch forth. By the hour she would pour -into my ears circumstantial details of her husband’s cruelties—it -was like a thrilling continued<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> story—then she would add, “But he’s -different now—you mustn’t lay this up against him, and you mustn’t, -for the world, let him see you mistrust him—Oh, Eugenie, don’t let him -see a difference in you. Swear, swear to me you won’t!” And I would -swear. And when we heard his step on the porch, we would begin to laugh -and chatter in assumed gayety, disarming him of all suspicion. Many a -time after such a recital, I have sat with them when it seemed as if I -must scream out and tell him I knew just how base he had been; but I -only went to the other extreme, becoming unusually gay and talkative, -while the artful little wife would chime in and egg me on. I learned in -watching her what a consummate artist in deception one can become; it -was a revelation to see her coaxing, conciliating manner to the tyrant -follow so closely her terrible disclosures to me.</p> - -<p>Happily, more wholesome influences were at work at the same time, -counteracting somewhat these sombre ones. I think I received a certain -intellectual stimulus from attending the debates of the lyceum to which -Father belonged—eight or ten of the townsmen met for years every -Saturday night in a lawyer’s office, debating in a spirited manner. -Though women and girls seldom went, they were made welcome. The last -year or two before leaving home I persuaded another girl to go with -me. She went to please me rather than because she liked it. Father -encouraged me in going. Although I really enjoyed the debates, I know -that a part of my pleasure was because Laura and I were the only girls -there. I liked the oddity of it, and was vain of the fact that I had a -taste in that direction.</p> - -<p>Those middle-aged men were much in earnest. There were several lawyers, -a doctor or two, our Professor, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span>ministers, and a few non-professional -men, like Father. One lawyer, a hunchback, was very eloquent. His -smooth, melodious voice and engaging manner made one forget his -deformity. There was a “gentleman farmer,” too, a liberally educated -bachelor, very diffident, with halting speech. They had great respect -for his learning. How easily he coloured up on occasion! I think he -never felt quite so much at ease when we girls were present, but he was -very deferential to us. There were pompous men, testy men, humorous -men, taciturn men—in fact, as I recall the little club, I see it was -composed of very varied types; and therein, I suppose, lay a large part -of the interest for me, as I was always interested in studying people. -Often I had but little understanding of the questions at issue, but -even when these did not concern me, I liked to follow the arguments; -liked to see them pick one another up; liked the mental activity of -it all, just as when, in later years, my life-work calling me much -in the court room, I have enjoyed listening to the trial of even an -indifferent case. To hear the pros and cons, to see the intricate, -many-faceted presentation of the truth, gives me the same kind of -enjoyment I get from Browning’s “Ring and the Book.” Then, too, I was -proud of Father’s part in it all, his reasoning, so clear and forcible, -his humour so compelling, his enthusiasm so contagious! But he was -always partisan; whatever he took up, he espoused <i>con amore</i>. I come -honestly by my enthusiasms.</p> - -<p>At each meeting they appointed a member to report errors of grammar and -pronunciation. Father’s critical bent earned him the nickname, “The -Critic.” In time the schoolgirls dubbed me “Critic Junior”—an epithet -justly bestowed, I confess—it has always been easy for me to pick -flaws—to criticize myself relentlessly, as well as others. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span></p> - -<p>Another of the formative influences of this period was a literary -society organized by the young people. It started as a secret society, -“for the purpose of mental improvement, and the study of literature.” -We called ourselves the “W. B. S.,” guarding carefully the meaning -of these letters. I feel almost guilty now in revealing that we were -the “Would-Be-Somebodies.” It proved an interesting and profitable -association. Having no older person to direct us, we groped about and -attempted many ridiculous things; and we had to make concessions to -the less serious-minded; but our aspirations were genuine, and the -general effect of the society was beneficial. We began by reading -aloud “Lucile,” but all our selections were not so absurd. In time -we did some creditable work, reading and discussing good literature. -There were original papers, recitations, debates, music—enlisting the -talents of the various members. One winter we raised enough money to -hire a professor from Rochester University to lecture on geology, and -felt we were by way of being Somebodies then. On anniversaries there -were sleigh-rides and suppers—gay and happy times.</p> - -<p>My first glimpse of beauty in art I owe to the “W. B. S.” We went to -Rochester and visited Power’s Art Gallery. Until then I had seen no -statuary, no water colours, no etchings, no oil paintings of any merit. -The art with which I had been familiar was the sorry art to be found in -small towns—atrocious paintings and chromos, at the best a few good -steel-engravings. In these days, through reproductions, school children -in small villages become familiar with the world’s masterpieces; but I -was starved in this respect.</p> - -<p>I shall never forget the awe and wonder that came over me that day in -Power’s Art Gallery as we stepped into the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> room where the statuary -stood out against a background of dark plush hangings, while a sweet -low air was played by an orchestrion in an adjoining room. The place -was holy ground. I shall also never forget my disgust when one of -the girls brought me down from the sublime to the ridiculous: While -I stood gazing in rapt admiration at “The Genius of Art”—a wingèd -god carved from the marble, poised as though about to fly—the beauty -and aspiration of the figure holding me spell-bound, I heard the -stage-whisper of this irreverent girl: “He looks as if he hadn’t had -a square meal lately,” referring to the prominence of the ribs of the -beautiful creature. It took me years to forget that speech; it was such -a discord in this new harmony. I saw no humour in it then; now I rather -enjoy the picture my imagination paints—my transition from ecstasy to -detestation, and my struggle not to show her how she had jarred upon me.</p> - -<p>The names of the artists meant nothing to me, I cared only for their -works, looking long at what interested me. I remember especially “The -Gathering of the Potatoes,” a huge, sad painting that, as I recall -it, had much of the dreary realism I have since seen in “The Angelus” -and “The Gleaners.” The haunting sadness of that painting, the sombre -sky, the peasants in the foreground, the woman holding open the bag -while the man poured in the potatoes—they seemed to be counting -each one of the scanty store! The homely pathos of their lives moved -me then, and it all comes back to me now. There was much else that -moved me, but I was irritated, too, for that same facetious girl went -around nudging others and giggling over the complete anatomy of the -Cupids and Cherubs, frankly portrayed. I detested this singling out -of such things and talking about them. Prim as I was, I saw nothing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> -to object to in those charming figures; and it was painful to have -my enjoyment desecrated by these silly observations. To this day I -have no patience with persons who cannot view the nude in art without -low-minded comments (or thoughts) on what seems to fill their entire -field of vision to the exclusion of the work as a whole. I once showed -a vulgar-minded woman a picture of a beautiful, three-year old child, -nude—a thing so lovely I thought it must appeal even to her; but she -was scandalized at the pearl I had cast before her. She began a tirade -against “such things,” her unique argument being: “The sight of means -to do ill deeds, makes ill deeds done.” I thought that Shakespeare -would have risked his own curse and, moving his bones, would almost -have risen to confront her, could he have heard his lines so perversely -misapplied!</p> - -<p>A year or two after our visit to Power’s Art Gallery, I had my next -glimpse of art in Boston. But neither the Fine Arts Museum there, nor -those in other cities since, produced upon me the profound impression -that my first excursion into the world of Art produced.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER VI</span> <span class="smaller"><span class="smcap">“Bred in the Bone”</span></span></h2> - -<p>Whether due to my reading, or almost wholly to observations and -conclusions, I cannot say, but I began early to feel the potency -of heredity; to lament certain tendencies in my kindred which I -saw cropping out in myself, and to realize the gravity of marrying -and having offspring. I saw my grandfather’s ungovernable temper -exaggerated in one of his daughters and in my brother; saw in myself, -though naturally of a mild disposition, a tendency to give away, on -occasion, to intense anger; saw queer traits in aunts and cousins that -frightened me; knew that tuberculosis had attacked some members of my -father’s family; that certain cousins on both sides were neurotic; that -my maternal grandmother had carcinoma; that a cousin was an epileptic; -and that on both sides were intemperate uncles—these were the chief -reasons contributing to my early, deep-seated resolution never to marry.</p> - -<p class="space-above">As a family, one trait which we have in common is intemperance, though -Sister is less so than the rest of us. My father would be surprised -to be charged with intemperance, for all his life he has waged war -against intemperance (in its restricted sense—the excessive use of -strong drink); but he has been intemperate in his zeal for the “Cause -of Temperance.” I remember the “Temperance Movement” in our village, -in my early childhood. Mother and other<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> women went around to the -saloons praying and singing and beseeching the liquor dealers to close -out their business. I have heard them tell that when one obdurate man -finally yielded (pouring barrels of liquor into the street) there was -such rejoicing that staid citizens like my father threw their hats -in the air and shouted for joy. This was years before Father left -the Republican Party to espouse the cause of Prohibition—perhaps -long before there was a Prohibition Party. Of course the reform -wave subsided, the liquor dealers bought more whisky, and the curse -continued. But although that early warfare died out, Father’s zeal, I -might almost say his fanaticism, has ever been unceasingly directed -toward efforts to quell the liquor traffic. So it was not surprising -that, in time, ardent Republican though he was, he allied himself -to the party bent on fighting this evil. It is sad to think of him -expending energy on what seems to me a lost cause; but Prohibition is -no lost cause for him.<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" >[3]</a> Logical and clear-sighted as he is, he seems -to me to take a one-sided view in this matter, and to be following a -chimera. He says Prohibition will yet prevail, whereas I feel that the -prohibition—the inhibition—must be in the individual himself. The -long years of character-building determine whether one shall succeed or -fail. Legislative measures, I fear, can never be effective for those -suffering from ingrained weakness, and dragged down by tyrannical -habits. But Father firmly believes that the good time is coming toward -which he labours unceasingly.</p> - -<p>Father’s excesses in minor matters also show the intemperance to which -I refer. I mention them only to show that in certain things I am a -“chip of the old block”: Many years<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> ago he had the croquet craze. He -and other business men would play that silly game for hours. I recall -Mother’s disapproval and Father’s lame defence. She was not opposed to -a reasonable amount of playing; it was the intemperate, inopportune -indulgence that disturbed her. The same with chess and checkers. He -and his chess-loving friends pursued these with a fervour prejudicial -to business. Often when I have gone to the lawyer’s office where they -were wont to play, or in the back of Father’s store, I would find him -so absorbed that my timid request would remain long unnoticed. If some -other player would call his attention to me, his preoccupation was -such that I verily believe a moment later he did not know I had been -there. He contended that he never neglected customers for the pastime, -but Mother would tell him that his impatience to get back to his game -made him attend grudgingly to them, and that feeling this they would go -elsewhere. Of course he disavowed this, but it was true.</p> - -<p>I can see the same trait strong in myself. Given to riding my hobbies -hard, everything else is relegated to the background. I attend to all -else as expeditiously as possible that I may “return to my knitting,” -whatever it happens to be, though I do try to conceal my lack of -interest in the work at hand. Perhaps I flatter myself that I do, as -Father flattered himself; doubtless onlookers see that “my heart’s in -the Highlands chasing the deer.” For games I have cared but little, -except tennis—that draws me as croquet used to draw my father. My hand -itches for the racquet as his itched for the croquet mallet and the -chess-men, though it is not the ultimate winning I care so much about -as to make good plays, and have an exciting game—I get positively -despondent when I make a succession of poor plays, while with a good -audience, I can <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span>sometimes play a brilliant game. I can seldom remember -the score after the game is over.</p> - -<p>Many and varied have been the things I have taken up with an ardour -that, bred in the bone, persists in coming out in the flesh—tennis, -bicycling, amateur theatricals, the study of wild flowers, of the -birds, palmistry, handwriting and character, the Romany jib, the -spasmodic study of German and French—for the time these are the things -for which I live; incidentally I followed my profession. Perhaps I -deceive myself in thinking I have more moderation than my father. At -least I can see my tendency and attempt some self-discipline. There -is this marked difference between us: He makes himself believe what -he wants to believe, while the more I want a thing to be so, the more -I am afraid of being deceived into thinking it is so. I want to face -things as they are always; endure them, yield to them, or forego them, -as my will elects, or circumstances decree, but never to cheat myself -into thinking that they are so, if such is not the case. If Father -and I wanted to do a given thing, and the weather threatened to be -unfavourable, Father would be likely to scrutinize the sky, announce -that it was not going to rain, and start out hopefully; I should know -I couldn’t tell if I did scan the sky, but, with a strong feeling that -it probably would rain, would start out, in spite of misgivings, taking -the precaution, however, to carry my umbrella.</p> - -<p>Mother’s excesses take her into other fields: Always she has been a -lover of flowers; garden flowers and houseplants have been her hobbies. -How she would pore over the Vick’s catalogues, and stoop for hours over -her flowerbeds, and go miles to lug black dirt to enrich the soil! -Indifferent to sun, rain, heat, and cold, pulling weeds and caring for -her treasures, she would forget her rheumatic<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span> tendencies and the pain -that would make her groan outright when under a roof. As a young girl -it tried me sorely that she would do these things at such unseasonable -times, pottering in the yard in her old clothes when I wanted her to -look tidy in the afternoon. But what especially disturbed me was that -she would leave the dinner table standing to pursue her craze. It was -not so much that I objected to doing the dishes after school; if they -had been piled away in the kitchen, and the dining room put in order, I -believe I should not have said a word—it was that sickening feeling on -coming home and seeing the table just as we had risen from it that was -one of the real trials of my girlhood. I used to plead with her, but -all in vain. My training with Cousin Prudence had made me particular -about these things, but I should doubtless have been much the same -anyhow. I would urge how much more she would enjoy the afternoon if she -would give up a half hour to doing the work. I never could understand -her perversity in this, for she knew it distressed us girls, and, in a -way, seemed sorry. Many and bitter are the tears I have shed over the -dish-pan at five in the afternoon; and how ashamed I was if other girls -came home with us and saw the table standing! But, oh, joy! the nights -I opened the door and found the table cleared, and the work done! I -never failed to mention this delight, either, though I am sorry to say -I expressed the opposite feelings when the more accustomed sight met my -eyes. I purposely slammed things to make a commotion, so she could no -longer enjoy in peace her persistent weed-pulling.</p> - -<p>In those days I sometimes went down into the basement and banged an -old pie-tin around; this, though, not so much from anger as from a -feeling of inward irritation and pent-up energy—a desire to make a -racket. One day I made<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> such a dent in a tin that Mother told me I had -better keep that one downstairs just for that purpose when the mood -came on. So whenever the desperate spell would come over me, I would -go down there and kick the old tin about; the cat would jump in terror -out of the window, and I’d bang away till the noise, the exercise, and -the absurdity of it all exorcised the demon, when I would go upstairs -flushed, relieved, and good-naturedly at ease. I suppose I did not have -enough play, and this furnished a needed outlet. Mother was wise to -indulge me in it—I often wish I had that pie-tin now!</p> - -<p>As to Mother’s habit of leaving the dishes, I used to quote to her, -“Parents, provoke not your children to wrath,” as I would tell her -how other girls’ mothers did. But she would only say, “Don’t touch -the dishes, I’ll do them—I only wanted to put in those bulbs,” or -“transplant that shrub”—“I only went out for a few minutes”; the same -old story—it never appeased me. I wonder now if it was not something -she was practically powerless to resist. She was not very well those -years; it was probably during a crisis in her woman’s life when she -had need of relaxation, and felt difficulty in concentrating on the -common round of duties. It was doubtless a salutary thing for her. Not -always flowers, in winter it was piece-work, carpet rags, or quilting, -pursued to the exclusion of regular tasks, and always from her the -lame excuses! It grieves me now to think how impatient and critical -Sister and I were because she would not conform to our wishes. Now I -believe she could not. Since then I have seen other women pushed on in -a similar manner by an imperative need of some absorbing diversion, and -have come to regard it as a safety-valve at certain periods in their -lives. Mother was not a poor housekeeper in the ordinary sense; she was -neat and <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span>fastidious and a good cook; her house was sweet and clean -from top to bottom—this of which I speak was a surface disorder, due -to lack of method and to postponing things, the neglect of which gave -a cluttered appearance to kitchen and pantry which sorely tried my -methodical soul.</p> - -<p>I have heard Mother plead with her mother, in much the same way (only -more kindly) that Sister and I would plead with her—concerning -Grandma’s queer way of doing her work. For example she would put the -scouring-board on the floor to scour her knives. But she could not -persuade her to adopt the easier, rational way. We wondered, when -Mother would marvel at Grandma’s obstinacy, why she could not see that -she, in turn, was equally obstinate.</p> - -<p class="space-above">One of Mother’s sisters was such a strenuous housekeeper that she lost -sight of what it means to make a home, so intent was she on having -things immaculate, and in maintaining a painful orderliness from cellar -to garret. The habit grew on her in later years. I can remember when -she used to get up delicious dinners at our family reunions, opening -her house with real hospitality; but a few years after her late -marriage to a widower with a large family, her peculiarities developed -and, taken with a captious disposition and shrewish temper, made her a -trying person to deal with. Yet she had a generous nature and could not -do enough for one at times. But let some little thing displease her and -a tantrum would result; she would twit the one at whom she was enraged -of every trifle she ever gave him and would rake up every little and -big grievance against him. These tirades would be as likely to occur -on the street as elsewhere. We learned not to cross her, even if she -made statements that we knew were wrong;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span> for to disagree with her was -to see the fur fly. Yet how amiable she was to strangers—to everyone, -for that matter, when in her good moods! and she was kind at heart, -even to those she would on occasion rake over the coals. Mother could -not bear to have us criticize her. “I know—I’m sorry, but it’s her -way, you mustn’t stir her up,” she would say. She was a woman of keen -intelligence, well educated, public-spirited, and with a distinct gift -for composition. She dressed much younger than her years, with a marked -individuality in dress. In later years she seemed obsessed with a love -of fine clothes, which she kept in a wardrobe full to overflowing, -wearing her plainer ones as a rule.</p> - -<p>Another queer aunt, perhaps in the late thirties, also married a -widower—such a timid, docile creature that we children wondered how he -ever got up spunk enough to propose to Aunt Ann. Though having marked -peculiarities, she had a keen, quick mind and a phenomenal memory. She -was very obstinate.</p> - -<p>It was years before we children learned of the skeleton in her house. -We knew that when visiting her, Mother took along sheets, towels, etc., -but supposed it was to save work for Aunt Ann—the excuse usually -offered. Later we learned that, spic and span as was her house in -general appearance, and neat as she was about her cooking, she had an -unheard-of peculiarity in that she never did any washing nor had any -done. This queerness must have grown on her in middle life. At the time -I learned of it, her washtubs had fallen down, and her flatirons were -covered with rust. Shrewd as she was in concealing this singularity, a -close observer could discern abundant evidence of it. We learned that -Mother had laboured with her all to no purpose. So Sister and I decided -to make Aunt Ann a visit and see what<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> we could do to effect a change. -Talking about it at first with our uncle, we told him our intention. -He said it would do no good, and that it would not be safe for him if -she knew he had discussed it with us. He startled us by saying that -she had a violent temper, and had often berated him so loudly that -the neighbours heard her; that she had even used profane language and -threatened his life—she, a regular church-goer and apparently an -exemplary woman!</p> - -<p>“She can’t help it, she’s crazy,” the husband said. This seemed so -incredible that we almost thought him the crazy one; still, there were -these incomprehensible things which we knew <i>were</i> true, and the others -might be so, too.</p> - -<p>As Aunt Ann took pride in us and our pretty clothes, we conceived the -plan of appealing to this pride to bring her to terms, an invitation to -a neighbourhood party hastening our preliminary attack. That afternoon -she had said, “Girls, you will wear your velveteen dresses to-night?” -We would, we agreed, if she would let us do her washing the next day. -Bridling up, she said she guessed she could do her own washing when she -needed to. This gave us the opening. Beginning guardedly, not letting -her know that we knew the extent of her negligence, we said we knew -she was not strong, and we wanted to help her. But as she persisted -in saying that nothing needed to be done, we were obliged to instance -this, and that, that were so obvious; and finally laid all pretense -aside. Yet, when confronted with the facts, she stoutly maintained that -everything was as it should be. Then we told her how ashamed we were; -how Grandma and Mother grieved over these queer ways; and how it was -the talk of the neighbourhood. We said we did not care to go to any -parties there, or to church, or anywhere, when one of our own flesh and -blood was such a disgrace to us. Then we threatened to leave her, never -to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> come there again, unless from that day she would do differently.</p> - -<p>It was a tragic afternoon—that middle-aged woman convicted of these -unheard-of things, and berated by her nieces whose family pride was -stung, yet whose affection for her persisted in spite of it all. We -were baffled and bewildered by her conduct in the first place, and her -inaccessibility to reason in the next. She attempted no defence; would -not meet our arguments; would declare things that were so were not so, -till repeatedly confronted with them; then would stand there, sad-eyed, -like a creature at bay, sometimes darkly hinting, “You don’t know, you -can’t understand.”</p> - -<p>“What is it we can’t understand? Tell us, let us try,” we urged. -Convinced that there was a dread mystery somewhere, we tried in vain to -fathom it. Was there some terrible thing concerning the poor-spirited -uncle about which we did not know? But all the time we would come back -to the thought that nothing, <i>nothing</i> excused this strange conduct. -We cried, we pleaded, we threatened, we entreated; she would not -promise to mend her ways or even admit that they needed mending; yet -with a strange insistence showed as much persistence in urging us to -go to that party and wear our velveteen gowns as we showed in urging -her to begin a radical reform in this matter of household management, -concerning which there could be no two rational opinions.</p> - -<p>In the heat of argument, and knowing her strong interest in church -affairs, I said, “Why, Aunt Ann, how <i>can</i> you do as you do? You know -the Bible says that ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness.’” Her eye -lighted in triumph, and quick as a flash she retorted, “That isn’t -in the Bible, you can’t find it in the Bible.” For a minute I was -chagrined,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> and she harped on it unmercifully; but I finally told -her it ought to be in the Bible, if it wasn’t; after which I railed -against the kind of Christianity that would let one teach a class in -Sunday school while leading such an unclean daily life. Sister and I -alternated between righteous indignation and crying for shame. Aunt -Ann seemed to harbour no resentment toward us but remained unmoved. I -am convinced now that there was some delusional development back of -those strange ways; yet those who knew her then, and who have known her -since, who see her only as she appears when out among folk, would say -one must be crazy to suggest that she is not in her right mind.</p> - -<p class="space-above">All this gave me an ominous feeling as to my inheritance. It also -served to make both Sister and me extremely fastidious in matters of -personal neatness. We made a kind of god of cleanliness from that -dreadful afternoon when we realized that one of our own kin had -developed these strange ways. I resolved that whatever else heredity -developed in me, I would steer clear of that particular line of offense.</p> - -<p>We made good our threats and soon left our Aunt’s to visit a cousin in -the same village. While there I was invited by a young man to drive -out one Sunday evening—my nearest experience to having a beau. I was -pleased but embarrassed. I was probably then seventeen. Rallied by my -cousins before I went, I was laughed at unmercifully on return, early -in the evening, because I had not invited the young man in to call, as -he evidently expected I would. During the drive, when I had mentioned -my plans for further study on leaving school, he had questioned the -wisdom of them, saying a woman should choose no career that would -interfere with her home life, as that assuredly would,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> if followed. -“But I am not going to marry,” I promptly announced, and then how he -“squelched” me!</p> - -<p>“Don’t ever be heard saying that again. When a young girl says that, -it is either because she is so ignorant of life that she doesn’t know -what she is talking about, or else she says it for effect and to be -contradicted.” I think he added that he did not believe I meant to -be insincere; but I felt his rebuke keenly. My cheeks flamed at the -suggestion that I might be saying this for effect. I suppose I did -think it was “smart” to be different from the other girls, though -beneath this was a settled purpose. His advice stung me, but taught me -a lesson. Since then I have been guarded in expressing my intention in -this respect, but my attitude has never changed.</p> - -<p>As a family all five of us have alike a strong love for children. The -others have the natural outlet for it which I have never had, and early -knew I should never have. I was perhaps sixteen when I discovered how -strong this feeling was in myself. A friend of Mother’s was visiting -us with her two-year-old child. We girls were planning to go out that -evening for a frolic, but just before starting I had taken that baby -in my arms, and the delicious feeling I had as he nestled up to me -acted like a charm. In spite of the coaxing of the girls I stayed at -home. Left alone in the house, I had a precious hour holding that baby -and singing him to sleep. After all the years, that evening stands out -as a blessed experience, but even then I believe I was more sad than -glad. Possibly I am mistaken, but I think I felt convinced then that no -child of mine would ever nestle in my arms. I remember my voice broke -as I sang to him. The experience was too sacred to repeat. I have never -mentioned it before.</p> - -<p>Not long after my sister’s first child came (several years<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span> later -than the foregoing incident) I dreamed of being back home, and that a -neighbour boy, running through our yard, in reply to some remark which, -on waking, I could not remember, called out derisively, “Genie’s baby! -you mean Kate’s—who ever heard of Genie’s baby!” (Dream analysts would -find in this a good example of wish-fulfilment.) That dream marked an -epoch in my woman’s life. I realized then and there, how acutely only -a childless woman can know, that I should never be a mother. Till then -I had given the subject but little thought. Occupied with my work, and -having known from girlhood that I should not marry, yet the knowledge -of this other thing came to me like a stab—never a baby of my own! And -then I knew that, fill my life with whatever work and interest I might, -nothing could compensate for missing this supreme joy.</p> - -<p>The positive notions I held as to heredity, the traits and diseases -in my kindred which I took so seriously, the disagreeable and morbid -tendencies I noted in myself, had, as I have intimated, all combined to -make me feel it would be wrong for me to marry. I used to argue with -myself: “A man that I could esteem and love would be so far above me -that he could never stoop to love me; if he did, he would not be the -hero I thought him; and if I <i>were</i> to marry, and bring into the world -children like myself, it would be a calamity indeed.” No, I would stop -the perpetuation of beings like myself. It was a blind kind of altruism -that actuated me, and not till I had the dream just mentioned did the -personal side of the question occur to me; and then I learned how, as -an individual, I should suffer in abiding by the stand I had taken. A -lover at this time would probably have swept away all my fine theories -and resolutions; but I had none, and serious work and <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span>interests were -filling my days. But how illogical I was! It seemed never to occur to -me that the same conditions that debarred me from marriage should debar -my sister also; I was even anxious for her to marry, while so firmly -convinced that it would be wrong for me. I evidently thought that all -the seeds of disease and crankiness were in me alone and that I must -let them die out.</p> - -<p>Now I know, too, that I exaggerated greatly the unfortunate family -inheritance. My studies in this field, in subsequent years—inquiries -into the family histories of many hundreds of persons—have shown me -that my inheritance averages up well with that of most families. My own -little knowledge in girlhood was a dangerous thing. Hypersensitive, and -introspective to a degree, I took my own adolescent impressionability -too seriously, losing sight of the fact that good as well as bad traits -and tendencies are inherited; and that training, environment, and -self-culture may do wonders to counteract undesirable proclivities. -I assuredly locked the barn door before the horse was stolen and -threw away the key. Though perhaps, in a way, so far as my sister was -concerned, I was right, for she is of a more harmonious nature, more -normal and typical, than I am. As to my brother, however, had I spent -my life trying to bring about a deplorable hereditary combination, I -could hardly have succeeded better than when, by the merest chance, -and by my own act, I unwittingly enlisted Propinquity, which lost no -time in bringing about his marriage with a neurotic girl who has since -become the mother of his children. And yet four beautiful little beings -(who seem to be unusually well endowed physically and mentally) gladden -the lives of all of us, and as I reflect how much of the good and true -there is in their inheritance, I am hopeful that, with such training -and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> fortuitous environment as can be compassed, much can be done to -counteract undesirable tendencies. But my soul sometimes contemplates -all this—my early theories, and the actual conditions—with a grim -smile: that it was I who brought it all about, I, the prudent one, the -far-seeing, the stickler for observing the inexorable laws of heredity!</p> - -<h3>FOOTNOTE:</h3> - -<p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3">[3]</a> The above was written in 1902. Now his hopes are nearly -fulfilled, but he is no longer here to rejoice. All honour to him, and -to others like him, who, true to their vision, were untiring in their -efforts to bring it to realization!</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER VII</span> <span class="smaller"><span class="smcap">School Days</span></span></h2> - -<p>Serious as was my girlhood, as the sombre experiences and the -resolutions which grew out of them show, it was by no means always so -shadowed as this record would indicate. And it is a relief to turn from -the detailed account of much of my inner life when a schoolgirl to more -of the objective life, to sunnier memories, to the life within the -school-house walls, even though to do so I go back for a little to the -care-free days of early girlhood.</p> - -<p class="space-above">In school I was a dutiful little girl of the goody-good sort, but from -about thirteen onward my badness cropped out and I became a little -terror. My mates were equally unmanageable. In the senior department we -could keep a teacher only a short time because of our “insubordination -and irregularities,” as one dignified principal said when he came in -to chastise us. And I, though demure in appearance, was one of the -chief offenders among the girls. How fertile we were in devising ways -to annoy the teacher! We would agree to hum a tune in an undertone, so -arranging it that when the teacher would steal up to the desks whence -the humming issued, pupils in another part of the room would take up -the tune, and the baffled teacher would wander from desk to desk trying -in vain to “spot” the offenders. The very diligence with which we were -studying at such times should have enlightened her. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span></p> - -<p>One day the whole roomfull broke out in paroxysms of sneezing. The -ring-leaders when discovered were made to promise never to bring snuff -to school again. I kept my word but sought to get a similar effect some -other way: An arbor-vitæ tree grew near the school-yard, and somehow, -I found that by irritating the nostrils with those rough sprigs, we -could induce sneezing. It worked, though less successfully than the -snuff. I had my triumph when the teacher accused me of having broken -my word. Flatly and indignantly I denied it; we had had no snuff, I -declared emphatically. No, and no pepper, either. Nevertheless, she -kept me after school, whipped my hands, then, taking me on her lap, -wept and talked religion to me. Her leniency should have melted me, -but it did not. I was unregenerate indeed. I remember the casuistry I -used, which she herself must have repeated, for one of the students in -the academic department rallied me on the way I had defended myself for -sneezing in school. I had put a hypothetical question to her: If the -Lord made something grow that tickled the lining of my nose, was I to -blame that I could not control the sneeze? The youth would get that off -with variations till it teased me so that I was fairly punished for my -naughtiness. We also brought soda biscuit to school and ate them fast, -inducing hiccough. And the boys would strike matches, then report that -they <i>thought</i> they smelled something burning—all sorts of schemes -were devised to annoy the poor teacher. Finally the Board of Education -sent one of their members to sit in the schoolroom and keep order. He -was a great fat man I had known from childhood. When I was little he -had called me “Sis Arnold,” and I had called him “Piggie Hanford.” -Mother used to remonstrate with me, but it was not so disrespectful as -it sounded; we understood each other. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> always had a Jackson ball to -give me when we met on the street, but first he would pretend to bite -my hand. Once, I remember, he did bite hard enough for the print of -his teeth to show at the base of my thumb. But he didn’t hurt—just -liked to scare me, and I liked being scared. It was such fun to see him -coming toward me, big and black and frowning; to be snatched up, while -he pretended to bite me; to struggle; then to be put down, when I would -hold fast to him while he hunted for the Jackson ball, after which I -would run away calling, “Good bye, Piggie, Piggie Hanford!”</p> - -<p>It was years after that when he came to keep order for Miss O——. -I liked to have him there, for he helped me with my examples, and I -needed help sorely then and always. We were as good as pie when he was -there. But one day when he was strutting past my desk, a recollection -of my childish freaks coming to me, I whispered mischievously, “Piggie, -Piggie Hanford.” He turned on me such a stern look that for an instant -I almost screamed, as I used to when he would grab me up as a child. -But I soon saw the smile coming, and he bent down, saying in a low -tone, “That won’t do here, Sis Arnold,” and walked solemnly away. They -hired a more competent teacher the next term, and “Piggie” came no more -to keep us within bounds</p> - -<p>In the academic department, becoming interested in my studies, and -having to work hard, I kept out of mischief. Still there was nonsense -going on even there—whispering and writing notes, and passing -them surreptitiously, chiefly for the fun of disobeying the rules, -especially with the preceptress. More afraid of the new principal, we -toed the mark better for him, dreading his ready sarcasm too much to -risk it often. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span></p> - -<p>Mathematics was always a bugbear to me. Passing the Regents early in -the other elementary branches, and also in many of the Intermediate -studies, I was long in passing in arithmetic. It was not only dry, it -was incomprehensible. I detested it. Professor Durland was patient with -me. I verily believe he would have let me drop the study if he could -have. (To this day I often dream of being back in school and sneaking -out of the arithmetic class, only to be discovered by “Prof.” and sent -back to my hated recitations. What present-day duties am I longing to -shirk, the Freudians will inquire?) I tried Regents in arithmetic three -times before I passed. I well remember the last time: Professor Durland -had coached me diligently for weeks, and I had felt desperately that -I must succeed this time. The whole department was interested. It was -unusual for one so advanced as I was in other studies to be so stupid -in this.</p> - -<p>It was Father’s day for being present during the Regents examination. -(The different members of the Board of Education took turns in coming, -to see that all was fair play.) How my heart thumped when the principal -opened the sealed questions sent from Albany, handed a paper to Father, -and glanced rapidly over the questions himself! I knew how much he -wanted me to succeed, and I wanted to for his sake as well as for my -own. Soon he nodded satisfactorily. Knowing I was watching him, it was -as though he said to me, “It isn’t so hard—you can do it,” and as he -put the slip of printed questions on my desk he said in a low voice, -“You will pass this time, Eugenia.” That cheered me; it sounded so -confident; and he knew my limitations. He had drilled me so well on the -ground covered by the questions that I myself felt, on setting to work, -that there was a fair chance of getting through. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Prof.” came often to my desk, overlooking my paper. Once (it was not -fair, I know, and he knew), he drew his pencil across an example I had -worked. I did it over, somewhat conscience-stricken even at that hint, -for at the close of each examination we had to listen to an oath read, -stating that we had neither given nor received help from any source; -then had to write these solemn words: “I do so declare,” and sign our -names. Had I not been conscientious about this oath, I should long -before that have cheated in arithmetic examinations.</p> - -<p>When I handed in my paper, “Prof.” said, “Don’t go home till I look it -over.” Returning to my desk, I waited. The suspense while Professor -Durland and Father were bent over my paper was harrowing. It was a real -vivisection for me. I saw by their faces when an answer was right, and -when one was wrong, and saw them estimate the number of counts the -Regents would probably allow on each answer. Other students, too, were -eagerly watching the result—girls I had helped write compositions, -who, in turn, had worked my examples for me, were anxious for me to be -rid of the troublesome study.</p> - -<p>Finally those two men lifted their heads. They had evidently marked me -strictly, so as to be sure beyond a doubt that the more rigid Regents -Board would not turn me down. Professor Durland now nodded his head -vigorously, and Father beamed with joy. How gaily I walked out into -the hall, my feet scarcely touching the floor! While I was putting on -my wraps the door softly opened, “Prof.” stepped out and said, “You -are through this time, Eugenia!” It was one of the happiest moments -of my life; but though choking with emotion and gratitude to him, -I don’t suppose I expressed it at all. Still I think he knew; knew -also that I was fond of him. Along with several of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span> other girls, -I had a schoolgirl’s infatuation for him. He was our hero—a silly, -sentimental fondness of the adolescent period, but then, and always -afterward, redeemed by genuine affection and gratitude. He was then, -I suppose, a man in the thirties, and we were girls of sixteen and -seventeen. I have since thought how wise and kind he was never to seem -to notice or to take advantage of our romantic feelings, and never -to make us appear ridiculous on that score, for he must have seen it -all. (There was a time when we treasured everything he said or did. I -even remember once that a certain girl and I kept count how many times -he glanced at us in a forenoon; though his glances were doubtless of -surveillance, we treasured them just the same.) He pursued just the -right course with us, and our sentimental adoration did us no harm. It -probably helped us in our studies. We blossomed under his approval, -and withered under his biting sarcasm. Yet we often teased and annoyed -him. He was surprisingly forbearing at times, and especially indulgent -with me, giving me freer rein than some others to indulge certain whims -and idiosyncrasies. I half consciously recognized this, girl that I -was, and sometimes took advantage of it. I used to love to hear him -pronounce my name; he said it a different way from any one else. What -is it Whitman says—</p> - -<p class="center">Did you think there was but one pronunciation to your name?</p> - -<p>I had nearly as hard a time with algebra as with arithmetic, and often -became rebellious. Feeling that I could not go through the struggles -and humiliations that I had with arithmetic, I tried repeatedly to get -out of going to the class. I simply could not comprehend the study, -and was always behind the others. Girls that were as stupid<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> as stupid -could be about tasks that were play to me would do things on the -blackboard as impossible for me as the labours of Hercules. How glibly -they explained what they had done! How painfully I toiled to perform -the simplest tasks! Oh, those miserable days! Professor Durland tried -all kinds of methods with me; he sometimes lost patience and would make -cutting remarks, not, however, without having first tried to persuade -me to work harder. I would not study if I could possibly help it, -vainly hoping he would overlook me in class or give me something easy -(which he often did), that my stupidity would not be so patent.</p> - -<p>One day when sent to the blackboard, knowing that the task was beyond -me, I refused to try. He insisted, saying he would help me. I hung -back. That angered him. “You can go up to the blackboard, can’t you?” -he tauntingly asked. I walked up to the board boiling with rage. He -stood near giving me points and explanations which, had I not been so -incensed and obstinate, would have enabled me to do the work. But I -was angry to my fingertips. I fumbled with the crayon and it broke. I -was powerless to do a thing but stand there and sulk. The tasks of the -other students nearing completion, one by one they took their seats; -one by one rose to explain their work; and still I stood, alone now, -before the long blackboard, my work untouched, my eyes blinded with -angry tears, my listless hand holding that useless piece of crayon, and -those meaningless symbols staring me in the face.</p> - -<p>What an awareness I had of my figure as I stood there, my back to the -school! I could see just how the back of my drooping head looked, -my long braids hanging below my waist. It was such an uncomfortable -awareness of my disgraced self that I had as I stood there. The -class-work<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> ended, there was an ominous pause, I still standing -helpless and hopeless. Then the storm fell. Before the whole school he -launched forth a reprimand, every word of which cut me cruelly, the -burden of it being that I was not so stupid as obstinate (I think he -said “mulish”); that I thought I knew better than any one else what -I ought to study; but that I would soon find that I was tremendously -mistaken; that a “bird that can sing, and won’t sing, must be made to -sing”; that algebra has its uses as well as rhetoric and physiology -(oh, what scorn as he said these words—my pet studies!) and that -hereafter I was to get my algebra lessons before being allowed to -recite in anything else.</p> - -<p>I got so angry I was cold, and oh, so still! I remember the awful -stillness I felt within myself as I stood there. I knew what he said -was just, but it hurt my pride that he would speak that way to <i>me</i>, -and before the whole school!</p> - -<p>I don’t know how I ever left the blackboard and faced the others. He -kept me after school and patiently showed me how to do the work. I was -maddened for days after to see how, to conciliate me (who did not want -to be conciliated), and perhaps to avoid the risk for me of another -ignominious failure, he gave me such easy work that I could not fail to -do it. At that I felt insulted. Perhaps I did study harder thereafter, -but I went in and out of school for a period (perhaps only a week, but -it seems ages) with an air of offended dignity that must have been -absurd. I thought myself a martyr. Avoiding his glances at recitations, -I refused to smile at his jests and pleasantries; showed no interest -in the things about which I was wont to be enthusiastic; and was on -my highest heels of offended dignity. If I had the courage to look at -some of my old diaries I should doubtless find my injured feelings -faithfully and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span> minutely recorded in them; but there is a limit to -one’s endurance of self-scrutiny.</p> - -<p>Some of “Prof.’s” efforts at reconciliation were obvious; and though -they pleased my vanity, my obduracy would not yield. The girls pleaded -with me to soften my heart; I hardened it instead—the memory of that -hour at the blackboard froze me. Then, too, I was pleased to be of -so much importance. I remember one of the things he tried to soften -me: It was before I had studied Virgil, but always when the class in -Virgil was reciting I had made little pretense of studying, listening -to the translations instead. At this “Prof.” sometimes shook his head -disapprovingly, motioning me to attend to my studies; and sometimes he -suggested that it would be well if those not in the class in Virgil -would kindly study their Cæsar; that there was abundant need of it, -and so on. But I had noticed that he seemed secretly pleased at my -attention when, the students having given their lame translations, he -would take it up and, in his beautiful, smooth rendering, read on and -on, himself carried away by the beauty of it. At such times I could -not help but drink it in; it was a daily dissipation that I struggled -against, but yielded to. Time and again I would pretend to be studying, -but really listening; till, in spite of myself, I would have to glance -up, always to find him looking at me as he translated the beautiful -epic. I think he took a mischievous pleasure in this; he knew I could -not resist it, and it was a tribute to his translation, as well as to -the poet.</p> - -<p>Well, after our “quarrel” he tried Virgil as a pacifier. Knowing that -he was seeking to draw some sign of interest from me, and pleased and -angered at the same time, still was I deaf to the charm. But, one day, -in order to counteract its effect, I seized my algebra and, stimulated -by the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> excitement of it all, dashed off a parody on Hamlet’s -Soliloquy—on the study of algebra. It was rather clever (the girls -thought it wonderful), and it helped to relieve my wounded feelings, -for in it I spoke rather freely of the principal.</p> - -<p>Shortly after this, when things were running fairly smooth again, -“Prof.”, who was helping me with my algebra lesson one day, taking up -my book to show me some rule, chanced to see that parody written on the -fly leaves. After reading a few lines he turned fairly white with rage. -In low tones of concentrated anger he said, “I always knew it was pure -mulishness in you; you could master your algebra as well as anything -else, if you would; you spend your time writing things like this, -instead of honestly studying. I have lost all patience with you—‘You -can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.’”</p> - -<p>Then followed another period of strained relations when, after days of -obduracy on my part, he enlisted Coleridge to break the spell. It was -in the literature class. Whether by accident or design, I don’t know, -but he read the sonnet on “Severed Friendship” in which are the words:</p> - -<p class="center">“Each spoke words of high disdain and insult to the other,”</p> - -<p>and also,</p> - -<p class="center">“And to be wroth with one we love doth work like madness on the brain.”</p> - -<p>Reading this in class, as he always read poetry, beautifully, -feelingly, while I sat bursting with this teapot-tempest which I was -dignifying into a tragedy, he melted my stony heart. I barely escaped -dissolving in tears; and when the class was dismissed, the skies were -again clear. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span></p> - -<p>He had never again mentioned to me that wretched parody of the previous -year till one day shortly before graduation: One of the lower-class -girls had been using my algebra that term. We were grouped together -during recess, talking over the approaching Commencement, when “Prof.” -came up and asked where my algebra was. “Lizzie has it,” I said, -curious as to why he asked. Thereupon he sat down at Lizzie’s desk -and copied my wicked parody. I mildly protested, but half smiling, -he continued copying, looking grave as he proceeded. Touched and -flattered, the memory of my silly actions, and of his forbearance, and -the thought that our school days were soon to end, made me repentant -and remorseful. I would have given a good deal to have changed some -of the lines in the old thing that I had thought so clever; and would -have given much more to have told him how sorry I then was for my -stubbornness; how grateful for his help; but I couldn’t. He never knew -until years after (when I obeyed an impulse and wrote him), unless he -then divined my contrition.</p> - -<p>One other time in school he was severe with me: I had habitually -helped certain girls with their compositions. It was play for me. They -were poor stuff, but better than the others could do, and I always -made theirs inferior to my own. One week I thought it would be fun to -experiment a bit, so, instead of having the girls that I usually aided -write a part of their own essays, I told each one that I would write -her entire essay, if she would not tell a soul, and, after copying it, -would destroy my copy. Each girl jumped at the chance. How the literary -ardour possessed me that week! To write four or five essays besides -my own, all of which were to be read in one afternoon, I must vary my -style so that no one could detect the authorship. I flattered myself -I was versatile enough to do this. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span>Glowing with pride I read them to -myself before handing them over to the girls.</p> - -<p>On the momentous afternoon I assumed a calm, indifferent manner while -the various essays were being read; and when my turn came, at the last, -read in my usual faltering voice, my knees trembling so that I felt I -must run from the platform before I was half through. As usual, mine -was greeted with applause, and I took my seat with cheeks aflame, a -sense of elation all through me. It had been an exciting afternoon, but -as I had sworn each girl to secrecy, I could share it with no one.</p> - -<p>At the close “Prof.” arose and said the exercises, though longer than -usual, had been uncommonly interesting; that the choice of subjects had -been varied, well chosen, well presented (I glowed more, with scarcely -concealed pride); but—and here he paused—he would like to add that it -seemed a little selfish, not to say conceited, for one person to be so -pleased with her ability that she insisted on being represented five -or six times in one afternoon! Instantly every eye was turned upon me. -Each girl, knowing her own false position, suspected the others, and -his remarks were so pointed that all the others guessed. He rubbed it -in by saying that it was a well-laid plan, but was rather unflattering -to the instructors to suppose them incapable of detecting it. Were we -not aware that our teachers knew what each student was capable of? Then -he launched forth in withering scorn of those who had been so helped, -not only then, but throughout the year. But of what he said to them I -cared little; for my own disgraceful part I felt the deepest chagrin. -He made me realize how culpable I had been in helping them to sail -under false colours. It was a bitter lesson for all of us, but did not -keep me from lending a hand (or pen) when we graduated.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> It was known -then, I’m sure, but winked at. One girl boldly said: “You’ve helped -us all along, you can’t leave us in the lurch now.” In fact, I wrote -outright the graduating essay of an upper-class girl who graduated the -year before I did; and of the fourteen essays in our class, I had a -hand in six, two of which (my own and another’s) I wrote outright. My -itch for writing bothered me at an early age, and I <i>had</i> to scratch. -Not that there was any merit in the schoolgirl effusions; it was only a -facility for stringing words together, an aptness for quotation, and a -tendency to moralizing and to figurative writing, that let themselves -loose in them.</p> - -<p class="space-above">It has always irritated me to see persons too credulous, and I enjoyed -punishing them for their credulity. One of our classmates could be made -to believe the most absurd things. Sometimes we had spelling bouts -the last few minutes before the close of school, and the principal -would require us to define the words spelled. Sprinkled in with the -long columns of English words were occasional Latin ones. A demon of -some sort possessed me one day on seeing <i>Sal Atticum</i> in the spelling -lesson. It was my first year of Latin and I chose Bessie Barnes, -the credulous one, who had not studied Latin at all, for my victim. -Whispering to her I said, “Shall I tell you the definition of the -Latin words in to-day’s lesson?” Of course she was glad of help, so, -telling her correctly the meaning of the others, when I came to <i>Sal -Atticum</i>, pausing and laughing (perforce at the absurd joke I meant to -perpetrate on her) I turned it off by saying that it was such a funny -thing to have in the spelling lesson; and the little goose believed -me when I told her it meant, “With Sal in the Attic”! We both laughed -at the absurdity of it, then I went on soberly to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> explain that “Sal” -was just Sal, because proper names do not change; then, reminding -her that in Latin the words do not come in consecutive order, as in -English, I said that “<i>cum</i>” means “<i>with</i>”; that “attic” is the same -in both languages, and that “attic” being in the ablative case, “in” is -understood, thus making the translation, “With Sal in the attic.” Then, -drilling her on the meaning of all the foreign words in the column, -I got heaps of fun every time she came to <i>Sal Atticum</i> and gave the -ludicrous definition. And as we both laughed at the comical phrase, she -said she hoped it would not fall to her to define it. I have forgotten -the outcome. I can’t be sure, but think we gave “Prof.” the tip and got -him to ask her its meaning; but I remember distinctly her indignation -when she learned how I had hoodwinked her.</p> - -<p>I formed a romantic affection, perhaps in my seventeenth year, for a -new girl who moved into our village. She appealed to my imagination, -being so different from the girls I had known. Beautiful, with deep, -proud, dark eyes, she was a good student; had read much more than -I had; and could translate Virgil far better, all of which made me -look up to her. Strange to say, I wasn’t jealous of her. We studied -Greek and Roman history together, and astronomy. There were four of -us girls, and two of the boys, who met at our various homes certain -evenings studying together. The old Greek and Roman names, and the -constellations, are inseparably linked in memory, particularly with -that lovely dark-eyed girl and, yes, those two boys. It was a good -fellowship I had with the boys, no nonsense—at least, hardly any. The -boys had their own sweethearts who met with us, as a rule, though they -were less studious than we were.</p> - -<p>I think at that time I was vaguely conscious of being<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> liked by these -boys in a different way than they liked their sweethearts—because I -was a girl and because I was companionable besides. There was always -a certain piquancy about it. And this has always been a pleasing -consciousness in connection with my men friends. I never could be -satisfied with a friendship taking cognizance of but one of the -factors. At the time of which I am speaking, though, I would have been -distinctly annoyed at any open manifestation on the part of the boys -of interest other than <i>camaraderie</i>. In fact a little later I was -angered at occasional demonstrations in one who was a faithless swain; -for he would often manage to take his sweetheart home first and thus -walk home alone with me. I felt sorry for her because she had so little -spirit; chided her for letting him tyrannize over her; upbraided him -for being fickle; and tried to be a disinterested friend to both. Yet -as time passed there were a few occasions when, silencing my scruples, -I permitted advances on his part of which I was heartily ashamed. He -would take us both for a drive, and after leaving her at her home, -would attempt to put his arm around me. Although at first repulsing -him angrily, at length I suffered it, knowing all the time that it was -wrong. How tender and persuasive his tones as we drove along, yet he -would be talking about the most commonplace things, and I would sit -there straight and unyielding with burning cheeks. I knew it was wrong -for two reasons—because he was Bessie’s “beau,” and because I didn’t -really like him that way; yes, and also because it was wrong to let any -one put his arm around you. The second reason seemed the stronger, and -I was ashamed of myself for being susceptible to his wooing tones and -ingratiating ways while really despising such faithlessness. Had he -tried to kiss me, I think I should have annihilated him on the spot. -In fact, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> think I hardly dreamed of such an advance to <i>me</i> then -being possible. I doubt if any other boy of my acquaintance would have -believed that I would permit any one to do as this one did.</p> - -<p>I was really more attracted to Walter, the other youth with whom we -studied. We were the best of friends. One night he came to our door and -asked me to come out on the veranda—an unusual request. “Come out and -see the stars,” was all he said. Wonderingly I went out: it was a cold -night, my teeth chattered. We walked to the west end of the veranda -and stood in silence for a little looking at the stars. I remember how -Orion shone; we spoke but little, but I recall how his voice trembled; -I did not understand it, but it moved me. It was such a little thing, -and perhaps I make more of it than there was, but there seemed -something in his impulsive request and the silent contemplation of the -stars that was electrical—youth and propinquity, I suppose. Nothing -came of it. I think at the time I was undoubtedly more attracted to -him than he to me, but I don’t believe he ever dreamed of it. In fact, -the boys and girls were wont to look upon me as a little aloof from -them. The sweetheart of this same youth said to me one Monday morning: -“Genie, when I see you in church Sunday nights, you seem so far away; -your face looks so serious, and as though I would never dare speak to -you; but when I see you in school and hear you laugh and talk you seem -like one of us.”</p> - -<p>Most of the girls had had their beaux who had sent them valentines and -bestowed upon them juvenile gifts, but my experience in this field -had been very meagre. When a child, before I had learned to write, I -remember being pleased with a little boy who drew me home on his sled,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span> -and once I printed him a note. I hardly think I ever intended giving it -to him, but I tucked it under the zinc of our sitting-room stove and -my sister found and read it. The mortification I endured hearing her -repeat it cured me. I so hated after that to hear “Freddie boy’s” name -mentioned that I was glad when he moved out of town. I recall no other -sentimental affairs till I was perhaps fifteen or sixteen, when one of -the academy boys and I had a clandestine correspondence. He liked a -lot of the girls, was very popular, and wrote to several of them; they -used to brag about it and show their notes, but I told no one that he -wrote to me. The notes were usually trivial affairs, questions as to -where the grammar lesson was, and the like, although there were a few I -blush to remember. I was quite infatuated for a time; he was the hero -of my daydreams, but far more interested in another girl than in me; he -doubtless had no inkling of what was passing in the mind of his prim -little school-mate. Some time after this, when we were discussing our -futures, he told me of his intention of being a minister. I remember -his earnest voice and shining eyes as he spoke of our anticipated -careers, and said that we ought to do a great deal of good in the -world. When, later than this, Walter, the youth of whom I have spoken, -announced to me that he was going to study law, I recall the occasion -vividly: It was an August night when a lot of us young people and our -mothers were in the creek, in swimming. Since I have known more of -the world, I have wondered that there was never anything unpleasant -to look back upon in those associations. But we had all been well -brought up and were comparatively innocent, although we did not know -it then. (I saw this the other day: “‘I learned of my own existence,’ -said Innocence, ‘only when I ceased to exist.’”) We mingled together,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span> -youths and maidens, on geological excursions, star-gazing, in the woods -botanizing, in the water learning to swim, and never thought of the -possibility of anything but the frank, chaste comradeship there was -among us. I recall what a display of meteors there was that night, and -how the sight thrilled us. We had gone to the willows before sundown -and had lingered in the water till the stars came out. During a pause -between one of the trials when Walter was teaching me to swim, we stood -transfixed by the sudden appearance of a great fiery ball which seemed -to burst just over our heads and fall into a near-by meadow. Walter’s -arms tightened as he held me; awestruck, we stood there an instant, -a thrilling one (perhaps it was not all due to the meteor). Whenever -after that I would think of that night, it always made me blush; why, I -did not know, unless because I had to admit to myself that I liked to -feel those strong, firm arms around me.</p> - -<p class="space-above">A broken arm sustained in my school days is closely linked with another -of my girlish romances: One May day, instead of going directly home -from school to help with house-cleaning, as I had promised, I went to -drive with one of the girls. She was bringing home a seamstress. As we -neared the railway track, an approaching train, and simultaneously a -newspaper fluttering at the horse’s feet, made him shy and jump. Essie -was cool enough, but the seamstress shrieked and grabbed the lines, -making the horse wheel, which swung the buggy round and down a bank, -throwing us out.</p> - -<p>The woman who had caused the accident, though unharmed, howled with all -her might, adding to the confusion. Essie picked herself up and chased -her horse. I picked myself up and stood, a little dazed, with gravel -and cinders<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span> ground in my cheeks and hands, with a general bruised -sensation, and with my left arm hanging in a limp, queer way.</p> - -<p>To a man who asked me if I was hurt, I answered, “No, only my arm is -broken.” The by-standers laughed incredulously, but I insisted. They -told me to move it; I tried, but could not tell whether it moved or -not, till I put my other hand on it to follow it. It felt dead. Putting -the pale seamstress and me in a wagon, they drove us home, she groaning -and shrieking most of the remaining mile and half-fainting, so that I -had to support her with my sound arm.</p> - -<p>As I went up the steps, Mother and Sister came toward me, frightened -at my bruised face and disordered appearance, and that limp arm. “I’ve -come to settle the house,” I said, trying to make light of it, but as -they started to cry I begged, “Don’t cry, Mother, or I can’t stand it.” -And quickly she braced up and began preparations for the Doctor, only -the tremor in her voice showing her anxiety.</p> - -<p>Father and the Doctor soon came; neighbours flocked in; someone asked, -“Are <i>both</i> bones broken?” Even in my distress I was amused at what, -in my recently acquired knowledge of anatomy, I considered woful -ignorance—“both” bones, when there is only one in the arm proper!</p> - -<p>I can see now the frightened faces of the children peering in at the -window as I lay on the couch while the arm was being “set.” I almost -wanted to laugh, they looked so distressed. They said I was very brave. -There were weighty reasons for my good behaviour, vanity being the -chief: Already I had decided to study medicine, and thought that any -weakness on my part now would show my unfitness for it; but mainly, I -wanted to appear well before the young doctor who was then the hero of -my dreams<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> and of those of my friend, Annette. For months previous we -had romanced and whispered about him, recording in our diaries every -glance he chanced to bestow upon us. Though scarcely aware of our -existence, he dwelt in all our air-castles, and we shared him between -us in a way girls have before they learn what jealousy means. And now -something had happened that brought him right into my home! Here he -would speak to me, look at me, and take an interest in me—for we never -deceived ourselves that he had ever really shown any interest in us. -It was all this that made me oblivious to the pain, if, indeed, there -was much pain. I was quietly elated. While driving home I had exulted -in the thought that as our family physician lived so far away, Father -would be sure to call the young doctor.</p> - -<p>While he was working over me I could hardly wait to see how Annette -would look when I should tell her all about it. What a silly happy -girl I was with my broken arm! Even having to stay out of school was -compensated for by his daily visits. I treasured his lightest word. He -whisked in, breezy and cheery. It was delightful to hear him speak my -name—his rich, full voice, and his slight stammer—I doted on them. -Days when the splints had to be changed and the bandage loosened were -red-letter days, as his calls were then lengthened.</p> - -<p>One day just before he came I had read two statements in the Bible that -had amused me: “A horse is a vain thing for safety,” and, “The arms of -the wicked shall be broken.” He laughed heartily when I told him what -I had found, and leaning over my chair as he looked on the page, asked -with engaging stammer, “Is th-that really in the B-bible, Genie?” That -was told with unction to Annette when she came after school—ostensibly -to keep me informed about the lessons,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> but chiefly to get reports of -the daily visits. She envied me then, but her time of rejoicing came -later when he treated her for jaundice; only, she complained, jaundice -wasn’t as interesting as a broken arm—one “looked such a fright”; and, -if the truth must be told, by the time her jaundice developed we had -both become somewhat disenchanted.</p> - -<p>Our unfeeling idol remained in ignorance of our adoration, and actually -wooed and married an attractive young woman of his own age! We tortured -ourselves with watching the progress of this courtship, and tried hard -to pose as blighted beings during the week of his wedding. At the fatal -hour that gave him to another, we agreed to withdraw from the gaze -of the cold world and battle with our sorrow alone. It fell to me to -pick Grandma’s raspberries at that hour; but the hands could perform -their task though the heart was wrung with grief. The seclusion of the -berry-patch was welcome; there would I wrestle with this cup. I thought -of Annette and hoped she was as secluded as I, and wondered if her -heart was as heavy. Picking the berries, I recited aloud “The Lonely -One” (the most melancholy poem I could think of) and tried to picture -the long years of desolation ahead of me. But my recollection is that, -try as I would, I could not induce the requisite degree of misery. And -not long after, Annette and I confessed to each other, rather guiltily, -that for some time our feelings had not been as heartfelt as we had led -each other to suppose.</p> - -<p>Thus ended our romance about “Apollo,” as we named him in our diaries.</p> - -<p class="space-above">It must have been three years before I left school that I conceived -the idea of studying medicine; it was during the period when I was -so religiously inclined. I had been to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span> a Sunday-school excursion on -Seneca Lake that day when the idea came to me. There I had heard much -talk of a girl in our class who, having received a severe fall some -months before, and whom we had considered hopelessly injured, was now -improving surprisingly under the care of a woman physician from a -distant town. Her parents were too poor to procure these services, but -an aunt had recently sent for the physician; and the girl’s recovery -then seemed assured. All this I heard without apparently hearing, -giving it scant heed in the hustle and gayety of our lake picnic. An -old negress on the boat had told our fortunes that day, predicting -beaux and happy or unhappy marriages for all the girls but me. When -someone asked, “Isn’t <i>she</i> going to marry?” she replied:</p> - -<p>“Go ’long thar, her father doan’t want her to marry—she hain’t got no -call to get married.”</p> - -<p>I was rather pleased at this: if it showed anything, I thought, it -showed that I was to have something different from a merely domestic -career; but I had no idea what my course in life was to be, nor what -I wanted it to be; and I think I was not then particularly concerned -about my sick schoolmate.</p> - -<p>It was that night after returning home, as Mother and I sat on the -“stoop” in the darkness, talking in a desultory way, that this news -about Dora’s improvement occurred to me. Our talk was mingled with my -own dreams and cogitations as to what my future was to be. I knew I -must do something, but what that something was I did not know. Music -had been prohibited, teaching was out of the question because of my -incompetency in mathematics—suddenly into my mind there came the -strange, hitherto undreamed-of idea, and I said, first to myself, then -to Mother, “I will be a doctor.” </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span></p> - -<p>It all came in a twinkling—how scarce women physicians were, how much -they must be needed, and that if there were more of them in the smaller -towns, poor modest girls like Dora, who had refused treatment from a -man, need not suffer so for lack of means to employ them.</p> - -<p>I can hear now the dismay in Mother’s voice as she said, “Oh, Eugenia!” -Fired with the idea, I talked eagerly and rapidly; it seemed clear -that it was to be; there was no question about its fulfilment; but how -it was to be accomplished, so far as finances were concerned, I was -puzzled to know. For Father’s health was precarious then—two bank -failures and hard times made just the ordinary expenditures hard to -meet. I did not see how it could be done, but knew it would. Elated -over the project, the very suddenness with which it had come to me -convinced me of its ultimate accomplishment. I felt annoyed at Mother’s -objections. When she demurred, I insisted on her giving a reason. Her -chief one, that it was going out of my sphere, irritated me. In those -days (I hope I am less so now) I was very intolerant of another’s -point of view, and Mother’s illogical way of meeting questions tried -me exceedingly. Her insight, her intuition, her faith, her estimate of -character, were strong, but her logic was poor. Probably then, knowing -me as she did, she felt it would be a life for which temperamentally -I was not suited; perhaps she divined some of the disappointments and -failures I have since experienced; but she was unable to give a reason -and could only protest in a pitying way. I can hear her tones yet, her -words of regret and dismay, as I announced my intention with a finality -she seemed to realize.</p> - -<p>That night I wrote in my diary, doubtless sentimentally, of this -new idea. I think I rather gloried in Mother’s objections, and in -the ridicule of my sister when she heard of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> it. (She probably felt -much as some other girls and boys did: some boys who remembered my -hyper-sensitiveness and timidity as a child thought I would never have -“sand” enough to study medicine.)</p> - -<p>For a little I chose to consider myself a martyr. Years later, in -looking over the diaries of that period, much of what I had written -seemed so at variance with what I then felt, that it seemed like the -experience of another person—so false, so sentimental, such a pose! In -shame and disgust I destroyed the records.</p> - -<p>From the time, though, that the idea came to me, it was persistently -held. In school I worked with added zeal, paying especial attention -to studies I thought would be of use to me, and feeling impatient at -those which were distasteful, and which I thought little likely to be -helpful. But how poorly qualified was I then to judge of this! I know -now that just because of my failure to buckle down to what was hard for -me (particularly mathematics and physics), I missed the mental training -I most needed in those years. The education of the attention, the -moving along calmly from proof to proof, the deductions, the synthesis, -the exactness, the close, true ways of thinking, the patience, the -calmness; in short, the mental discipline which mathematics would have -given me, I failed to acquire; and I can now see how handicapped I have -been because of this failure. With senses so acute, and the emotional -nature so intense, the proper balance would have been found in a more -rigid intellectual training. The deficiencies have had to be made up, -when made up at all, at too great a cost; and the efficiency in my -chosen field of work has fallen far short of what it might have been -had I been more tractable then, more heedful of the advice of my elders.</p> - -<p>Confiding my hopes to a few intimates, from them I got<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> the sympathy -I craved. Gradually my ambition became known in the school. It was -perhaps two years later before a word was said to me on the subject by -my father. I thought it strange that he who showed such an interest in -my studies should be so indifferent in this which meant so much to me. -But I learned in time that it was not indifference. It seems he told -Mother not to be anxious over it and not attempt to dissuade me.</p> - -<p>“If it is a mere whim,” he had said, “it will soon pass, and no harm -will be done; but if she is in earnest, she will do it, and opposition -will only make her more intent on it.”</p> - -<p>When he saw it was not a whim, he acted promptly enough; and when the -time came for me to go to college, he smoothed the way as only the most -unselfish of fathers could. And so did Mother and Sister; their ready -help was given, their own economies and self-sacrifices were cheerfully -contributed that I might accomplish my purpose.</p> - -<p>A certain noon as I started for school as usual Father said:</p> - -<p>“Eugenia, hurry up to the office when school is out; I want to take you -to see Dr. Barnard.”</p> - -<p>To my questioning look he explained:</p> - -<p>“If you are bound to be a doctor, you may as well begin to find out -something about it. I have talked with the Doctor; he says he will take -you as a student; you can read in his office Saturdays and get a start -in that way.”</p> - -<p>I wonder if my father knew how happy he made me that day. As I went -back to school I trod on air. A radiance suffused my whole being. -There was very little studying that afternoon—whispered explanations -to a favoured few, wonderful tolerance on the principal’s part at my -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span>inattention to studies and open disregard of rules. We whispered and -wrote notes and were in a delicious flutter of excitement. As Father, -the Doctor, and the Professor were great cronies, I presume my teacher -knew of the plan long before I did.</p> - -<p>Dr. Barnard was a man of perhaps thirty-five, though to me he then -seemed much older. He was comparatively a newcomer in the town but, -being a Mason, found favour in Father’s sight. A good man with whom -to be associated, a student of human nature, kind, easy-going, with a -keen sense of humour, he was wide-awake as a physician and, what is -especially to the point, he did not take me too seriously, but wisely -concealed from me that he did not. I think he cured me of some whims -and susceptibilities; and I can see that he helped to develop my sense -of humour and to counteract some of my strenuous, sentimental views -of life. But it was done tactfully. He never shocked, though often -surprised me.</p> - -<p>That memorable first day he talked to me about the study of medicine, -about college life, its requirements, the difficulties to be -encountered, and the courage necessary. All that I could hope to do -while in school, he said, was to occupy the time I might otherwise -spend in desultory reading, in studying advanced physiology and -anatomy, thus making my first year in college easier. I could prepare -my lessons and he would quiz me on Saturdays.</p> - -<p>So, in addition to my school work, I studied Gray’s Anatomy. He let -me take home a box of bones, and I felt proud indeed to be learning -about each little groove and facet and tuberosity. On Saturdays I -recited and sometimes went with him into the country, often reading to -him from books on <i>materia medica</i> or on pathology as we drove lazily -along. Occasionally he took me into the houses to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span> see an interesting -case, but as a rule I held the lines during his visits (and was always -nervous till he was back in the buggy). Once I went with him when -he reduced a fractured arm. I got angry at the rough, coarse-voiced -woman who stood by ridiculing her husband for his groans and sighs; -she called him a calf, and said he ought to have a few babies, then he -<i>might</i> make a fuss. The Doctor was much amused at my embarrassment.</p> - -<p>My preceptor moved away before I was graduated from the Academy, -and I then carried on what studying I did by myself, and later with -another girl, who, though ridiculing me at first, finally decided to -go to Boston with me to study medicine. No urging of mine influenced -her; on the contrary, I was rather disappointed at her decision. -Secretly pleased, as I was, to be different from the others, Belle’s -determination to study medicine robbed me of this distinction. Then -we had never been especially congenial. Totally unlike in tastes and -temperament, we had always been on opposite sides of the fence—she -a Democrat, I a Republican; she a Baptist, I a Methodist—we had -quarrelled over politics and argued over religion, and there was -no love lost between us. But, as she told me later, she had had me -“dinged” into her ears by her mother and sister so long that she had -come to think she must do as I did. This is why she decided to study -medicine.</p> - -<p class="space-above">At our last rhetorical exercises before graduation, we had the usual -history and prophecy, and felt the sentiments and emotions usually felt -on leaving school. We resurrected an old song we had sung in the lower -grades—“Twenty Years Ago”—its sentiment appealing to us now that we -were already beginning to feel a yearning for the old place: </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span></p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>I’ve wandered to the village, Tom,</div> -<div class="i1">I’ve sat beneath the tree</div> -<div>Upon the school-house play-ground</div> -<div class="i1">Which sheltered you and me;</div> -<div>But none were left to greet me, Tom,</div> -<div class="i1">And few were left to know</div> -<div>Who played with us upon the green</div> -<div class="i1">Just twenty years ago.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Although the boys had jeered at its sentiment, and objected to its -solemnity, they joined in it at the close of the exercises as feelingly -as we could desire. There seemed a world of pathos in it as our young -voices sang it that June afternoon just before we were dismissed for -the last time from the old walls. As the sounds died away, “Prof.” -stepped to the bell-rope, traces of emotion on his face, and rang the -bell—the signal for the close of school. We packed our books, closed -our desks, and dispersed, never more to return to the place that had -grown so dear.</p> - -<p>Commencement exercises! There in the old church packed to overflowing, -parents and friends gather to hear the boy or girl on whom their hopes -are set deliver the oration or read the essay that is a marvel of -eloquence and wisdom.</p> - -<p>Brimming with youth and hope, each girl graduate flutters before -the audience and from out the glamour of this never-to-be-forgotten -time announces confidently her hopes, her solemn beliefs, her freely -bestowed advice. It is all beautiful. The youths and maidens seem -lifted just a bit above the earth; but underneath the rosy glow solemn -thoughts force their way; sobs and tears are near the smiles; the -earnest students, touched by the remembrance of the love and sacrifice -of their parents, are moved to high resolve—they will yet justify this -faith in them!</p> - -<p>Meadow daisies are massed in profusion around altar<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> and platform; a -paper canoe covered with daisies is suspended above—its paddle bearing -the word “Knowledge.” The class motto (translated)—“The love of -knowledge impels us”—is outlined on the wall.</p> - -<p>Roses, roses, everywhere. How the breath of June roses always brings up -that scene when I stood on the platform of the Methodist church that -night in June and looked down upon a sea of faces! Behind me, on the -platform, sat the dear teachers, doubly dear now that we were to go -from under their tuition; below me, close at hand, were the classmates, -so soon to “trust their parting feet to separate ways.” What a flood of -thoughts rushed through me as, standing there, in a voice that I did -not know, so loud and clear it rang (as though apart from myself), I -delivered the class valedictory!</p> - -<p>Looking down to our pew I saw Father and Mother beaming with pride -and joy; saw my sister and all the friends and neighbours of our -little village. How the expressions and the various faces stand out -even to-day! But am I dreaming? Is it really true? Yes, there sits my -own grandfather, dressed in unaccustomed black clothes, with a rapt -expression on his dear old face, the unheeded tears streaming down his -cheeks. The surprise and delight at seeing him there is one of the -keenest of my girlhood’s happy recollections.</p> - -<p>“Now, Eugenia!” my beloved teacher had encouragingly whispered when I -had passed him on the way to the centre of the platform; and afterward, -“I didn’t know you could do it,” he said exultantly, grasping my hand. -Then I knew I had done well. In school, as a rule, I had trembled and -mumbled when reading my essays; and although we had been drilled for -this momentous occasion, I had sadly faltered at rehearsals, and I knew -that “Prof.” had, as I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span> had, grave misgivings as to my ability to get -through with it at all creditably.</p> - -<p>“You were inspired,” said an admiring classmate extravagantly; “we -could hardly believe our eyes and ears!”</p> - -<p>My essay, called “Sailing,” portrayed allegorically the voyage of -school life. By cables our little boats were fastened to a large ship -on which was the Captain who guided our course near home and foreign -shores, where we learned of the earth and the air, the rocks and the -reefs, and the mysteries of the deep; we studied the stars overhead, -the banks along the shores, the <i>fauna</i> and <i>flora</i>, as well as the -peoples of the various climes—their language and literature. And this -is how my wonderful essay ended, as dropping the allegory, I addressed -the class:</p> - -<blockquote><p>Classmates, we have now come to that part of our voyage where we -must separate. We have long been fellow-voyagers, sailing side by -side, upon the Sea of Knowledge; we have had one ship, one voyage, -and one Captain, but henceforth our course must change; and as -we end the voyage of school life, and begin the greater one on -Life’s vast sea, may He who walked upon the waters be your Pilot, -guarding against shipwreck, and guiding your course until your -boats shall near the shining shore, and anchor in the peaceful -haven of Eternal Rest.</p></blockquote> - -<p>For two or more years I had had grave doubts about the truth of certain -orthodox teachings previously accepted unquestioningly. Our studies in -geology and astronomy had set me thinking for myself. I was groping -about for a reconciliation of opposing teachings. Our principal, -too, had often raised questions in class that he made no pretense of -answering, doubtless merely to awaken thought. Some essays of Huxley’s -and Spencer’s had contributed to my unsettled state of mind. In a -veritable chaos, impatient with certain teachings I now knew could not -be true, but too unschooled and dependent to reach a satisfactory<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> -solution, I was a most unhappy being. With an ingrained tenderness for -the old paths, yet was I morally sure that there were broader ones, -with wider, truer vistas. Pulled this way and that, remorse because -of my doubts and uncertainties alternated with defiance; for I felt -that, since my reason was meant for use, there was a higher Right that -sanctioned my attempts to get at the truth.</p> - -<p>I revert to all this now because it comes to me how I struggled with -myself, when writing those last words of my essay, as to whether -I would say what I did, knowing in my heart that, in the ordinary -acceptation of the words, it was almost hypocrisy for me so to use -them—“May He who walked upon the waters be your Pilot”—and yet -feeling that they were needed to carry out my figure, and to make a -suitable ending to conform to orthodox beliefs. Besides, what had -I to offer instead? I did not believe that He actually walked upon -the waters, but I did believe that He would make a good Pilot, so, -weighing both sides, stood by what I had written. A lot of talk about -one clause in a schoolgirl’s graduating essay, but it indicates the -spiritual struggle which to recall even now makes me sorry for that -girl I used to know. I think I must have been more conscientious about -these things than most of the girls, for I never heard them hint at -such problems, and never discussed these things with them, though I -did with my friend, Walter. Had I attempted to explain my difficulties -to my elders, I should only have blundered and bungled. Yet, in spite -of these scruples, I sacrificed my dawning convictions that I might -attain what I considered an apt and artistic ending to my allegory! -I remember, though, that after deciding to make this concession to -established opinions, I nudged myself with a congratulatory nudge at -the innocent-looking but non-committal “peaceful haven of Eternal -Rest.” I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span> had not read “The Light of Asia” then, and knew nothing of -what Nirvana meant—the ending merely pleased me by its cadence, and -its figurative fitness; it did no violence to my budding doubts, yet -would, I was sure, be accepted as a pious and fitting ending to my -clever allegory!</p> - -<p>Self-centred and self-conscious though I was, I was aware that no one -would give the attention to my little composition that I gave—the -general effect only would be noted; but I wanted to justify myself to -myself; I wanted also to be approved by the public—two opposing trends -of character that have robbed me of peace of mind at many a crucial -moment. In this early crisis, after weighing it all, I decided upon the -expedient course, taking care, however, to be as sincere as I could be -in conforming to the exigencies of the case. Looking back over my life, -I wonder if this has not been the course I have most generally pursued. -It seems to have been typical of much of my conduct.</p> - -<p>The above-named was not my original graduating essay but was one I -had written for our Class Day exercises under the emotional stir-up -felt at leaving school. My real essay, written for Commencement, I -considered a much finer production (I blush to think of it now); but -my instructors had persuaded me to read my allegory at Commencement. I -felt aggrieved that the other should be buried in oblivion. It was an -absurd affair—“What is Woman?”—which started out attempting to answer -in a facetious way some of the arguments in Walter’s essay—“Man’s -Place in Nature”—after which I launched forth in a revolt against the -prevailing ideas about woman’s inferior place in nature and in society. -It was a kind of miniature woman’s rights plea, weak and unoriginal, -and with my special thunder directed toward those who would prevent -woman from seeking to “heal the sick world that leans on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span> her.” This -was “Lucile’s” influence, combined with reading “Eminent Women of the -Age,” plus a little Huxley and Spencer. The hodge-podge wound up with -a poetical passage probably inspired by parts of “Paradise Lost,” and -by a poem of Emma C. Embury’s—“The Mother.” Concerning the ending, I -was not aware of its being anything but smooth in expression till, on -reading it aloud to one of the girls, she exclaimed, “Why, Eugenie, -that isn’t prose—that is poetry!” a verdict which naturally made me -feel more keenly than ever the disappointment at not being able to read -my masterpiece at Commencement.</p> - -<p>After graduation I pieced out a summer term in a district school, the -regular teacher falling ill. As it was in one of the same schools where -my mother had taught as a girl, I tried to imagine what her life and -thoughts and hopes had been in those days when she did not know Father, -and when I was—nothing.</p> - -<p>Besides giving me the opportunity to earn money, teaching was a -profitable experience: I found it strange to be the mistress of -anything. At first when standing up before the little people, it seemed -queer to have them obey; it took me some time to get over the surprise -of it; had they rebelled I should not have thought it strange. But one -quickly learns to rule when he knows it is expected. I was learning for -the first time what prestige goes with the mere office. It was soon a -delight to direct and sway this little world. I then appreciated what a -trial my teachers had had with me. Encountering occasional opposition -in my pupils, and feeling the consequent disappointment, I had my -first realization of the trouble I had given my own teachers, and felt -a wave of tenderness, especially for “Prof.,” as I marvelled at his -forbearance.</p> - -<p>Some of my little charges were amusing and interesting;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> one or two -repelled me; to others I was strongly drawn. One little boy of five or -six was quaint and original: when I asked him who God was he sighed and -said, “That’s more than <i>I</i> know.” He defined the stomach as “a kind -of bread-basket, ain’t it?” A bare-footed, brown-eyed boy of perhaps -twelve found a warm place in my heart. It was hard work not to pet -him. I grew almost sentimental over him, and made occasions for him -to raise his eyes, just to look into their brown depths. I remember -thinking, “Those eyes will make some girl’s heart ache some day.” They -almost made mine ache then. He seemed indifferent to my poorly veiled -preference for him, and evidently had no ambition to become “‘teacher’s -pet.’” One boy much older than the others grew insubordinate and I told -him he must apologize for his impudence or leave the school. As he was -to attend the Academy in a few weeks, he felt independent and refused. -Having to stand my ground for the sake of discipline, I let him pack -up his books and leave, but it was hard work to keep from calling him -back. I knew he was sorry, but couldn’t say so.</p> - -<p>The winter school which I taught was in another district—Johnny Cake -Hollow—in a little red schoolhouse in the same neighbourhood where the -youth lived to whom I had written notes in school. Although I had then -recovered from my early fancy, I was still sentimental enough to wish I -knew which of the battered old desks had been his.</p> - -<p>Boarding about half a mile from the schoolhouse in a family with a lot -of children, some of the elder ones of whom had attended the Academy -with me, I carried my dinner in a two-quart pail, and trudged through -the snow in all kinds of weather, all of which helped to make me more -hardy than I had been before. The bigger boys went ahead to break the -paths and open the stove, and “the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> teacher” followed surrounded by a -little group of red-hooded girls and sturdy urchins, their caps with -ear-laps pulled down low over their faces, their dinner pails gleaming -in the sunshine.</p> - -<p>I would have been happy that winter with its rugged pleasures and the -consciousness that I was earning money but for my perpetual anxiety -over the arithmetic lessons. It was easy enough with the B-class, but -with the A-class I was in continual hot water. Studying harder out of -school than any of my pupils did in school, I was always apprehensive -lest something come up that I could not explain. I knew that some -of the older boys and girls understood their lessons better than I -did—or would, if we advanced much farther in the book. Always promptly -dismissing the arithmetic class, I let the others run overtime. I am -afraid I kept the pupils back lest they get to that <i>terra incognita</i> -(the back part of the book) where I was so lamentably weak. In other -respects I think I was a good teacher; in that I know there could -scarcely have been a poorer.</p> - -<p>The demonstrative <i>pater familias</i> where I boarded gave me some trying -times: he was always putting his arms around me in a jolly, teasing -way that was hard to resist; it offended my dignity, yet I could not -manifest my full displeasure for fear of hurting the feelings of his -daughters, my friends; I thought it would be painful to them to see -their father rebuffed, so, evading him when I could, when I couldn’t, -I bore it with poor grace. Besides, I was displeased to have these -demonstrations before the children, my pupils—the demure young teacher -was very jealous of her dignity.</p> - -<p>One of the sons, about my own age, was a fine-grained youth; we and his -sisters had good times together, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span> something happened one evening -which made me furious: I was lying down, half asleep, dimly conscious -of the light and voices in the adjoining room, when I was startled by -a light kiss on my cheek. Thinking it was one of the girls, or one of -the little boys who was very affectionate, I lazily opened my eyes and -saw the guilty young man standing there, shaking with laughter. His -merriment was short-lived. Whatever I said made him feel sheepish and -contrite, for I felt that he had done me an irreparable wrong. There -was no pose in this: it seemed a real violation. No one, since when in -childhood I had stopped playing kissing-games—no boy or man, except -my relatives—had kissed me, and now this was done and couldn’t be -undone! I was a long time outgrowing my futile regret. Thereafter the -reprimanded youth was properly respectful to the Offended Being who -grudgingly pardoned him.</p> - -<p>At the time of Commencement I had formed a friendship with a girl from -Ithaca who, with her brother, visited in our village, and later engaged -in an active correspondence with both of them. They were several years -my senior; they had the charm of the unknown; they had read much and -wrote interesting letters; they were both religious, and in his letters -the young man laboured to bring me back into the old paths, or, rather, -into the Episcopalian fold. He was the nearest to a “beau” I ever had, -and a year later came to town, shortly before I started for college, -just to visit me. Full of my approaching departure and the new life -before me, his coming impressed me less than it might otherwise have -done. I have since wondered if he did not intend something more than -merely looking very soulful things had he met with any response from -me. I recall the thrill in his voice which stirred me a little when we -took a certain afternoon walk. But I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> found him much less interesting -than I had found his letters; and whenever I looked at the lower part -of his face, thought what a pity it was that such fine eyes should be -offset by such a mouth and chin. I knew I could never love a man with -a mouth and chin like his. He was then studying for the ministry, and, -I think, was tuberculous. His lack of physical strength and vigour -probably repelled me without my realizing what did it. At any rate, he -said no word to indicate anything but warm friendship. After his visit -he sent me Keats’s poems. Our correspondence continued throughout a -part of the college course. I have forgotten how it was dropped. During -one of my vacations I remember hearing him conduct religious services -in the little chapel in our village, but could not endure his intoning -and his priestly ways; his voice was weak, and the clerical garb only -accentuated his masculine deficiencies. I thanked my stars that I had -not been infatuated at the earlier period when he probably was a shy -adorer. Had he been healthy and good-looking, I might have succumbed, -for he pleased my mind at the time.</p> - -<p class="space-above">My sister had left school without graduating, which had greatly -disappointed me. But, more practical than I, and less studious, and -confronted by our growing needs and straitened means, seeing a way -in which she could help, she had taken matters in her own hands, and -a year or more before I left school had begun to learn dress-making. -I used to marvel to see her take the big shears and cut into new -material—such skill and daring, and she such a slip of a girl! What -pretty gowns she made for herself and me, talking me out of my “old -maidish notions,” and making me wear things that were “stylish” in -spite of myself, for I often objected strenuously to prevailing modes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> -I can see now that it was individuality in dress that I was striving -for; but, though failing to achieve it to any extent, I habitually -dissented from conformity. How lovingly she worked on my graduation -gown, and how pretty she looked in the old-rose silk which she earned -and made for herself and first wore on that occasion!—the same -old-rose that played so prominent a part in our wardrobe for several -subsequent years. For she let me take it during my college course (when -she needed it herself); then when she married she remodelled it for -her trousseau. Again, when I was practising, and money was scarce, she -made it over for me—the gown going back and forth between us like a -shuttlecock; and every change in its form, and every scrap of the silk -I see to-day, tells its tale of love and devotion and self-sacrifice, -inseparably linked with our girlish hopes and trials and experiences.</p> - -<p>I remember with delight the gowns I had to start with to college (no -bride ever enjoyed her trousseau more), and I recall with tenderness -the hours Sister spent on them, planning how she could accomplish -what she wished with as little outlay as possible. The new world I -was entering, the novel experiences, all come back to me now when I -see bits of the old garments—my brown travelling suit that I wore to -lectures; my plaid one that was made over, even prettier than when -first made; my “best dress”; my red “wrapper”; my gymnasium suit—how -much they meant to me, and how impossible they would have been but for -Sister’s love and efficiency!</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>You may rip and remodel old gowns as you will,</div> -<div>But the scent of old memories clings round them still.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER VIII</span> <span class="smaller"><span class="smcap">The “Medic”</span></span></h2> - -<p>Belle and I decided to go to a coeducational school to study medicine, -and settled upon Boston University. I was a happy girl that summer, -getting ready and picturing the future. Associating Boston with -Emerson, Holmes, Longfellow, and Whittier, I loved it before going -there. Belle, who had studied guide-books and maps, was glib in her -knowledge of the city; she knew just where the railway station was, -and the college, and how to get from one to the other. Her confidence -impressed me, for maps and topography were ever a vexation to my -spirit; her assurance impressed our parents also, and it was decided to -let us make the journey alone.</p> - -<p>Our family physician, who had written to the Dean, had received an -assuring letter: we were to go directly to the College and matriculate, -and there obtain addresses for boarding-places. In later years I have -realized what misgivings our parents must have had in letting us start -out alone, mere schoolgirls who had never been more than thirty miles -from home, green village girls, unused to city ways—ignorant of the -world, of life, of themselves.</p> - -<p>The last picture I have of my grandfather, is the one as he rode into -our door-yard the October afternoon of the evening I was to start for -Boston. Sitting his horse firmly and proudly (he was then eighty-five) -he brought me a fine full ear of yellow corn for a “keepsake.” I have -often wondered what made him bring that particular thing.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span> Was it that -he knew the sight of it when far from home would be so dear, serving -to bring back Grandma’s kitchen and the overhanging ears suspended -by their turned-back husks? Or was it that he recollected what a -fascination the full golden ears had had for me when I had played -around the corn-house years before in the October weather? I never -knew. I think I did not then question why. But that long yellow ear of -corn which he brought to me on the eve of my first leaving home was -a precious gift, inexplicably precious as I try to explain it now. -I clung to him with unwonted tenderness as I bade him good-bye, and -through my tears watched him slowly ride away.</p> - -<p>The night we left home, just before I started for the train, my -class-mate, Walter, came to the door and asked for me. I wondered why -he had not gone ahead to the station with the other young people. -Drawing me out on the “stoop”, in the darkness he quickly kissed -me, wrung my hand, and with a choked “good-bye” ran down the steps. -Astounded as I was, and with my strict ideas about such things, still -I did not resent that kiss. And as Father and I drove to the station -in the darkness, leaving Mother alone at home, to weep, I was sure -(though she had kept up till the good-byes were over) Walter’s kiss was -a welcome diversion, a partial relief to the pang of leaving home and -parting with Mother.</p> - -<p>At the station the young people were gathered, chatting gaily, but -Sister was unusually quiet. They loaded us down with fruit and flowers -and absurd advice—a merry noisy party as the train came thundering -in; merry and noisy except for the few who were pale and silent with -something wretchedly painful tugging at our hearts and rising in our -throats.</p> - -<p>Hurried kisses and hearty handclasps to the girls and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span> boys, and -then—my sister! We had not thought it would be so hard. It was like -tearing one’s body apart. Never till that moment had we realized what -we were to each other. We had never been separated more than a week in -our lives, and here was this train ready to bear me away from home, -away from my precious sister, into a life in which she was to have no -part! The agony as they separated us (for we clung in desperation as -the men shouted “All aboard!”) was the most cruel thing that had then -come into my life.</p> - -<p>When at Syracuse, after putting us on the sleeper, Father left us, -another pang was added; the last link was snapped. I can see him now -trying to look cheerful as he waved to us from the platform; and I -trying to keep the tears back till the train should bear us from his -sight. Never a word of all the anxiety and misgiving he and Mother -must have felt! The train moved off bearing the two girls with aching -throats and tear-stained faces—two girls who had never left the home -shelter, bearing them rapidly away in the darkness to the unknown city -to begin the study of medicine.</p> - -<p>Soon reacting from the sadness of parting, after the lumps had left our -throats, we became excited, even gay. Everyone had advised us what to -do on a sleeper; had warned us about thieves; told us of queer amusing -things which happened to inexperienced travellers, and we were fairly -spoiling for an adventure of some sort. But as our fellow-passengers -seemed strangely indifferent to us, we began to feel it was going to -be quite uneventful. Still, though detecting no one who looked like a -thief or a cut-throat, we hid our purses and watches with care, and I -kept my hat-pin within easy reach, in case any one should molest us. We -found some difficulty in fastening the curtains of our bed;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span> there were -great gaps between the fastenings; men passing down the narrow aisles -would drag the curtains aside. It was a novel and not at all reassuring -experience—we girls cooped up on that narrow bed, undressing in -the dark stuffy place, right in the sound of men’s voices, with men -continually passing. It seemed then, and to this day it seems, a kind -of indelicate thing to disrobe in the proximity of a carful of strange -men, with only insecure draperies to insure privacy.</p> - -<p>In our apprehension and unsophistication, we thought this continued -brushing aside of our curtains must be done intentionally. Not then -realizing how narrow the aisles were, or that it was not the same -person going by repeatedly, we grew angry: “If I hear him coming again -I shall grab the curtains together and hold them, so he can’t brush -them aside,” I said resolutely to Belle. The steps soon came again, the -curtains began moving. I made a desperate grab to hold them together, -but, oh horrors! what happened!</p> - -<p>“What’s wanted?” I heard in calm, clear, gentlemanly tones, and then -learned that I had also grabbed the coat of a passer-by!</p> - -<p>Chagrined, I stammered, “I—I—thought——,” and suddenly realizing my -mistake, felt the impossibility of explaining my awkward blunder—the -man had doubtless inadvertently brushed past, as had the others, in the -narrow aisle. His innocent coat-tail released, he passed on. Wondering -in shame what he must have thought of us, we suddenly awakened to the -realization that no one was inclined to molest us; that our school -fellows had been telling us “yarns”; and we had better lie down and try -to sleep. So, using the hat-pin to fasten the refractory draperies, we -lay down to sleep, though fitfully, the long night through. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span></p> - -<p>As we breakfasted from our lunch-boxes in the morning, we felt years -older; how long it seemed since we had left the little village amid -the drumlins! We were in a new world. It was raining when we reached -Boston, which did not add to our light-heartedness.</p> - -<p>How queer to see so many strange faces; everyone so busy, so intent -upon his own concerns, oblivious to the forlorn girls transplanted to -the strange city—everyone but the horrid, importunate cab-drivers -who leaned out from their stalls, and beckoned and called to us, -bewildering us so that we were a long time in settling upon one who -looked less villainous than the rest. We drove directly to the College -to matriculate. The unwonted scenes, the poor sleep, the irregular -meals, and the rain, all contributed to our gloom; but the Dean’s -letters—we had a friend at court!</p> - -<p class="space-above">How forlorn we must have looked, and pitiably young and inexperienced -for such an undertaking! The janitor eyed us curiously, and to our -request to see the Dean said he was not there then, but that Dr. -Caroline Matson was the one to call for—“She sees the new students.”</p> - -<p>She came into the room. Shall I ever forget the chill and depression -she brought with her? A short, stout, middle-aged woman with light -brown hair, a turned-up nose, a pink and white complexion, spectacles, -and penetrating steel-blue eyes. She looked us up and down and through -and through. I never felt so utterly small and insignificant. I think -she said “Humph!” when, in desperation at her scrutiny, I faltered, -“We’ve come to study medicine.” I tried to add that we wanted to see -the Dean; that he had written us; was expecting us; but she interrupted -me. The Dean was not to be seen then; we were to register, fill<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span> out -certain blanks, answer the questions, and then write an essay of a -given number of words setting forth our reasons for studying medicine, -<i>if we had any</i>; or write on any topic we chose. Then she left us.</p> - -<p>Glancing furtively at each other, we each read the dismay that -neither dared express. I think we felt her ears were as sharp as her -eyes and that she would hear the lightest whisper. We almost feared -she could hear our thoughts. For an hour or more we wrote on the -questions and the essay. Then she came and told us we were to meet -others of the Faculty to be examined orally in Latin translation, -physics, and chemistry. What a blow! Coming from New York state where -the all-powerful Regents reigned, we had supposed that our Regents’ -certificates and our academic diplomas would exempt us from all -examinations.</p> - -<p>“We don’t have to be examined,” we ejaculated in unison.</p> - -<p>“You don’t? Are you college graduates?” (Sarcastically)</p> - -<p>“No, but we have our Regents’ Certificates and pass-cards.”</p> - -<p>“Regents’ certificates?—what are they?”</p> - -<p>Had the bottom fallen out of everything? The Regents, THE REGENTS—that -tyrant for which we had toiled so long, whose coveted seal we had on -our precious diplomas! <i>And she doesn’t even know what the Regents is!</i></p> - -<p>We learned several lessons that bitter hour. Our explanations, though -lame, must have been intelligible, for, moderating a little, she -explained that they had no such system in Massachusetts, and that it -would be necessary to qualify in certain studies since we were not -graduates of a college; but that as we were so recently out of school -(and this seemed reprehensible on our part), we would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span> probably have -no difficulty. Then she examined our papers. Those cold eyes passed -rapidly up and down; once in a while she would look up, sometimes ask -a question, then read on. She could not have been conscious of the -torture she inflicted, or she would surely have been easier on those -sleepy, hungry, homesick girls, so completely at her mercy. Now as I -dimly recall what my essay was, I wonder that her sarcasm and harshness -were so moderate. I remember I quoted from “Lucile” about the mission -of woman being “to help and to heal the sick world that leans on her.” -She grunted when she put my paper down, and I breathed freer. Then, -taking up Belle’s, she gave an angry snort—something had acted like a -red rag to a bull:</p> - -<p>“Minnie Isabel Washburn! Is that your name?”</p> - -<p>“Ye-es, ma’am,” Belle timidly confessed.</p> - -<p>“Were you christened that?” (Glaring at her)</p> - -<p>“I wasn’t christened, I was baptized,” Belle corrected boldly, the -Baptist in her rampant—her religion was something for which she could -show courage even in this encounter.</p> - -<p>“Well, it won’t be tolerated here. When <i>will</i> mothers learn to give -their children sensible names? Doctor <i>Minnie</i> Washburn! How will that -sound?” and she almost annihilated us in scorn. Belle was speechless, -Belle the assured one, to whom I had looked for leadership and help in -all these new experiences; Belle of the boasted self-confidence, of -the undaunted courage! It was a strange sight to see her cowed, but -that woman’s face and voice were enough to intimidate any one. Without -thinking, surprised and scared at my own voice, but goaded to it by the -pain she was inflicting, I ventured:</p> - -<p>“I don’t suppose Belle’s mother knew she was going to be a doctor when -she gave her that name.” </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span></p> - -<p>My! how she turned and glared at me! Our eyes were about on a level. -I don’t know whether I flinched or not; I have a recollection of a -superhuman effort to glare back, but dare say I weakened. I remember -her look seemed to say:</p> - -<p>“You little upstart! who asked you to speak?” Then she announced:</p> - -<p>“Well, it can’t go down ‘Minnie’—that’s settled. You will have to drop -that and just keep the ‘Isabel.’”</p> - -<p>“But I can’t drop it (Belle was almost crying)—it was my grandmother’s -name; I’ll have to write home and ask my father first.”</p> - -<p>“No time for that—the way you register to-day, that way your diploma -has to read. We will have to see the Dean about this; but you may as -well understand we will have no ‘<i>i-e</i>’ names here; we graduate women, -not babies. I’ll see the Dean.”</p> - -<p>Out she went. Belle and I looked at each other hopelessly. “If <i>that</i> -is what women doctors are like, I don’t want to be one,” each of us -thought, and knew the other’s thought.</p> - -<p>Disheartened, disillusioned, tired, sleepy, hungry, far from home, -our Regents’ certificates counting for nothing, this great unfriendly -building, the dull sky, and we not knowing where we were going to stay -that night—all this and more we felt as we looked at each other and -tried to keep back the tears.</p> - -<p>And then SHE came back and told us to go across the hall to the Dean.</p> - -<p>We saw the sign “Faculty Room,” and went in. Rising to greet us, coming -with both hands extended, his ruddy face and smiling eyes beaming a -welcome, a short, stout, gray-haired man waddled toward us, enveloping -us in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> benevolent presence. It was a wonder we did not throw -ourselves into his arms. Taking us by the hand he beamed and we basked -in the sunshine of his fatherly welcome. Many a time in the years that -have passed I have wished I could tell him what he was to us girls that -day. I think I did essay it once, three years later, when I came to -see much of him. I have always loved him for that welcome. He is gone -now. A remarkable man, overflowing with energy and tact, a champion -of Homœopathy in its early days in Boston—the University, in fact, -Homœopathy in general owes more to him, probably, than to any other -man in New England. We came in time to hear him criticized by certain -students; sometimes heard it said that he carried his politic measures -to the point of insincerity; but I never had the slightest reason for -changing the feelings toward him which were born that day. Though -subsequently seeing some of his limitations, I admired his exceptional -gifts—his indomitable energy, and his wonderful executive ability, -while his warmheartedness won my lasting regard. I did change my -opinion of Dr. Caroline Matson, but of that later.</p> - -<p>How tactfully the Dean went to work to soothe Belle, and yet bring -about the proper registering of a name that would be dignified and in -good taste as a physician!</p> - -<p>“‘Minnie’—let us see—that is your first name? I suppose you are fond -of it, but it doesn’t sound just right for a physician, does it?”</p> - -<p>Under his kindly glance Belle explained that she had never used that -name, that she had always been called “Isabel” or “Belle,” but that as -the paper asked for her full name, she had given it.</p> - -<p>“Quite right, quite right; well now, if that is not the name you are -accustomed to, why not drop it? Anyhow,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span> your name is a long one, -‘Isabel Washburn,’ what a fine-sounding name! ‘Dr. Isabel Washburn’—I -like that.”</p> - -<p>“So do I,” said Belle, getting confidential, “but I can’t drop -‘Minnie,’ because it is my grandmother’s name; my father, I’m sure, -would object.”</p> - -<p>This gave him pause, but he was equal to the occasion:</p> - -<p>“Of course, of course you can’t drop your grandmother’s name-ah, -but-ah—why, it is all as clear as can be now—‘Minnie’ is only the -nickname for ‘Mary’—your grandmother’s name was Mary, even if they -called her familiarly ‘Minnie’; and all you need to do is to use your -grandmother’s real name instead of her nickname.” And he beamed on her -benevolently.</p> - -<p>Belle hesitated, but his charm of manner won the day. The alteration -was made, the obnoxious “Minnie” gave place to “Mary,” and we were -smilingly turned over to other members of the Faculty, who questioned -us on chemistry and botany, in which, I believe, we did fairly well. -We read the easy Latin at sight, conjugated a few verbs (I remember -how they tried to conceal their smiles at our faulty pronunciation—we -knew it was faulty, for we had shifted from the Roman to the English -method, and our hybrid pronunciation was enough to excite mirth). When -it came to physics, always a difficult study for me, we floundered and -failed ignominiously. I’m sure I did the worse, for Belle could reason -out such things pretty well, while I never could. We were “conditioned” -in physics, and in a month’s time were to be examined again. Although -they were very kind, we felt disgraced. Realizing that we had failed in -one study, and probably had been leniently passed in others, we felt -ourselves the ignorant, homeless creatures that we were. They told us -to come the next day at ten for the opening lecture. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span></p> - -<p>Copying several addresses from the bulletin board, we trudged out of -the big building, with our satchels and lunch-boxes in our hands. -A fine rain was falling; it seemed later in the day than it was. -We were adrift in that great city. Deciding to look up none of the -addresses till the morrow, we started for the Young Women’s Christian -Association, of which we had heard before leaving home. Belle thought -that when we got out to Washington Street she could get her bearings -and easily find Warrenton Street, where the Association building was. -But on reaching there, she could not be sure whether to go up or down; -so we plodded on, not knowing whether we were going toward or away -from our hoped-for destination. Everyone we accosted was kind, but no -one knew where Warrenton Street was. Car after car would go by, but we -did not know what one to take. The only policemen we could discover -were on the cars. We laughed miserably as we thought of our parents’ -injunctions to “ask a policeman.” The Boston policemen didn’t like -walking in the rain.</p> - -<p>On and on we trudged, our arms aching from the satchels, and, much -of the way, harrowed by uncertainty. Finally someone told us we were -nearing the street in which the Y. W. C. A. was located. How good it -was to spy that sign, and how like a shelter the huge building was as -it loomed before us! The street was narrow and dismal (it was even on a -sunshiny day) and on that dark day looked especially unpromising, but -our goal was reached; our strength and courage were well-nigh spent. -Shelter, refuge—what meaning in those words, and how soon we had -learned the need of them in this big, strange, rainy Boston!</p> - -<p>The girl who answered the door-bell, a slow-moving, stolid creature, -replying to our request to see the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span>Superintendent, said that she was -at dinner; that we would have to wait. It was then after two in the -afternoon. Of course we would wait; we asked for nothing better. We -volunteered that we had come to engage room and board.</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry, but the house is full,” she said.</p> - -<p>Belle dropped into a chair. She had gone through so much! Her vaunted -courage was proving a broken reed. I stood there, desperate, not -knowing which way to turn. On the way thither it had gradually dawned -upon me that Belle’s courage was rapidly oozing. I had had to exchange -satchels with her and carry her heavier one (though she was taller and -larger than I), as she had declared she could carry it no farther. It -was a novel position for me—to be the leader; but we tacitly changed -places during that long rainy walk.</p> - -<p>I looked at Belle, a forlorn heap in the chair. I saw that stolid girl, -waiting for us to go, since she had told us there was no room—to go -out in the rain, no shelter in view! I felt the humiliation of our -position before the girl who was showing impatience for us to start, -but summoned enough spunk to say, “Please tell the Superintendent we -would like to see her when she is at liberty.”</p> - -<p>Leaving us with the parting shot that “Every room in the house is -taken,” she went away.</p> - -<p>Bursting into tears, Belle declared she would go home on the morrow; -she didn’t want to study medicine—had never wanted to—only did -it to please her people—didn’t like Boston—hated Dr. Matson, and -didn’t want to be a woman doctor any way; she would go back and teach -school. Her outburst astonished me. Pitying her, and agreeing with -her in part, her giving way put me on my mettle. So, having sense -enough to know that we were both worn from the physical and emotional -strain, and that,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> dark as things were, they seemed darker because of -our exhaustion, I sat down and, opening our lunch-box, fairly forced -the food into Belle’s mouth, and devoured some myself. The messenger -girl passed the door several times, peering in curiously; she looked -as though she were going to tell us we must not eat in the waiting -room, but passed on. It must have been an unaccustomed sight to her. I -myself felt the unfitness of it all, but did not care; we were nearly -famished; it was the desperation of self-preservation.</p> - -<p>As we ate and talked, Belle drooped less, and we soon got interested -in the coming and going past the door. Happy, laughing girls passed -and re-passed, running to catch the elevator, peeping in at us with -half-veiled curiosity, and moving on. How envious we felt at seeing -them greet one another—everybody knew everybody else in Boston, except -these two miserable girls who knew only each other.</p> - -<p>We kept looking at the clock; we tried to jest, wondering what that -woman had for dinner that kept her so long. We must have sat there an -hour, expectant, anxious. The messenger girl seemed to have disappeared -for good. At last, desperate, I started out down the strange corridor, -and there met her:</p> - -<p>“Hasn’t the Superintendent finished her dinner <i>yet</i>?” I queried.</p> - -<p>“Oh, my, yes, an hour ago—I forgot to tell her you were waiting.”</p> - -<p>I must have looked my wrath, for she went off in short order, returning -soon with a tall, stern, handsome woman, the Superintendent’s -assistant. This lady heard our tale calmly, looked at us critically, -and told us the house was full; she was sorry, but she would give us -addresses of boarding-places near by. Belle declared she could not stir -another step to look for a place. At this vehemence<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span> the calm lady -lifted her eyebrows, but said nothing. I must have said in my most -supplicating tones, “Can’t you make room for us some way, just for -to-night—we are <i>so</i> tired,” for she deliberated, then said, “We will -go and see what Miss Dillingham has to suggest.” And she ushered us up -to the office of the Superintendent.</p> - -<p>Dark and gloomy every corner of that building had seemed that rainy -afternoon, but as the door opened, a cheerful fire, and an atmosphere -of warmth and ease and home enveloped us. Sitting at a desk was -a stout, red-cheeked, red-nosed woman with bright gray eyes. She -looked up, nodding a greeting to us, and listened to her assistant’s -explanations.</p> - -<p>“I’ve told them I don’t see how we can accommodate them,” the younger -woman said, not unkindly but dispassionately. I remember admiring her -stately grace as she moved about the room, but feeling from the way she -closed her lips that we had little to hope from her.</p> - -<p>“Why have you come to Boston?” queried the Superintendent as she rose -and came toward us.</p> - -<p>“We came to study medicine,” I said, and tried to explain further, when -my voice gave way, and I lost the self-control I had been maintaining -all day against such odds. I turned to Belle and she took up the tale, -but broke down, too. Then the good soul gathered us both in her arms, -held us close to her broad bosom and let us sob out the grief that -refused to be suppressed any longer.</p> - -<p>Then, conferring with her assistant, after some directions about -changes, she rang for the bell-girl and told her to have room 60 -prepared for us at once; they would manage to keep us that night, and -to-morrow would help us find a boarding-place. She then told us the -supper hour, and the time for evening prayers, and, advising us to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> get -a nap, said we would feel like new creatures by evening.</p> - -<p>The clean little room with its two narrow beds and scanty -furniture—what a haven it was! Exploring our surroundings, and -removing the dust of travel, we lay ourselves down in our little -white beds and quickly fell into a sound if not untroubled sleep. We -must have slept several hours. The first thing I was aware of was the -singing of a hymn in a distant part of the building. It was dark. I -wondered where I was. Low sobs from the other side of the room brought -me to my senses. The singing made me homesick, my throat ached, my own -tears started, and creeping out of bed I went over to Belle, and there -we sobbed away in our misery, while those young voices on the floor -above sang:</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div>“Jesus, Saviour, pilot me</div> -<div>Over Life’s tempestuous sea;</div> -<div>Unknown waves before me roll,</div> -<div>Hiding rock and treacherous shoal.</div> -<div>Wondrous Sovereign of the sea,</div> -<div>Jesus, Saviour, pilot me.”</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Our cry out, we felt better. Belle experimented with the gas, finally -succeeding in lighting it. (It was a week or more before I felt safe in -doing it—I disliked that sudden noise just as it ignited, it made me -jump; and I always felt doubtful whether I had turned it off, too, and -had to call Belle to come and see if it was leaking.)</p> - -<p>As the supper hour was long past, we ate the remnants of our lunch, -looked out on the strange street with the hurrying passers-by, explored -the bath-room, and, after much investigation about the fixtures, took -our first baths in a bath-tub, and went to bed for the night, in almost -a cheerful frame of mind. We talked long in the darkness, getting -better acquainted than we had in all the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span> years of school together. -Never especially congenial, as children contending together for the -supremacy of the things we espoused—Republicanism and Methodism -<i>versus</i> Democracy and the Baptist faith—over these in former years -we had waged war; but there in the darkness we discussed earnestly and -amicably our individual faiths (or doubts, now, in my case), our hopes, -our ideals, coming to a better understanding than ever before.</p> - -<p>In the morning the sun shone gloriously. In the great dining room -a hundred or more girls were seated. No doubt we showed by our -awkwardness that it was our first venture into city life; but we had -a grip on ourselves, and felt equal to the day’s experiences; they -couldn’t possibly be worse than yesterday’s and, I felt exultantly, we -had lived through them. As she left the dining room the Superintendent -nodded kindly to us, later sending for us to come to the office. There -she told us they would manage to keep us a week, or until a room could -be secured for us at the branch Association on Berkeley Street, a newer -and better building, and much nearer the College. This was indeed -good news, and we started off for College with almost pleasurable -anticipations-so bright was the sun, so crisp the October air, and so -eager were we to see what was in store for us.</p> - -<p>I remember well those first walks to and from the College; our -perceptions alert, everything so different from what we were accustomed -to; the ordinary street scenes, the ways of the people, the peculiar -pronunciation of the passers-by, even of the newsboys—everything was -food for wonder, amusement, or ridicule to the two village girls: Why -didn’t they build their side-walks on a level, instead of making the -pedestrian step down at every crossing, and then up again? Gradually -we learned that these<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span> marked the ends of blocks. We did not like the -houses built all together, they looked queer and dismal. We marvelled -at the huge dray-horses, and laughed at the queer herdics tumbling -along; we puzzled over the street cries; we looked with interest at -the “Tech” boys as we passed them on their way to the Institute of -Technology, and felt a community of interest with them, as well as -with the Conservatory students, as, crossing a little park, we saw -them file into the New England Conservatory of Music. On nearing the -College we saw the medical students coming briskly from all directions, -nearly all of them carrying what seemed to be part and parcel of their -equipment—the ubiquitous brown-leather Boston bag.</p> - -<p>A thrill of expectancy went through me as, turning into Concord -Street, we felt ourselves a part of this life. The building looked -quite familiar on seeing it for the second time, and despite our -disheartening experiences of the previous day, I went up the steps -eagerly, in half-suppressed excitement.</p> - -<p>It was some days before Belle ceased her threats of going home, and -she was always more or less of a malcontent. I am sorry to say we were -not very harmonious roommates, though we never openly quarrelled. If I -received higher marks than she did in our trial “exams,” she usually -made herself and me wretched; if I met with special cordiality and -friendliness, her ill-natured comments often took the savour out of -what would have been pleasant experiences for me. I frequently found -myself guiltily trying to conceal things of which I would ordinarily -have been frankly glad, just to save a scene. There’s no denying that -she was inordinately jealous, and it was a temperament I had never come -in contact with before. Though seldom airing our differences, there -was, with me, I know, a good deal of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span> unexpressed irritation. Sometimes -I would go in the clothes-press and shake my fist at her wrapper, a -garment which seemed peculiarly to personify her. This relieved me a -little.</p> - -<p>New as it all was, I felt at home in Boston at the start, and was -disposed to like everything. Happy and interested in my work, I also -revelled in the good general library at the Y. W. C. A., in the -churches, the lectures, the Art Museum, the symphony concerts, the -quaint old parts of Boston, the Common, the Public Gardens—it was all -life, and more abundant than I had dreamed would be mine. And people -liked me. One of my weaknesses in later years—this liking so to be -liked—then it was merely an innocent pleasure to feel, as I usually -instinctively felt, that I was generally liked.</p> - -<p>As a class we were on friendly terms; the ages ranged from girls in -their ’teens to women of perhaps thirty-five; the men were mostly -in the twenties; a few were older. Two of the young men were always -talking to Belle, between lectures, against women studying medicine. -She would rehearse their arguments to me, especially toward the close -of the year, telling how they laboured with her to give up medicine; -that it unsexed women; that they didn’t care a rap about most of the -women in the class, but hated to see “nice girls” like her and me keep -on with the course, and at last turn out like Dr. Matson and some of -the masculine senior girls.</p> - -<p>I thought then, and still think, that there is nothing in the study -or practice of medicine that need make a woman less womanly. It ought -rather to make her more so. By reason of being a woman she may lack -some qualities that go to make the ideal physician, but, if so, this -limits her as a physician; it need not detract from her qualities -as a woman.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span> But few women, and by no means all men, physicians, -possess the mechanical skill and other qualities that make a good -surgeon; but the general practice of medicine, I think, is not beyond -the mastery of many a woman’s mind and strength. If a capable woman, -with a well-trained mind, and with self-mastery, engages in the study -and practice of medicine and fails, it is, I believe, rather because -stronger interests attract her than because she cannot master it. And -as for masculinity as seen in women physicians, those same women, as I -used to point out to Belle, were masculine before they began to study -medicine—would have been so in any walk in life. We occasionally saw -Dr. Anna Shaw around the College—she had graduated there some years -before—distinctly the masculine type. Many of the women of the faculty -were charmingly feminine; and, better still, some that were not so -charming were strong and womanly, and commanded the respect of their -<i>confrères</i>, both as women and as physicians.</p> - -<p class="space-above">It was months before either Belle or I ceased to shudder when we saw -those steely eyes of “Dr. Caroline” fastened upon us. As she was -professor in anatomy, we saw much of her the first year. Her lectures -were thorough, painstaking, and interesting. But, though excellent as -an instructor, she scared the life out of us at quizzes. She would -call each student by name, then pause—time for every eye to fasten -upon one—then a searching look into one’s eyes, and the question was -fired. I never answered satisfactorily, even when I knew well the -answer, she disconcerted me so, making me tremble to the very marrow -of my bones—those bones she knew so well! She had a system of marking -at quizzes, giving each student a plus mark for correct answers,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span> ten -of which would count one on his final examination. The boys called her -“Our Caddie.” We even got so that we did ourselves. The incongruity -of the “<i>i-e</i>” name, applied to HER, particularly pleased Belle and -me. But we learned to respect her, as did all the students. It was -rumoured that she never treated any student with geniality till he -had passed her chair in anatomy; it was also rumoured that it was -one of the hardest things to pass that chair. Occasionally we caught -sight of her friendly manner to some of the upper-class students, and -fairly revelled in her rare smiles when we saw them bestowed on some -lucky senior. She was transformed when she smiled. And in spite of her -mannish stride, and her abrupt, brusque ways, she had certain womanly -traits which we rejoiced to see: she blushed exquisitely, and had -pretty dimpled hands with pink finger tips—I used to note them when -she passed the trays with the anatomical specimens, and her dainty way -of using the towel after handling them. I have said that she was a -middle-aged woman, but I wonder if she was not younger than that: in -those days I regarded every one past the twenties as middle-aged, or -old.</p> - -<p>“Dr. Caroline” instructed us that first year, in microscopy, too, and -was very exacting. I had no special aptitude for it, and was afraid -of making blunders. She was so deft, and I so awkward in preparing -specimens, often breaking the fragile cover-glasses and spoiling my -bits of tissue which she doled out to us as precious morsels. How -the smell of the oil of cloves which we used in the work brings up -those sessions in microscopy—the students seated at the long tables -“teasing” their specimens with the fine needles, and mounting and -labelling the minute scraps of tissue! </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span></p> - -<p>We had private quizz-classes among ourselves: Four of us girls met -for study in the evening—I say girls, the two others were no longer -girls; one was probably twenty-five, the other perhaps near thirty. -The younger of these, Miss Thorndike, was also from the Empire State, -a bright, capable person, used to city life, a striking, winning -personality, and one who had herself well in hand. She had some -masculine ways which she tried rigorously to overcome. She seemed to -know the ropes of college life pretty well; she was sophisticated, -and we were not and, realizing our inexperience, she exercised a -chaperonage over us so tactful that we were not aware of it till years -after. Miss Wilkins was a typical strenuous New England woman, prim and -sensitive, who constituted herself our avowed chaperone, directing, -scolding, and mothering us; making peace between us, and dictating to -us when we much preferred to paddle our own canoes. Though fond of her, -we often teased her, sometimes deliberately doing things to shock her -(how easily she blushed!); yet we always ended penitently with, “but -Miss Wilkins is such a good woman!” And she was, and withal very human -and tolerant of our uncurbed, undisciplined ways. I realize now how -much we owe to hers and Miss Thorndike’s kind and wise supervision.</p> - -<p>We rented bones to study the first year. I recall the amused feeling -I had the night I carried home my box of bones: Crossing the park, as -I met passers-by, I thought, “Wouldn’t they open their eyes if they -knew what is in this box!” Here, as always, the incongruity, the hidden -reality, appealed to me.</p> - -<p>One day at the Y. W. C. A., when it was too cold to study in my room, -taking Gray’s Anatomy and my rented femur, I went out and sat by the -radiator at our end of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span> the hall; there was but little passing to and -fro and I was soon absorbed in reading Gray and tracing the various -facets and foramina on the huge thigh-bone.</p> - -<p>“Young woman, is that a human bone?” a voice called to me severely from -the other end of the long hall.</p> - -<p>“Yes, would you like to see it?” I answered—how innocently, I cannot -say. I am under the impression that even at the start I recognized her -horror, and did it mischievously, but with an air of innocence as I -held it toward her.</p> - -<p>“You horrid thing!” she gasped and disappeared in her room. This -disconcerted me: She was the head-laundress of the institution, and she -and the Superintendent were great friends. I well knew she was angry, -but I was a bit angry, too. I didn’t like being called names, and had -high ideas of the respectability of my pursuit; I knew it was neither -horrid nor disgraceful to study anatomy, whatever she in her prim, -prudish way might think. Getting more and more angry, I could study no -longer.</p> - -<p>That night, dear, sensitive Miss Wilkins came to me in perturbation: -I had offended Miss Tyler; she might complain of me to the -Superintendent. I got on my highest heels of dignity: Miss Tyler had -offended me; I was sitting in my end of the hall attending to my own -affairs when she accosted me; and when I politely answered her, even -offering to show her what I was interested in, and about which she -seemed so curious, she had insulted me, rudely called me names, and -slammed her door, and the episode had spoiled my afternoon’s study; and -did not Miss Wilkins herself think that the cause for complaint was on -my side?</p> - -<p>Then it was that Miss Wilkins laboured with me. At first I was -obdurate, and even in the end did not quite agree with her; but so -persuasive was she, that I promised not to study my bones in the hall -again, and not to offend<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span> Miss Tyler, or any one else, by what was to -them unquestionably an offensive sight. She reminded me that we must -not expect everyone to look upon these things from the scientific -standpoint; that we must respect the prejudices of others; that we -surely did not want to make ourselves conspicuous or obnoxious, and -bring reproach upon women medical students. She struck the right note -there, knowing how I recoiled from Dr. Matson’s mannish ways, and that -I had said I would rather not be a doctor at all, if I had to get -coarse and masculine. As she showed how timid and conservative Miss -Tyler was, she made me feel it my duty to refrain from further wounding -her sensibilities.</p> - -<p>How we observed, and insensibly estimated, our various instructors! -Our professor in physiology was a diffident, scholarly man, stiff -as a poker; dry and ponderous as a lecturer. We liked the chemistry -professor, and liked the laboratory work, yet chemistry was for me -the hardest first-year study. Nowadays when I see certain chemicals -that we used in experiments, I get a sudden vision of my desk in the -laboratory, with the test-tubes, the gas-burners, the retorts, the -filter-papers, and all; and can even see the faces of the various -students as they stand at their desks heating solutions; holding -others up to the light—now one bends to record something on a chart, -now there’s a crash of broken glass, a rustle and a stir, perhaps a -giggle, as some unlucky student blunders in an experiment. How it all -comes back at the sight of a bottle marked Cupric Sulphate, or H<sub>2</sub> -SO<sub>4</sub>! What a witty lecturer we had in the History and Methodology of -Medicine—a short, fidgety man with big blue eyes and benevolent face. -He had a funny way of pulling at his collars and cuffs while lecturing, -as if they choked him and he wished he could take them off. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span></p> - -<p>When early in the first year our courses in dissections began, I was -all eagerness—the untried always having its charm for me. My name -being at the beginning of the alphabet, it fell to me to be one of -the first six students to work on the first subject. I had bought my -dissecting-case from one of the “middlers”; my long-sleeved apron was -ready; and I awaited impatiently the day, little dreaming what I was so -eager about.</p> - -<p>Assembled in the dissecting room that first day to see us begin were -many middlers and seniors, as well as the sixty or more in our own -class. Each “subject,” as the cadavers are called, is apportioned in -six “parts,” lots being cast for the “parts,” six students working -simultaneously on a body. Half the abdomen and the right lower -extremity fell to me. My partner on the other side was a young woman, -older than I, but very shy and reserved. Other students drew the head -and neck, the chest and upper extremities.</p> - -<p>That first day as we entered the dissecting room there lay the body, a -man’s body, stiff and stark, on the slanting zinc-covered table. The -arteries had been injected with red wax, and much of this loose wax and -other extraneous matter was clinging to the skin of our subject. It was -horrible to see the naked body. I had not thought of that. I don’t know -what I had thought of, surely not that—and this room full of onlooking -students!</p> - -<p>The Demonstrator in anatomy gave us a serious talk, inciting us to -earnestness, cautioning us against carelessness, levity, or other -unseemly behaviour, after which he told us to set to work. The first -thing, he said, was to sponge the part assigned to us, then make our -incisions, as we had been previously instructed, and proceed with the -dissections.</p> - -<p>I shall never forget the repugnance as well as the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span>embarrassment I -felt at beginning our task. The young men in our class, as new as were -we to it all, were awed as well as we, but those horrid middlers and -seniors looking on with amusement! I felt my face getting redder and -redder, and Miss Bigelow’s cheeks looked as though they would burst; -but with downcast eyes we kept at work, probably taking far more pains -than we needed to. I can see just how gingerly we held the sponges; the -wax stuck; we thought we had to get off every speck. Then Miss Bigelow, -without looking up, whispered, “What shall we do with the pail?”</p> - -<p>“Empty it, I suppose,” I snapped out; and getting up courage enough -to glance round the room, spied a sink. Stooping, I picked up the -loathsome pail and, with blazing cheeks, started across the room, -feeling that a great indignity was being undergone—to have to do this -at all was bad enough (I still think it was janitor’s work), but it was -intolerable to do it before those idle middlers.</p> - -<p>Before I had taken many steps a young man in our class came up, took -the pail from me, and in a soothing tone said, “Please let me—now the -worst is over, Miss Arnold.” The tears started at his kindness. The -other young men must have felt ashamed, for they soon rallied round -the table, showing us how to make the first incisions, how to hold our -scalpels and tissue forceps, in fact, giving us many useful hints. We -had had the theory, but to make the actual incisions, to lift the skin -and deftly dissect it from the tissues beneath—was different from what -we had imagined.</p> - -<p>Going from student to student, the Demonstrator instructed and -encouraged each in turn. Soon the room, thinned of its spectators, -took on a different aspect: the novices bent over their work with -interest and absorption.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span> The painful emotion I had felt at seeing -those bodies, stripped and at the mercy of our little knives and -forceps, soon gave place to genuine enthusiasm. I dreaded the feel of -the cold skin, but once that was removed, I was all interest; one then -lost sight of the human side, and saw only the beautiful mechanism. -How wonderful it seemed when I had the external abdominal muscle laid -bare, and its structure disclosed, and this and the other muscles and -their adaptations seen! Some days later when one of the girls, working -on an arm, had the deltoid exposed, I was surprised to hear one of the -assistant demonstrators (a woman) say to her, “It is a pretty muscle, -isn’t it?” “Pretty” seemed such an incongruous word to use, but I -soon learned to admire the well-dissected muscles, though rather than -“pretty” I should have called them “beautiful.”</p> - -<p>The instructors demonstrated the viscera, which, with the muscles and -other “soft parts” were removed piecemeal, and disposed of daily. -Whitman’s tremendously realistic line, “What is removed drops horribly -into the pail,” always takes me back to the dissecting room with its -repulsive odours and its sorry sights. But our growing interest did -much to mitigate the repellent features.</p> - -<p>The actual dissection was interesting and easy for me, but it was not -easy to demonstrate the muscles and groups of muscles, for it was -always difficult to comprehend their action. Never having been able -to understand levers and pulleys and mechanical things, I could not -reason out things which were so obvious to others. It was absurd, after -getting the muscles nicely dissected, with their points of origin -and insertion before my very eyes, to be unable to deduce what their -actions were. I had no “gumption.” This inability on my part puzzled -the Demonstrator and his assistants—the senior students, who moved -about from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> table to table, listening to our recitations whenever we -would get a group of muscles exposed for demonstration. One dignified -senior who was usually on hand to hear me recite, was painstaking in -trying to make me understand their action: “Why, can’t you see?” he -would ask; then, convinced that I could not, would try to drill it into -my head. His dignified air awed me considerably, and I was demure and -respectful to him, always calling him “Doctor” as, in the freshness of -our first-year’s awe of them, we supposed we had to call the seniors. -But one day, when in the reading room, I saw him try to kiss one of -the senior girls, my awe vanished; after that I was a trifle pert and -independent. It was funny how my whole attitude then changed toward -him. I suddenly saw through the mock dignity he carried while in the -dissecting room. In vain he tried to impress me with his gravity, I -only laughed in his face. So we soon got on fairly friendly terms, as -much as a humble junior and a “grave and reverend senior” could be. -Sometimes I surprised him looking at me with a quizzical, half-amused -look that changed to a frown and an attempt at dignity, when he saw -I was observing him. I imagine he quite enjoyed the deference of my -earlier manner, and was not a little annoyed at the discovery which had -disillusioned me.</p> - -<p>Some weeks after I had seen him trying to steal that kiss, when I -was one day working on the head and face, he came up to hear me -demonstrate the facial muscles. The action of the muscles had got to -be a kind of joke between us, still he always laid particular stress -on that, persisting until I understood, and when practicable usually -requiring me to illustrate the action. That day I had been dissecting -out the <i>Orbicularis Oris</i>—the round muscle of the mouth. After I had -described it and its relations, he asked smilingly, “And the action?” -I replied that it was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span> used to pucker the mouth, as in whistling, -and—and (mischievously) in kissing—<i>if you can</i>. He blushed -furiously, knowing then, positively, that I had, on that occasion, seen -the girl slip out of his grasp. Assuming a mock dignity he said, “I -have a mind to require you to illustrate the action—it is within my -province, you know.” Then <i>I</i> felt cheap, and blushed furiously, too. -Later in the afternoon the Demonstrator himself came round and slyly -asked if I was ready to demonstrate the action of the <i>Orbicularis -Oris</i> yet, so I knew the senior assistant had told him about it.</p> - -<p>We had been told that no parts of our subjects might be taken from the -dissecting room—a necessary prohibition, as the College pledged itself -to bury the skeletons intact. (The boys used to say it was so there -would not be so much confusion on Resurrection Morn.) But each year -students were intent on purloining a hand or a foot, or some part, as a -souvenir. Because forbidden, of course I had this silly ambition, too. -(We were on our honour, else it would have been easy.) I bethought me -how I could get around the restriction: Our Anatomy said that sesamoid -bones were small unimportant bones sometimes found in the tendons, -not properly included as a part of the skeleton. The Demonstrator had -urged us all to hunt for sesamoid bones, meaning, of course, the small -adventitious ones that were a rarity. Herein I saw my chance: One day -while working around the knee, as the Demonstrator stood watching me, I -asked:</p> - -<p>“Doctor S——, have any sesamoid bones been found this year?”</p> - -<p>“No, I have heard of none.”</p> - -<p>“They are not properly a part of the skeleton, are they?” (Innocently) </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Oh, no, no, they are very unimportant affairs—interesting only as -anomalies,” he said pompously.</p> - -<p>“Then (demurely) I suppose I may keep all the sesamoid bones I find in -my subject, mayn’t I?”</p> - -<p>He laughed and said, “Yes, you are welcome to all the sesamoid bones -you find,” and started to walk away.</p> - -<p>“Thank you, Dr. S——,” I said, with ill-concealed triumph, “I’ll take -this patella when I go home to-night.”</p> - -<p>He started, coloured, looked annoyed, then amused. He was fairly -caught, for the patella, though of course a legitimate part of the -skeleton, is formed in the tendon of the <i>Quadriceps Extensor</i>, and -is described by Gray, because of its mode of development, as a kind -of sesamoid bone—a fact which had somehow stuck in my memory, as -unimportant things will, while others of greater import sifted through. -The Demonstrator walked away looking a little chagrined, but later I -saw him laughing on the sly with the seniors, and before he left he -came back and said, “You may take your ‘sesamoid bone’, Miss Arnold; -you have earned it.”</p> - -<p>I had not thought out how I could contrive to get a souvenir from my -next “part,” but this same Demonstrator unwittingly helped me out. -I was at work on the wrist, and as he stood looking on he asked, -“Have you found any more ‘sesamoid’ bones?” I said No, but just then -the little pisiform bone, not much bigger than a pea, stood out so -conspicuously that, seeing how easy it would be to sever it from the -other small bones, I purposely made a careless cut, and the little -thing rolled on the table.</p> - -<p>“Oh, my!—well, you surely wouldn’t have me put that mite in the -pail—and it won’t stay on the wrist <i>now</i>.”</p> - -<p>He knew, and I knew that he knew, and he knew that I knew that he knew, -that I did it purposely—his question,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span> the prominence of the tiny bone -with its slender attachment, put it in my head—“Opportunity makes the -thief.” So he let me have the pisiform, but shook his head as though -he thought me incorrigible; and after that rallied me on what ruse I -would resort to with my next “part,” as I could hardly take the head, -or any of the vertebræ. I have these bones somewhere now. They gave me -a lot of bother to get clean, and of what earthly use are they? Yet -perhaps as much as many of the things we scheme and work for. It is the -endeavour that counts, and it was fun to outwit the Demonstrator. So we -managed to get some amusement out of the dry bones, but were glad when -the long weeks were at an end and we could go out in the sunshine after -lectures instead of working in that unsightly upper room.</p> - -<p class="space-above">One of the memorable experiences of that first year was an afternoon -spent with Laura Bridgman. Helen Keller’s achievements have since -familiarized us with what wonders can be done in teaching one who is -deaf, dumb, and blind, but when Dr. Samuel G. Howe attempted to teach -the child, Laura, it was pioneer work, and the difficulties were -well-nigh insuperable.</p> - -<p>Miss Wilkins and I were invited to meet Miss Bridgman by Mrs. Lamson, -who, under Dr. Howe, had been one of the first to teach Laura to -communicate with others by means of the sign language. Mrs. Lamson told -us of those early struggles, how overjoyed child and teachers were -the day they succeeded in making her understand that certain signs -made upon her open hand represented the door-key which they had put -in her hand. When the import of this one thing, for which they had -toiled long, dawned upon the shut-in soul, she was a freed being; she -went about eagerly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span> touching other objects, teasing in her mute way -to be shown their “sign,” too. Slow, infinitely wearisome were those -first steps in her education, but after a certain point, progress was -astonishingly rapid. She had not the distraction other learners have; -her thirst for knowledge was intense; her memory phenomenal—a thing -once learned became a part of her; she wore out all her teachers with -her insatiable desire to learn.</p> - -<p>Among other things Dr. Howe earnestly wished to test whether the human -mind, without suggestions from outside, would, in its development, -evolve the idea of a Supreme Being. Here was an unprecedented -opportunity to test it, for, shut in as she was, Laura had no means of -learning anything except through her teachers. It would be a valuable -contribution to psychology to learn for a surety whether, unaided, her -mind would conceive the idea of a Deity. So for years they planned and -laboured with this experiment continually in view. Assistants were -rigorously instructed to exclude any hints or teachings which would -suggest worship or religion—anything which could in the remotest -way give her a glimmering of such ideas. Laura was showing wonderful -progress in development. Dr. Howe’s efforts seemed on the way to -success in this important test, when one of his teachers was called -away at a time when he himself was in Europe. The substitute, though -carefully enjoined to observe the precautions so jealously practised, -actuated by untimely zeal, and believing it to be her duty to thwart -Dr. Howe in his experiment, deliberately enlightened Laura about the -main orthodox teachings: she told her she had a soul to save from -eternal damnation; that a just God stood ready to pardon her manifold -sins, and so on. Laboriously she poured into Laura’s listening fingers -the intricate orthodox <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span>instruction concerning which she had hitherto -been kept in blissful ignorance.</p> - -<p>One can imagine the difficulties encountered in expounding to this -deaf, dumb, blind, and bewildered girl (whose only religious training -had been daily examples of loving-kindness), the puzzling doctrines -that then passed for religious teaching. But in that, as in all else, -Laura was an apt pupil, and on Dr. Howe’s return from Europe he found -the careful forethought and labour of years destroyed by that fanatical -teacher. He was nearly frantic with rage and disappointment. I myself -can never think of that bigoted interference without my own breath -coming fast in anger.</p> - -<p>When we saw her, Miss Bridgman was a tall, spare woman, perhaps not -more than fifty, though she seemed much older to me than fifty seems -now. Pale (she wore blue spectacles over the blind eyes); her dark -brown hair was parted over a refined face which had a non-fleshly -look, very mobile, very sensitive—a quivering, changing face with -the soul very near the surface; her lips were thin and very red. Her -long white hands were marvellous in their rapidity, receptivity, and -expressiveness.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Lamson talked to her by swift touches on the palm, Laura’s -lightning fingers replying on her friend’s hand—a marvellous sight, -those two silently communicating, by touch alone, all the complicated -things which the instructor interpreted to us.</p> - -<p>The one word which this mute woman could articulate was “doctor.” In -youth she had accidentally uttered the syllables and on being told what -it sounded like, had eagerly practised until she could articulate the -word. Though intelligible, it was distressing to hear it, and I was -glad when she resumed talk on her silent uncanny fingers. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span></p> - -<p>“I don’t think it is nice for women to be doctors,” she said, on -learning that we were medical students. When her friend told her she -ought not to say this, she inquired, “Why not, if I think so?” They had -never been able to convince her that politeness sometimes constrains us -to conceal our thoughts. She even added, “Tell them I do not think that -women can be as skilful as men.” But she soon asked us to prescribe for -her eyes, explaining that the lids were sometimes sore. It struck us as -novel to be asked to prescribe for Laura Bridgman’s <i>eyes</i>. Her friend -told her we were only students, and had not yet learned to prescribe, -but added, “<i>I</i> can tell you something that will relieve them—if you -will get some of the iron-water from a blacksmith and bathe them, it -will help the soreness.”</p> - -<p>“What is a blacksmith?” asked Laura—“Is it one who colours things -black?”</p> - -<p>There she had been all her life learning far more complicated things -than this, yet this familiar occupation was unknown to her! It was a -pleasure to see her teacher impart to her this information; to see the -eager, childlike delight as the knowledge became her own. We saw why -this aged face gave the impression of perennial youth; why we thought -her then, and still think of her, as a child; she had the freshness and -curiosity of a child; every contact with her fellow-beings opened new -vistas to her mind; every explanation begat other inquiries; she was -tireless in her endeavours to learn. Human strength was not equal to -the avidity she continually showed.</p> - -<p>As we were leaving she said, “Please ask them if I may touch their -faces, then I shall know them <i>when I see them again</i>.”</p> - -<p>Those white fingers twinkled over every part of my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> face—“the moving -finger” read, and seemed to read with uncanny skill. I was uneasy, -except that it was done so delicately, done eagerly, yet lingeringly. -It was as though she were probing my soul to find what manner of being -I was. She felt my hair, my shoulders, my hands. I cannot recall now -whether she made any comments. Then she did the same with Miss Wilkins, -whose ready blush mounted while restively submitting to those searching -fingers.</p> - -<p>Laura paused and began talking to Mrs. Lamson. The latter laughed, -shook her head, replied on Laura’s fingers, seemingly arguing a point.</p> - -<p>“What does she say?” insisted Miss Wilkins.</p> - -<p>“She says that you are old and, when I told her no, she insisted. I -told her you were not old, but were older than your friend, and then -she cornered me by saying, ‘Ask her the year she was born.’ She always -was obstinate under evasion.”</p> - -<p>Miss Wilkins blushed deeper than ever, but enjoyed Laura’s ready wit, -though forbearing to satisfy her curiosity as to the tell-tale year.</p> - -<p class="space-above">Though we attended strictly to business, it was not all work in those -days; yet we had little time or money for amusement. But in Boston -there is much to see and learn at little cost. The churches themselves -are an education, and I was an inveterate church-goer, hearing Phillips -Brooks the oftenest of any, but Minot Savage frequently, occasionally -little old Cyrus Bartol (whom someone called “the moth-eaten angel”), -Edward Everett Hale, James Freeman Clarke, Phillip Moxom, George -Gordon, and others.</p> - -<p>When we had been only about two weeks in Boston a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span> Harvard “medic,” -introduced by a Michigan cousin, called upon me. He was a bright, -dignified young man. The acquaintance proved pleasant and stimulating -throughout the college course. It seemed good to have a caller in the -strange city, and one who knew cousin Etta, and we were soon on the -best of terms. Suddenly I thought of Belle upstairs alone, and went -for her, and we three had a lively time, “Westerners” that we were, -comparing the Eastern ways with ours. We giggled and chatted and made -sport of the queer things we had encountered; mimicked the New England -pronunciation, and told him about “Our Caddie”; while, in turn, he told -us bits of his experience, of various places of interest, and how to -get to them. Belle was especially vivacious and entertaining that day. -But, after a little, she and he struck several points of variance, and -differences that began in a jest soon became heated arguments. They -were both Baptists, but he was liberal and she strait-laced; and while -at first it was fun to watch them spar, I grew uneasy as I saw Belle’s -right ear reddening—her danger signal. When she had asked him which -Baptist church he attended, instead of designating it decorously, he -had solemnly replied, “The church of the Holy Bean-Blowers,” referring -to the four figures on its steeple with long gilt trumpets held up to -their mouths. When Belle remonstrated, he declared with mock gravity -that they were assuredly blowing beans all over Boston, and everybody -would have them to-morrow morning for breakfast.</p> - -<p>On leaving, Mr. Sergeant said that Canon Farrar was to preach the next -day at Trinity and that if he might he would like to call and accompany -me there. Had I been to Trinity yet? and heard Phillips Brooks? There -would probably be a big crowd, so, if I pleased, he would call<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> early, -that we might be near the doors when they opened.</p> - -<p>No, I—we—had not been to Trinity yet, I said, but that I—<i>we</i>—(with -an inquiring glance at Belle) would be pleased to go. (I had not the -slightest idea who Canon Farrar was, but did not ask.) Naming an early -hour, and not including Belle, though I had, he took his leave. Belle -was furious, declared she would not go, but did go when the hour came -the next day.</p> - -<p>There was a big crowd waiting by the closed doors of Trinity. Belle, -being tall, was left to shift for herself in the crowd. I remember how -pleasant it was—an utterly new sensation—to be piloted and shielded -and gently pushed along in that well-bred crowd by my new acquaintance. -Towering above me he smiled down indulgently as we were jostled this -way and that. Soon I was swept off my feet and packed so closely that -the crowd bore me along, Mr. Sargeant near by assuring me that there -was no danger; that this was only the eagerness of the Bostonians to -attend church. Presently the big doors opened; the surging mass of -people carried me forward; in the vestibule I found my footing, and we -were soon seated in the great, dark, holy Trinity.</p> - -<p>We heard the English divine whose “Life of Christ” I have since read. -His voice was not big enough to fill the church. I could not understand -him, and was not at all impressed, but for other reasons the day -was memorable. I was strangely moved by the church itself. When I -go back to Boston now, one of the things I care most to do is to go -down the little side street by which I approached, and come suddenly -upon Trinity as I saw it that first day. The vine on its gray walls, -the doves around its tower, the very stones in its huge pile, have -an inexplicable charm for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span> me; and within—it calmed and satisfied -me; it seemed a worship in itself, that dim interior whose details -gradually became discernible to my unsophisticated eyes. I question -if any old-world cathedral could now have so profound an effect upon -me as Trinity had on that girl fresh from village life, who had seen -only the humble little churches of the home-town, or occasionally a -more pretentious but commonplace church in a small city. Those glorious -stained-glass windows! And the organ! Church and music stirred me, if -the English divine did not.</p> - -<p>(A few years ago, one summer day, I went into Trinity and sat long in -the obscurity—the solitude, the silence, and the enveloping peace -were inexpressibly soothing. I seemed again to feel the uplift that -had always come on hearing Phillips Brooks. I thought of all that had -happened to me since, as a girl, I used to hear him pour out his rapid, -inspired utterances. How directly they always came to me! Tossed with -doubt as I was, I never heard him without receiving help. For years he -had been an uplifting influence in my life, and although I had never -spoken to him, his death (when I was practising in U——) was a real -loss to me—something precious then went out of my life.)</p> - -<p>As we came out from Trinity that day, our new acquaintance proposed -going into the Art Museum. Acquiescing promptly, I was annoyed to find -that Belle was scandalized—“The Art Museum on <i>Sunday</i>! No, indeed!” -And she and Mr. Sargeant began sparring, he getting very sarcastic and -she very angry; but we ended by going in for a short stay, though the -mental atmosphere was not propitious.</p> - -<p class="space-above">It was always a welcome break in my evenings of study when the gong -would signal our room and “Theresa” the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span> bell-girl, would announce -through the tube, “Miss Arnold has a gentleman caller.” It was almost -never any one but Mr. Sargeant. Down to the big reception room I would -rush, eager to meet him, and not having artifice enough to conceal it, -or not caring to. Other girls, receiving callers in the same room, -would keep them waiting; and when they did come would enter with -indifference and dignity, so unlike my prompt response to the signal. -But we were both “Westerners” and understood frankness, while most of -the young people there were from New England. Sometimes there would be -several young men ranged around the room waiting. As each girl would -appear, she would stand poised in the door-way till she discovered her -caller, then, making directly for him, would be more or less oblivious -to the others throughout the evening. We learned on entering the room -to nod to the other “steady” callers, but there was seldom further -interchange among us. As it neared ten o’clock, the young men would sit -with watches in hand, talking up to the last minute, when “Theresa” -would sound the gong; they would then start with a rush for the door, -and we would hurry to our rooms with a pleased sense of almost having -transgressed the rules; for there was but little time after that signal -before lights had to be out throughout the building.</p> - -<p class="space-above">We had had a funny initiation, after the first two or three weeks in -Boston, when we had moved from the Association building on Warrenton -Street to the one on Berkeley Street. It was then that we came -especially under the chaperonage of Miss Wilkins. That first night, at -the table assigned us, we found some bright girls whom we recognized -as students of some sort, as they evidently did us, but students of -what, all were unaware. One<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span> fascinating girl, in a light, bantering -manner, informed us of the rules and regulations of the place. We -liked her vivacity, her gestures, her imitative powers. On learning -that we had just come from the other building, she raised her eyes in -reminiscent horror—she too, had been there. In a serio-comic way she -expatiated on the disadvantages, with an exaggeration and dramatic -power that won the whole table; she declared the lights had to be out -at eight-thirty; that the tea-cups were hewn out of the solid rock; -(they were the thickest cups I ever saw); and that no man’s voice had -ever been heard in the sacred precincts. She then asked us how we had -liked there, for in Boston they never say “How do you like <i>it</i>?” We -told her we liked <i>it</i> well enough, but it was too far from our work, -and too noisy to study much—that there had been several elocutionists -who had ranted and howled so much that we found studying almost -impossible. Her amusement at this egged Belle on; she grew vivacious -in elaborating and rehearsing our tribulations on this score, becoming -elated as they laughed gaily at her recital. And when we said that -if by any chance the elocutionists gave us any peace, the musicians -drummed and vocalized until the last state was worse than the first, -fresh gales of laughter arose. Significant glances passed among our new -acquaintances; and then the vivacious one solemnly warned us that she -feared our trials had but begun; for here, she said, in addition to -elocutionists and musicians who infested the place, there were night -prowlers—medical students whose midnight calls disturbed the whole -house. If we heard the door-bell ring vigorously at unseemly hours we -must not think it meant fire or other catastrophe—it would only be -the summons of the “medics” to their nocturnal sprees. All this was -mingled with frank and rather disparaging<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span> comments about women medical -students; and by unfeigned rejoicing when someone volunteered that a -bunch of the “medics” had left yesterday; and that the staid spinster -whom they pointed out to us at another table (our own Miss Wilkins) -was the only one of the obnoxious ilk remaining. Belle and I exchanged -glances but held our peace. But on stepping into the elevator, our -table-mates with us, Miss Wilkins came also, with the matron, and there -introduced us to that sober lady as her class-mates who had come over -to-day from the other building, so as to be with her, and nearer the -College. Our new acquaintances, astonished at this disclosure, and a -bit discomfited, soon rallied; the vivacious one declared that we were -now even, since she and her room-mate were elocutionist and musician -respectively, and that the others at our table belonged mostly to one -or the other of those reprehensible classes.</p> - -<p>A delightful friendship grew out of all this; especially with the two -girls from Maine. Agnes, the vivacious one, was studying elocution; -Anna, the staid, music—the one all life and vigour; the other quiet, -sombre, phlegmatic. The sprightly Agnes would amuse us by stirring -up her chum—poking her in the ribs, she would say, “Anna, Anna, -animation!” and Anna would laugh and blush and rouse herself to please -her whimsical friend. They went with us on Saturday afternoons on our -sight-seeing expeditions, and to lectures, concerts, and church; and -in the evening, for the half-hour after supper, we usually allowed -ourselves a chat in their room, or in ours, before buckling down to -study. They were curious about our work, as were we about theirs. It -was fun to hear Agnes, who attended the Brown School of Oratory, exalt -it at the expense of the Emerson school; and to see her toss her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span> head, -and watch her nostrils dilate, when she argued with the Emerson girls. -Sometimes we went to their recitals. Anna used to play for me by the -hour, when I had time to listen, shyly pleased that her music pleased -me; she was too susceptible to anything I said or did, and would have -formed one of those extravagant friendships of which we were seeing so -many in Boston, had I been so minded.</p> - -<p>Our life at the Y. W. C. A. building had much in common with -boarding-school life—though less restricted in many ways—a community -of women, its walls seldom echoed to a man’s step or voice, except in -the evening when callers came. It sounded good to hear the deep tones -of “Dan,” the janitor, when he brought trunks to the rooms, or was -otherwise called up from the basement. Even the elevator-boy was a girl.</p> - -<p class="space-above">As our medical books accumulated, we had need of book-shelves, but to -buy a book-case, even the cheapest, was not to be thought of. There -were so many expenses to be met, so many fees at College for the -different courses, books to get, bones to rent, chemicals and breakages -to pay for, board and laundry bills and the like, that we cut down -on all else as rigorously as possible. I remember how my heart would -sink at some new item of expense coming up at the College, and how I -dreaded to write home about it, knowing well what a sacrifice it meant -there. But to occasional expressed misgivings of mine, that I had -undertaken anything requiring such an outlay, Father would always write -reassuringly: “We shall manage somehow; don’t worry. One of these days -you will be where you can earn money, and then we shall be glad you -undertook it.” How often these cheery messages came to me during those -years! </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span></p> - -<p>One evening we sallied forth to a shoe store and bought a long, narrow -pine box for ten or fifteen cents. “Where will you have it sent?” the -man asked.</p> - -<p>“We will take it ourselves,” we replied, much to the man’s amazement -and amusement. And Belle and I merrily carried the long box two or -three blocks to our boarding-place. People turned and looked at us; -street urchins guyed us, asking if it was our coffin; but to their -jibes we answered good-humouredly—it was sport for us as well as for -them. Standing the thing up on end, and making shelves of the lid, we -covered it with blue paper-cambric, and when our medical books were -in it, we were as proud as any girls in Boston; and it cost us about -thirty cents!</p> - -<p>We had the diversion of gymnasium practice one evening a week, after -which we would come down to our room for quizzes, sitting around in our -“gym” suits, which rather embarrassed Miss Wilkins, and correspondingly -tickled us. Miss Thorndike did it, too, so she couldn’t very well -criticize it openly.</p> - -<p>Some evenings, sitting in our rooms studying, we would hear the street -cry, “Swee-et cidah, five cents a glahss!” We feared it would be -frowned upon by the staid matron if we succumbed to this enticing call, -but as the cries came nearer our mouths watered. One night, deciding -to risk it, seizing the hot-water pitcher and some change, down the -stairs I stole, and sliding out the side door, lurked in the shadow of -the building till the man and his cart came close to the curb, when, -guiltily making the purchase, I stole upstairs. Safe in the room, we -had our spree, becoming as exhilarated as though it had been champagne. -Such simple pleasures—how they come back as I recall those student -days! </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span></p> - -<p>One evening Belle and I closed our transom tight and lit a cigar which -one of the men students had given me at college, daring me to smoke -it. (And for a girl to smoke in those days was—well, most unusual.) -How it smarted the lips! I didn’t like it a bit, but smoked it to the -bitter end. And then we were scared, fearing the odour would penetrate -the hall. Quickly airing the room, we sat down with our books and our -bones; and none too soon; for down the hall came the matron, sniffing -and declaring she smelled cigar smoke. We heard her high-pitched voice, -heard her tapping on the doors and making the inquiry; but when she -came to ours we were bending over our big books, one with a skull in -her hand, the other with a long bone which was receiving close scrutiny -as, in answer to her knock, we said “Come,” and looked up with feigned -annoyance at the interruption. Startled at what she saw, she made a -hasty retreat, or would surely have noticed that the smell of smoke was -stronger there than elsewhere.</p> - -<p>Another escapade promised to be more serious: One Sunday afternoon -while reading in our room a light flashed in our window; it came again -and again. We soon discovered, in a building about two blocks away, -a young man with a hand-mirror and another with opera glasses. We -dodged back whenever they tried to use the glasses, but as the flash -kept coming, we drew our shades for an instant, piled our skull and -cross-bones on the window-sill, then lifted the shade. Such antics as -they went through! They were certainly taken aback. Feeling that we had -checked them, we resumed our reading. Soon again came the flash and, -looking out, to our amazement we saw on their window-sill also a skull -and cross-bones! They were doubtless Harvard “medics.” But just as we -were elated over the discovery and the curious coincidence, we heard -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span> matron and housekeeper’s voice as they came down the hall on an -investigation tour.</p> - -<p>“It must be in one of these rooms, right along here, either on this -floor or on the next,” we heard the matron say, and her fussy little -tap was heard on door after door. When she came to ours no bones -were in sight; one girl sat quietly writing a letter, the other was -apparently taking a nap. A low “Come” from the one writing, and a hand -held up in warning as the head peeped in, lest the sleeping room-mate -be disturbed, satisfied the guileless matron that we were innocent. -Explaining that some young ladies on that floor, or the floor above, -had evidently been answering signals of some young men across the -way, and that she was anxious to find out who it was, and put a stop -to it, else it would bring disrepute upon our building, she left us, -apologizing for the interruption. Thus ended the flirtation between the -Boston University skull and the skull from Harvard!</p> - -<p class="space-above">The first real sorrow of my life came to me that year: One forenoon, -as we all piled out from the lecture room and rushed to the mail-rack -for our home letters, a tall blond youth who was usually on hand to -lift down my microscope and sharpen my dissecting knives handed me the -home letter which was always too high on the rack for me to reach—the -letter which never failed to come on Tuesday noon. Running with it to -the cloak room, eager for the home news, I read:</p> - -<blockquote><p>Grandpa is very ill. The Doctor says he cannot get well. “Tell -Eugenie I shall never see her again,” he said last night. Perhaps -you can write him a letter we can read to him. You better not try -to come home. It is too far, would cost so much, and would break -into your studies so.</p></blockquote> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span></p> - -<p>How the sunshine vanished as my thoughts flew to that little bedroom -where he lay—my dear, touchy, indulgent grandfather! I did not go to -the lecture that afternoon, but stayed in the library and wrote him a -farewell letter. I should like to see that letter now. I wonder what I -wrote; I know nothing more genuine and tender ever went from one soul -to another. Besides a loving farewell, which his approaching death made -possible for me to express, reticent as I was by nature and training, -it contained, I know, a passionate assurance that it would be well with -him where he was going. I knew that Mother was praying and thinking, -“Oh, if he were only prepared to go!” Something of this might be in -his own heart, too. I thought of his ungodly life, of his profanity; -but against these I weighed his uprightness and his big loving heart, -and <i>I knew</i> that these would count—count with <i>what</i> I was no wise -sure; but I knew that it was right thus to try to ease the terrors -of his last hours, if such were troubling him. It was the passionate -protest of my struggling mind, becoming tinctured with Unitarianism -and Universalism, against the suffering that I knew was Mother’s (if, -indeed, it was not Grandpa’s also), with her Methodist way of looking -at things. Somehow, I could see my grandfather, sturdy to the last, -scorning weakly to repent, even to escape the terrors of the Unknown -into which he must soon go.</p> - -<p>He never saw that letter. Whether he became unconscious before it -reached there; or whether Mother in her zeal felt that it might prevent -his last chance of repentance; or whether, because of its passionate, -perhaps hysterical, character, it was deemed by my parents better -withheld, I never knew. I was unwilling to inquire when, months later, -I reached home. Mother said it seemed best only to tell him of my -good-bye. Perhaps it was; but I wonder<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span> if he didn’t know without -seeing it—I felt very near him that hour in the library framing my -farewell, and learning for the first time what it means when Death -comes to our own.</p> - -<p class="space-above">After some months, Belle and I took a larger room at the Y. W. C. A., -and a girl in the class ahead of us joined us—a quiet, amiable girl -who acted as a kind of buffer between us, after which we got on much -more comfortably.</p> - -<p>One evening she took me with her to a confinement case on which she and -a senior student were engaged. It was my first experience in dispensary -quarters, and the sordid surroundings, the mean tenements, the poverty -and misery were a revelation to me. Everything was untidy and unclean. -I could not bear even to sit on the chairs. The night was long; the -groans of the woman were painful to hear. Being only a junior, with -no knowledge of obstetrics, I had little intelligent interest in the -case. I gathered from the low conferences of the students, after their -frequent examinations, that all was not progressing satisfactorily; -and some time after midnight they told me they would need to call -in the professor in obstetrics, since it promised to be a case for -instrumental interference. Undergraduates were not allowed to assume -charge of such cases unaided.</p> - -<p>The senior student and I went for the professor. I had never been on -the street at so late an hour, and felt a pleasurable excitement in the -adventure. I dreaded most those mean streets through which we had to -go before reaching the more respectable quarters. We had gone only a -short way when our progress was arrested by a night-prowler, though no -more formidable one than a goat. On nearing Boylston Street we met a -few men and saw an occasional policeman. Everyone we passed showed more -or less<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span> curiosity, and one policeman halted near us, but said nothing, -Miss Farnsworth’s obstetric bag perhaps indicating to him and others -that we were out on some legitimate errand.</p> - -<p>Presently my heart almost stopped: A man stepping alongside Miss -Farnsworth had caught step and was walking by her side without a word. -Glancing up at her in apprehension, I saw her face was pale and stern, -but she looked straight ahead, apparently oblivious of his presence. -Soon I felt her crowding me, and saw he was pushing close to her side; -but she neither slackened her pace nor betrayed awareness of him. My -heart was going like a trip-hammer, but somehow I felt secure, she -seemed so unmoved. Soon the man ceased crowding, lifted his hat, and in -a deferential tone said, “I beg your pardon, ladies,” and walked on. We -walked on, too, not speaking till he had disappeared from sight; then -the imperturbable young woman, with trembling voice, told me she had -heard that that was the best way to treat such an encounter, but that -it was the first time she had had to test the advice.</p> - -<p>Professor S—— went back with us and delivered the child.</p> - -<p class="space-above">I heard Lowell lecture two or three times that first -year—conversational talks and readings from the early English -dramatists. I liked his scholarly face and voice, and felt the charm -of his manner, but recall almost nothing of his talks. In reading he -pronounced ocean “o-ce-an.”</p> - -<p>One day in walking down Tremont Street, as we halted at Miss -Thorndike’s boarding-house, we saw a stout, middle-aged woman in the -window, who nodded pleasantly to Miss Thorndike: “That is the poet, -Lucy Larcom,” she whispered, to our awed surprise. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span></p> - -<p>We used to go to King’s Chapel just to see Dr. Holmes, who always -sat in the same place in the gallery—the little old man, looking -somewhat sleepy and very remote, but very fitting in that quaint old -meeting-house. I first read his books in Boston, and it was such a -delight in walking across the Common to realize that it was amid these -very scenes that he had written the “Autocrat” and the “Professor.”</p> - -<p>It was a notable day when we went to Cambridge and visited Harvard -University, the Old Craigie House, the Washington Elm, and Mount -Auburn. Then there were the trips to Charlestown and Bunker Hill, -and the Navy Yard—these soon after our arrival there—it all seemed -like stepping out of real life into a novel. What a glamour there was -over everything! I remember my awed feeling on gaining admission to -Longfellow’s home, when, standing in the darkened study, we saw his -table, his books and papers, they said, just as he had left them. I had -then scarcely emerged from the spell of his poems, and, as we looked -on the River Charles that afternoon, and thought of the poet standing -in the very places where we stood; then, on returning to Boston across -the long bridge, saw the lights reflected in the dark waters, and the -stream of people hurrying to and fro, it all seemed a beautiful, sacred -experience, linked as it was, with the Sunday afternoons at home, when -I used to sing Father to sleep with “The Bridge” and “The Day Is Done.” -“The Bridge” may have meant London Bridge, but to me it will ever be -that long bridge spanning the Charles, over which we returned to Boston -after our pilgrimage to the poet’s home.</p> - -<p class="space-above">Mary A. Livermore’s lecture on Harriet Martineau was an event of that -<i>annus mirabilis</i>; I sent reports of it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span> home to our village paper, -having previously written up several of our noteworthy excursions in -and around Boston. This had begun by Brother letting the editor of the -paper read one of my home letters, which he subsequently published, my -first intimation of it being its discovery in the paper.</p> - -<p>I heard Joseph Cook lecture on the Indians, and heard Will Carlton read -some of his own poems, and tried to be impressed with each, but was -not. But I heard Beecher and was impressed without trying. He lectured -on the Conscience; he said some persons’ consciences were like livery -horses—they kept them all saddled and bridled and ready to let, but -never used them themselves.</p> - -<p>My first play in Boston was Booth in “Hamlet,” and I was a bit -disappointed, having expected to be swept off my feet; instead, I -found myself coolly watching it all, interested, but calmly, almost -critically so, if a girl at her first real play <i>can be</i> critically -interested. But when I saw J. Wilson Barrett in “The Poet Chatterton” I -<i>was</i> moved, and forgot everything but the woes of that ill-fated youth -whose suffering and tragic death Barrett made so real. My throat ached -and the tears fell fast as the frenzied poet on his knees before an old -chest frantically destroyed his rejected manuscripts. I wonder if the -same thing would not seem melodramatic now.</p> - -<p class="space-above">Toward the close of our first year several of the students were invited -to Cambridge to visit the Agassiz Museum, and take supper with one of -our class-mates. It was the first time I had been in a home in all that -year, and I shall never forget the feeling that came over me after -those months spent in a large institution with its huge dining room, -and a hundred or more girls at table: to sit down in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span> a real home -once more, and see a real mother pouring tea; to hear “Anna” called -by her given name, and see all the intimate home life, was a precious -experience. Until then I had not realized how homesick I had been. I -wondered if they knew how beautiful it all was—they seemed so calm -about it, so unconcerned, while in spite of all I could do my tears -were crowding fast. No one but Belle had called me by my given name -since I had left home, eight long months before; that “Anna” in the -mother’s voice made me hungry to hear my own name. I recall how odd it -sounded to hear them speak of “Mr.” Longfellow, and “Mr. Agassiz,” as -they recounted every-day things about them. From their talk one would -think they came and went around Cambridge like ordinary persons! It -seemed as if this casual manner of speaking of these great men must be -assumed.</p> - -<p class="space-above">Among the revelations of that first year were the vehement women -friendships we saw in Boston. Of course I had known of extravagant -girl friendships, schoolgirls, but these were women, and they acted -like lovers. There was something unpleasant in it to me, even before I -learned, as I did in later years, that such companionships sometimes -degenerate into perverted associations. Not that this was the case -in any of the women I knew, but I had no liking for the peculiar, -absorbing feminine intimacies I saw at the College, at the Association, -and wherever I had near views of the lives of New England women. Even -“Our Caddie” had a beautiful senior student who adored her—a tall, -dark dignified maiden. They were said to be inseparable outside of -college precincts; a strange contrast, this pair! There were several -“pairs” in the senior class, and among the “middlers,” and even with -the juniors they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span> sprang up like mushrooms. They gazed at each other -soulfully; they lived and thought in unison, communicating by glances -rather than by the crudity of the spoken word. I felt inclined to -ridicule them, yet there were some who were restrained in conduct, and -who seemed so unmistakably congenial that their attention for each -other, singular as it was to me, commanded respect. Still I was wont to -say that if ever I did fall in love, it would be with a man.</p> - -<p>It seemed to surprise the students of both sexes when it dawned upon -them that Belle and I were not that kind of friends. Miss Thorndike, -our Buffalo friend, attracted the prim Miss Wilkins in this same way. -It amused Belle and me to see Miss Wilkins actually blush at little -attentions from Miss Thorndike; but Belle herself soon succumbed to the -strange attraction: One night after a quiz held at Miss Thorndike’s -room, Belle having lingered behind a little, on joining me, grasped my -hand and fervently whispered, “Genie! Miss Thorndike kissed me good -night!” I could feel only pitying amusement at such extravagance. Miss -Thorndike evidently enjoyed such triumphs; she tried to get me under -her spell. The more I saw of her, I saw that certain girls and women -were always falling a victim to her. Years later a sickly, neurotic -girl became so absorbed in her as to become almost estranged from her -family; she lived merely to bask in the Doctor’s presence—distinctly -an unhealthy relation. My own instincts from the first led me to -avoid such associations. In the years that followed, coming upon -such attachments, I clearly saw how it hampered women in their work, -the “vinewoman” acting like a parasite to the more rugged, energetic -personality; the latter having a multiplicity of interests, while the -clinging vine would be wretched at any interests in which she did -not have the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span> lion’s share; in fact, was always chary of sharing her -inamorata with others to any degree.</p> - -<p>There was a lackadaisical girl in our class, several years older than -I, who had been thus inclined toward me. I did not understand it at -first. She followed me about, trying to absorb my time and attention, -eager to do all sorts of little services for me; but I quickly put a -stop to it, though having to seem unkind in doing it. And there was a -married woman in our class who attempted a like attachment. One night -when several of us were discussing this topic, I must have spoken -of myself as bullet proof, as I ridiculed such folly. Suddenly this -student seized and kissed me, not once or twice, but several times, -fiercely, almost brutally. Surprised and indignant, I was actually weak -and unresisting for a moment, the others looking and laughing while -this aggressive creature triumphed and sparkled as she said, “There! -that is the way I would make you love me!” There were but two ways to -treat her assault—as a jest, or an indignity—I chose the former, -and shunned her throughout the rest of the course. I had disliked her -glittering black eyes and her personality anyhow, and this incident -only strengthened my instinctive repugnance.</p> - -<p>Still another student, one of the juniors when I was “middler,” showed -a romantic inclination toward me: I had befriended her in little ways -because she seemed forlorn, and because I remembered every little -kindness shown me during the first year. She was of the pronounced -masculine type and seemed to glory in it, was careless in dress; -unprepossessing, and with a heavy voice. She was docile as a lamb with -me, and I succeeded in getting her to abandon some of her mannish -ways, and to be more mindful of her appearance. She would have been -my willing slave; but her devotion was irksome and I nipped it in -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span> bud; I neither wanted to adore, nor to be adored. Even at their -best, these inordinate attachments seem like outlets into a false -channel—the natural one being impeded. They affect me much as does a -woman’s silly devotion to a pet dog when, failing to find its natural -outlet, her maternal love degenerates, descending to the dog-kennel, -instead of blessing the nursery.</p> - -<p class="space-above">The religious qualms and questions of my school days were still -actively disturbing during that first college year, and I did not -cease trying to get on comfortable footing concerning them, though -knowing it could never be on the old footing. Miss Wilkins, a good -orthodox Congregationalist, listening sympathetically to my doubts and -difficulties, attempted to help me, finally urging me to let the doubts -go and just pray. I tried hard to follow her advice. On my knees alone -I prayed earnestly, but could get no awareness of a listening Father; -still I prayed, but soon, to my shame and sorrow (and, yes, to my -amusement, too), my mind having wandered, I found myself repeating the -branches of the axillary artery which I had been studying that evening! -I arose with a helpless feeling, convinced that it was useless to try -further. The next day when I told Miss Wilkins, grieved, but a bit -amused, too, she shook her head—at a loss whether to scold or to pet -me.</p> - -<p class="space-above">As soon as our first-year “exams” were over I was wild to get home. -Shall I ever look forward to anything with the eagerness I looked to -that first home-going? Belle, who had gone at the Christmas holidays, -was less eager. I had set the date of arrival a day later than I -intended reaching there, just to surprise them. When, on nearing Utica -we saw the fertile Mohawk valley, in such contrast<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span> to the stony, -more picturesque scenery of New England, we grew wild with delight. -This was the home country; we were no longer on alien soil. And when -the drumlins came in sight, we jumped from side to side of the car, -hungrily regarding them. The conductor and the few passengers smiled -indulgently; they knew we were going home! That final twenty-five-mile -stretch was interminable, and when, at the last stop but one, three -miles from our station, we saw our own drumlins, and the familiar -houses and trees, my heart leaped for joy. My eyes were blinded with -happy tears when the train pulled in.</p> - -<p>There was the very platform on which I had stood in the darkness months -ago and torn myself from my sister’s embrace! There was the dear old -rattly “stage” and the familiar driver to take us to the village! How -good everyone about the station looked! I felt like hugging everybody. -Our trunks were put on; the horses started; the bells jingled; the -windows rattled in the old coach as we jolted along all too slowly over -the mile that lay between me and Home!</p> - -<p>It was a beautiful summer evening. I glanced hungrily from the -windows at every familiar sight—it all seemed so real, yet so -incredible—here were the old scenes just as I had known them, -unchanged, when so much had been happening to me! “Unchanged?” But -there was a change, a glamour over everything, a light that never had -been, and never could be again—the light in which one sees a dear, -familiar scene on returning to it after his first absence! When we got -to the “corner”—the top of the hill that leads down to our house—I -climbed out and ran ahead to surprise them before they should hear -the stage-bells. I can see myself now, flying down the hill in the -June twilight, and running up the steps into Mother’s arms, almost -before<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span> she knew who it was. Home again, among the four beings I loved -best in all the world! If one wants to know how much he loves home -and family, let him go away in his youth to a distant city for long -months, then let him come back to that shelter and learn to the full -the blessedness, the sacred joy of all that is comprised in that word -“Home”!</p> - -<p>How late we talked that night! Neighbours and friends flocked in to -see the wanderer; how good they all looked! but how odd their voices -sounded—every <i>r</i> in their words stood out with such distinctness, -after hearing the broad <i>a</i>’s and the softened <i>r</i>’s of the New -England pronunciation. I spoke of the peculiarities of the New England -speech; how funny it had seemed to hear the College professors speak -of idea<i>r</i>s; how the chemistry professor talked of soda<i>r</i> ash, -and, unless she was very careful, the Maine elocutionist called her -room-mate “Anna<i>r</i>”; of how affected it seemed to omit their <i>r</i>’s in -words where they should be, and insert them where they did not belong. -I said I had noticed a decided difference in Belle’s speech, although -she had ridiculed it as much as I did when we went there. While I was -speaking of this, a smile went round the family circle, finally they -laughed outright.</p> - -<p>“What are you all laughing at?” I asked, a bit nettled. They said -they guessed Belle was not the only one who had taken on the Boston -pronunciation.</p> - -<p>“Do you mean me?” I asked incredulously.</p> - -<p>“We certainly do.” They had been amused ever since I had arrived to -note the change in my speech.</p> - -<p class="space-above">After we had been home a few days my mark in anatomy came. Belle and I -had been so scared when we had gone into “Our Caddie’s” examination, -that we had cared little about what marks we would get, if we could -only squeeze<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span> through. On opening the envelope I thought there must be -some mistake, for there was my name and number and my standing (in “Our -Caddie’s” own handwriting)—“100 plus 1.” She had deigned to write on -the card: “This means that you stood ninety-nine on your paper, and, -with twenty perfect plus marks in quizzes, it makes your standing 100 -plus 1. One other in the class stood the same.” Miss Thorndike was that -other. It was always a puzzle to us both that she and I received this -high rating from the exacting Dr. Matson, for others in the class were -unquestionably better students than we were. My rejoicing, however, was -keen—until I thought of what Belle would say; but she was off in the -country, and I did not see her for some weeks; still there <i>was</i> that -fly in the ointment.</p> - -<p class="space-above">During that vacation I took the agency for a book called “Milestones,” -and went about the village canvassing—distasteful work, but I cleared -fifty dollars by the means. One day when storm-stayed in a poor little -house on the east side of the town, an unforgettable experience came -to me. I usually found my best customers in such houses, and rather -enjoyed their rapt attention as I expatiated on the treasures in the -book; for, discarding the printed tale which the publishers had advised -agents to use, I adapted myself to each audience in turn, selecting -for bait the pictures and articles that I thought they would best jump -at. Sometimes, under their interested attention, I would wax eloquent. -I always knew in advance when an order was forthcoming, but enjoyed -quite as much getting my victim on the hook as securing the order. -As I waited that day in the little house till the rain should cease, -a big, strapping neighbour, rushing in out of the storm, puffing and -red-faced, blurted out, “John Stevens’s girl’s dead—died at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span> four -o’clock.” Little did she or the others know! To them it was just a -piece of village news, yet this girl was my dearest friend! I had known -her death was near, but to learn of it in that squalid home, and from -this loud-mouthed woman, seemed a desecration. I sat very still till -the rain ceased, hearing their talk as in a dream.</p> - -<p class="space-above">Our old cat’s time had come to go that summer, and I decided that -I might relieve it of its existence, at the same time that I could -add to my knowledge of comparative anatomy, and give the children -in our street some instruction as well. So, improvising a place in -our back-yard under the Baldwin apple tree, I started out bravely to -chloroform the cat. But its writhings were too much for me; and Sister -and our neighbour, Walter, had to take that part off my hands; the rest -I did without a qualm, instructing the big-eyed, eager children about -the muscles and viscera, and enjoying the amusing questions they asked.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER IX</span> <span class="smaller"><span class="smcap">The “Medic”—<i>Continued</i></span></span></h2> - -<p>Our Caddie’s greeting was a pleasant surprise when we went back -to College that second year. Stopping me and beaming on me, she -congratulated me warmly on my anatomy paper:</p> - -<p>“Frankly, Miss Arnold, I was astonished when I learned it was your -paper. You seldom did yourself justice in quizzes, it seems.” Even to -this graciousness I was so constrained I could only blush and look -pleased; but some years later when she visited in the city where I was -practising, and I was driving out with her and another woman physician, -I confessed my former fear. How she laughed and melted! Then, turning -suddenly, she asked in her old manner,</p> - -<p>“Did you think I would eat you?” For an instant I almost trembled, as -in the old days, but her merry smile soon followed. Since then the -utmost cordiality has existed between us.</p> - -<p class="space-above">The second year in College was the busiest. We had more studies, more -instructors, and a more varied life in every way. They lectured us on -disease-conditions and on the remedies to be applied. There were the -various clinics in the dispensary department—throat clinics, chest -clinics, women’s clinics, surgical clinics, children’s clinics, and so -on, where, under the various instructors, we were required<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span> to examine -and diagnose cases and to watch the result of treatment. Patients too -ill to come to the clinics were visited in their homes by the senior -students, and by the “middlers” after the first half of their second -year. Before taking cases, however, we went with the seniors on their -visits to get a little familiar with the work. Once on going with a -senior to an obstetric case, we found the baby already born, and the -cord tied and cut! A half-witted sister of the patient met us at the -door; the woman lay on the bed with no sheets on it; the new baby, -naked and cold, was crying vigorously; and, playing on the bed beside -the mother, was a little five-year-old who had been there through the -labour. It seems when the baby came and the patient had told her sister -to cut the cord, the sister refusing, the woman had sat up in bed and -cut it herself!</p> - -<p class="space-above">What a mass of instruction was thrust upon us that second year! I -enjoyed most the lectures of our professor in <i>materia medica</i>. A -charming man, enthusiastic, fluent, apt at illustration—a more -ready and engaging speaker I have never heard. Taking all he said as -gospel-truth, I was not a little disturbed toward the close of that -year to hear the seniors insinuate that he never spoiled a story for -the truth’s sake; that he would tell of some wonderful case one year, -ascribing the favourable termination to a certain remedy, and the next -year would forget and tell of it under quite another remedy! Each -disclosure of this kind came as a shock; it was so difficult—it is, -even now—to believe that people are not what they seem.</p> - -<p>One man, our professor in pathology, never swerved one jot or tittle -from the truth. This trait was so strong that he seemed always to be -telling us what <i>not</i> to believe; he was for ever exposing shams and -false theories, dubbing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span> them “all fol-de-rol.” He gave us clear, -concise pictures of diseases; told what measures to adopt to relieve -them; what remedies to rely on, so far as remedies could be of -service; but never failed to impress upon us that “the books lie, and -doctors lie,” if they claim that cases follow the typical courses so -beautifully pictured; or that remedies, however well selected, will -invariably relieve. There was a touch of peevishness in his attempts -to make us chary about believing the stock statements in the books. -I had a great liking for him; his earnestness appealed to me. Abrupt -and brusque as he was, on the rare occasions when he smiled, his smile -had that distinctive charm that an infrequent smile always lends to a -stern, serious face. He was an excellent offset to the optimism and -enthusiasm of our professor in <i>materia medica</i>.</p> - -<p>(A few years ago he came on as guest of honour and read a paper at our -State Medical Society meeting in Brooklyn. He looked much older, his -hair was thinned and white, but his voice had the old scornful ring, -and carried me back to those student days in Boston; every familiar -inflection was a fresh delight; and to make it more realistic, there -was dear Dr. Wilkins who had come on, too—the Miss Wilkins who had -so mothered me in college—past and present were strangely blended -that day: on the platform Dr. “Conrad,” whose tones made me a student -again; by my side the class-mate who had sat with me in the old days -and listened to those same tones; while all around me were also friends -and associates of to-day, else I surely should have felt myself a girl -again and back in the old lecture room.)</p> - -<p>Our professor in throat diseases was no favourite with the students. -He had a smooth face, china-blue eyes, and wore a brown wig. We -thought him vain, and knew he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span> was irritable; and we failed to get -much out of his lectures or clinics. Once I asked him to go with me in -consultation to a home where I suspected my case was diphtheria; he -went and, confirming my diagnosis with alacrity, hurried out of the -house, showing such personal apprehension that it made me feel a bit -contemptuous. He asked me if I were not afraid of it, and advised me, -wisely, to send the case at once to the city hospital, which I did.</p> - -<p>The same professor whom we had had the first year in the History -of Medicine, instructed us in diseases of the chest; friendly and -approachable, he gave us good lectures and valuable clinics.</p> - -<p>The Dean, bless his heart! lectured to us on surgery. He always seemed -in a hurry; he was an easy talker. Some of the students were inclined -to belittle his skill as an operator, though admitting that he had been -an excellent surgeon in his palmier days. Anyhow, he had force and -charm, and was an indefatigable worker, and a warm-hearted, tactful man.</p> - -<p>In obstetrics we had an able man, friendly, alert, conscientious, and a -good instructor.</p> - -<p>The professor in diseases of women was a pretty, fascinating woman, -a general favourite; she had a big practice over on the Back Bay. We -students thought her charmingly inefficient as a lecturer; it was a -pleasure to look at her, and to listen to her, but her lectures were -thin, and her clinics disappointing. I could so seldom find what she -would tell us we ought to find in the cases, and when I would say I -couldn’t, she would smile in her bewitching way and say, “Oh, but you -<i>must</i>, it is there”; and then I would try again, often unsuccessfully, -while she seemed to have little aptitude to make me find the thing in -question. Somehow, we got in the way of not taking her very seriously; -but, come to think of it, it is hardly fair to single her out as the -cause<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span> of my stupidity, for there were clinics of the other professors -as well, where I failed to find conditions we were told existed. I -suppose it was the untrained student’s incapacity for seeing, hearing, -and feeling what the trained clinician sees, hears, and feels so easily.</p> - -<p>The man who lectured to us on gunshot wounds always came in the -amphitheatre as though he had been shot out of a gun himself. His -lectures were clear and to the point.</p> - -<p>The lecturer on electro-therapeutics was a pleasing, gentle person; the -one on diseases of children a trig, dapper little man; and there were -other branches—medical chemistry, skin diseases, diseases of eye and -ear, and so on—assuredly a busy year.</p> - -<p class="space-above">When, the latter half of the year, we were allowed to take cases, they -were assigned us in alphabetical order. Each student before receiving -his degree must have himself managed at least thirty medical, five -surgical, and three obstetrical cases; although he was at liberty when -necessary to ask a senior to accompany him, and, in grave cases, to -call on the Faculty.</p> - -<p>All that we knew of our cases till visiting them in their homes was the -name and address furnished by the house-physician at the Dispensary. -How exciting those first calls—wondering what we should find! I well -remember the first visit I started out alone to make with my new little -medicine-case under my arm: “Lynch, 846 Albany Street” was the legend -supplied at the Dispensary.</p> - -<p>The place was in a somewhat better locality than many I had visited -in company with seniors. Mounting the stairs, I knocked in some -trepidation as I realized I was about to undertake alone my first -patient. What would it be? Should I be able, after examining her, to -know what ailed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span> her? and what to do for her? A strapping big Irish -woman came to the door.</p> - -<p>“Does Mrs. Lynch live here?” I asked in as professional a tone as I -could summon, to which she grudgingly admitted that she did.</p> - -<p>“I am the doctor from the Dispensary, I would like to see her.”</p> - -<p>“<i>I</i> am Mrs. Lynch,” she said, without opening the door further, “but -I’ll have you understand my son is pretty sick—it is no time to fool -around; I sent for a doctor, <i>not for a little girl</i>.”</p> - -<p>I can see myself as I stood there; can feel just how taken aback and -indignant I was; how helpless I felt; but it was only momentary. -Pocketing my anger, I said quietly but firmly, “<i>I</i> am the doctor who -has been sent to you; if your son is very ill, you must let me see him -at once.” She hesitated, but I added that if, after I prescribed for -him, she preferred to have a <i>man</i> doctor, in the morning, I would send -one instead. I chose to relinquish the case, if need be, on the ground -of sex rather than youth, thus seeming to preserve my dignity.</p> - -<p>She wavered as though not intending to let me in, but I looked at her -compellingly, and, with an ungracious snort, she led the way to the -sick-room.</p> - -<p>There lay a young coal-driver of twenty-five, with high fever, pains -in head and limbs and around his heart, and the fear that he was going -to die—a case of rheumatic fever. He looked disappointed as I came -in, but was civil; he was too apprehensive to reject even my feeble -help. After listening to the history of the onset, I took his pulse and -temperature, asked my questions, which at first the mother refused to -answer, but her son answered them; and, as the examination progressed, -she herself vouchsafed bits<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span> of information, showing some lessening -of hostility. Prescribing, and giving strict and explicit directions -about medicine and diet, on leaving, I said, “I will come early in the -morning to see how he is; if you then wish a male physician, I will -have one sent for the next visit.” She was less uncivil as she showed -me out.</p> - -<p>I prescribed <i>rhus toxicodendron</i>. That very afternoon the lecturer -had discussed the remedy. My case seemed made to order for it. Though -prescribing without a moment’s hesitation, still I rushed home and -looked up my notes, and studied the subject in the books, finding to my -satisfaction that the remedy was well prescribed. In those days one had -abundant faith that the remedies, if correctly applied, that is, if the -true <i>similimum</i> be found, would do all they promised. My class-mates -laughed at my rebuff, but congratulated me on effecting an entrance, -and on the selection of the remedy.</p> - -<p>Early in the morning I hastened to my patient. At the door the big -woman met me with the warmth and cordiality that only an Irish woman -can Show when so disposed:</p> - -<p>“Come in, Doctor, come right in; my son do be feelin’ better, God bless -you!”</p> - -<p>Of course he was better; had I not given him <i>rhus tox</i> when all his -symptoms called for it? I have since wondered what I should have -thought, or done, had my patient failed to respond to the remedy; but -there he was, surprisingly better, it was plain to see.</p> - -<p>It was my time for revenge: Treating the woman’s warmth with the same -apparent indifference that I had her insolence, I allowed myself an -outlet for my satisfaction in cordiality to my patient. Going carefully -over his symptoms I found him indeed better, though still far from -well, and this I told him. Mixing fresh medicine, and giving fresh<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span> -directions as to his care, I told him he ought to get on nicely now; -and then, turning to the woman, said, “To-morrow I will have one of the -male physicians make the visit.”</p> - -<p>The patient began to protest, and the woman herself to show -disappointment:</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, Doctor, I guess you’ll do as well as anybody.” But I wickedly -replied that I thought she would be better pleased to have another -doctor, and I could easily arrange it. Then she pleaded with me not to -throw up the case—no one could do so well—her son would get worse -if he had a change of doctors, and so on. So, not wishing to excite -my patient, and thinking I had punished her enough, I condescended to -keep the case. He made a good recovery, and Mrs. Lynch was one of my -staunchest advocates after that, recommending me to her neighbours -in glowing praise. She also recommended her son to me: “Mike do be -thinkin’ a lot of you, Doctor, for savin’ his life. He’s a good boy, is -Mike, and will make someone a good man; he gets twinty dollars a month, -and has no bad habits, Doctor. Sure an’ a woman might do worse. But -Mike says, he says to me, ‘Now, Mother, you do be talkin’ nonsense—the -Doctor ain’t for the loikes of me.’”</p> - -<p>I can laugh now at the rebuffs I met on account of my youth, not only -when in College, but even when practising in U——, but it was hard -to laugh at them then. Hence, I suppose, the dignity I instinctively -assumed to make up for my short stature and lack of years. I learned, -toward the close of my medical course, that it had been customary among -the students to speak of me as “the dignified little Miss Arnold.” -This dignity was no pose. I was dreadfully in earnest, and felt keenly -this drawback to success. There was Miss Wilkins in the same class, -no older than I <i>as a doctor</i>, but her years and her spectacles were -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span>passports to immediate acceptance, and she got credit for being wise -where I was scarcely tolerated. Exasperation was no name for it! I -lost one obstetrical case in my third year just because of this: After -I had made my first visit, the patient sent me a polite note saying -her husband was unwilling to go so far as my boarding-place for a -doctor; that she would have liked to have me, and hoped I wouldn’t -be offended—all a pretense—she was afraid to trust herself in my -hands. Under this suddenly terminated record in my note-book I wrote -with a sigh, “Oh, for the bonnet and spectacles of Miss Wilkins!” Even -within a few months of graduation, while shopping for a cloak, I was -chagrined to have the saleswoman tell the taller, but younger, girl -who, accompanying me, acted as spokesman, “Oh, you will have to take -<i>her</i> into the misses’ department.” The “misses’ department,” indeed! -and I almost ready to take my degree! and I would have to be taken -in—I could not even go there myself! It amuses me now to recall what a -sore point this was with me.</p> - -<p class="space-above">During my second year, Sister came on to Boston to take up nursing. -What delight when she landed there! She looked so pretty, and I was -so overjoyed to have her there, so proud of her, so eager to show -her about and introduce her to my friends! She had been over to the -hospital only a week when one day, between lectures, one of the young -men came to me and said, “Miss Arnold, there’s an awful nice little -thing out in the hall wants to see you.” Just then another rushed up -and said, “Miss Arnold, if you’re not in here, you’re out in the hall, -and you want to see yourself.” I ran out and found Kate in her nurse’s -garb, smiling, blushing, and enjoying having these young men dance -attendance on her. I was flattered that they had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span> seen so marked a -resemblance when she was so much more attractive than I.</p> - -<p>Not wishing to pledge herself to the two-year course, Kate stayed -at the hospital only during the probationer’s term, deciding that -she would go home and say Yes to the wooer to whom distance was -lending enchantment. But she occupied herself with private nursing -in and around Boston till I went home in June. Once she just missed -an opportunity to go as companion to the invalid wife of Dr. Oliver -Wendell Holmes, but an unkind Providence prevented—she having accepted -a case in that city. How I bewailed her untimely absence—actually -to have been in the same house with the dear Autocrat! I was almost -tempted to go myself—medicine or no medicine.</p> - -<p class="space-above">During that second year, Dr. “Conrad” asked for volunteers for -drug-provings among the students: A drug was prepared for each prover -with directions for taking, and whatever symptoms were experienced -while taking it were to be recorded in a little book, whether we -thought them due to the drug or not. The provers were enjoined not to -compare notes, but to turn in their reports at a stated time. I was one -of six to volunteer.</p> - -<p>For a few days I had only the slightest symptoms to record, but after -that there developed an intestinal disturbance which gradually became -pronounced. I began to get interested, wondering if it was really -the drug that was responsible—those tiny tasteless powders—so, -doubting it, kept on with the medicine. I suppose I was a little -skeptical because of a rumour that they always gave some of the provers -<i>saccharum lactis</i>, and that not infrequently records were turned in -with a long string of symptoms, when the provers had only been given -<i>sac. lac.</i> Naturally<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span> I did not want to attribute symptoms to drug -action if I were not taking a real drug; so, though growing worse and -worse, I kept on with the proving. The day came for our examination in -pathology by the very professor who had solicited the provings—our -skeptical pessimist. Uncomfortably ill by that time, I could hardly -hold out to take the examination. Miss Wilkins had insisted that if I -did not go to see Dr. “Conrad” immediately afterwards, she would go -herself, so as I handed in my paper, I told him I was ill, and would -like to call at his office in the afternoon. I added that I was one of -the drug-provers, but was not sure whether this illness had anything -to do with what I had been taking. He bent upon me those scrutinizing -eyes, his face stern but kindly, and said, “Poor child, why didn’t you -tell me before? How have you sat through the examination? Go home at -once, and come to me at two o’clock.”</p> - -<p>That afternoon I went to his office on Commonwealth Avenue—a luxurious -place, a side of life that, as students, we saw only from the outside, -our entrée in Boston houses being chiefly in those of the Lynches, -the Sullivans, and O’Gradys. The kind, fatherly look he bent upon me -as he drew me in his office and listened to my confused, embarrassed -tale, was worth it all. Weak and in pain, I was unable to tell a clear -story. He snatched my note-book, read the symptoms, looking up every -few minutes, then read on, after which he gave me a soothing talk, and -I have loved him ever since. Though commending my zeal, he deplored the -fact that I had carried it to the extent of suffering so much.</p> - -<p>“No one else did it—no one else did it,” he scolded, half to -himself. “They turned in their worthless notes before the time was -up, pretending they had taken the drugs<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span> faithfully when I knew they -hadn’t; some of them got symptoms on taking <i>sac. lac.</i>—a good list of -them! but you wanted to be sure yourself—that is the only way to get -at the truth.”</p> - -<p>Who would not have been willing to suffer to get this from the stern -Dr. “Conrad?” Rigidly prescribing my diet and rest, he gave me some -medicine and sent me home in his carriage, calling on me that evening -to my delight. In two days I was as well as ever. I learned later that -it was <i>mercury</i> that I had proved, but in so weak a potency that he -had been surprised at the results.</p> - -<p>That same year I experimented with <i>atropine</i> in my eyes (a silly, -risky thing to do), applying it just to see how I would look with the -pupils widely dilated, little knowing how it would incapacitate me for -my work. Putting in a tiny bit just before starting for College one -morning, by the time I got there I could not see to take notes or to -read, and it was only a day or two before “exams”!</p> - -<p>For one of the meetings of our College Society, I was given the -subject <i>materia medica</i> to treat in any way I chose. Having just been -reading the “medicated novels” of Dr. Holmes—“Elsie Venner” and “The -Guardian Angel”—I thought it would be fun to take a case described -in one of them, as given in the nurse’s report, ask the students to -diagnose it and prescribe, leading them at the start to think it a -<i>bona fide</i> case. The one I chose, I myself diagnosed as one of <i>globus -hystericus</i>, and decided what remedy I would give, were she a real -patient. Then it occurred to me that it would be interesting to know -what our professor in <i>materia medica</i> would prescribe for such a case -in real life; and that it would add to the interest if I could tell the -students that I would give them Prof. S——’s prescription after they -had submitted theirs. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span></p> - -<p>I had no intention of deceiving the professor when I first thought of -going to him, but growing bold on arrival, as I handed him the paper -with the symptoms copied off verbatim, told him I was especially -anxious to prescribe carefully for this case, as it had come into my -hands from <i>a prominent old school physician</i>.</p> - -<p>As he read, his eyes twinkled at the nurse’s phraseology; he looked up -at me once or twice, curiously, as I sat there scared, then, at what -I had done. Seeing my pencilled diagnosis with a question mark at the -bottom, he said:</p> - -<p>“Yes, you have diagnosed the case correctly beyond a doubt, and now for -the remedy—I see you have three suggested, but first, let me know more -about the case.” Then he plied me with questions. By this time I was -greatly embarrassed; a suspicious twinkle in his eye, as he remarked -that the nurse herself must be a unique person, made me uncomfortable. -Finally he queried, “Who <i>is</i> this ‘old school physician’ who had the -case?”</p> - -<p>“Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes,” I confessed timorously.</p> - -<p>How he laughed! Hastening to explain and apologize, I told him how I -had come to present the case to him, and that only on the spur of the -moment had I conceived the idea of offering it as a real case. He had -seen from the start that there was something queer, but was at a loss -to unravel the mystery. After a jolly chat about it, he discussed the -symptoms as seriously with me as though it had been a case in real -life; so I went to the Society meeting in great glee, hoodwinking them -until their answers were turned in, then telling them the whole story.</p> - -<p class="space-above">The experiences of that second-year vacation kept pace with the advance -in our studies. Uncles, aunts, and cousins, school-mates, neighbours, -and chance acquaintances came<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span> rehearsing their aches and pains, -expecting me in my inexperience to help them promptly. I took them -all seriously. I was a good listener, but was often of little further -help. So many of them had complaints about which we had as yet had no -lectures. Still I had the hope and confidence that go with youth, and -the temerity to “rush in” where the more experienced might fear to -tread.</p> - -<p>The coloured woman who did our washing asked me to attend her in -confinement—her confidence in me was touching; for, although we had -had our lectures in obstetrics, and I had been to a few cases with -seniors, I had then managed none myself. But Josie had had several -children so would be likely, I thought, to have an easy time; and, if I -should need help, I could call on Dr. Campbell—the physician for whom -I had had the girlish infatuation.</p> - -<p>It was a hot Fourth of July when they called me. Josie’s poor little -home was a paradise in neatness and order compared to those I had -frequented in dispensary practice. I felt quite elated at the prospect -of managing a case alone. But from my first examination I felt -uneasy, seeing that I had a different condition to deal with than any -encountered in my limited experience. As labour progressed, to my -consternation I found the cord, instead of the head, presenting, so -knew that I had a case of transverse presentation—one which would -require turning and speedy delivery to save the child. Of course I was -incompetent to do this, nor would it have been lawful to attempt it, -being an undergraduate.</p> - -<p>Dr. Campbell responded promptly to my summons, performed version, and -delivered the child and the adherent placenta. I managed the after-care -without difficulty. Josie was glad of her enforced rest in bed. In the -days preceding her confinement I had gone past her house and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span> seen -her, big with child, standing at the ironing-board, late at night, -thus supporting her family while her great lazy husband, John Wesley -Freeman, would loll about all day, then sit by her at night and read -the Bible and exhort as she stood ironing. True to his name, he felt -called to preach, and, failing a larger audience, preached to poor -Josie, in and out of season. While I kept her in bed, the lazy fellow -had to shift for himself or starve, as his swarming offspring were too -small to be of service in the household.</p> - -<p>One morning, on finding Josie worse, and learning that John Wesley -had been preaching to her the night before, and scolding her because -she had fallen asleep, I berated him soundly. It was a good time to -chastise him generally; to warn him against deeds of omission and -commission. So I set forth how near Josie had come to losing her life, -and said she probably would not live through another pregnancy. When -I had done, in his drawling, falsetto voice, and with a sanctimonious -air, he said:</p> - -<p>“Yes, Miss ’Genia, I reckon she was mighty sick, but she’s gettin’ -on now, and you know, Miss ’Genia, the Bible says we chillun must be -fruitful and multiply and ’plenish the earth; and, Miss ’Genia, we -sholy must do as the good Book says.”</p> - -<p>More exasperated than amused, I snapped out:</p> - -<p>“Well, John Wesley, I think you have done your share toward being -fruitful and multiplying and replenishing the earth—I guess the Lord -will excuse you if you turn around now and help Josie to support the -ones you have on hand.”</p> - -<p>But he didn’t; he continued compliant to his favourite text; and after -one or two more evidences of his cheerful obedience came, Josie left -her wash-tub and ironing-board forever and replenished the earth with -her worn-out body,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span> able no longer to be fruitful and multiply at -the rate John Wesley thought necessary in order to fulfil the Holy -Scriptures.</p> - -<p>All that summer I attended an old man dying of Bright’s disease, -prescribing for him and helping his over-burdened wife in nursing -him. It was hard work—those bed-sores, his extreme emaciation and -helplessness; but I then learned the luxury of feeling myself really -useful. I knew I was helping to lighten burdens growing well-nigh -unendurable. Yet how critical I was in my heart of the poor wife when, -the morning I went there early and found her carrying out blankets and -pillows to air, I heard her announce, with a relief in which there -was no attempt at concealment, “Well, he’s gone at last!” She let me -do the autopsy. I invited Belle and Dr. Campbell. I can remember the -appearance of those worn-out kidneys far better than the details of -many a later autopsy.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER X</span> <span class="smaller"><span class="smcap">The “Medic”—<i>Concluded</i></span></span></h2> - -<p>There were four hospital appointments of one year each open to the -seniors, each student receiving board and laundry, and giving in return -his or her services, except when attending lectures. I had already -declined a position as house-physician at Lasell Seminary, to which -one of the retiring seniors had recommended me, hoping to secure the -next hospital vacancy on January first, though letting go the bird -in the hand with considerable hesitation. Either position would be a -great help financially, but the one at the hospital, if I could obtain -it, would offer exceptional advantages from a medical point of view; -besides would hold over six months after graduation.</p> - -<p>We three applicants were in turn called before the Faculty and -questioned as to our past life and experience, our standing in college, -and our dispensary work. Not having thought to supply myself with -letters of recommendation, I was not a little disturbed when the other -girls showed me theirs. My turn came last, and I was considerably awed -on entering the room where the professors were congregated, even though -the dear Dean, and Dr. “Conrad,” and the friendly professor in <i>materia -medica</i> were among the number. My work in the Post Office, and my two -terms of country school-teaching were all I could think of when they -asked me what I had to offer in the way of experience as to fitness for -the position. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span></p> - -<p>Our humorous little chest professor, Dr. C——, could not resist a joke -at my expense:</p> - -<p>“I see your standing in anatomy is 100 plus 1—ahem!—ah—just explain -to me, won’t you, what this means? Does it mean that you know one more -thing than Dr. Matson knows about anatomy—or one more thing than there -<i>is</i> to know?”</p> - -<p>I snickered at this, but quickly sobered and explained about the plus -marks in quizzes counting on our final marks; and, his eyes twinkling, -he professed his curiosity satisfied. Then some of the others put their -queries, and finally they let me go.</p> - -<p>In the adjoining room we three sat in suspense while they talked us -over, each of us dreading yet hoping to be the lucky one. Presently Dr. -C—— came to us, no pleasantry now; he looked really uncomfortable; -fidgeting at his collar and cuffs, and glancing from one to the other -of us, he said apologetically that they were sorry there were not three -positions vacant, so as to give us all a chance to demonstrate our -ability, but—hm! hm!—since there was only one, they had decided in -favour of—ah—Miss Arnold.</p> - -<p>I felt almost guilty at being chosen, but the other girls were very -comforting, and the welcome the house-staff gave me, when I went -downstairs, was cheering indeed. It was a great load off my mind—no -more board to pay, to say nothing of other advantages. While the -house-staff were questioning me as to the “grilling” I had received, -the faculty meeting having dispersed, some of the professors dropped in -the office. Dr. S——, in a charmingly facetious way, told the house -officers why he voted for “Dr.” Arnold (with a low bow to me as he said -that the title I was to earn next June was now mine by courtesy)—he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span> -had voted for her, he said, because she once brought him a “novel” -patient from a prominent old school physician—no less a person than -Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes! Another spoke in a more serious vein—my -work in the Post Office he thought ought to have helped me to learn -adaptability; but the irrepressible little Dr. C—— said he had chosen -me because even Dr. Matson was willing to concede that I was more than -perfect in anatomy.</p> - -<p class="space-above">Valuable as was the year in the hospital, I got all too little out of -it, considering what it offered. The daily association with trained -physicians and surgeons, and familiarity with illness, with hospital -methods, with surgical technique, were among the unquestioned benefits.</p> - -<p>The three of us who were undergraduates had to work particularly hard, -as there was the college work to keep up, as well as the exacting -demands of ward and operating-room work.</p> - -<p>Though on the medical side for the first six months, I had the -anesthetizing to do for a time. It was disagreeable work. Often all -would go well and, interest centring on the operation, no one would -notice the humble etherizer. Again, though I was seemingly just as -painstaking, the patient would become cyanotic, and I would have to -remove the cone, pull out the tongue, and perhaps resort to other -measures to reëstablish respiration. If the operator noticed this, -I would get very nervous, especially if it happened when a certain -irascible surgeon was operating; for, impatient of the slightest delay, -he would scold before the whole class. If I anesthetized so lightly -that the patient moved, or—horror of horrors!—if he began retching, -how mortified I was! And if I made the opposite mistake of pushing the -ether too far—the agony I suffered, even<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span> after he was out of danger! -to think how near he came to death through my incompetency! It all came -easier after a while, but I was distinctly relieved when, after three -months, I was graduated from the ether-cone, and promoted to “running -instruments,” though there were trials even here.</p> - -<p>So many surgeons, each with his different methods—it was no easy task -for a beginner who knew little about the technique of operations, and -had no special aptitude for anticipating just what instruments were -needed and when. I think I never made a specially good assistant. I -was not mechanical enough myself; but it was a pleasure to attend some -of the surgeons—those who were cool and collected; who remembered our -inexperience; who explained ahead their probable procedures, and called -out clearly the name of the instrument they wished, if we did not -anticipate them.</p> - -<p>One of the operators, though skilled, was so nervous he would fairly -jump up and down if one handed him a pair of forceps when he was not -ready for them, or gave him the wrong retractor, or if the cat-gut -broke when tying off arteries. Original in his methods, still he -expected one to know what he wanted, no matter what, in his confusion, -he said. He would throw a knife across the room if it was not sharp -enough, or was not just to his fancy; and how he would scold and abuse -us at times!—seldom at private operations when just the house-staff -was present, but on clinic days when the entire student-body was -assembled and also visiting physicians—at such times he was especially -nervous and would make the fur fly.</p> - -<p>“<i>Can’t</i> you tell what I want before I want it?—never did see such -stupid assistants.” “Who sharpened these knives?” “Who prepared this -cat-gut?” “<i>Can’t</i> you keep<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span> your patient under ether—have I got to -operate and etherize, too?”</p> - -<p>How furious we used to get! We were all in the same boat, though I -am sure I was more stupid than the others, especially when he was -concerned. But he would come around afterwards, while we were washing -up instruments (and at the same time resolving that we were fools to -stay on there and take his abuse), and by a few words he would, as -it were, pat us all on the back; say we had helped him out of a very -trying operation; that he never meant what he said when operating, -and so on. And, so potent was his penitent manner, we were usually -mollified—till the next time. As an operator we respected him; his -cases always did well. We knew he was hot-headed, and that afterwards -he was always ashamed of his temper; we also knew that others had lived -through just such experiences, and that other students stood ready to -take our positions if we abandoned them.</p> - -<p class="space-above">Serious were the daily events by which we were surrounded, but the -irrepressibility of youth asserted itself. Mingled with the memory of -solemn scenes and grave responsibilities are recollections of many a -jolly hour within the hospital walls. I recall in this connection the -initiation that our colleagues, Fenton and Laidlaw, gave me shortly -after I went there. I roomed with Dr. Thorndike who had gone on the -house-staff three months before. One night shortly after we had gone -to bed we suddenly smelled <i>amyl nitrite</i> so strong that we got up -to investigate. All was quiet in the hall and in the private rooms -near by—the odour was clearly more penetrating right there in our -room. After considerable search we found a tiny moist streak on the -floor—those young doctors had injected a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span> hypodermic syringeful of -that pungent drug through our key-hole! We turned out our light and -went back to bed, chagrined that, lurking about somewhere, they had -doubtless heard us and known that we had risen to their bait. Soon we -heard stealthy steps outside in the hall, then a squirt and a splash, -and through the key-hole came a bigger stream—this time they had used -a large syringe and injected strong ammonia. Of course we were forced -to vacate and air our room—just what the besiegers wanted! They, -and we, got all the more fun out of these practical jokes because we -could not risk disturbing the patients, and also had to be guarded -lest the wary matron, or the night nurses, discover our pranks. We -were not above the pranks, but did not wish to impair our prestige as -house-officers.</p> - -<p>One evening Laidlaw, looking sober as a deacon, came to the office and -requested us to repair to an upper room for consultation. He looked -so dignified we knew something was up. Closing the door upon us, and -solemnly unbuttoning his coat, he revealed a fat mince pie. After we -had discussed it to the last crumb, and I had voted it the best pie I -ever ate, he informed me it was a brandied pie. In those days I refused -pies or sauces if I knew they contained brandy or sherry. Having -wheedled the cook to put a double dose in that pie, he and the others -chuckled to see the little teetotaller partake of it so greedily. -At that time I was gullible, fairly docile, and must have been rare -sport for the more sophisticated three. The young men lectured me in a -fatherly way, and really did me a good service in getting me over some -of my unduly prim ways. The first college year I had been so “proper” -I would not let my father see me in my “gym” suit; yet before the year -was over Miss Thorndike and I, to shock Miss Wilkins,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span> had had our -tin-types taken in those suits! One morning at the breakfast table, -at the hospital, I was shocked to find a pencil sketch of two young -women gymnasts, a rough sketch which implied that the one who made it -must have seen this tin-type. Knowing it to be the work of Fenton and -Laidlaw, I was distressed to think they must have seen the original; -but was greatly relieved to find that Dr. Thorndike and a girl friend -had simply described it minutely to them, so they could make me think -they had seen it. After that Miss Thorndike’s friend, seeing how I -was given to straining at gnats and swallowing camels, made a clever -sketch of a prim maiden sitting in a large chair, the arms and legs -of which were covered with gloves and stockings, while a statue of -Venus (draped) stood near, and the maiden, holding a fan between her -face and the draped statue, was absorbed in a book of Zola’s! Though -I had never read a word of Zola’s I saw what a clever hit this was at -my inconsistencies. Still I did not consider myself prudish; I could -discuss medical topics freely with any one without embarrassment; but -did not like jesting about certain matters; and perhaps, when in dead -earnest, <i>was</i> rather slow in seeing the funny side of things. So the -others claimed I needed some shocking and disciplining to get me over -my squeamishness, and perhaps I did. I remember how Fenton scolded me -one day for objecting when he started to brush the lint from my gown: -“There’s no sense in your being so prim—I don’t want you to be as free -and easy as Miss —— is, but you certainly do carry modesty too far.” -He was so fine and honest, I know I profited by that and other advice -of his.</p> - -<p class="space-above">We sometimes read aloud together in the evening, oftenest from -“Pickwick Papers,” having uproarious times there<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span> in the office, with -no patients or nurses near. One evening, when Dr. Thorndike was away, -Laidlaw brought in a book saying, “I’ve found a brand new author—they -say it’s great—let’s try it.” It was Amélie Rives’s “The Quick or the -Dead.” We began it gaily and innocently, at least I did, reading aloud -by turns. From the start it was very fervid, and soon I, and I think -the young men also, began to be embarrassed. Just as I was feeling -uneasy and wondering how I was going to get out of it, a bright little -woman physician whom we all knew, passing the office door and hearing -our gales of laughter (for we were making all sorts of fun of it to -relieve our embarrassment) stopped and asked what we were reading. She -looked surprised on being told, but made no comment about it, and as -she turned to go, asked casually if she could speak with me later, when -I was at liberty. Glad of an excuse, I said I could stop then, and went -with her. Telling me that she had read the book, she said she thought -I would find it quite impossible to go on with it with the young men, -and suggested, as a way out, that I slip down to the office after they -had gone to their rooms, get the book and read it, then tell them I had -already finished it; they would then, she said, read it by themselves, -and soon drop the subject.</p> - -<p>That night I did as she advised. They grumbled and rallied me about -being so eager that I couldn’t wait to finish it with them; but they -soon let the subject rest. For years I blushed whenever I heard that -book mentioned. It is the only book I ever read that I feel ashamed to -admit having read, though now I have only the faintest recollection -what it was all about.</p> - -<p class="space-above">Our hospital life was a full one—much work and many emotions crowded -in the days: patients coming to be <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span>operated; many operations meaning -life or death, and even the less serious ones always approached by the -patients with dread and apprehension. It fell to the house-officers -to receive and reassure patients and their friends; to calm their -anxiety; to inspire their confidence in the operators, and their hope -for the outcome. Sometimes the apprehension of the patient, and his -forebodings, so weighed me down, that I found it difficult to be very -reassuring; but I learned in time to disregard these, and was then, of -course, of more help to the patients.</p> - -<p>I recall one case in which the surgeon found such complications that -there was nothing to do but bring the operation to a close, with the -hope that the patient could rally from the anesthetic and have some -minutes with her friends before the end. As she sank steadily, with -what breathless but orderly haste we worked! That drawn, tense look on -the surgeon’s face, the awful stillness in the operating room! Actuated -by one motive, the assistants were so many extra hands for the surgeon, -anticipating his needs to the letter. Restoratives were applied, every -conceivable means was employed to counteract the collapse into which -the patient was sinking. Giving his entire attention to the field -of operation, and working with marvellous rapidity, the surgeon was -taking the last stitches, when we told him she was gone. Nervelessly he -dropped his hands, leaving Laidlaw and me to finish the stitches and -apply the dressings. The look of agony on the face he lifted to us was -a revelation. I had never realized till then what the taking of such -a serious case means to a surgeon, and was more especially impressed -as I had thought this particular surgeon cold and self-centred. A few -minutes later he came to me, his voice shaking, and asked if, as a -special favour to him, I would go down and speak with the friends, and -tell<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span> them carefully about the outcome. Not an easy thing to do, but I -felt so much compassion for him I would not have hesitated had it been -twice as hard. Sometimes our patients were poor and obscure; again, as -in the above case, from well-known Boston families—the extremes of -life met in that little hospital of about one hundred beds, and scenes -grave and gay alternated in rapid succession.</p> - -<p>One day a big demonstrative fellow under etherization caused me no -end of embarrassment: It was an emergency case sandwiched in between -others, and they brought him in the operating room only partly -anesthetized. It was a day when the room was full of students. I was -busy, passing back and forth, getting things ready, when in the maudlin -loquacity of that first-stage of ether he threw out his arms and begged -me to come and hold his hand. They tried to quiet him, and to push -the ether, but he took it poorly and resisted vigorously, and kept -addressing to me many endearing epithets as he entreated me to come -and hold his hand. Of course the students enjoyed it, and suppressed -titters passed along the rows of spectators. My face reddened -furiously. I tried to keep out of sight as much as possible, but with -the persistence of one partly under ether, he kept calling, “Let her -come and hold my hand—let the little angel hold my hand.”</p> - -<p>The students were highly amused, and even the surgeon, who ordinarily -never betrayed amusement in the amphitheatre, showed a suspicious -twitching about the mouth, and finally, the entreaties continuing, -said to me, “Dr. Arnold, I think perhaps it will quiet him if you do -as he requests.” There was nothing to do but comply. I had to step -up to the table and hold the big baby’s hand, to the delight of the -students—especially to one Breynton, one of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span> the house-staff over -at the Dispensary, who, having been a victim of some of my practical -jokes, rejoiced at my discomfiture.</p> - -<p class="space-above">When Fenton’s term of service ended, and he went to practise in a -neighbouring city, he left the rest of us disconsolate. We four had -had such good times together. He was a fine, manly fellow, very -kind to the patients, conscientious, impatient of pretense—it was -he who had lectured me about my prudishness. He had a keen sense of -humour and a fine sense of honour; and the friendship begun in those -hospital days has been one of the most satisfactory in my life—a real -<i>camaraderie</i>. We did not take so kindly to his successor, Dr. James—a -genial but presuming youth, harder to keep in place, more daring, more -flirtatious. It wasn’t long before James was teaching me to dance in -the amphitheatre, after we would get the instruments put away, he -whistling the music. I soon saw that that would not do. But we often -played and sang together; he had a fine tenor voice. Dr. Thorndike’s -term expiring shortly after she took her degree, and no one applying -through that summer, there were then but three of us to do the work -previously shared by four.</p> - -<p>Our Commencement was held in Tremont Temple, the whole University -participating—an immense affair, very impersonal, it meant far less to -me than our modest little Commencement of Academy days. Coming, too, -in the midst of hospital work, it was but an event in the day. Still, -I remember a thrill, as of something achieved, when, filing across the -platform with hundreds of other students, I received my diploma from -President Warren. Each department of the University sat in a body; -each student stepped upon the big platform as his name was called out; -his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span> diploma was handed him; and the generous applause from his own -student-body sounded very good, as (if a “medic”) he walked down the -steps on the other side, a full-fledged M.D. Most of the graduates were -immediately confronted by the vexed question of where to “locate,” but -those of us in the hospital had six months’ grace before that bugbear -stared us in the face.</p> - -<p class="space-above">My thesis, on “Heredity,” consisted mainly of quotations from -authorities I had consulted in the Public Library. The original matter -in it, feeble and inadequate, was chiefly a protest against the -marriage of the unfit. I was ardently espousing the cause of Eugenics -before there was such a cause, or at least before Galton’s seed-sowing -had found a friendly soil. There was an unscientific portion about -pre-natal influence, and plenty of advice to prospective parents as -to the need of influencing the unborn, so as to make them beautiful -of body and soul. There is nothing, I am convinced, that the Young -Person hesitates to advise humanity about just as he himself is -about to take his plunge into the sea of life. Slumbering somewhere -in the dusty archives of Boston University is my lengthy thesis -on Heredity—slumbering? but a thing has to live to slumber—this -offspring of mine never had any life—it was still-born.</p> - -<p class="space-above">Shortly after Commencement I went to W—— to visit a former -class-mate, and also to see Dr. Fenton who had “located” there. He had -called at Dr. Carson’s on my arrival, and it was agreed that she and I -would go to see him the next day in his new office.</p> - -<p>That afternoon it popped into my head to dress up as an old woman and -make him think for a moment that he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span> a new patient. Combing my hair -down over my ears, putting on spectacles, and a black gown, bonnet, and -veil, I looked very like a little elderly widow. Dr. Carson waited at a -near-by drug-store. The lame woman in black hobbled up the steps to the -young doctor’s office. His door was ajar. (He was expecting Dr. Carson -and me.) I purposely halted as he came toward me, that he might take in -my general appearance before I spoke, the better to aid the disguise.</p> - -<p>He looked, I thought, a bit disappointed not to see his friends, but -the look gave place to one of quiet attention, and even a gleam of -pleasure at acquiring a new patient. I saw as he invited me to be -seated that he had no suspicion of me, and consequently, could scarcely -articulate for laughter. Not having expected to deceive him, except for -an instant, I had not thought up a story, but, suppressing my giggles, -and assuming the Irish brogue, I began a story about my sick daughter.</p> - -<p>His questions, so to the point, so professional, so serious, nearly -convulsed me, but turning my suppressed laughter into pretended crying, -to gain time to concoct a story, I claimed to be too distressed to talk -about what was troubling me.</p> - -<p>The Doctor gravely offered me a fan, which act, together with his -guarded manner, started my risibilities afresh. He showed clearly that -he was annoyed at this queer person, but was doing his best to be -patient with her. I had gone so far, it was imperative to invent some -story to account for my distress, and to my own surprise I told him, -with many haltings and outbursts of grief, that my daughter, though -unmarried, was, I feared, “in trouble”; and I had come to him for help. -(This from Miss Prim who, a few months before, would not let this young -man<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span> brush the lint from her gown!) Would he come to see the girl? And -my tears and sighs broke forth afresh.</p> - -<p>He looked grave and sympathetic, yet somewhat suspicious. As his -questions became more searching, I was consumed with shame at the -thought of how I should feel when he knew the truth. But I was in -for it. I was a strange-acting old mother with my aborted giggles -transformed to sobs and sighs. He grew more suspicious, saying, at -length: “I think you will be more comfortable, and can talk more -easily, if you remove your veil.”</p> - -<p>Then I was scared. Perhaps he recognized me; perhaps he had all along; -but now, disgusted at the lengths I had gone, was taking this way to -punish me. Still, so long as he kept up the pretense, I would not -throw up the game. But from that time on I was decidedly uncomfortable -and every answer I made, was made with the double feeling: Perhaps he -knows, and is getting even with me; and, If he doesn’t know, this is a -tremendous success.</p> - -<p>As his inquiries progressed, I was heartily ashamed at the answers and -details I was forced to submit to keep in character. This continuing, I -grew hysterical in earnest, acting more and more extravagantly, while -his suspicions were more and more aroused, or his anger—I could not -tell which. He grew very stern. Sitting back in his chair, he said -decidedly, “I shall discuss this no further with you until you remove -your veil.”</p> - -<p>I would have given anything then to get away. I felt sure he knew me. -That veil had got to come off. Delaying, I fumbled with it, dreading to -meet his eyes when my own were uncovered. As I cried and fumbled, my -hands trembling in earnest, the veil caught in the trimmings, and he -got up to help me. His face was softening, he looked sympathetic again. -Then he <i>didn’t</i> know me after all? or,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span> was he carrying the sorry -jest as far as he could? The veil at last removed, I looked up in his -face—afraid of him, and ready to cry at what I had done. We gazed at -each other for an instant, and then—I saw such a look of astonishment -as I have seldom seen—he had not suspected me at all!</p> - -<p>He was so overwhelmed with mortification that my own mortification -vanished, and I confessed that I had been on pins and needles most of -the time, fearing it was he who was getting the joke on me. What gales -of laughter went up from that office! We had such a hilarious time we -almost forgot to summon Dr. Carson who was impatiently waiting outside.</p> - -<p>Dr. Fenton made me promise to try the same trick on Dr. James, the new -interne, on my return to the hospital. He did not dream of asking me to -keep it from Laidlaw; he declared they would have to admit that I had -wiped out all our old scores. And when I told the story to Laidlaw, how -delighted he was! though he could hardly credit that Fenton, knowing me -so well, could have been so long deceived.</p> - -<p>“How could he—your voice, your hands, your eyes, even with veil and -spectacles—incredible!” Yet he revelled in it—that demure, prudish -“Little Arnold” would do such a thing. “You! <i>You!</i>—we thought we knew -Little Arnold, but we didn’t.”</p> - -<p>He was tickled at Fenton’s suggestion that I try the thing on James, -and eager for me to start at once, begging me to let him be near to see -the fun. But I only half promised, fearing I could not carry it through -if any one in the secret were about.</p> - -<p>One night when I knew he and James were to be in the office, telling -them I expected to be occupied most of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span> evening, so would not -myself be down as usual, I borrowed some toggery from a patient, and -arrayed myself in my widow’s garb; and, slipping out by a side door, -came in just before dusk at the front gate, hobbling across the lawn -and up to the hospital in plain sight of the young doctors sitting in -the office window.</p> - -<p>College and Hospital are in the same enclosure, and outdoor Dispensary -patients were expected to be taken care of over at the College; we of -the hospital-staff, being supposed to refer all cases applying there -to the Dispensary department. But knowing that James was eager for -obstetric work, and that he would be likely to snap up any he could, I -hoped by my tale to get him out as far as the street with me (to attend -my daughter in confinement) before he should discover my identity.</p> - -<p>Jack, the bell-boy, came to the door: Might I see the house-doctor? -“Which one?” he asked—“the medical or the surgical doctor?” If -Laidlaw, who was the surgical interne, came, I should be undone; he -would know me, and I could not keep in character with him looking on; -so I said, “Oh, the medical—don’t say anything to any one but him.”</p> - -<p>The boy lit the gas in the waiting room and went for Dr. James. I -quickly turned it low.</p> - -<p>James came, curious and important. Using the Irish brogue and the -expressions used by Dispensary patients, I explained that my daughter -was in labour and that I wanted him to hurry as fast as ever he could -to save her life. He was not at all suspicious. But not yet having -had an obstetric case, and learning that it was a <i>primipara</i> (first -birth), he anticipated trouble, and was averse to tackling it alone. I -knew of what he was thinking, so feigning impatience, related symptoms -which would impress him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span> with the need of haste. Would he come, or not? -Yes, he would come, but he must take the house-surgeon also, as he -might need assistance with instruments.</p> - -<p>Fearing the game would be up if Laidlaw appeared on the scene, I -protested vehemently: I would have no one else; one doctor was enough; -my daughter’s condition should not be known to everybody—that was -why I had come here instead of going to the “Dispensatory”; I was no -pauper, and would pay him well, if he would come alone. He wavered, -then excused himself for a moment. I could hear him and Laidlaw in -the office discussing it. Finally Laidlaw said, “Tell her it is -customary—that you won’t undertake it under other conditions.”</p> - -<p>I was annoyed at Laidlaw for making it more difficult for me. James -came back, conciliatory and persuasive: it was liable to be a serious -case; my daughter was young; he must take help with him; it would cost -no more than for one, and the utmost secrecy would be preserved; the -house-surgeon would go with him and assist if need be, otherwise he -must decline the case.</p> - -<p>I said to myself, “It is mean of Laidlaw when he knew I wanted to do it -alone. But he’s bound to see me in the act, and I guess I can keep a -stiff upper lip if he can.” By that time, too, I was fairly confident. -“Let him come, then,” I said, “but hurry.”</p> - -<p>They soon came with their obstetric bags, James excited and flurried, -Laidlaw quiet and dignified. He gave me a curt “Good evening”; and, -with directions to Jack to ask Dr. Arnold to come down to the office, -as he and Dr. James had been called out, we three went down the steps, -I hobbling and stooping, but hurrying along between them. At first I -was a little more self-conscious with Laidlaw along, but by the time -we had gone a few steps, instead of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span> being longer provoked at him for -coming, I was glad; it was such fun to be sharing it with him; his -acting was perfect; he was cool and self-controlled, and James was so -unsuspecting!</p> - -<p>Laidlaw asked me a few of the usual questions. Answering in character, -I looked slyly out of the corner of my eye, expecting him to exchange -surreptitious glances with me occasionally, but he looked straight -ahead, sober as a deacon, probably afraid of disconcerting me. -Presently he put other questions, and still no betrayal of anything but -the apparent situation. Suddenly it dawned upon me that neither he nor -James knew me! Then I <i>was</i> set up! This was a triumph I could never -have dreamed of—since he had heard the story of the trick played upon -Fenton, and knew I intended trying it on James, too! It was incredible, -but I soon saw, beyond doubt, that he was as completely taken in (or -out) as was James. I had said to myself: “If I can only get James out -on the street a way with his bag, it will be all I will ask.” And here -I had them both!</p> - -<p>In the course of the walk I promised them five dollars apiece for -their services, if they would bring my daughter safely through. After -walking a few blocks, I began to be anxious, as there was now no one at -the hospital to attend to emergencies. They, of course, thought I was -there. I must bring this to a close speedily.</p> - -<p>Assuming an hysterical manner, so as to draw their attention more -closely to me, and thus bring about the disclosure, I even took off -my veil, walking in the glare of the street lamps—all to no purpose; -the more I tried to reveal myself, the more I concealed myself; they -only tried to hush my noisy grief and to pacify me. Once Laidlaw helped -me to adjust my bonnet, which I nearly knocked off,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span> purposely, by my -wild jostling against them, but all in vain—the wilder my conduct, the -better my disguise. We were now several blocks away from the hospital. -I saw I must terminate it some other way.</p> - -<p>Walking up some steps of a darkened house, I pretended to fumble for -my keys, and, waiting till they had followed so close that their faces -were on a level with mine, I turned, and in my own voice said, “Haven’t -we carried this far enough?”</p> - -<p>James, to whom my other masquerade was unknown, was dazed, he ran down -the steps, leaned against the house, and stood there speechless, his -face hid in his hands. Laidlaw—took me in his arms; he could seem to -find no other mode of expression. Tired from the walk, and the heat, -and weak from laughter, I found it a comfortable position—but was too -intent on flying back to the hospital to stay in it long.</p> - -<p>Dignified and unemotional as Laidlaw was, he let himself go that night; -his manner was charming. I basked in his generous praise as I imagine -an actor basks in the applause of his audience:</p> - -<p>“You’re a revelation, you’re an actress, you are wonderful! Why, Little -Arnold, is it really you? Oh, James! James! you don’t <i>know</i> what she’s -done—you don’t know <i>half</i> of it!”</p> - -<p>And as we hurried home, they half-carrying me between them, the young -doctors and the crazy-acting little widow traversed the Boston streets, -hilarious over the whole proceeding. Laidlaw explained to James what -a signal triumph it was, in that he had not only known of the joke on -Fenton, but also knew that I intended trying a similar one on him. This -appeased James’s chagrin somewhat, still he was badly cut up over it; -but Laidlaw magnanimously gave<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span> me all the credit imaginable, fairly -rejoicing in having been so duped by me. As we neared the hospital, -however, it dawned upon both of them what laughing-stocks they would be -when the thing was noised around, especially when Breynton and Hummel, -of the Dispensary-staff, learned of it; so nothing would do but that -I should try the same scheme on them. They assured me I could do it -easily, even with them looking on; and as they would let Jack know -that they were back and within call, I need have no compunctions. So, -dropping behind, while they sauntered up to the College steps where -Breynton and Hummel sat smoking and complaining of the hot night, I -soon came hobbling up to the group. And Laidlaw and James soon had the -satisfaction of seeing Breynton and Hummel walk off with the little -widow—and in the course of an hour, walk back again, chagrined beyond -words, but somewhat mollified when they learned that their colleagues -had also been victimized in the same way. Each man rejoiced that the -others were in the same box. The double, yes, triple, hoax, served for -conversation for many a week. If one would instance some proof of the -density of the others, he would soon be silenced by fresh proofs of -his own asininity. “It was a famous victory” was their ever-generous -verdict, and it only cemented the <i>camaraderie</i> among us.</p> - -<p class="space-above">As the time approached for Laidlaw’s term to expire I began to be -wretched, at first hardly realizing, much less acknowledging to myself, -that it was because he was leaving. I was even less friendly, less -responsive, and, as the time drew near, more inclined to stay in my -room than usual. Dr. Reynolds, a keen little woman who was much about -the hospital in those days, suspected the cause of my glumness. One -evening as she was calling on me and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span> rallying me on moping in my -room alone instead of staying down in the office, a knock on my door -arrested her banter.</p> - -<p>“Who’s there?” I called.</p> - -<p>The door opened a crack, and Laidlaw’s voice announced, “<i>I’m</i> -here—you are wanted down in the office.”</p> - -<p>“Who wants me?”</p> - -<p>“<i>I</i> want you,” and with that he pushed open the door, and to his -confusion (and mine) encountered Dr. Reynolds’s merry, mischievous -eyes, the occurrence, of course, only serving to confirm her in her -belief that there was something more than good-fellowship between us. -Laidlaw and James often rang my bell of an evening, summoning me to the -office, when it was only they who wanted me. They knew that I never -dared disregard it, for fear it might be a call to the wards; once down -there, I was usually easily persuaded to stay.</p> - -<p>That night after Dr. Reynolds left, I went down, but when reading aloud -was proposed, did not fall in with the proposition—the good times -we had all had together were so soon to end—I was in no mood for -reading aloud. We sat near each other, each busy with his own book, -or pretending to be. Later, having dropped my book, I was looking out -of the window, fearing Laidlaw would see my tell-tale face, when, -presently, taking me by the shoulder, he gently turned me round facing -him:</p> - -<p>“What are you doing, Little Arnold?”</p> - -<p>“Thinking.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Don’t</i> think.” It was all he said, but his tone, and my silence, were -tacit acknowledgment—we understood each other better then, and after -that he did not chide me, as he had before, for not caring that he was -so soon to go away.</p> - -<p>Those last days of his stay were very hard, and when the day came when -he assisted at operations for the last<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span> time, and we were clearing -up afterward as usual, we laughed a sort of hollow laughter, laughed -at anything and everything; at the awkwardness of the stuttering -little student, his successor—we tried to find funny things to talk -about—anything so long as we kept away from what was uppermost in our -minds, and allowed no silences.</p> - -<p>When Laidlaw left, James was away on his vacation, and a likeable -little German student, who was acting as substitute, was very -acceptable to both of us, we three being very congenial. When Laidlaw -put out his hand to the German to bid him farewell, he attempted to be -jocose, but failed sadly; then,</p> - -<p>“Take good care of Little Arnold, Old Boy,” he said, and, turning to -me, drew me to him and would have kissed me; but, fond as I was of him, -I couldn’t do that. He looked pained. By this time I could no longer -control my tears; this surprised and perplexed him:</p> - -<p>“Why, why, why—Little Arnold, why, you <i>do</i> care!” and standing dumb -for an instant, he wrung my hand and went slowly out and down the -steps; and I—I felt I had lost my last friend.</p> - -<p>I had to give way and weep in spite of the presence of the little -German. He was very good to me then, and always. I think he then -thought that it was a more serious attachment than it was; he chided me -for not bidding Laidlaw a more affectionate farewell—could not seem -to understand why I did not, since I cared so much about his going. -That evening, picking up a copy of Emerson’s essays I had been reading, -and seeing it was the essay on Friendship, with a searching look he -asked, “And is it only friendship that I see between you and Laidlaw?” -When I stoutly maintained that it was, he seemed half credulous, half -doubtful, but in his naïve foreign way said appealingly, “Then, Little<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span> -<i>Racker</i>, be <i>my</i> friend, too.” And we were warm friends after that.</p> - -<p>In a few days came Laidlaw’s first letter; it gave me a thrill of joy, -but I am bound to confess that even before it came (after the acuteness -of the grief was over) I had grown surprisingly cheerful, so much so -that I was ashamed of myself for not continuing to feel as wretched -as when he went away. I reproached myself, but all to no purpose. -Every day brought its duties; added responsibilities now fell on me; -the new interne had to be taught “the ropes”; and, while I missed my -good friend at every turn, I could not mope and pine. But I could not -understand myself—how such wretchedness, such utter wretchedness, -could be so short-lived!</p> - -<p class="space-above">A few weeks before my own term of service expired I had a hard time -with septic infection—a serious inflammation in my thumb, probably -contracted while assisting at an operation. I was tired out, and the -thing took a severe hold on me. They temporized for a time, but finally -decided I must take an anesthetic and have the nail removed and the -deeper tissues thoroughly cleansed. As we were short-handed at the -Hospital, I dragged around when I should have been in bed.</p> - -<p>I shall not soon forget the feeling I had on learning that I had -actually to surrender myself to an anesthetic, to submit voluntarily -to that which would rob me of consciousness. It was horrible to -contemplate. It seemed such a momentous thing—not the operation, of -course, but the taking of chloroform. I wrote a letter home the night -before, to be posted in case I did not survive. One would have thought -my year in the hospital would have made me more callous to such things. -I myself can hardly understand why it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span> was so painful to me to face -this experience—just like any other patient. Somehow, I had always -felt outside of such things, a mere spectator, though considering -myself a sympathetic one. But, until then, I had not dreamed what dread -consumed the souls of the patients whom I had so lightly encouraged to -submit to the inevitable.</p> - -<p>Extracting a promise from “Polly,” the nurse, that if I showed any -tendency to loquacity she would send everyone from the room, and -would remember to tell me all I said, I braced for the ordeal. That -morning, omitting breakfast, visiting my patients as usual, I put up -prescriptions, and helped prepare the amphitheatre for an operation -that was to precede mine. Then, looking in on the young patient before -he went to the anesthetizing room, I told him I was going to give the -surgeon a chance at me after his operation. He said afterward that my -cheery way of speaking made him ashamed of his trepidation, so that he -went to his operation with more courage than he had believed himself -capable of. He little knew how I quaked internally—it was awful—that -thought of having the chloroform steal away my senses!</p> - -<p>After helping with that case, I slipped off to my room to get ready, -expecting to return to the amphitheatre for my own operation; but, -while I was undressing, “Polly” rushed in to say that Dr. Paxton would -operate in my own room. This was a relief. Soon they came: Higginson, -the new house-doctor, carrying the tray with instruments and dressings, -James with the chloroform and the inhaler, and Dr. Paxton in his -operating gown.</p> - -<p>Lying down on my little white bed, with an outward semblance of -composure, I inhaled the chloroform. The surgeon listened to my heart, -and, after assuring me it was all right, began himself to give me -the anesthetic. The first<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span> few breaths were not so bad; then I felt -the stuff insidiously stealing through me. “Ah! how sweet it is,” I -remember saying—a peculiar, sickish sweetness that I can never smell -now without recalling the scene and my growing terror of the drug -as its effects crept through me, faster and faster, and I impotent -to stay its power. I remember noting and analyzing my sensations as -it progressed; remember the feeling of confidence in Dr. Paxton’s -assurance that it was all right; then I opened my eyes and saw James -bending over me. He had the inhaler now, and was looking at me with -such a pitying gaze that I felt sorry for myself, and told myself -I must be careful or I should whimper, which would be disgraceful. -Still it kept stealing on, and yet I knew what they were all doing. I -heard preparations; heard the new doctor stutter as he tried to ask -about something, getting so tangled up that it made me want to laugh, -but reminded myself I must not. It was all so curious—to be able to -think these things and yet to feel this creeping, creeping up slowly, -surely. Ah, now I am almost gone—an instant of rebellion—it must not -be, I cannot succumb; but, following quickly, came the realization -that it must be, and that I must not struggle. Once more I opened my -eyes and looked at them all—poor “Polly”! the tears were streaming -down her cheeks; and James looked wretchedly unhappy. I knew that in -another moment I should be beyond recognizing anything. They said I -gave a low, piteous cry (I seem to remember even this), and said, “I’m -going now—watch my pulse!” Even then I felt Dr. Paxton take my wrist, -and assure me in a voice that sounded very far away, “It’s all right, -Doctor, all right!”</p> - -<p>The next I knew I found myself in my bed with my head turned in the -opposite direction. “Polly” was moving quietly about the room; and -by my side sat Dr. James <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span>holding my hand, and smoothing my arm in a -kindly way. Scarcely a trace was left in the room of what had taken -place there. A feeling of incredulity, almost of indignation—had -nothing been done to my thumb, then, after going through with all that! -I started to ask why they had not done it, but seeing my bandaged hand, -and simultaneously becoming conscious of a newer sharper pain than I -had ever felt, I had to believe that it was all over; but how could -it be, and I not know it! Then I began laughing! I started to chide -“Polly” for letting James stay in the room; but could not do so for -laughter. James tried to pacify me, talking as though I were a sick -child—the same way I had talked to ether patients. The oddity of this -coming over me, I said, “I’m just like any other silly patient,” then -laughed afresh; and the more I laughed, the less self-restraint I had. -But, impressed with the necessity of assuring them that I knew what I -was about, I said: “I know what I am saying, and why you are laughing, -but I don’t care—I know who you are, you are Dr. James, and you’re -holding my hand, and I don’t care if you do,” and I laughed in reckless -abandon. “Polly” was distressed; she knew I would be angry later. James -looked delighted. “Do you like it?” he asked—the rogue! “Yes, I like -it—it feels so big and strong.” How he shouted! That shout sobered me. -In no time I was completely myself—no more aware than before, but with -the Censor at the helm.</p> - -<p>After that James used to try to squeeze my hand, reminding me that it -was my real self that had spoken then—in wine (and chloroform) one -speaks the truth.</p> - -<p>Shortly after that two fingers on my left hand became infected, and -again I had to be lightly anesthetized and operated. By that time I was -so much run down they kept me in bed for days, taking excellent care -of me—a rather<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span> delightful experience. The visiting physicians and -surgeons called; the nurses were more than attentive; the Dispensary -house-staff came over and read to me, and groaned to think they had -been debarred from my operations. Breynton said he would have liked -nothing better than to have given “the little angel” the anesthetic; -and James told him he would have been welcome to the job, but -mischievously added that he was willing to watch me come out of the -chloroform. It was much harder after that to keep James within bounds. -One day when “Polly” had gone from the room a minute, he grabbed up -my hair which lay across the pillow, and winding it around his neck, -buried his face in it for an instant. Astonished and angered, I felt -wronged and insulted. Half-contritely, half-teasingly, he tried to -laugh me out of my wrath, and “Polly” coming in just then, I was -obliged to act as though nothing had happened. On his good behaviour -after that, he never transgressed so seriously again. I could never -think of that impulsive act of his without my cheeks burning with shame.</p> - -<p class="space-above">My own time soon came to leave the hospital. The night before, I went -over to the College, went in each empty room, lingered in the halls, -and even down in the stuffy Dispensary quarters. I thought of all that -had happened during the time since Belle and I had first entered that -building on that rainy October day, and wondered what changes would -come before I should see the place again. Even then the girl who had -entered College seemed a different person from the one who was leaving -Boston on the morrow. In the same way I went about the hospital, loth -to break with it all, and trying as it were to gather up the spent life -I had lived there. It was with a queer kind of satisfaction to note -that they all seemed sorry to see me go. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span> felt jealous of the new -student, my successor; felt pained that I was no longer necessary; that -the routine would soon continue as smoothly as ever. As the hour drew -near I felt tenderly toward everyone—patients, nurses, the janitor, -the bell-boy, even the opinionated English nurse, “Wraggie,” for whom I -had no real liking.</p> - -<p>As they all crowded around the door-way at my leave-taking, and the -other house-doctors came over from the Dispensary, I saw regretfully -that Breynton was not among them; the night before he had said he would -surely see me again. But as the cab left the hospital grounds and I -leaned out for a last look at the College, I saw Breynton signalling -the cab-man to stop—he had stationed himself there at the entrance -to say good-bye. It touched me to see his altered manner—instead of -his jovial hectoring ways, a big brotherly fondness and regret showed -in face and voice. A warm handclasp, then, as the horses started up, -his wholesome smile shone out encouragingly, and he said in his old -bantering way, “So <i>this</i> is the last of the ‘Little Angel’!”</p> - -<p>The cab whirled me to the station, the same station where Belle and I -had landed three and one half years before when we had come to this -strange city—the city I was now leaving with such a store of memories! -It had grown very clear, it always will be dear—my beloved Boston!</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span></p> - -<h2><span>CHAPTER XI</span> <span class="smaller"><span class="smcap">Through the Gate of Dreams</span></span></h2> - -<p>Much of the good fortune that has come to me has come unsought: Shortly -after returning home from Boston an elderly friend of our family, an -invalid who spent her winters in Florida, invited me to go there with -her. In my somewhat reduced state of health the invitation was most -opportune.</p> - -<p>My first glimpse of New York, as we stopped there on the way, made -Boston seem small.</p> - -<p>We started for the South at night. I was a bit timid at going so far -from home with the frail little old woman who had tuberculosis, and -already had had alarming hemorrhages, and who calmly told me that she -would probably die while in the South that winter. With only a kit -of medicines and my inexperience to cope with what might arise, I -felt rather helpless; but my patient had a stout heart and a cheery -disposition, and was soon enjoying my enthusiasm for experiences and -scenes which had become an old story to her.</p> - -<p>We reached Palatka at sunset one night in February, so the calendar -said, but how soft and sweet the air! how like pictures every scene on -the street! The palm trees looked artificial, and the orange trees, -with both blossoms and fruit on them, reminded me of the toy trees -belonging to the Noah’s Ark with which I had played in childhood. -Darkies were everywhere, real darkies, with their soft<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span> voices and -shiftless ways. We had rooms in a fine old comfortable house with -a Southern family, and a typical Southern darkey to wait on us who -crooned Negro melodies as she lounged around and occasionally did a -stroke of work. Her deliberation and her dialect were most amusing. -When reminded that her tasks were still undone, she was always “jes’ -a-fixin’ to begin to get ready” to do them.</p> - -<p>Oh, the delight of the senses that first night under Florida skies! -I stepped out on the balcony into a moonlight such as I had never -before known—and the delicious odours, the caressing air, the outline -of those unfamiliar trees in the garden below! I heard the fountain, -and smelled the sulphur water as it trickled in the moonlight, and, -gazing on the dreaming view, was stirred by the soft, sensuous beauty -of the night. Something seemed to awaken in me: I was happy and sad: -lonely, yet wanting to be alone. It was as though something very -beautiful ought to happen; my heart seemed ready to burst with either -joy or sorrow, I hardly knew which. I suppose all the loveliness made -me homesick without knowing it; and that I also vaguely felt that -here, in all this sensuous beauty, life—my life—lacked something, -perhaps always would lack something—Juliet was on her balcony in the -moonlight, but only the roses were climbing to whisper to her; only the -fountain trickled to her half-formed thoughts.</p> - -<p class="space-above">At the hotel where we took our meals we made acquaintances, but -found none especially congenial. I could not sit on the veranda and -play cards, as most of the women did. There were no young people, -no children, and few books were accessible. On rainy days the time -dragged. Several little excursions on the St. John’s River, and down -Rice Creek, varied the monotony of visiting old plantations<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span> and -orange groves, and strolling along the quiet streets basking in the -sunshine. The indolent life was a welcome change after my arduous year -at the hospital, and for a time I was content to drift and dream. I -enjoyed most the evenings when, in the hotel parlour, my patient would -play on the piano. Her touch had a peculiar charm. She could bring -the men in from the office; the darkies from the kitchen would peer -in at the doors; people loitering on the street would come up on the -veranda; even the women would stop their stupid cards and furtively -wipe away the tears, as the frail little figure sat at the piano, and -the thin white fingers twinkled over the keys, playing “Ben Bolt,” “By -Bendermeer’s Stream,” “The Harp that Once Through Tara’s Halls,” and -a host of other ballads and dance-tunes. Sometimes she would sing a -ballad, and the pathos of her voice made one’s heart ache.</p> - -<p>She always left the piano with liquid eyes and a delicate flush on her -cheek that made me apprehensive. Music stirred her so much that she -permitted herself to indulge in it but infrequently. How she loved life -and youth, and what a young heart she had to the last!</p> - -<p>A coloured folks’ meeting which I attended there was like the things -one reads about: The preacher’s text was “Under a Palm Tree”; he -pronounced it “pam” tree, and nearly convulsed us with his big words -misapplied. An “experience meeting” followed. Beginning quietly, the -experiences and prayers gradually increased in fervour and unction till -finally the dusky worshippers were all on their knees—one eloquent -supplicant held forth in a lengthy, moving appeal, while the others -kept up a monotonous undertone—a weird, melodious sing-song, with -interjections of “Amen!” “Hallelujah!” and “Bless de Lawd!” as they -swayed and chanted in an abandonment of religious fervour. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span></p> - -<p>At St. Augustine symptoms of “malaria,” which I had developed while in -Palatka, suddenly left me. (Our “Dr. Conrad” used to say scornfully, -“‘Malaria’ is simply a convenient term to express the unknown.”) -What invigoration! what skies! and the sea! Stealing away to the Sea -Wall and old Fort Marion, I would look far out across the waters -and dream—of what, I know not—just dream. Keen as was already my -realization that life is real and earnest, I was yet reluctant to pass -through “girlhood’s Gate of Dreams”; I well knew that on my return -North I must decide where I should begin to practise; must engage in -the work for which the preceding years had been preparing me; but there -on the old Sea Wall I could still hold back from the oncoming Future.</p> - -<p class="space-above">On our return we spent some delightful weeks in Washington; saw -hundreds of children on Easter Monday at their egg-rolling on the White -House lawn, and heard their united voices as they greeted President -Harrison when he came out to watch them, with Baby McKee in his arms. -In New York, we witnessed the splendid spectacle of the Washington -Centennial celebration; and then, in early May, returned to our little -village amid the drumlins.</p> - -<p>Spectacles and parades have never much interested me, but, besides the -Washington Centennial parade, I recall one other (a few years later, -however) which stands out significantly, more especially because of -my own reactions to it. As a girl I had always been more moved by -history or fiction dealing with any other nationality than with my own. -When, as children, we had played at being Somebody Else, I chose to -be French, Scotch, German—anything but American! The romance of the -distant, the unattainable! In school I was never interested in American -history, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span> the history of Greece and Rome—what charm they had!</p> - -<p>I actually believed myself wanting in patriotism—a Girl without a -Country—till, one summer when visiting in Buffalo, I saw a G. A. R. -parade. Parades as parades I abominated, but tried to show a polite -interest when my hostess, Dr. Thorndike, announced what good seats she -had been able to secure. I learned something about myself that day. I -had never supposed I would go across the street to see a president, but -when McKinley rode by, and I saw his kindly face and gracious responses -to the crowds’ salutes, something stirred within me. Suddenly I got a -conception of what it meant to be a president of a great republic. I -seemed to realize that it was a nation doing homage to its government, -as well as to its chief executive, when the cheers and huzzas greeted -our president. It was the first time I had ever thought of him or -another as <i>our</i> President; it was really the first time I had felt -myself a part of our nation; and it was a thrilling awakening for -one who had always believed herself wanting in patriotism. What had -done it? Partly the sight of the army of soldiers, I suppose; but I -believe it was largely due to the way in which McKinley responded to -the greetings of the crowd. There was that in his manner which seemed -to say: “I am proud to be your servant; you appear to exalt me, but it -is our nation and the office that you exalt. I am one with you, and -will do my best to serve you, or rather, to conserve the honour and -interests of our nation.” Always after that, the thought of McKinley -was blended with gratitude that I was no longer a Girl without a -Country.</p> - -<p>This stirring of patriotism when he rode by was a feeble forerunner of -what I felt later, when I saw on a banner the name of Cayuga County, -and of the Post from our home town—saw in the old soldiers the remnant -of the Company<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span> of which two of my uncles were a part. The faded, -tattered flag they carried stood to me for the one under which they -had marched away; and, though scrutinizing the ranks in vain for their -faces, still I knew the men marching past were among those with whom my -young uncles had gone to the front. I began to understand what Mother -had always felt when the soldiers had marched by on Decoration Day: she -would get away by herself, and, coming suddenly upon her, we would find -her weeping—the martial music and the sight always bringing back those -dreadful years when her young brothers went away to the War. My Buffalo -friends were surprised at the change in my attitude toward parades, for -before the day was over I grew enthusiastic enough to suit the most -exacting—and why not?—that day I was born an American!</p> - -<p class="space-above">An old schoolmate living in U—— had written me that there was a -good opening there for a woman physician, and as Father’s business -took him to that city every month or so, I decided to investigate the -possibilities there rather than in New England, where, personally, I -was more inclined to go. Accordingly, Father called on the leading -woman physician in U—— (herself a graduate of Boston University) and -reported her as eager to have me come and look the field over.</p> - -<p class="space-above">I had a long wait in Dr. Wyeth’s reception room that afternoon in -July, as there were many patients ahead of me. Each time she came out -and smilingly said “Next,” I scrutinized her to learn what manner of -woman she was. I saw a tall, well-built, middle-aged woman, rather -spare, of erect carriage, with a quick, nervous step. Her soft brown -hair was ’wavy and streaked with gray; she had clear<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span> blue eyes and a -fair skin with pink cheeks. Her face had a weary look, but her smile -was kind, and I noted her long, white, capable-looking hands. Quietly -distinctive in dress, she gave one the impression of being untrammelled -by her clothing, yet by no means unmindful of her appearance—there -were certain little touches that showed her feminine side, businesslike -as was her manner. On the whole I approved of her. She seemed to have -all the business capability of “Our Caddie” without her masculinity. I -saw her surrounded by evidences of prosperity; heard her spoken of as -a successful physician and a noble woman; and thought with admiration -and wonder, “Will the time ever come when I shall be a real woman -physician—established, successful, and as independent as is she?”</p> - -<p>At length she ushered me into her private office, and our acquaintance -progressed rapidly. We liked each other instantly; she urged me to -come there; gave me sound advice; and prophesied advantages to us -both should I come. Practically alone, so far as sister physicians -were concerned, she craved one with whom she could affiliate, for -although there were three other women physicians in the city, one was -intemperate and impossible, one a “bluffer,” and the other, though -bright and well-educated, was so lacking in self-confidence as to be of -no practical help in consultation.</p> - -<p>At the Doctor’s home that night I met her mother, who had one of the -sweetest faces I ever saw; it was framed in brown ringlets which hung -in a waterfall under her cap; her hair was less tinged with gray than -was her daughter’s—a sweet-souled woman, hospitable, with a good word -for everyone; a clinging nature that called out the protective instinct -in all who met her. I saw that the numerous relatives of the Doctor’s -leaned on her and looked to her as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span> to an oracle, and that she lavishly -spent herself for them. It was “Dr. Sue” here, and “Dr. Sue” there; and -as I came to see more of her, I used to wish she could get away for a -long holiday and forget that she had relatives or patients depending -upon her. I have never known a life more beautifully and unselfishly -lived than that of this noble woman—so resourceful, so ready, so full -of reserve strength, even when worn and tired almost to the point of -exhaustion.</p> - -<p>The business proposition which the Doctor made was that I share her -office, taking different office hours; pay the rent for a year, and -receive, in turn, the benefit of her office furnishings and medical -equipment. She would call me in consultation whenever she had an -opportunity, and turn over her practice to me whenever she went away, -as she would do in a few weeks, if I would come soon.</p> - -<p>How my head whirled that night as I pondered the proposition! The -cost seemed stupendous—twenty-eight dollars a month for office -rent alone!—but on reaching home and talking it over with Father, -we decided to accept her terms. So in mid-July Father and I started -for U——, I with my trunk and books, my medicines, and few surgical -instruments, and Father with the money to pay a month’s expenses, -and a big fund of hope and faith in his daughter’s ability to make a -success of this momentous undertaking. When I look back and see how -inexperienced I was, how little I knew of the world and of life, I -wonder at my audacity; I wonder still more at the faith my friends had -in me, and at the confidence and respect which Dr. Wyeth showed in my -ability and opinions; but to such faith and confidence I owe largely -what success I have attained.</p> - -<p>How busy Father and I were that first day, making my few purchases—a -small desk being the main one; making arrangements for my business -cards in the papers;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span> ordering stationery; renting a lodging-room; and -looking up a boarding-place! I recall the gown I wore—a dark green -serge which Sister had made for me—very plain, as I had insisted, and -suitable for a staid physician.</p> - -<p>In a building adjoining the office building, I found a furnished room -which I sub-rented from a woman living there, though just as I went -there she went away for a time. I have never had such a desolate -feeling as I had those few nights when, after closing the office, I -climbed the stairs to that lonely little room, the halls echoing to my -steps. And I kept thinking, “I am paying eight dollars a month extra -for this loneliness!” So it was not many days before I asked Dr. Wyeth -if she minded if I slept in the office, using her operating-chair as -my bed; arranging a place behind the draperies for my clothes; and -making a few other little additions which would suffice for my needs, -yet not detract from the professional appearance of the office. She -had no objection, but thought I ought to have a more comfortable bed. -The change was made, and few who visited the office ever knew that I -lodged there. For four years I slept on a narrow operating-chair, never -thinking it a hardship.</p> - -<p>Sending a month’s rent to the woman of whom I had engaged the room, I -wrote her why I had decided to give it up. Replying with a menacing -letter, she tried to intimidate me into keeping the room. Scared, -though knowing I had made no compact with her for a stated time, I -anxiously awaited her return to town, when I called upon her. Pale with -rage, her eyes blazing, she denounced me as a liar and a hypocrite, and -said she would blast my reputation in U——. I did not know what to -make of such conduct. It was the first time I had ever had threatening -or abusive language used to me. I had been perfectly <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span>honourable with -her, but she was wildly unreasonable. I could hardly speak for the -dryness of my mouth as she continued her vituperations, and when I -escaped from her presence, it was as though from the den of a wild -beast. For some time after I was uneasy, but she never took the steps -she threatened. I learned later that her mother was insane, and that -she herself finally lost her mind.</p> - -<p class="space-above">Under the head of “Business” in one of the city papers, the day after I -went to U——, were two items only, the first telling of a new doctor -(my humble self) locating there, and the other of a new undertaker -having set up in business. Accidental as was the juxtaposition, it was -nevertheless a bit startling.</p> - -<p>One of the men in the office of the firm for which Father was then -travelling had recommended to him a boarding-place for me near my -office, and I had engaged board there at once. Although disappointed on -seeing the fellow-boarders, knowing I could not afford a high-priced -place, I had decided to grin and bear it; but when Dr. Wyeth learned -where I was boarding, she said it would not do at all; she named two -places, either one of which would be desirable. On asking what they -charged, I found that one was two dollars more a week than I was -paying, the other one dollar more. So, telling her how necessary it -was to count the cost till I could get a footing, I said I had better -make no change. But she earnestly and emphatically opposed my staying -there; said it was poor policy, would immediately tell against me—a -bit of worldly wisdom that I strongly rebelled against—a dollar a -week more just to please Mrs. Grundy and board in a more aristocratic -neighbourhood! I was full of impotent rage at such a state of affairs, -and Father had much the same feeling,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span> but having great respect for -Dr. Wyeth’s judgment, I reluctantly made the change. Immediately I saw -that she was right. The people with whom I then came in contact were -cultured; the whole atmosphere was desirable; and, in a short time, -through acquaintances there, I was engaged in work which did much to -introduce me well in the city.</p> - -<p class="space-above">“In the leisure of your first few months’ practice” was a phrase which -one of our professors had often used in lecturing to us, and through -this facetious reiteration, I was prepared for a long wait before that -first patient should arrive. But my second day in the city, the woman -physician who had an office adjoining ours asked me to see a case -with her. It was a servant in a fine house next to the home of Roscoe -Conklin. As it was a case of varicose ulcers such as I had seen dozens -of in the Dispensary clinics, I was able to make a positive diagnosis, -and confidently to advise the Doctor as to treatment, for which she was -grateful and gave me a dollar and a half—my first fee. This physician -was rather pompous, and not well grounded in medicine. She had a fair -exterior, an open countenance, and a big, motherly figure, but she did -not inspire confidence in me, yet she was kind-hearted and disposed -to be friendly. When, some months later, Sister came to visit me, -and the Doctor learned that we were sleeping together on that narrow -office-chair, she insisted on our using the unused folding-bed in her -office.</p> - -<p>As a neighbour she was something of a nuisance, for whenever she knew I -was alone in my office she would come in and stay the entire evening. -I tired of her talk, and soon resorted to subterfuge to rid myself of -her: I would open my waiting-room door (which rang a bell whenever -the door opened); would pretend to usher someone in,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span> and then try -to simulate the conversation of two persons, also moving about the -office, rattling instruments, letting water run, and so on. Knowing she -could hear some sounds from her office, I hoped she would think I was -engaged, and so stay away. Sometimes I would read aloud, so she would -think I had someone in there. Perhaps she heard more distinctly than I -thought, and saw through my deception. My most serious grudge against -her was for trying to destroy my ideal of one of our much-loved New -England poets. She had lived in the same city with him and claimed to -have been a frequenter in his home, and she met my glowing enthusiasm -for him with the rehearsal of gossip about an intrigue between him and -some woman friend. I did not believe her story, but it shocked and -angered me, and I detested her for mentioning it. I must have been -pretty severe, for she grew apologetic and conciliatory, and never -afterward talked to me about such things. Her story may or may not -have been true, but I smile sadly now at that girl who looked out upon -the world with such unbounded faith in humanity; who held such rigid -notions of right and wrong; and suffered such painful shocks on finding -both good and bad mixed in the same individual.</p> - -<p class="space-above">I had been practising nine days when I received my first office call. -The time had seemed very long since that day after my arrival, when -Dr. M—— had called me in consultation. I had begun to feel that -the waiting time was going to be no joke. But on that momentous day, -a working-girl strayed into my office. Listening to her symptoms, I -prescribed as carefully as I could, calmly took the seventy-five cents -office-fee, and ushered her out in my most professional manner. When -the door had closed upon her, I literally danced for joy; the capers I -cut would have made<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span> an onlooker laugh—or cry, for it had its pathetic -side. There was so much at stake; it meant so much to me, to my family, -and friends—and here was the beginning! a patient had actually come -to me! I had to be careful lest the physicians whose offices were -each side of mine should hear my demonstrations. I ran to the mirror -and stood on tip-toe (it was hung high for Dr. Wyeth), and looked for -sympathy into my own sparkling eyes, and saw my flushed face, and felt -half ashamed, and wholly elated, as I nodded and smiled to myself. Then -I skipped about the room again, until I remembered my new account-book -with its lone entry. Proudly making my second entry, I then recorded -in my case-book the patient’s symptoms and my prescription. I do not -recall that she ever came again, but hope the <i>bryonia</i> which I gave -her for rheumatism helped her as much as her coming helped me.</p> - -<p>This was my red-letter day, for scarcely had I become presentable from -the elation of that first call when another patient came. I felt like -an old hand at the business as I gave her the medicine and carelessly -took the office-fee. Although I had had patients for two years in -dispensary and hospital, these were the first who had paid me for my -services. A check for several months of my present salary, put into my -hands this minute, could not produce the elation I felt at receiving -those paltry office-fees.</p> - -<p>As though that were not enough for one day! My cup literally ran over -when, in the evening, the telephone rang and there was a hurry call -from the hotel across the way. Seizing my medicine-case, which I had -heretofore been unnecessarily carrying in my walks about the city (in -obedience to Dr. Wyeth, though I felt like a hypocrite in so doing), I -flew down the stairs and across the street where I found the patient—a -nervous, impressionable girl, whom I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span> had no difficulty in quieting and -relieving, at the same time alleviating her mother’s anxiety as well.</p> - -<p>As I went through the hotel corridors I walked on air; my heart was -beating tumultuously. I wanted to shout for joy. A band was playing in -the street, making it harder still to maintain decorum until I could -reach my friendly office—that office where I had spent so many lonely -hours waiting for the door-bell to ring! that office which had this day -witnessed my triple triumph!</p> - -<p>A few evenings later the bell rang. In the waiting room stood a tall, -lanky old chap.</p> - -<p>“Hello, thar! Whar’s Doctor Sue?”</p> - -<p>I told him Dr. Wyeth was out of town for a week or two and that I was -taking her practice. He looked at me comically; his face underwent some -kind of contortion which I suppose was a smile, as he said:</p> - -<p>“Ye be? Wall, I vum! I don’t know just how that’ll strike Betsy. -Ye—ye’re used to old wimmen? Ye’re jest a-studyin’ with Doctor Sue, -I calk’late—No? Ye’re a full-fledged doctor, be ye? Wall, wall, -no harm intended—I’m jest a-wonderin’ about Betsy—she’s kind o’ -cantankerous.” He scratched his head and eyed me.</p> - -<p>“Wall, ye may as well come along and see what ye can make out with her.”</p> - -<p>Inquiring his name and where he lived, I said I would call as soon as -my office hours were over.</p> - -<p>“I’m Uncle Bill Gilmore—live in West U——. Ye git off the car at -V—— Street, and ask the fust one ye meet whar Uncle Bill lives, and -he’ll tell ye. Doctor Sue’s doctored us ever sen’ she hung out her -shingle. Betsy sets great store by her—don’t know how she’ll cotton to -you—ye mustn’t mind if she’s a leetle peppery.”</p> - -<p>Off he went, and I, to maintain the dignity of my office<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span> hours, -waited, though I could just as well have gone with him. “Betsy” -“cottoned” to me all right, and thereafter they called me whenever Dr. -Wyeth was out of town.</p> - -<p>During October and November, the Doctor being away, I was busy and -happy—busy mostly with work which would have been hers had she been -there, but with occasional patients who came to me. How the sight -of my old account-book brings back those days—my struggles, hopes, -exultations, and dismays, and Father’s visits! He came to the city -every few weeks, and always after the greeting and home news were -over would ask with assumed indifference to see the book. And I would -watch him look it over—the tears often coming to his eyes as he saw -evidences of a streak of good luck. And what a lively interest he took -in my rehearsal of experiences and descriptions of people and incidents!</p> - -<p>Spendthrift that I am, I practised the strictest economy those days; -but then, as now, I would walk miles to save a carfare; then, on -occasion, suddenly launch out in some expenditure that proved how prone -I was to strain at gnats and swallow camels.</p> - -<p class="space-above">That first year I saw a great deal of Dr. Holton, a timid, -conscientious, romantic person several years my senior. She was much -addicted to novel-reading and prone to neglect things which she knew -would have contributed to her success. Her comments on her own failures -were most amusing; she had the real Irish wit, and enjoyed a joke on -herself. As she urged me to, I often visited her during her office -hours, usually finding her with nothing to do; we talked over books, -cases, people, and experiences, and got on famously together. I throve -on her expressed admiration of certain qualities which I had and she -lacked. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span> would comment on the friendliness of the County Society -members toward me, and how easily I talked with them, while she, who -had long known them, felt so abashed in their presence. She said they -treated all women physicians better since I had come among them. I told -her they would treat her in a more friendly way if she were not so -shrinking and apologetic; that they took her at her own valuation. But -how I used to wish they could hear her witty and caustic remarks about -them! They little dreamed how keen she was because in their presence -she was so Uriah-Heepish.</p> - -<p>The men respected Dr. Wyeth, but her reserve and apparent coldness -stood in the way of a really cordial feeling. She had started in -medicine when much more antagonism had existed between men and women -physicians than obtained when I began the study, and had never quite -overcome the feeling that the men considered the women as interlopers. -She used to say it did her good to see the frank, fearless way in -which I spoke to Dr. Torrey, the surgeon of whom everyone else, even -the other men, stood in awe; she declared I could smile and talk him -into anything I wanted to. Occasionally he asked me to anesthetize his -patients, and, knowing I had been in hospital service, would sometimes -inquire what I thought of this or that procedure, and I would tell him, -without hesitation, which Dr. Wyeth and Dr. Holton would never have -dared to do, though having as decided opinions perhaps as I had.</p> - -<p>Dr. Torrey was a sandy-haired man with a mouthful of fine teeth and a -ready smile; jovial yet irascible; a bachelor; always well-groomed; -and with the ego ever on duty. He had a habit of preparing papers for -the medical society, whirling in and asking to be allowed to read -them right away, as he had an important engagement. Everything would -be set aside for him, and, on finishing, he would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span> whirl out again, -indifferent to all other papers. I had watched this happen on several -occasions; then once, when he asked me to write a paper, I spoke out in -meeting and said that I would, if he would have the uncommon courtesy -to stay and listen to it. A little chagrined, but amused, he really -did better after that. Dr. Wyeth said that if she had attempted to say -that to him, she would have incurred his lasting enmity; and Dr. Holton -declared that the very thought of her undertaking it paralyzed her; yet -my temerity made him more friendly than before. He was something of -a nettle in disposition, and because I laid hold with a firm grasp I -didn’t get hurt.</p> - -<p class="space-above">One of the leading physicians, Dr. Lord, turned practically all -his gynecological cases over to me. This physician had great charm -of manner, an engaging smile, and the most infectious laugh I have -ever heard—a valuable asset in the sick room. But what an alarmist! -His patients were always being saved as by fire. He could make most -persons believe that black was white, and when confronted by his -irresistible manner, I was almost as ready as others to espouse his -various medical fads, though I soon found that his fad of to-day was -ousted by that of the day after to-morrow. What a study the different -ones among my <i>confrères</i> were! Dr. Hood, another of them, boarded -where I boarded the first year—a big, lymphatic man with a smooth, -fat face, eyes that could smile merrily, but a mouth that drooped at -the corners as though with a perpetual grievance. He looked profound, -but was not. Always chivalrous in his treatment of women, his courtesy -had a Southern flavour. His friends and associates were chiefly -women, and, I am bound to say, he excelled them in gossip. He had a -never-failing curiosity, seemed <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span>interested in everybody, remembered -details, was a capital <i>raconteur</i>. Delightful as a table-companion, -but as full of sarcasm and prejudices as a dressmaker’s pincushion is -of pin-pricks; back-biting was, in his case, one of the little foxes -that spoiled the vines. Never busy, never in a hurry, he apparently -never cared whether he had any professional work to do. He knew how -to cook better than most women can; would on occasion go into the -homes of his patients and prepare special diets; more than that, he -could knit, crochet, and embroider, and they used to say that he made -most of the trimming for his step-daughter’s underwear when she was -preparing her wedding trousseau! Dr. Chapin, another brother physician, -was a mild, easy-going man, somewhat lacking in decision, unassuming, -conscientious, dependable; never one to make a big stir, but one of a -class now fast disappearing—a typical family physician. Besides these -in our own school of medicine, there were a few of the old school -physicians with whom I became friendly.</p> - -<p class="space-above">Early in October of my first year of practice, through the secretary -of the Y. M. C. A., who boarded where I boarded, I was engaged to make -the physical examination of about two hundred women who were to join -the ladies’ club of the gymnasium. Professor Barton, the Physical -Director, called on me and explained the work: each applicant was to be -examined as to heart and lungs, general nutrition, and abnormalities; -and certain measurements were to be taken so that the Director could -ascertain what parts needed special development.</p> - -<p>The Director himself was a fine specimen of physical manhood, past -forty, slightly below medium height, a strong, masculine frame, -vigorous, energetic; dark brown,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span> penetrating eyes, black hair, a firm -chin—a forceful personality. Almost boyish in his love for his work, -his enthusiasm was contagious. Firmly believing in the efficacy of -body-building to form mind and character, his work was his religion; -and so impressed was I with its importance, I consented to undertake -it without the question of compensation for my services being even -mentioned. The ladies came to my office, I gave the greater part of my -time for a month to the work, and the only remuneration I received was -my ticket to the gymnasium class for a year! The Secretary had probably -left the question of my remuneration to the Physical Director, and -he probably thought the Secretary had arranged it; while I supposed -that, in time, one or the other would attend to it. So when the -ladies, on being examined, asked what the charges were, I foolishly -said, “Nothing”; therefore, I came out with no financial gain whatever -when, but for my timidity in speaking up when engaged for the work, I -should have realized, at the very least, two hundred dollars; while, -the probabilities are, it would have amounted to double that sum, had -I let each lady pay me, as the most of them evidently expected to do, -when I made the examination. The whole thing is rather characteristic -of my way of dealing with financial matters when my own interests are -at stake—a trait which I share in common with my father. But the work -was interesting, and by its means I gained a speedy introduction to the -“Two Hundred” of U——, while the gymnasium practice was beneficial to -me.</p> - -<p class="space-above">Early in my practice, when I had but few acquaintances in U——, I -became intimate with a certain family, through having the wife and -children as patients. My old school-mate had moved away shortly -after I went there,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span> and as I had no place to go during Dr. Wyeth’s -office hours, I got in the way of spending a good deal of time in the -Richards’s home. Mrs. Richards, a woman of tall, handsome figure, was -a mild, placid woman, an excellent housekeeper, kind and motherly. She -made me welcome in her home; her boys, of whom I was fond, were fine -little fellows. The freedom with which I came and went in their home -was delightful. The father of the family was a forceful man of keen -intellect, impulsive, ardent, magnetic, and of ungovernable temper -when aroused. He was alive to all that pertained to the development -and guidance of his boys, and got in the way of coming to my office -of an evening to borrow books and chat awhile about them; he said it -did him good to discuss these matters with me, and he was glad to have -my influence on his boys. He was frank in his liking for me, and his -occasional calls were welcome in my lonely evenings. Sometimes he would -say: “I fear I come here too much—I don’t want to do that; Jane likes -to have me come—but if you mind, you must tell me.”</p> - -<p>It was perhaps after a half dozen calls that he began telling me about -his early life, of his proud and passionate mother, and of her second -marriage to a man so vastly inferior in race and breeding that his -childhood and youth were made utterly miserable. As he recounted some -of the experiences of his boyhood, and the shame and rage he had often -been made to feel because of taunts concerning his step-father, I -felt a great pity for him, and was able to understand, in a measure, -his curious outbursts of temper of which he told me. Later he began -speaking more freely about his wife, of her goodness, but also of her -limitations; her incapacity for companionship, her unresponsiveness. -Because of all this, he said, he especially<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span> appreciated my kindness to -him, and thanked God he had found such a friend; he thought we could -be of help to each other, and was sure I understood him as no one else -ever had. That night when he left he held my hand longer than his wont, -and I felt an uneasiness, combined with an unwonted pleasure.</p> - -<p>At his next call he found me upset over the elopement of the husband -of a favourite cousin. Those horrid headlines in the paper referred -to someone I actually knew! It was a relief to discuss it with a -friend. This talk led to a discussion of kindred topics. Afterward, as -I tried to recall our conversation, it seemed to me it had been on a -particularly lofty plane. I could seem to remember nothing which led -up to what happened. I remember that the large willow rockers in which -we sat got gradually nearer, and that the first I knew he was holding -my hands and looking in my eyes, and I was permitting it with less and -less resistance, a dangerous fascination, a kind of paralysis stealing -over me that held me spellbound. He was talking, talking breathlessly, -ardently, on his knees by my chair. I think he wept over my hand and -put his head in my lap; and there I sat like one dazed—conscious of -all he said, but only half able to reason, and, for a time, seemingly, -wholly incapable of stemming the tide of his passionate outburst. -I seemed to live ages in what must have been only a few minutes. -Presently I roused myself and then, like one in pain on awakening, -felt wounded to the very soul—a stain was forever on my womanhood—a -married man had confessed his love for me! Suddenly I saw what in -my blindness and ignorance I had only vaguely divined in the weeks -previous—all, all had been leading up to this.</p> - -<p>A deadly faintness came over me. I fell back in my chair,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span> conscious -still, cruelly conscious, but passive, limp, and mute. He must have -taken this for acquiescence, for he kissed me—on the cheek, near the -neck. <i>It burned me</i>, and aroused me. I sat up, passive no longer.</p> - -<p>What I said I do not know, but he felt my anger and shrank from it. I -almost tore the spot from my face in the vehemence with which I tried -to eradicate that burning kiss. That angered him to the point of fury, -and my words enraged him more. While I had been in that passive state, -and he was covering my hands with kisses, he had said he would wait -years for me, if need be, if I would only tell him that I would love -him when he was free. On finding my tongue, I bitterly denounced him -for that; told him if he were free I would not marry him; that I could -never love him; and by then I must have experienced a marked revulsion -of feeling, for I loathed him.</p> - -<p>Growing fairly black with rage, he became threatening; accused me of -leading him on, or at least of permitting his love, only to thrust -it back upon him. He took me by the shoulders roughly, looking into -my face with rage and hatred. I looked steadily back. I had a vague -realization of his great strength, and of his fiendish temper when -aroused, but was at that instant beyond physical fear; my desperation -at what I then felt was an ineradicable stain upon my soul was so -extreme that mere danger to life was as nothing. I must have met him -unflinchingly; I think I even said, “Kill me if you like!” Then a -terrible remorse came upon me. Suddenly I seemed to feel wholly to -blame, and with that began to soften towards him; he softened then, and -wept. One thing he said then pierced me to the heart:</p> - -<p>“Why did you do it, Doctor? Why did you let me love you—life was -hard enough before—why did you do it?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span> And as he talked that way my -agony grew apace. I believed myself guilty—responsible for it all; I -believed (what I knew later was not true) that I must have seen it all -from the beginning—my consent to his calls, our handclasps at parting, -were blackest evidence of the steps I had permitted to lead up to this.</p> - -<p>My remorse and misery changed his attitude entirely; he then began -accusing himself. Presently we fell to discussing it more calmly. But -at the recollection of my scornful words, the fire leaped in his eyes, -and a malicious purpose again plainly showed itself:</p> - -<p>“You could never love me if I were ‘the last man on -earth’—you—<i>girl</i>! You don’t know what you are saying. Do you want to -rouse the very devil in me? Don’t you know that if I were free, free -to make you love me, you would be mine—<i>mine</i>! I’d make you take back -those words—I’ve a mind to make you take them back—<i>I’ve a mind to -make you love me now</i>!”</p> - -<p>He was sitting or kneeling beside me, his face close to mine. I looked -in his eyes, and the very devil of daring and adventure must have been -in me at that instant, for I was fully conscious of a challenge passing -into my look. I think I said no word, but fairly defied him to make me -love him—if he could. He fixed my glance imperiously, and with his -face close to mine he hissed:</p> - -<p>“Kiss me—on the lips—kiss me! You don’t dare to—<i>you’re afraid</i>!”</p> - -<p>His lips came closer, his eyes flamed. I had a wild desire to do -as he commanded—not because I wanted to kiss him, for I hated him -again—such rapid revulsions of feeling swept over me—but just to -prove to him that his words were false—that I dared to kiss him and -still would not love him as he boasted. I had a curiosity also, a real -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span>desire to know if there could possibly be such potency in a kiss. -But the instant of wavering could not have been long. At that crucial -moment my guardian angel (surely I had a guardian angel than) turned -my eyes from his compelling gaze to the top of the book-case by the -wall where stood the photographs of my father and mother. Instantly the -spell was broken. The power he had regained over me, after my first -repulsion had subsided, was dispelled by the sight of my parents’ -faces looking down at me. But oh, the agony then! The remorse I had -felt earlier was as nothing compared to this. I cannot recall clearly -what followed. I know my defiance of him gave place to self-loathing -and self-castigation. It must have been shortly after that a profound -prostration supervened—the conflicting emotions were having their -effect upon my physical self. My pallor must have been extreme for -he became alarmed; he called to me; he chafed my hands, and pleaded -with me to rally, to speak, to live. I heard it all and knew all—was -never more aware in my life—but was powerless to stir, almost, it -seemed, to breathe. Finally, the faintness wearing away, I was again in -possession of all my faculties, but, oh, so cold, so cold! and with the -consciousness of an ineradicable stain on my soul.</p> - -<p>It was then after midnight. All at once I became aware of the -compromising situation should he be seen leaving my office at that time -of night. I was disturbed, too, as to what Mrs. Richards would think -of his staying so late, yet was afraid to have him go. I was afraid to -be alone, afraid of my own thoughts. I clung to him, my fear of him -all gone—the danger now all gone—for my weakness appealed to his -strength, and his one thought then seemed to be to restore and help me. -He urged me to come home with him; he would carry me, if necessary;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span> we -would together tell Jane; she would understand; or, should he rush home -and get her, and have her come and stay the night with me? he did not -dare to leave me there alone. But all this time I was getting where I -could think and plan for the future. When, previously, in helplessness, -I had clung to him, it was as though I must make him take it all back, -wipe it out; yet I was acutely conscious of the irrevocableness of it -all, I had only clung in desperation—like two drowning persons must -cling—no longer blaming him, but in utter wretchedness that together -we had brought this on ourselves.</p> - -<p>Now I was clearer. I began to talk. I told him he must never come there -again alone. Then, as I thought of Mrs. Richards and the boys, and how -they loved and trusted me, I broke down completely. I felt I could -never again look into their faces; never enter their home, nor again -have the happy times we had enjoyed. This he opposed vigorously. He -asked nothing for himself, he said, but for her and the boys he pleaded -that I would not be so cruel: they needed me; I had brightened their -lives; he was more patient and kind when I was there, even when he knew -I was coming; I helped him to control his temper, they all knew it—if -I deserted them now, it would add to their misery. I suppose I then -promised to go to their home as usual. I, having completely rallied by -that time, he left me, himself looking worn and penitent, and showing -unfeigned concern at my wretchedness.</p> - -<p>As I opened the door to let him out, every sound in the quiet building, -every fall of his foot down the stairs, struck me with dread; and when -I found myself alone in the room, my terror increased. I did not dare -to move; every sound I made increased this feeling; I was afraid to -undress; afraid to open out the operating-chair and make my bed;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span> so, -wrapping a blanket around me, I reclined on the half-opened chair and -slept from sheer exhaustion.</p> - -<p>When I awoke, the terrible consciousness was there that <i>it was all -true</i>; that it was not an ugly dream. Then I drank my first bitter -draught of the cup of life. I had thought I had known sorrow before; -thought I had suffered; but then, then, I knew that never until -then had I realized what suffering is. “It <i>isn’t</i> true”—“It <i>is</i> -true,”—fast upon the one thought, said as though the very force -with which I uttered it would undo the truth, would follow the other -inexorable sentence, “It <i>is</i> true.”</p> - -<p>The events of the next few days, even my first meeting with Mrs. -Richards, are gone from my recollection. I remember one thing, though: -The next day, at my boarding-place, at dinner, a little Chatterbox of -a woman spoke of how pale and wretched I looked, then, babbling on, -told me that, having dropped into Mrs. Richards’s that morning, she -had found her suffering from a severe sick headache. It seemed as if I -must cry out in remorse and despair. In my hypersensitive condition I -felt directly responsible for her suffering, though she had suffered -similarly for years. I seemed made up of two entities, the one being -stabbed by this chatter, and by my own self-reproaches, and the other -calmly and indifferently replying to my table-mate, discussing the -most commonplace affairs. I marvelled at my own unmoved exterior, -marvelled at everything going on the same in the street, at the office, -everywhere—the same as the day before—when all was so changed in me!</p> - -<p>The first time I saw Mr. Richards after that was in his home, the -family having sent for me to come to the house for supper. Already -there, and dreading to meet him, I heard him run up the steps briskly, -<i>whistling as he came</i>! He called out cheerily, “Are you in there, -Doctor?” It was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span> a shock to me. I had so dreaded to meet him; had -thought of him as suffering from remorse as I had suffered (had he not -said with contrition that he would ask God to forgive him?); and here -he was whistling, and a love song! Again I recoiled from him, and with -it came a sickening sense of being alone in my misery, and of having -wasted more pity on him than he deserved. I was pretty severe when we -spoke of it later, but think he succeeded in mollifying me somewhat, -though I began then to think that his religious talk was largely cant, -and so ceased to have much patience with his asking God to forgive him.</p> - -<p>My friendliness with the family continued, but I never received him in -the office after that, unless Mrs. Richards, or the boys, came with -him. Later I learned a great deal of their home life which I had only -divined before—learned that he was a very different man when I was -there from his ordinary self; that the boys’ fondness for me, though -genuine, was only a part of the reason why they were always so eager -for me to come there, the other part being that Dad was always so jolly -and good then, and things went so smoothly.</p> - -<p>One evening while he and his wife and I were sitting on the veranda, -the boys came home, greeted us, and passed on into the house, after -which their father followed them, and we heard them in earnest -conversation. Soon they were talking angrily. Mrs. Richards hurried -in, and shortly after, I heard a cry of distress, and then her voice -calling, “Doctor, come—<i>come</i>!”</p> - -<p>Rushing in, there in the dining room I saw what nearly paralyzed -me—the father, looking more like a fiend than a human being, had his -younger son by the throat, while the elder boy, white with terror, -stood on one side of the table, as far from his father as he could get. -The mother was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span> closing windows and doors, so that the neighbours could -not hear, and was all the time beseeching the boy in jeopardy to say he -did it: “Say it, Tommy, or he’ll kill you!”</p> - -<p>With no clue as to what it all meant, I only knew that here was an -enraged man, beside himself, and that his son, though in danger of -being choked to death, was defying him, standing out about something -he had been accused of. I took no time for thought, but, feeling -exultantly, “Here, I have some power over him—now I can expiate my -wrong,” rushed between the struggling father and son, tearing at the -man’s fingers as they clasped the boy’s neck. He tried to push me away, -looking as though he only half realized who I was; but, pulling at him, -I interfered with all my strength, calling to him. Presently he warned -me: “Doctor, get away if you don’t want me to hurt you, too—I warn -you—I will not be thwarted—he <i>shall</i> confess.”</p> - -<p>But I felt I must save the boy; must exert to the full my influence -over this enraged man. I don’t know what followed, or just what I did, -except that we three were being dragged around the table, and that I -kept my hands on those powerful hands that were grasping the boy’s -throat; and soon I stood looking into the eyes of that crazed creature -for what seemed an eternity—it was probably only a few seconds—all -the force of my being bent on making him relax his hold. Gradually I -felt his fingers loosen, his eyes ceased to glare with that lurid rage, -and at last his hands dropped limp; the boy was freed, and the man and -I confronted each other in breathless silence.</p> - -<p>“Thank God! Thank God!” hysterically cried the mother, while the older -boy tried to hush her cry.</p> - -<p>But the calm was of short duration. A second rage succeeded the first. -At the thought that I had seen this exhibition of his wrath, and that -further concealment was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span> futile, he sprang at the boy again. Tommy ran -round the table. I sprang again at the father, and a second contest -took place. I can only remember clinging to his hands, and holding his -gaze, and hearing the frightened woman scream to me to be careful, or -he would attack me as he had attacked Tom.</p> - -<p>How the storm subsided I cannot recall, except that he gradually got -control of himself, though the looks he cast at the boys showed that -his rage was only sleeping. His remarks to me were to the effect that -the game was up; I would loathe him now; I may as well know him now as -they knew him, and, though I had prevented him from carrying out his -threats, he would know the truth yet—he would wait till to-morrow—but -punish those boys he would, and I need not think I could prevent it. -Then he left the house.</p> - -<p>We breathed freer after he was gone, but looked at one another in -dismay, feeling it was only a lull in the storm. They depended on me -for help, but how was I to help them? It seems that evening at the -“Gym,” he had seen the boys hobnobbing with some others whose habits he -had warned them against; he thought they acted guilty when he came upon -them, and had been awaiting their return home to confront them with his -suspicions. Their denial had enraged him, hence the terrible scene.</p> - -<p class="space-above">All the woman’s disguises were now laid aside. Previously she had tried -heroically to conceal the unhappiness in their home life. Many a time I -had detected her anxiety when the boys had been saying or doing things -which she feared might anger their father, but, on meeting my glance, -she would summon a smile and change the subject. Now it was all out. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span></p> - -<p>We talked it all over. She was afraid he would desert them now, as he -had threatened doing of late; but what she feared most was his coming -home late in the night, after I had gone, and dragging the boys out of -bed and repeating the scene; or, if just sullen, he would wait till -morning, and then give the boys a thrashing; his smouldering anger -would flare afresh—and, God pity them all! They implored me not to -leave them. It was a miserable evening that we spent listening for him. -I heard him come in late in the night, stalk about his room, and fling -off his shoes. How I pitied the woman lying there, afraid to speak, -feigning sleep, recoiling, as she must, from that man’s presence, yet -welcoming that rather than that he should go across the hall to where -the boys were sleeping!</p> - -<p>In the morning she came to my room, heavy-eyed and anxious, dreading -what the day held for them. He did not come down to breakfast. They -seemed to think the storm had got to come—that it was only being -postponed while I could stay with them.</p> - -<p>Reassuring them as best I could, I went upstairs to him. I had no -definite plan, but knew I must in some way extract a promise to let the -matter drop, at least not to punish the boys till entirely over his -anger, he had heard them calmly; and that, if he did punish them, I was -to be present.</p> - -<p>There the great black creature lay, his face sullenly turned to the -wall. What should I do? My instinct told me what. And here I recall the -complexity of feelings I experienced: the shrinking from him at the -recollection of his brutal rage; the thought that I had calmed that -rage somewhat, and could still more if I could conquer my repugnance. -Then came the recognition that I could only do it by exerting my power -as a woman over him—the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span> discovery of a power that shortly before -had made me sick with remorse. Then came another thought: If, though -unwittingly, I have acquired this power over him, and have suffered it -to develop to the point it has with no object in view, why not now, -with this worthy object, take advantage of the influence, and compel -him to do my bidding? It was similar reasoning to what I had used the -night before, if my rapid thoughts and impulsive acts could be said to -be the result of reasoning. This morning’s course was more deliberate, -though hardly as much so as this statement of it would seem to imply.</p> - -<p>Stepping to the bed I put my hand on his shoulder and tried to have -him look round. He snarled savagely, turning farther away. I remember -keeping my hand on his shoulder and trying to get him to turn over and -talk to me. I sat on the bed and pleaded with him. After he did turn, -he looked at me searchingly for a while, and, when he spoke, expressed -surprise that I would ever speak to him again. I don’t recall what I -said, but suddenly he looked at me sharply and said: “See here! I have -a great big thought—is it true?—tell me! Do you care for me more than -you have let me know, but have fought it because it was right to—— Is -it so? <i>Is</i> it?”</p> - -<p>And I, seeing him melting under my influence, and knowing that I had -set to work deliberately to bring this melting about, anxious to gain -my ends, conscious of what a fiend he was when thwarted—I did not have -the courage to contradict him outright; and, if I did make some half -dissent, was at least keeping my hold on him, literally, by the touch -of my hand, while wondering how far it would do to let him think he -was right—enough at least to gain this point about the boys, so he -would take back his threats and let go the punishment. I was conscious -of making some <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span>compromise with my conscience on the ground of the -exigencies of the case; conscious that the look in his eyes, before we -were done talking, was that of a tamed, or, rather, subdued, animal, -instead of an angry, morose one; yet I really did nothing except -just to be my undisguised self—soft and pitying and tender to this -man whose evil temper I now understood. I let him see that I did not -despise him, even for this revelation; but that I wanted to help him -and them; still I did not entirely dispel that thought which had come -to him, and think I hoped he would continue to think that perhaps it -was true—for a time, at least.</p> - -<p>Downstairs we all talked it over together, and he gave me his word -before them all that that should end it. And it did.</p> - -<p>My intimacy with the family increased. I felt their dependence upon me, -and was easier now that he frankly showed his interest in me before his -wife; it seemed to take the sting from the recollection of that tragic -night in the office.</p> - -<p>One evening, weeks later, at their home, they began jesting about my -marrying, speculating as to the kind of man I would be likely to love. -I did not like such talk. (Once, earlier, when he had been trying to -make light of what had happened, to reassure me and dispel my remorse -he had said, “You will marry some good man one of these days, and -forget all about this.” Aside from other considerations, entirely apart -from this, I had previously declared that I should never marry; but now -in my hypersensitiveness over it all, I actually thought I had lost -the right to marry—I knew I could not marry without confessing that a -married man had made love to me, and that I had listened to him, and I -fully believed that any honourable man would despise me for this. I was -in dead earnest. In vain he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span> had tried to point out how little I had to -be remorseful about; deaf to his arguments, I thought them put forth -only because of his own callous depravity.) And so I was angry at him -now for bringing up this question in his home; but continuing, he said:</p> - -<p>“Jane, the Doctor says she will never marry—do you know why?”</p> - -<p>I was afraid he was coming out with the whole story. He turned on the -boys, who were showing an eager interest in the talk, saying, “Boys, go -in the other room”; then, turning to me, said, “You say you will never -marry; you think you are strong enough to stick to that; you pride -yourself on being independent, but—<i>if I were free</i>, I’d make you -marry me, <i>and I’d make you love me</i>! You couldn’t help yourself. Oh, -you needn’t mind Jane—she doesn’t mind—do you, Jane? She knows me, -and knows I love you—I’d show you what your resolutions would amount -to—<i>if I were free</i>!”</p> - -<p>This, accompanied with poorly veiled excitement and a daredevil look, -and said to me <i>before her</i>, in their own home, made me speechless. For -her sake I had done my best to appear ignorant of his special interest -in me; but here he was boldly confessing it, and, in a way, challenging -me again to withstand him. It roused my scorn and contempt, and I fear -I showed it that night.</p> - -<p>So, little by little, the disguises dropped away all around, though -our friendship continued. As I became busier in my work I went less -frequently to their house. Subsequently he confessed to me an intrigue -he had had some years before. This shocked me, and lowered him further -(as well as myself) in my esteem, for, in trying to win me he had -claimed that I was the one woman to him; and, while having admitted -that it was wrong to confess his love, he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span> had declared that something -in me made it impossible to help it, and so on; and, in my ignorance -and vanity, I had believed him; had doubtless condoned his wrong for -this very reason. This later confession of a previous infatuation—even -a guilty one—made all this in which I had had a share seem not only -more wrong, but more sordid; and, too, it gave a deep wound to my -self-love. I was getting my eyes opened to life and human nature at -a rapid rate. Other revelations of his temper and character, as time -passed, made me sick at heart, but gradually out-growing the acuteness -of my remorse, I learned in time rather to exult in the fact that I had -not been more deeply compromised.</p> - -<p>After a time the family moved away. Years later I saw them again. They -seemed to be getting on well. We then discussed calmly the earlier -times. I found much of my bitterness and denunciation toward him had -moderated. I had by that time seen more of life; had learned to be more -tolerant; understood him better. He told me that he had never ceased to -be thankful that my own steadfastness had prevented him from ruining my -life; that, whether I chose to believe him or not, bad as he had been, -he had never meant to wrong me; that he had always esteemed me above -any woman he had known; and that no one in the world, knowing of his -baseness, had shown him the tenderness and tolerance and helpfulness -that I had shown. He talked over my own life and subsequent experiences -with me, and gave me sound advice. He understood me better than I -had understood myself. I am bound to say that his retrospections and -prophecies were alike sympathetic and penetrating.</p> - -<p class="space-above">During that first year’s practice, a few weeks after this regrettable -experience which had cast such a shadow over<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span> me, I saw deep into the -tragedy of the life of a young girl who came to me for succour. She -was only nineteen; she refused to give me her name or address, but -haltingly told me her story, and expressed her fears. It was some weeks -before I could either dispel or confirm her fears, during which time -my hold on her was precarious; but she came again and again, both of -us hoping against hope as long as we could. On the day when I had to -acknowledge to myself and her that what she feared was true, I seemed -to grow years older. Though I had now been graduated in medicine a -year, my worldly wisdom was very limited, and here was a desperate -girl looking to me for help—a pretty, round-faced, red-cheeked child, -unsophisticated, undeveloped. She resolutely refused to tell me the -name of the young man concerned, saying if he were willing she would -not marry him. She did not mind what she suffered if only her parents -did not find out. Her mother would die if she learned the truth. When -she found I could not help her in the way she had hoped, she was in -dire distress. I tried to persuade her to send her mother to me and -together we would plan something, but she would not consent; if I could -help her to go away and keep the secret from everyone there, she would -go and have her child honourably; if not, she would go to someone who -would help her in the other way. I felt I must save her from that crime -at all costs, and my earnest convictions must have impressed her, too; -for she then begged me to think out some way by which it could be -arranged.</p> - -<p>Knowing the resident woman physician in a Home in a distant city, where -they took girls who had gone astray for the first time, and found homes -for their babies, I took steps to get her admitted there. While our -plans were pending, the girl came to me almost daily; she had nowhere -else to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span> go. During these interviews, I was struck by the fact that she -seemed all intent on concealing the consequences of her wrong-doing, -but showed little remorse for the wrong itself. I could not understand -this; but, as I came later to see more of such cases, I learned -that by the time the poor creatures are certain of their condition, -the acuteness of remorse has spent itself—they are confronted by a -desperate condition calling for action, and their need of escaping -detection then overrides contrition. Not appreciating this then, I was -puzzled and hurt at the girl’s apparent callousness. As an accomplice -in the scheme for getting her away, I was throwing myself so completely -into the situation that I shared her shame. I verily believe I felt -her sin and remorse more than she did <i>at that time</i>, though there’s -no telling what she had felt earlier. The knowledge which I had so -recently gained had made me aware of the dangerous fascination between -the sexes, or I might have been less sympathetic with her; as it was, -I came to be almost glad of an experience that enabled me to help the -poor girl more understandingly than I otherwise could have helped her.</p> - -<p>At length we learned the cost and requirements at the Home. She could -manage the cost, but how were we to get her away, and keep her away all -the months necessary, so that her family and friends should be blinded -to the facts? Her already changing figure made it imperative that -she go at once. Persuading a friend in the country to take her a few -weeks to board, it was still necessary to devise some excuse for her -going that would appeal to her family. As her mother knew that I had -been treating her for an “anemic condition,” it would be, I thought, a -simple matter to persuade her that her daughter needed to get away for -a change of air, so I told her to bring her mother to the office. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span></p> - -<p>The woman came, solicitous about her daughter. She rehearsed her -daughter’s symptoms; was afraid she was going into a decline, or had a -tumour growing, or some other serious condition. The mother was very -deaf; I thought her blind also, for she evidently suspected nothing. -Reassuring her as well as I could, I persuaded her to let Hetty go -to my friend’s for two weeks, well knowing that after once getting -her away, we must invent some other excuse for a longer stay. Right -there in the mother’s presence, owing to her deafness, we perfected -the plans. I shudder when I think of that hour; when necessary to talk -at length about details, to avoid suspicion, I would go to a distant -part of the room a little out of range of the mother’s vision, and, -appearing to be busy there, would, in a low voice, give my directions.</p> - -<p>Our scheme was for her to stay with my friend for two months, if -possible, writing back home frequent encouraging letters as to her -marked improvement in health, thus gaining consent to remain away. -Later she was to state that my friend, Miss Hurd, a semi-invalid, had -grown attached to her and had invited her to go on to New England for -a little visit. If this worked, and she obtained permission to go so -far from home, we were to have Miss Hurd become so ill while away as to -require Hetty’s services as a nurse, thus accounting for her long stay -in Providence.</p> - -<p>It proved even a harder undertaking than I had bargained for. It was my -first experience in downright, sustained deception; but there was much -at stake, and I was bound to carry the thing through.</p> - -<p>Hetty had been at Miss Hurd’s only three weeks when they felt they -could keep her no longer—the neighbours were getting curious, and the -family was uneasy about the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span> whole situation. So it was decided to have -Hetty go on to Providence early. As a matter of fact, Miss Hurd came -on to U—— to visit me, so they came that far together, Hetty going -on to New England. Meeting her at the train, I could offer only a few -hurried words of direction and encouragement, and the train bore her -away in the darkness. Homesick and frightened, she could not get off -that train and seek her home, but must journey on, alone, at night, to -that strange city, suffering, dread, and wretchedness ahead of her!</p> - -<p>About two weeks later her mother appeared at my office, this time in -great distress. Miss Hurd opened the door for her—the very young woman -with whom her daughter was supposed to be in Providence—but of course -she had no suspicion as to who she was. The woman demanded that I write -and tell Miss Hurd that her daughter must come home at once: people -were thinking it queer that Hetty was staying away so long; someone had -even intimated that she was married and was going to have a baby—they -were saying all sorts of things. There that deluded mother sat and said -to me: “You and I know that it isn’t so; we know the poor girl has been -sick, and that she is taking care of this invalid friend of yours; but -they have made these insinuations and her father is furious; he says -she must come home at once and put a stop to such reports—he says that -under the circumstances her duty is to herself and not to Miss Hurd.”</p> - -<p>I used what persuasion and arguments I could, and assured her I would -communicate immediately with Miss Hurd and Hetty, and tell them how -matters stood here, though I hated to distress the poor child with -such reports being circulated about her. She agreed it was a great -shame, and, too, just as she was so happy and feeling so like her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span> -old self. As soon as she had gone, in the same room where she had -been sitting, Miss Hurd sat and, heading the letter from Providence, -wrote to the girl’s mother, begging her to let Hetty stay another -month at least, pleading her need, and her physician’s opinion that -a change of companions just then would be very prejudicial to her—a -letter which the family could show to doubting friends, thus allaying -suspicion. This letter, inclosed in one to Hetty, was sent back with -the Providence post-mark, and the family quieted down.</p> - -<p>This was near a month before the baby came—an anxious month for me, -what must it have been for Hetty! The baby died in two weeks. I felt -relieved; it simplified things; but Hetty’s grief was real and deep: -“Oh, Doctor, my baby is dead!” she wrote. She was not a “Hetty Sorrel,” -after all, as I had sometimes thought her, but a sorrowing mother, her -shame and fear of detection—everything—forgotten in her anguish over -the death of her illegitimate baby!</p> - -<p>The night she came home, meeting her train, I went with her to her -door. I longed to go in and help her face her family; but that could -not be. She had brought back to me all the letters I had written her, -with a lock of her baby’s hair—a tiny silken curl which the doctor had -cut from the dead baby’s head. The pathos of it! the little curl was -folded in a powder paper, and put in a tiny box marked “mourning-pins.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t dare to take it home with me, but you will keep it for me,” -she said.</p> - -<p>We had been preparing her family for her altered appearance: she was -supposed to be worn out from caring for the invalid, and, the last two -weeks, to have had a severe attack of dysentery. By her manner of dress -she was to arrange that her figure should appear much as when she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span> went -away; but, oh, her face!—they must have been blind, indeed, if they -could not see that it was not, and never would be again, the round -girlish face they had known. It was the face of a saddened woman. Her -grief for her baby was pitiful, and she was denied even the comfort of -that little lock of hair!</p> - -<p>Months later she told me her people never learned the truth, but I -sometimes felt that they must have surmised more than they let her -know; and yet, perhaps not. By a ruse I got from her subsequently -the name of her child’s father, making her think I knew it when only -suspecting it—a strange thing this—the woman’s loyalty in shielding -the man! My little “Hetty Sorrel” began to show the more heroic traits -of “Hester Prynne.” I kept in touch with her for several years.</p> - -<p>When Dr. Wyeth learned of all this, she was frightened at the risks I -had taken, and begged me never to undertake a case like that again, -unless some other member of the family be taken into confidence. But -the poor girl had said that it would kill her mother; that her father -would kill her lover; and that, if they knew the truth, she might as -well kill herself; so I had yielded to her entreaties for secrecy. Had -she died in confinement, I knew my letters to her, and hers to me, -would vindicate me, proving that there had been no crime—merely the -attempt to help her to keep her secret.</p> - -<p>Only a short time after this another girl came to me in the same -trouble. Here the circumstances were different: She had no relatives in -this country; she was English, twenty-three years old; her lover was -Irish, and a Roman Catholic. She frankly told me his name and where -he worked, and said he drank some, but she was willing to marry him -if he would have her, but she doubted if he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span> would marry her. I told -her to send him to me. When he paid no attention to this request, I -wrote, asking him to call. This also he ignored; then I called at his -boarding-place and left a note saying I should be under the necessity -of calling upon him at his place of business, unless he came at once -to see me. This brought him to the office. He was a factory hand. He -had a dogged air. While sounding him, to see if he would marry the -girl, I had spoken of seeing the priest, which evidently impressed him, -for he said, “You can make me marry her, but I won’t live with her.” -Then I took another tack: Of course I could make him marry her, but I -wouldn’t do that if he was not man enough to marry her willingly—such -marriages could only bring misery; and anyhow, I understood he was a -drinking man, and Molly was too good a girl to be tied to a man with -such habits. He sneered when I spoke of her as being a good girl; that -roused my wrath. I told him he was a coward to get a girl in trouble -and refuse to stand by her, then sneer at her in the bargain; that the -least he could do was to help her financially, so she could go away -and have her child where her acquaintances would be none the wiser, -and she could take up her old life again, untrammelled by the stain -and disgrace. I made him see that she had got to face all the pain and -danger and disgrace, and that he certainly ought to make it easier for -her by paying her board in a Home, and the expenses of her confinement.</p> - -<p>He rose to the occasion, and went out of the office with more -self-respect, and commanding more respect from me, than when he had -come in; and in a few days, when he sent me money for several months’ -board, I arranged for Molly’s admittance to the Providence Home. It was -a much easier affair to manage than the other. But as Molly’s money -began to give out, Mike’s manliness oozed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</a></span> out, too. As he ignored her -appeals, I wrote for him to call on me again. The days went by and he -made no sign. Meantime, a letter from the doctor told me that Molly’s -son was born, was already adopted, and that Molly had a place as a wet -nurse for a premature baby which was being raised in an incubator. -Molly’s bills were still unsettled; if Mike was to help any more I -must compass it then; she would need all she could earn for future -necessities.</p> - -<p>Calling at his boarding-place, I found he had just gone back to work. -Hurrying toward the factory, I saw him ahead of me, sauntering along, -all unconscious of who or what was overtaking him. Coming up behind -him, I spoke his name. Turning, surprised and sheepish, he faltered, -“I was going to come to the office to-night.” Looking in his eyes -I announced, “Mr. Dagon, your son was born day before yesterday.” -Conflicting emotions showed in his wretched face—astonishment, pride, -joy, were quickly followed by shame and humiliation, as he realized -he had no right to be proud of being a father. The words “your son” -had roused the man and the father in him, but the painful feelings had -quickly supervened. My anger melted as I saw his pitiable state; but, -knowing him for a shifty fellow, I realized I must get him to commit -himself in regard to the money. He promised to bring it that evening; -then asked in a shamefaced way more about Molly and the boy. I told him -of the baby being adopted by a childless couple almost before it was -born.</p> - -<p>The practice in that institution was to encourage the prospective -mothers to keep their babies, face conditions, and live so correctly -afterward that people would overlook the wrong-doing; but the girls -were offered the alternative of giving up the child; the decision, -however, had to be made before the child was born. Molly had decided -to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span> give up her baby. When it came, she wanted it back; but it was too -late—it had been pledged to these people, who had immediately taken -it away. They had taken Molly’s name, left her a name and address that -would always reach them, and had agreed to let her hear from the child -once a year, on his birthday; but she was not to see him, and he was -never to learn that she was his mother.</p> - -<p>As I explained all this to Mike, he listened in silence till I said -she was to be a wet nurse for a feeble baby; then he fired up, looking -black and angry. “I should think she’d be ashamed,” he said, “to nurse -a strange baby, and let her own be brought up on a bottle.”</p> - -<p>“Whose fault is it that she has to do this?” I retorted. “She wanted -to keep her child; she would have borne the disgrace; would have come -back openly with it in her arms, had you stood ready to support her and -it; but you would have none of it; you wouldn’t even send her enough -money to pay for her board and medical care. She couldn’t face the -world, weak and sick, in disgrace, in debt, and out of work, with a -helpless baby; she had to decide as she did that her child might have -a good home, and she be free to support herself. And now, after it is -too late, after you have neglected her, you dare to blame her for what -she has done! Don’t you suppose she has suffered, and will suffer, more -than you can ever know? Hasn’t she everything to bear, and alone; while -you, who have gone scot-free, have the face to blame her for what you -have forced her to do!”</p> - -<p>He was man enough to be ashamed, and lamely said so, and then, of -course, I pitied him. He came in the evening with the money, asked for -more particulars, and showed the best there was in him.</p> - -<p>In time Molly returned to her old work in U——. She had developed -remarkably. Association with persons of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</a></span>refinement had helped her; she -wanted to better herself; was full of plans for going to night-school, -and for seeking worthier associates. She was hungry for news of her -baby, and its adopted mother was soon better than her word, writing to -her, and continuing to write every few months—letters full of his baby -ways, which Molly would bring to me with all a mother’s pride in her -boy, but with a cruel hunger that most mothers never know.</p> - -<p>In a year’s time Molly came to me saying that a young carpenter wanted -to marry her, a good steady fellow that she liked, but that she would -not marry him and not tell him about the baby; and if she told him, she -feared he would cease to care for her. We agreed that there was but the -one right thing to do, and though feeling sure he would turn against -her, she heroically promised to do it. A few days later she came to me -with a radiant face: she had told him her story; he had “been good” -to her; had even said they would take the baby to rear if she could -get it; but, alas! she was pledged not to seek to do this. They soon -married and had babies of their own.</p> - -<p>The queer thing about the little “John Alden,” as Molly’s baby was -called, is this: he had the same effect that adopted waifs have often -had in childless homes—within a year or two the foster-parents had a -child of their own, which naturally called out the mother’s strongest -love; still she wrote Molly that the little John was as dear as ever. -But after a second child came, and then reverses, Molly and I detected -a change in the letters. I fancied the foster-parents would not be -sorry to relinquish the care of the little fellow; but whether or not -the question was ever really broached I cannot remember, if indeed I -ever knew.</p> - -<p>These were only two of several similar cases which fell into my hands -during my years in U——. Dr. Wyeth told<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</a></span> me I had had more of them -than she had had in all her years of practice. Nothing that has come -into my professional life has yielded me such unalloyed satisfaction as -the help I was able to give these girls. Sometimes I have had to go to -parents and break the news, in one case, actually had to plead with the -girl’s mother for mercy and kind treatment of the misguided girl. Much -of my work as a physician has been inefficient and faulty—this I know -better than any one else—but this work is the best I have ever done; -and it is work that I was perhaps better prepared to do in the right -spirit because of that regrettable personal experience during my first -few months of practice.</p> - -<p class="space-above">After a year’s time I was cosily established in an office of my own -across the hall from Dr. Wyeth. What a good time I had getting my -furniture! Not a cent was spent without careful planning. My rooms were -modestly but attractively furnished, and I was happy in the change. I -had a small waiting room, a large private office, and a little room -where I kept my gas-stove and household appliances—an improvised -kitchenette. I could choose my own office hours now, so had better -ones, and my practice steadily increased. Then I reduced expenses -further by getting my own meals and caring for my rooms. What cosy -suppers we had when Father came in town, or when friends came to see -me! But I lived frugally, and accounted for every quart of milk, or -pound of beef, or box of cocoa, every postage stamp, and carfare; I -think, on the whole, there was little that I bought which I could have -done without. If I purchased a book, or spent more than was absolutely -necessary in some such way, I skimped in table supplies to even up -matters. Eating alone, as I did most of the time, very little sufficed -me; but once in a while I would get <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</a></span>downright hungry, then would buy a -beefsteak, and was sometimes so ravenous I could hardly wait to get it -cooked. It was worth the abstinence to have the appetite I occasionally -had.</p> - -<p>Dr. Wyeth’s kindness and helpfulness did not abate when I moved to -my new office; she always left her keys with me, so I had the use of -her books, and telephone, and her operating-chair for a bed for my -occasional guests—a similar chair of my own now serving as bed for me.</p> - -<p class="space-above">One day, while sitting in my new office, a queer-looking old farmer -came in. He blinked and stared around as I stepped out, and asked, -“Where’s the Doctor?”</p> - -<p>“I’m the doctor.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—a woman doctor!”</p> - -<p>He continued to stare; then, as he recovered himself, said musingly, “I -never saw one before.”</p> - -<p>“Well, what do you think of It?” I felt like asking, but probably -inquired in my politest professional manner what I could do for him. -He told me about his wife. I made an appointment for an examination, -and shortly after she came. The little woman, between fifty and sixty, -was suffering from a long-standing cancer. I hated to tell her the -truth; she caught eagerly at the slightest hope. There was but little -to expect at that advanced stage from an operation, and I told her so, -but she wanted the benefit of that little; so Dr. Wyeth and I operated, -and for a time she was more comfortable; but later her symptoms became -distressing; yet how she clung to life, even to the last!</p> - -<p>One day, toward the end, her husband came for me to go out to their -home and see her—one of the queerest drives I ever took. The man -appeared elated, though from his report of her symptoms her death -seemed <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</a></span>imminent. I had told him that there was probably little that -I could do if I went to see her, and he had seemed divided between -pleasure at my going and miserliness at having to pay for the visit. -While I was getting instruments and dressings ready, he looked about -the office in undisguised interest and curiosity, commenting naïvely -on what must have been the cost of various things; asking if I had a -big practice; what I did when I had to go out at night; if I didn’t -sometimes wish I had a man to help me; and if I wasn’t lonesome in the -evening.</p> - -<p>When we stepped into his buggy, he started up his fine horses with -a flourish, proud to show them off. I must have spoken approvingly -of them, for he said, “<i>You</i> like to ride fast, don’t you? So do I. -<i>She</i> don’t; she says it hurts her.” Passing some children along the -country road, when I waved a greeting to them, he observed, “<i>You</i> like -children? So do I. <i>She</i> don’t—never could bear to have them around.”</p> - -<p>I found the poor woman near the end, and told him it could be a -question of only a few days at the most. His comments on the way -had prepared me for his callousness at this news, but not for what -followed. Instead of driving me right back, as I wished, he insisted -on showing me all about the house and barns, and even out to the -hill-meadow, where he had a fine view of the city. He acted like a boy. -As we stood on the hill-top, he expatiated on the extent and value of -his farm; on his stock and barns; on the improvements he meant to make; -all of which was tiresome to me; but he finally arrested my attention -by the remark.</p> - -<p>“See what a fine place this would be for a doctor to live; she could -come out here after office hours, and could drive into the city in no -time with horses like mine.”</p> - -<p>More of such talk followed—I hardly knew whether to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</a></span> be angry or -amused—the conceited, unfeeling old wretch was apparently making a -tentative proposal to me there in his home, his wife within a few days -of her death! (I learned some weeks afterward that he had for some time -previous been in the habit of stopping at a neighbour’s and talking -excitedly about the “little Doctor”; wondering what her practice -amounted to, and whether she would want to give it up, if she married, -or keep on with it.)</p> - -<p>“What’s the damage?” he asked, as we were driving home; and when I -named the charge for the visit, he sighed as, slowly drawing out his -wallet, he said regretfully: “That’s just what I got for the last calf -I sold.”</p> - -<p>I don’t recall much about him after that, except that he dropped into -the office a few times for prescriptions for himself, and once brought -me some fruit and some Christmas greens; but if he pushed his hints -further, I have forgotten about it.</p> - -<p class="space-above">It was during my years in U—— that Sister’s marriage took place; that -Grandma died; and that Kate’s first baby was born—events of great -moment to me. I recall the feeling of sadness and irrevocability that -night as the train bore Sister away on her honeymoon. It was harder, -though, to see her leave, a year later, after a summer spent at home, -for she was then about to become a mother, and was going so far away; -but, well and happy, she was full of plans for getting settled in her -new home, and her chief regret was Grandma’s approaching death with the -certainty that she could never see her baby.</p> - -<p>When Grandma died we were all anxious to know just the nature of the -heart trouble from which she had suffered so long. Our family physician -had refused to do the autopsy; and, incredible as it seems to me now -(so <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</a></span>important did it seem then), I said, “I will do it since Dr. -Hall will not.” I asked Dr. Campbell to be present; his right hand -was disabled, or he would have spared me the ordeal. There, in that -little bedroom, the Doctor and my father looking on, on my twenty-third -birthday, I made the examination which revealed to us the cause of -those agonizing attacks from which Grandma so long had suffered; but it -was little more than a careful study of the case ought to have shown -during life. In these later years I have thought with horror of the -girl that stood there that afternoon and cut through the breast that -had nourished her mother; through the dear breast that had pillowed -so often her own childish head; down, down, into the poor, out-worn -heart. It was a horrible thing to do. Now, try as I will, I can hardly -see how the thing could have presented itself to me so as to make -it seem imperative to take that unnatural step. Father, who was as -tenderly attached to Grandma as an own son could be, had to leave -the room before the work was done. A merciful something kept me from -feeling about it then as I do now. Yet I knew then, and know now, that, -hard as it was, it was easier to do the work myself—for it was done -reverently, and from a rigid sense of duty—than it would have been -to stand by and see even the most considerate of physicians lay the -investigating hands of science upon the body of my grandmother.</p> - -<p class="space-above">As Sister’s husband was just starting in the practice of medicine in a -little New England village, and as he had had no experience with such -cases outside of his college work, both he and Sister wished me to be -with them at the time of her confinement. I also wished to be there, -and was planning my work accordingly when, to my consternation, I -received a telegram saying: “Read Isaiah IX 6, and come<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</a></span> immediately. -Both doing well.” Rushing across the hall into the rooms of my -neighbours, the Randolphs, I cried, “Give me a Bible, quick! I’m afraid -my sister’s got her baby!” And so it was: “Unto us a Child is born; -unto us a Son is given.”</p> - -<p>What disappointment and anxiety I felt as I journeyed there! It -seemed unbelievable that she could go through all that, and I not -with her. I felt resentment toward the little being that had come so -inopportunely—there she was in her new home, not yet settled, among -strangers, all unprepared for what had been happening in the last -twenty-four hours!</p> - -<p>When I saw her, pale and weak, but smiling through her tears as she -guarded the little bundle by her side, I felt an added resentment -toward that bundle. I did not even feel drawn to it when I saw the tiny -red face; but when he lifted up his voice and wept, the cry, so weak -and helpless, went to my heart; from that instant I loved him.</p> - -<p>During labour, when they had told my sister that the child would be -there before morning, she had exclaimed, “It isn’t so—it can’t be -so—Genie can’t get here—I won’t have my baby till Genie gets here!” -They laughed at us both for our disappointment over the precipitate -outcome.</p> - -<p>I stayed with them two weeks—a strenuous, anxious time—and, the very -day I left, was taken with what later proved to be gastric fever. -Stopping over in Concord a day and a night to see Laidlaw, and have -dinner with him and two other class-mates living near, I was so ill -that evening that I had to leave the dining room, and that night -Laidlaw and his landlady were up with me most of the night. Journeying -next day as far as Worcester, I was detained there for two weeks at Dr. -Carson’s, where she and Fenton (of the hospital days) took excellent -care of me. It was the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</a></span> first time since childhood that I had been -“down sick,” but, soon recuperating, I went back to my work in U——.</p> - -<p>From that time onward my interests widened—two centres now—Home, -and Sister’s home; everything that happened in that New England home -was of great moment to me. The baby’s growth and development were -topics of never-failing interest. When they came home the next year, -how infinitely richer life was with that baby in our midst! How much -more wonderful than ordinary babies—his winsome smile, his soft pansy -eyes, and that first tooth! I suspect that for the next three years, at -least, I taxed to the limit the tolerance of my friends with numerous -little stories about my sister’s phenomenal child.</p> - -<p class="space-above">The most intimate, and certainly the most far-reaching, influence -which came to me during my life in U—— came through the Randolphs—a -physician and his wife who had their home, and the Doctor his office, -on the same floor of the building where I had mine. Perhaps a little -slow in making friends, they made up for that in steadfastness and -helpfulness as time passed. The Doctor was then probably forty years of -age—a tall, large-framed man, with a superb head, a fine brow, a firm -mouth and chin, a face always pale, but eloquent with the determination -to rise above suffering. Neurasthenic, crippled since youth from an -injury to one knee, he was subject to frequent breakdowns, was seldom -free from pain, and his work, confined to an office practice, was done -under great disadvantage. I think he has the kindest eyes I have ever -seen—eyes that look deep into the soul, seeing all its frailties and -struggles, its triumphs and defeats. To the needs of all who came his -comprehension and ready help were assured.</p> - -<p>Of Mrs. Randolph’s friendliness one felt less <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</a></span>certain; she had even -a repellent manner with strangers; she must weigh them in the balance -before acceptance, no taking on trust with her. A trim little body, -keen of perception and sharp of tongue, she gave one, on meeting her, -a sense of openly taking one’s measure. Sometimes you could fairly -see her making up her mind; and her “Humph!” was eloquent of her -unflattering conclusion. Although really kind-hearted, her range of -sympathies, when I first met her, seemed narrow, her judgments harsh -and often faulty; it seemed easy for her to condemn and sentence -others before she had half the evidence. As time passed it was a study -to see her growing and expanding under the Doctor’s more tolerant -influence and example, and with her increasing knowledge of life and -human sorrows. Sometimes it would be just a mild, “Oh, Ethel, Ethel!” -as she would rail at something or somebody; sometimes he would laugh -indulgently at her caustic and often accurate “sizing up” of persons -who could not, as she would boast, “pull the wool” over <i>her</i> eyes, -as they could over “Dearie’s”; again he would drop a word or two that -would enlighten her—some extenuating explanation; some recital of -good in the one she was condemning. If she pried about any of his -patients, his lips would be sealed, but though replying to her abrupt, -unwarrantable questions so as not to betray professional secrets, he -would, in so doing, help her to view more charitably what she was so -readily inclined to condemn. There were times, though, when she would -close her lips with a snap, unconvinced, though silent; again she would -say she did not believe he knew what he was talking about; or, if he -knew, he himself did not believe what he was saying; but more often -she would stop her tirade and make a wild dash at him, patting his -benevolent face as she exclaimed, “You old Dearie!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</a></span> You think the whole -world is as good as you are!” and sometimes she would include, “You and -Dr. Arnold—she’s ’most as good as you, but not quite.” And he would -smile at her as one would at a spoiled child.</p> - -<p>Her devotion to him was beautiful; she tried to keep him from going -beyond his strength, for patients, recognizing his tolerant, helpful -nature, made many demands upon him; his wife called it imposing upon -him; and if she had dared, would often have berated soundly the -“whining women” who came to him for help and stayed so long after -office hours. I have seen her follow such persons with her scornful -glance as they came out of the office, when I knew she was making a -tremendous effort to keep her tongue between her teeth. All this, and -much more, I could see or divine in my four years’ association with -these friends. I saw, too, that as the years passed and sorrows came, -she softened and broadened, never, however, losing her spiciness, and -never judging either me or “Dearie” as critically as we deserved, -however severe she might be with the rest of humanity. She has -continued one of my staunchest friends through all the years, and -somehow I am always the better for the thought of her unbounded belief -in me.</p> - -<p>Months before our intimacy grew, she knew of many of my makeshifts -and economies, for she kept a sharp lookout upon everything going on -in that vicinity—not only in her doctor’s practice, and in mine, but -also in that of the other physicians in the huge office-building. I am -sure she could have told any one of us what patients were in the habit -of coming to our offices, how long they usually stayed, and many other -facts gleaned in her numerous little journeys through the corridors.</p> - -<p>I spent many evenings in their rooms, and borrowed books from the -Doctor’s large library; looked after them<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</a></span> when they were ill; and -they looked after me that I should not get ill, she in practical ways, -and he in help and counsel of an immaterial but quite as essential a -nature. As we became better acquainted, she would scold me because -I did not have a “decent bed”; would upbraid me for not going more -regularly to my boarding-place; or not getting myself more substantial -meals. Sometimes when I would come in, worn from a hard case, and too -tired to think of supper, she would come and march me into their rooms -and, in her brusque but kind way, insist on my taking a cup of tea, -or some hot food: “I’ll get the beefsteak into your stomach first, -and then Dearie can talk to you about your ‘case’—but not a word -till I have my way”; thus would she domineer over me, chide me for -neglecting myself, and scold Doctor for not scolding me. There was no -nonsense about her; she had no patience with half measures, or with -procrastination when promptness was indicated.</p> - -<p class="space-above">It was on a blustering evening in March, during my second year of -practice, that something came to me through Dr. Randolph that was -the beginning of one of the dearest and deepest joys of my life. And -yet another decade was to pass before I was to experience the great -friendship toward which a chance act of the Doctor’s on that wild March -night so inevitably contributed.</p> - -<p>I had been attending a case of puerperal fever, a patient of Dr. -Wyeth’s—the Doctor having been suddenly called out of town shortly -after the confinement. For two weeks or more it was an anxious time -for me. The patient was in a serious condition; she belonged to an -influential family; friends and relatives were solicitous, some -officious. On my first visit I had found the condition disturbing, and -it grew rapidly more so. Pressure was brought to bear on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</a></span> husband -to dismiss “that girl doctor” and employ someone more experienced. My -professional skin was painfully thin in those days—it seemed such a -crime to be young. I felt such comments keenly, and though I could not -have blamed the husband had he yielded to the requests of the friends, -he did not. The case pulled through and was a real triumph for me, -and later some who had sneered at “the girl doctor” came to her for -treatment. But it was a strenuous time, and I was worn and anxious; and -in the evening, on returning to the office, it was a great consolation -to talk over the case with Dr. Randolph, and listen to his helpful -suggestions, or his emphasis of the encouraging symptoms.</p> - -<p>On that eventful night in March, though my patient had then passed the -danger-point, I was in that overwrought state where I could bear to -talk or think only of her. Recognizing this, Dr. Randolph discussed -the case with me briefly, congratulating me on the patient’s assured -safety, then said firmly: “Now we will dismiss this from our minds. -You are going to rest while I read something to you that will make you -forget Mrs. Leighton and her pulse and temperature; so lie down and be -quiet.” I obeyed.</p> - -<p>Seating himself in a big chair beside me, he opened a little -olive-green volume and read to me an essay called “Strawberries.”</p> - -<p>Jaded, anxious, and overwrought as I was, the crispness and freshness -of that essay came to me as the most welcome and delicious restorative -I have ever known. I forgot my cares, forgot the blustering March -outside, I was transported to summer and sunshine, bobolink music, and -the joy of life in heaping measure. My very soul was steeped in summer. -I sniffed the clover-scented air of those high upland meadows where -wild strawberries grew. I stooped low, parting the grass and daisies, -gathering the fragrant<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</a></span> berries, while the breath of June meadows came -up in my face, and the light and warmth of June skies enveloped me.</p> - -<p>The essay finished, Dr. Randolph wrote on the fly-leaf of the book -my name and the date, and gave it to me. It was “Locusts and Wild -Honey”—the first book of John Burroughs’s that I ever owned, or knew. -Were there nothing else to be grateful to the Doctor for, the bestowal -of that book, and of all that it later brought into my life, would make -me forever deeply his debtor.</p> - -<p>For two or more years it was the only book of this author that I -owned; but as soon as I could indulge myself in book-buying, his -were the first that I secured. I remember so well the three-quarters -guilty feeling I had in ordering them; it was such unmitigated -self-indulgence; they were so distinctly a purely personal pleasure, -and I had so long schooled myself to regard self-indulgence as -reprehensible. Here was a sober little Stoic taking almost her first -dip into epicureanism; she had many qualms of conscience, but many -thrills of pride as well, each time that another olive-green volume was -added to the row. The “Strawberries” had done it! Doubtless God <i>might</i> -have created a more seductive and more delicious berry, but doubtless -God never did!</p> - -<p>It was many years after I had grown to know and love the author through -his books before I met him face to face. Through his writings I had -learned to love all outdoors; to feel a kinship with Nature which -had deeply enriched my life; and at length there came a day when I -journeyed to his home, sat by his hearth, and felt a deepening of the -sense of comradeship that I had felt in reading his books. He became my -friend. Many years later I even gathered strawberries with him and Dr. -Randolph from the upland meadows of which he had written in that essay -which was the means of bringing this rare friendship into my life. </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</a></span></p> - -<p>Dr. Randolph had a nickname for me which had grown out of our reading -James’s “Psychology” together. There had been a good deal said in the -early chapters about “psychosis,” and one day in my attempts to be -funny I had said something about “psycho<i>sis</i>” being undignified—that -James should have said “psycho<i>sister</i>”; hence he had dubbed me his -“psychosister.”</p> - -<p>There had been a time, when my intimacy with the Randolphs began, that -I had felt uneasy at the growing friendship. There was charm in the -companionship with him, and sympathy and congeniality between us; and -when his hand rested on my shoulder in a kindly way I was moved by it, -also by the gentleness and consideration he invariably showed me; but -I soon began torturing myself with doubts and fears. The fact was, I -was no longer innocent: one man, who had no right to, had grown to care -for me more than he should, and I began to wonder if this friendship, -too, might not turn out in that way. I shrank from such an ending to so -beautiful a friendship, then blushed with shame at my unfounded fear. -I was experiencing for the first time what, I think, is one of the -saddest things about transgressions—the feeling of suspicion toward -others that grows in us as soon as we have done wrong ourselves, or -have even nibbled at the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and -Evil. But I soon put aside this fear as unworthy of my friend, and -enjoyed the intimacy of which I have written—a friendship with which -I am still blessed, and which has been one of the most enlarging and -ennobling of my life.</p> - -<p>Interests outside of medicine claimed some of my time, of which -activities in the Working Women’s League, emergency lectures to a -Girls’ Friendly Society, and to nurses in one of the city hospitals, -membership in a German<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</a></span> class, in a Browning club, even in a Plato -club, were among the chief. The Browning club, especially, proved -intensely interesting—three or four married couples, three spinsters -(including myself) and one bashful bachelor. None of us, except Dr. -Randolph, knew anything about Browning when we began; the club was not -started in the reverential spirit that I fancy most Browning clubs are. -At first we ridiculed ourselves and Browning not a little; but if we -came to scoff, we remained to pray—or, if we first endured our poet, -then pitied ourselves, we ended by embracing Browning. But the last -stage was slow in coming; we struggled and puzzled and got entangled; -we were helped out by Dr. Randolph, and amused by Mrs. Randolph, -who would not stand—only up to a certain point—what she could not -understand. She would blurt out, “Oh, mercy! let’s stop this moonshine, -and read something we <i>can</i> understand.” And we soon learned that hers -was the sensible view—there was so much that was lucid in Browning -that we came in time to pity the too-easily discouraged readers who -stopped short at the stumbling-blocks.</p> - -<p>The Plato Club, conducted by the Universalist minister, was an -incongruous affair—the clergyman, a young lawyer, a factory girl -who wrote poetry, a Vassar graduate, teachers in the seminary, two -seamstresses, a choice assortment of “old maids,” and the “girl -doctor.” They met at my office. I got very little from Plato as we read -it, but the incongruous assembly was a perpetual delight. In a few -months it petered out, but the young lawyer and I formed a club of two -and read Emerson together Sunday evenings (until he became engaged), -and thus cemented a friendship which has grown and strengthened with -the years.</p> - -<p>Another of the Browning Club friendships has also proved of lasting -delight. Marion Rockwood, a <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</a></span>bachelor-maid who had a studio two floors -above me, was a splendid, energetic creature with a glorious soprano -voice. Both too occupied to see much of each other, we called a -greeting in the morning and at night as we went through the halls. I -loved to hear her trilling away up there in her sky-top, as she went -about busy with household duties, as I with mine. In the years that -followed, reverses and sorrows have come to her, but she has sung on -when her heart was heavy; sung to supply losses that would have crushed -one less stout of heart. Now a great happiness has come into her life; -but whatever of joy or sorrow comes, she will always be the dauntless, -inimitable creature I knew in the old Browning Club days.</p> - -<p class="space-above">The first taste of real wild life, the first taste of any woods life, -since the camp-meeting days, came to me one summer while in U——, -when, joining a jolly crowd of young people, with three elders, we -camped on Lake Piseco in the Adirondacks for two happy weeks.</p> - -<p>After leaving the outposts of civilization, driving over a rough -corduroy road for many miles, we camped on that wild mountain lake in -a log-camp; rowed, sailed, fished, swam, tramped, climbed mountains, -and, one memorable night, having followed all day the T-lake trail (a -blazed trail through the deep forest), slept on a bed of boughs in an -open camp. Another night we paddled out with a jacklight and saw a deer -feeding among the lily pads—a never-to-be-forgotten sight. How flat -and cramped and artificial seemed the city life to which we returned -after those care-free days in the woods! But I was soon again absorbed -in the routine of practice, and in the human problems confronting me.</p> - -<p>One of the saddest things in connection with my practice<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</a></span> was the -loss of a little patient with capillary bronchitis, a lovely child of -three. I had done all I could to save her, had had good counsel, and -had fought desperately. The defeat came to me as a terrible blow. I -reproached myself for not having relinquished the case, feeling sure it -was my incompetency that was at fault; that some other physician might -have saved her. The continued confidence which the family showed in me -was consoling, but I think many such experiences would have tempted me -to abandon medicine entirely.</p> - -<p class="space-above">After the third year of practice, my outlook as a physician, though by -no means brilliant, was encouraging. My practice was steadily growing, -my interests widening, friends and acquaintances increasing. Economy -was still necessary, but I had passed through the trying time when -expenses far exceeded income, through that when the income crept up -till it equalled expenses, and on to that when it exceeded them. Now -each month when Father looked over my books he nodded satisfactorily. -To him my success was assured.</p> - -<p>At this juncture came an urgent call to leave all that I had gained and -engage in an entirely new field of medical work—the care of the insane -in a distant part of the state—a branch of medicine toward which I had -had a strong leaning in College.</p> - -<p>I found myself in an unenviable state of indecision, but the seductive -letters of the genial Superintendent at the institution at M—— -decided me to go to Albany and take the Civil Service examination, -and, that being satisfactorily passed, to go on to M—— on a visit of -investigation. The visit was most enjoyable; the new life and work drew -me powerfully; the assured salary was a great temptation,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</a></span> promising -freedom from financial strain; the friendly physicians I met there—all -conspired to make me consent to return there for a trial month, as soon -as I could arrange matters in U——.</p> - -<p>The weeks that followed were busy and exciting. I cleared up my work as -well as I could for the month’s absence, but, not willing to burn my -bridges, retained my office. It was gratifying to see that patients and -friends were unreconciled, even rebellious, at the possibility of my -leaving. My evenings at this time were spent mostly with the Randolphs. -I knew I should never meet friends like them again. As the days passed -we drew nearer in sympathy; we had grown so in the habit of one another -that the thought of separation was painful. Sometimes we sat long -together saying little, not daring to trust ourselves to speak; then -perhaps she would make a dash at me, hug and kiss me vigorously, and -rush from the room, only to rush back again, angry at herself for this -betrayal of emotion. Popping her head in the door, she would call to -the Doctor:</p> - -<p>“Come, Dearie, you better come home, too—before you get to -snivelling,”—thus saving the situation.</p> - -<p>When we said good-bye, the Doctor told me, haltingly, that he could -never hope to express what a help I had been to both of them, and to -him in particular—“I think you know it, and have known it, and I don’t -know just how I am going to get on without my little ‘psychosister.’”</p> - -<p>Although my leaving was ostensibly for a trial month, I felt it was -probably the termination of my life in U——. Toward the last, one of -the surgeons gave me a farewell dinner, and there were luncheons and -teas and cosy little suppers among my intimates. And at length came -the night for leaving. I took my last supper in the home of Dr. Wyeth -where I had always been so warmly welcomed; and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</a></span> she and a jolly crowd -of the Adirondack campers went to the train to see me off. With Dr. -Wyeth I parted with the keenest regret; her help and loyalty had been a -steady light along my path. I knew I was leaving her the lonelier for -my going, but she would say no word to keep me from what looked like -increasing good fortune for me.</p> - -<p>Alone in the train I gave myself up to a good cry. I could get -no sleeper till half the journey was made. As I sat, forlorn and -disconsolate, the sole occupant of the car, the train-man came in -and sat down at the farther end to eat his midnight lunch. He must -have pitied my loneliness, for presently he came toward me carrying -his piece of pie on the cover of his dinner-pail, and half-shyly, -half-gruffly, placed it on my lap. The act touched me, and the pie -seemed to take the lump from my aching throat. And when I carried back -the cover, I felt so much lighter hearted that I sat and chatted with -him till we came to the junction where I took the sleeper for M——. -Early in the morning, on reaching the city, I was welcomed to the large -institution where my work has since been for so many years.</p> - -<p class="space-above">Here my life has gone on—a busy, eventful, and, I trust, a useful -one, among persons grievously afflicted, hampered as they are by -vagaries and abnormalities, yet capable of tender affection, of keen -appreciation for services rendered, and of a degree of companionship it -would be hard for an outsider to comprehend. It has been a life rich in -compensations, whatever of deprivation and of limitation it has held; -above all, a life rich in friendships—friendships staunch and leal and -priceless. And it has been crowned in the later years with a signal -friendship which has yielded a measureless satisfaction—a friendship -and comradeship with one whom the world calls great, yet who made a -place<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</a></span> in his heart and life for the “Child of the Drumlins,” as he was -wont to name her.</p> - -<p class="space-above">The termination of this record at the beginning of a new epoch in the -writer’s life—an epoch when all the lines of character were converging -to maturity—gives the reader of necessity a sense of incompleteness. -The whole record, as I try to see it from the reader’s point of view, -seems to be like</p> - -<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<div class="i1">“one stone stair ...</div> -<div>Ascending, winding, leading up to naught,”</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>because perforce the superstructure is missing. Yet one who follows the -writer’s efforts to gain the image of her own soul may perhaps learn -herein the better to know his own and also the souls of others; learn, -too, that each of us proceeds on the lines of his own development; -and that all that comes into the mature life is but an extension, an -unfolding, of all that went before. “Our to-days and yesterdays <i>are</i> -the blocks with which we build.” Would that we had builded better!</p> - -<p>If it were possible to treat the subsequent epochs as candidly as the -earlier ones are here treated, they would not be found lacking in -moving events, in dramatic moments, even in tragedies—some in the -lives of those closely knit to one’s own, some of the soul only, some -in the outer life—but all this cannot be viewed objectively; it is too -close—it is a life of yesterday and to-day, while the other, detached, -and seen through the Spell of the Past, is as a tale that is told.</p> - -<p class="center space-above">THE END</p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LIFE UNVEILED ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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