384- 1555 fi UC-NRLF 73b SUSAN WHITCOHB GIFT OF THE OLD HOME SUSAN WHITCOHB HASSELL FRYE & SniTH, PRINTERS SRH DIEGO. CAL. \ 1 Copyright 1911 by S. W. Hassell brother anil Sister, frauds and neighbors mho knewr nw Father and TOother and hold them in gtmr hearts toriag, for gnu are thtse pictures of the golden gears when onr unbroken familg rirrle of seuen filled the Id Home. CONTENTS Page At the Gate . ... 9 House and Garden 15 The Willow 31 The Meadow Harvest 32 Father . 35 Ascutney . . 49 Mother and Good Times at Home 5 1 A Perfect Day on the Prairie 6 1 Hard Times . 67 Some Other People 75 As We Say Good-by . 93 AT THE GATE The Old Home. Just a plain white house set well back from the street among tall trees and fragrant shrubs. Within, a busy, careful mother, often weary, a man of cheerful face and brisk step, passing regu- larly to and from his work at the shop for more than twenty-five years, five children for whom these parents toiled and planned. Is it a common picture? But there was something more than that, a spirit in that home which made its daily life a delight and transmuted commonplace things into rare treasures. Something of joy shone within its \valls which richer homes have sought in vain. Something of content nestled there which those more favored have failed to capture. Men and women who cherish old-fashioned things and find your pleasures in simple and natural ways, come with me. Let me show you the Old Home. Page nine * * * " ' Tne town I want you to see lies in the fairest of the Mississippi val- ley States. Its streets are lined with giant maples and elms of half a century's growth. The fine homes showing among their branches speak of comfort and prosperity and cosmopolitan taste. There are no slums, no tenement districts, nor any corner which by a stretch of imagination sug- gests them. A few streets are noisy with the pavement rattle of hoofs and wheels but there are no street cars to drown your thoughts with their rush. Automobiles are not so many as to forbid a peaceful walk along the shady avenues. No smoke of shops and factories defiles the atmos- phere. No saloon sign has ever disgraced the streets. A dead town, you conclude. True, it has created no stir in the world of business and finance. Its population is told in four figures. Yet its name is honored across the continent. Speak it. If you talk to one who values intellectual ideals the response is a smile of recognition, for here flourishes an institution of the kind such people count most profitable, a factory whose product is trained men and women. Page ten No, it is not a dead town; nor is it dull, unless it be so to the few who have no interest in the college, no children to attend, no student room- ers or boarders, no appetite for its program of "meets and eats and other treats". Those few are indeed unfortunate. Quiet the town is through the long summer vacation while the sun blazes upon a deserted campus, but from September to June when hun- dreds of Iowa's strong youths and bright maidens crowd the walks and keep the air astir with their enthusiasm and merriment, oh, then it is a very lively town. At Commencement time the students of by-gone years return to visit Alma Mater. Some are men and women in middle life and some have snowy hair. From east and west they come, from pulpit and foreign field, from legislative halls, from editor's office and banker's desk and univer- sity chair, men and women of influence and affluence. Their loyal love for the old college is only equalled by the pride the town feels in them and their careers. No prophet is without honor in this Page eleven country. ''Do you see that fine-looking fellow sitting up there by the President?" a farmer whispered to his neighbor. "Well, he worked for me two summers. Ate with the family too, and now they say he's liable to go to Congress." Today the roads leading out from the town make a checkerboard of the country for miles around. They are lined with comfortable houses. Rural mail-boxes, telephone lines, the frequent carriage house or garage, the great herds of stock and big barns witness to the wealth and progress of the farmer. The visitor with gray hair remembers when all was otherwise, when the town was but a handful of humble houses scattered upon a wind- swept prairie, when the college was housed in two modest brick buildings. Then students were fortunate who got a chance at sawing wood on Sat- urdays to earn tuition fees. Then country roads went winding over the prairie like the contour drives of a California park, and after the spring thaw the low spots were veritable sloughs of despond. Then a short row Page twelve of one-story store fronts constituted the main business street, and the richest farmer's principal wealth was his faith in next year's wheat crop. Even in those days this town was known as a center of the best things. It stood for high ideals. Already it had what in man or woman we call strong personality. It is the town as it was in those days that I want you to see, and some of the men and women who made it, and that one Home which seems to me the best of all, for it reflected always the finest things which town and college stood for, and had besides a quality of its own. Page thirteen HOUSE AND GARDEN Gone arc they, but I have them in my soul. Browning Who planned the house I do not know. Unpretentious as it was, it seemed well-fitted to the family requirements and it had a distinctive appear- ance. It was modelled after the spacious two-story New England houses, with wide, central front door, long narrow hall windows on either side, and broad, straight stairway leading to the upper hall. The model had been cut down a little but it was still as wide as the family needs and as long as the family pocketbook. In its first years it was quite the largest house of the town and sometimes accommodated two or three extra fami- lies at once. Some penalty ought to be visited upon the man who builds a row of uniform houses. Be he factory owner or ambitious promoter, he is no friend to society. Imagine the feelings of a child who has been brought Page fifteen up in one of them. It must require exceptional strength of character for him to feel that he is a distinct person and not just one of the herd. It is a business blunder, too, for you may notice that the furniture-mover's van appears oftenest in front of those houses. This house, you may be sure, was not just like any other. It had individuality. It was placed well back from the west front, and to the north side, so that the south sun had always free entrance. And the yard! Can you, resident of the banner boom town in some progressive young State, believe me when I tell you that in this old-fashioned village a residence lot was seventy-five feet in width and one hundred and sixty feet deep? Four of these magnificent lots in the heart of the town-to-be, this father bought for his home property. One was for house and lawn, one for garden, and the two across the alley were for barn and chicken yard and the young apple orchard. Page sixteen Next in stupidity or moral obliquity to the man who builds a row is the mercenary real-estate promoter who lays out an addition in twenty-five- foot lots. Freedom of action and self-respect require space. Besides, who wants always to smell his neighbor's soup a-stewing? A narrow lot or even an apartment may do for business women and for tourists, but people who try to bring up a family without a real yard must find themselves seriously handicapped. The house seemed to lack nothing important. It had its parlor, never shut up and musty but bright with the afternoon sun pouring in, and its big dining room which was also living room. What need was there of library ? There was a swinging book-case in the dining room, corner what- not in the parlor, and a shelf for books in every bedroom. What need of den? After the supper was cleared away the cheer- ful red cloth was spread and the table was big enough for all the school- books and for mother's work basket, while father sat comfortably by the fire and chatted or napped over his plate of apples. Nobody wanted to go Page seventeen off to a den and growl. Nobody wanted to be out of the circle. They liked to be all together. The choicest beauty of that living-room was in its woods. Doors and casings and base-boards were of black walnut, oak, and butternut or white walnut, cut from the timber strip on Sugar Creek only a few miles away and sawed at a little mill near by. They had been fitted, unfortunately, be- fore they were thoroughly seasoned, but their coloring, unspoiled by var- nish or stain grew richer and mellower with every passing year. Attic and cellar and wood shed are not included in the plans of the modern bungalow, but they were all essential parts of this house. The attic extended over kitchen and shed. In its east end were dove-cotes, and, spite of the hostility of the black and white cat, the birds rested their deli- cate irridescence on the grass, as graceful, as tame, as well-fed as the famed pigeons of St. Marks. The attic-room was entered from an east chamber, and what a treasure-house it was. Here were boxes of pop-corn and hazel-nuts and Page eighteen hickory-nuts (the small white kind) and sometimes black walnuts. Bags of dried sweet corn with every bit of sugar left in the grain. Long bunches of corn dried on the ear, too. These were for parching, as many as the children cared to husk and silk. They belonged to the one who had gath- ered them, and mother had taught them how to leave a few husks to be braided tightly together so that one bunch held many ears. Thoroughwort, perhaps you call it bone-set, three big bunches gath- ered from the slough over across Park Street. "Arms as full as you can carry", mother used to say. It hung in the attic until spring languor re- minded father to call for it and he drank the tea, dark and bitter, with a smack of relish. The cellar was a luxury for those days. It was large and deep, and well-ventilated and walled with stone to the bottom. It was never known to freeze, but sometimes on the coldest nights a tub of water or a burning lantern helped to maintain its reputation. Page nineteen Merchants were glad to secure a corner of it for storing their winter apples, and what an exciting day it was for the children when the fine-smell- ing barrels were rolled noisily down the hatch-way stairs and stacked up in the farthest corner. That cellar housed more supplies every winter than many a modern cor- ner grocery. There seems small need of laying in stores in this time of telephones and delivery wagons and paper-bags and delicatessen shops. In the day of the Old Home and with the habits of that industrious New England pair it was different. I think the family might have stood a six- months' siege without lack. There were bins of potatoes and turnips and the other root-vege- tables, and cabbage and squash, three or four barrels of the favorite apples, like the Bell Flowers and Golden Russets and Jonathans and Rhode Island Greenings, a barrel of salt pork (corn-fed), one of corned beef, bags of sausage and fragrant hams, wood-smoked, jars of mince-meat, jars of June butter, jars of lard, "tried out" in the kitchen, boxes of packed eggs, Page twenty pickles sweet and sour, and a cupboard of preserves and jellies and spiced currants. It may be that our short-order way of feeding a family has its influence in other matters, too, and that we are not so sure to take a long look ahead for consequences as did our parents. Surely in that family there was wise fore-sightedness. Provisions meant pre-vision. The father was the provider ; the mother saw to it that the last loaf was never cut. Bordering the lawn were bushes of purple lilacs, and roses, the little double white Scotch rose, the big yellow ones, the gentle blush rose, and over a south window climbed a prairie queen. Still there was room for an elm and a few maples and an ash so near that one spring wondering eyes looked down from an upper window into a robin's nest and watched the whole drama of bird-life, from gathering straws and strings to squawk- ing fledglings. Page twenty-one In the back yard was a little clump of wild plum trees brought from the neighboring woods, a mountain-ash, and a choke-cherry tree which father called the bird's tree. The crowning glory of the east yard was a tall white willow. It came as a slender cutting from far-off Maine. A woman's thrift had planted and guarded it. In one year it had grown to be as tall as the little girl who watched her mother put it into the ground. It was always straight and symmetrical and every year it made a surprising growth. Soon it was large enough to hold a swing and the little ones rocked away many a summer hour in it. High up among its branches boys, and girls too, perched and talked or read or thought. From its top on July Fourth floated the flag. One daughter of the house declares that in the willow she learned the fifty-one rules of Latin syntax and tied each one to a separate limb. Still it towered and spread, looking down upon the older maples and elms, the house, upon everything except the two sentinel cot- ton-woods which stood guard at the front gateway. Page twenty-two Sometimes the father stretched himself upon the green in its shade to catch a noon-time nap. Sometimes two little neighbor girls of five or six played "cubby-house" with bits of broken china for dishes. One July day the father led his ten-year-old girl to the seat under the willow and told her that God had given her a little brother, had given papa a son. We must be very thankful. Here on an evening years later a daughter of the house listened to a lover as he told an ancient story and she promised to leave the old home and help him to make another farther west. On the south side of the lawn was a row of shrubs and perennial plants, the snow-ball, the flowering currant, loved by the honey-bees, flow- er de luce, and dwarf iris, a flowering almond, live-forever (good to make thimbles of, you know), southern-wood (why should any one call it old man?) and rosemary and hollyhocks. Then came the beds where seeds were sown early in May, soon brilliant with bloom until the first frost came. There was the morning primrose and four o'clocks, "youth, man- Page twenty-three hood, and old age" and mourning bride, portulacca and petunias, bach- elor buttons and ragged lady and larkspur, the velvet marigold, gay pop- pies, columbine and spicy clove pinks and the graceful coreopsis. One bed was saved for the verbenas, which all winter had been house plants and filled a south window with their purple and scarlet and white blossoms. These all made but a strip along the front of the garden and on the edge of the lawn. Bordered by a row of Early Richmond and Black Morello cherry trees on a third side, and on the fourth by the currant-bushes and rasp- berries and blackberries, was a large space open to the plow which consti- tuted the vegetable garden. This was the father's special care. It was his gymnasium and bowling alley and golf links and tennis court. Usu- ally he worked an hour or two before breakfast with hoe and rake. He loved the morning air and he loved to work, and there was a mingling of triumph and pity in the smile with which he greeted those who came down sleepily just at breakfast time. Page twenty-four And the results, long rows of sweet corn, fine for playing "hide and seek" in, early potatoes, crisp lettuce and radishes, "new potatoes and green peas on the Fourth of July", peas early and late, beans, bush and pole, tomatoes and cucumbers. His asparagus bed was the envy of a good many gardeners who tried to equal it and failed. They didn't know the secret, but I'll tell you. Empty the brine from those barrels in the cellar on the bed in early spring. The tips were so tender and fragrant and abundant! If they were cut every other evening the supply lasted for weeks, the delight of the home break- fast table, and many a favored friend and invalid shared the treat. The bed served another purpose later in the season. For years it furnished the favorite decoration for schoolhouse aand church, and even for that supreme occasion of the year college commencement. To me it seems quite as beautiful as the popular asparagus plumosa, especially when its berries are red. But those things are settled chiefly by fashion. Page twenty-five This gardener had good reason to be proud of his straight, clean rows and thrifty vines. Seldom did any hand but his touch the work after the spring plowing was done. But he was thorough and persistent and the weeds had small chance to get ahead of him, unless the rains lasted several days. But were there no enemies in this Eden, do you ask? Yes, and they were speedily met and slain, like the weeds. For the cut-worm there was a sharp knife. For the squash-bug two smooth sticks. For the thieving birds when cherries were ripe, there was the "bird tree" for a bribe, and a child with instructions to keep sharp watch. For the Colorado potato beetle, a tin can and a speedy Gehenna with fierce flames. Not even this tender-hearted man would follow the example of the Concord philosopher who "emptied the can over the fence". This was all in a day and in a family where evil was called evil, and sin was more than error. I am convinced that the smooth flow of the fam- Page twenty-six ily life was largely due to that same direct way of meeting an evil thing without fear or favor, and having done with it once for all. I must hand on a tradition about the introduction of one of those ob- noxious plants, although I cannot vouch for its historic truth. They say that long ago a lady received some seeds from friends in the east and with the plants came up a few purslane leaves. "It's pusly," she said, "and good for greens. We'll let it grow." And today her grandchildren are still trying to weed out the persistent little pest. Of course we all know that those who must eat their vegetables and fruits from city markets or from cans, miss a good thing. Peas must be fresh from the garden or they have lost the glame. But have you ever thought that the difference in relish may be, at least in part, a difference in adaptation of the chemical elements? It would take a Chicago professor to demonstrate this, but I mean that possibly the human system demands each product of the soil in proper succession, pie-plant in April, green gooseberries in May, strawberries in June, and so on down to the last Page twenty-seven bunch of October grapes. All-the-year sunshine is a luxury, but one pays a price for it. He must lose the matchless flavor of vegetables and fruits each in its own appointed season. He loses, too, the panorama of the year. Even the garden on the prairie had its seasons. On the morning after the first killing frost the green tomatoes must be picked, three baskets full for home, then word to the neighbors that they might come and pick for themselves. A few reddening leaves appeared on the flowering currant, some rich yellows and browns in the elm trees, no flame like that of sugar maples on the Vermont farm, then snow and drifting winds and more snow, and the garden was blanketed for a long sleep. One year the deepest drift of all lay in the corner over the asparagus bed, so that the child who took milk to the neighbor's walked over the dividing fence on the snow. Marvelous feat! And after school to coast down that long drift sloping far out into the garden was excitement and exhilaration enough to fill two young souls. Page twenty-eight No thrill of roller-skating in crowded halls and stuffy air could equal it. For nearly thirty years, guarded by the cotton-woods in front and by the proud willow at the east, the house stood, the center of a family life happy and content, full of work and pulsing with vital interests. A few years ago it made way for a modern residence. The choice corner with its old trees was too good for the lowly walls and they "passed over." Page twenty-nine THE WILLOW The bees about its catkins hum, "When orioles from the south-land come. From its great branches hung a swing, And many a day in sunny weather, Two boys let their glad shouts out-ring The whiles they madly "worked together". Life does but mock at boyhood's day One dwells beside the "Father River", One in a city old and gray, Where the Atlantic surges quiver. "We know them now the mighty years Ah ! playmate^ playmate like a brother, For they have passed our boyish fears, No more in joy we "work together". Yet still in May the orioles come, Yet still the bees in music hum. From Selden L. Whitcomb. Page thirty-one THE MEADOW HARVEST "Now, Son, you go to the meadow, Where the thoroughwort is in bloom, And get me a great big armful To dry in the attic-room. Then, about the first of April, When you're bilious as can be, We'll bring it down to the kitchen And steep some thoroughwort tea." His trousers were full of nettles As he waded the prairie "slough", But he brought his leafy harvest "Here, Son, is a kiss for you." gleam of the golden liquor Within a brimming glass ; And through the kitchen window The greening April grass. Page thirty-two comrades, boy and mother, In autumn and in spring; O mound in the village graveyard Where the man prays, lingering. From Selden L. Whitcomb. Page thirty-three FATHER A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth. Luke. A man's life consists in the fulness of his affections, in the depth of his sympathies, in the strength of his faith, in the reach of his hope, in the purity of his love. McLeod. Recently I talked with a man who lived in our town forty years ago or so, when he was quite a small boy. He spoke of the father in the Old Home. "I never knew him at all," he said, "but I remember that people used to speak of him with a peculiar regard. I have wondered why. He was not a rich man?" This last was spoken questioningly. No, indeed, he was not rich, nor was he wise about books, but in the words of one who was both, "He was a splendid man to know." He was a worker in leather all his life, his hands were neither white nor soft, but no good definition of a true nobleman can ever be framed which would not include him. Page thirty-five He was a man of even, sunny temper, his character was transparent simplicity, his spirit kindly and tolerant. Even a stranger might count on him for a cordial greeting. He met acquaintances with genuine interest. To one who was needy or troubled or a wrong-doer, he gave sympathy and generous help. For nearly thirty years he walked the same paths and sat in the same places, consistent, reliable, trusted, a welcome presence, a good man to know. He was a Vermont boy, brought up on a farm, but as a lad appren- ticed to a harness-maker for a term of years. At twenty-one he was dis- missed from the shop, with freedom-suit, one hundred dollars and his trade. He had earned the badge of a master-workman. All his life he was proud of his thorough handiwork. He boasted that trunks he had made long before, perhaps forty years, had not broken a stitch or loosened a rivet. Like Miss Ophelia he despised "shiftlessness" but he used the word with more pity than scorn. Page thirty-six It was no spirit of speculative adventure, no idle wanderlust that brought him to the west. He had heard of the colony planned to be for- ever free from the saloon evil, devoted to Christian ideals and a seat of higher learning. He thought he could "do better for his family." He wanted to go far enough west, he said, so that his children would stay near him when they were grown. So with wife and two girls of five and three years he made the long pilgrimage. He was thirty-seven years old when he left the Green Mountain State. His heart was deeply rooted there. Those who knew him well knew the tenderness of feeling, almost akin to homesickness, which always lingered in his heart for New England. This was partly due to his strong affec- tion for his mother. Family ties bound him closely, especially to her and to his twin brother. Names of his old neighbors, of the "master" whom he respected and honored, of the places he visited as a boy and Mt. Ascutney, the peak near his father's farm, all became household words in his new home. Page thirty-seven He believed that Mt. Holyoke seminary was the best school in the country and would have been glad to send his daughters there. These sentences are from a letter to his mother, written during his first year in the west : "Yesterday we took a long ride. As we passed the state road, I told the children that it lead to grandmother's. Then they wanted to go that way. We saw some beautiful places, but not like New England. I wish you could be here to eat some of our wild plums, they are very plenty. We picked half a bushel in about two hours. They grow in the edge of our groves in little thickets and present a beautiful sight. When I think of the thousands of bushels which have grown and fallen to the ground to decay, I think the country has too long been the residence of the savage and the wild beast. "The woods and the prairies abound with flowers, the soil is rich, the water good. Melons, sweet potatoes and peaches grow finely in this sec- tion. Corn grows from ten to twelve feet high. I have heard several say Page thirty-eight they have seen ears so high that they could not reach them. Our Heaven- ly Father has greatly blessed this place in the works of nature. "Well, Mother, by the kindness of brother Joseph we expect to see your likeness soon and you will have our heartfelt thanks. What pleasure it would afford us if we could grasp your hand and see a dear mother's face. As I think of our parting my eyes are filled with tears but I must not give way to these feelings. I feel that it is for the best that we have come here, and that you are well cared for. "Now Mother, I want you to have some one sit down in your room and write me a letter giving me particulars about home." His mother's age at this time was seventy-nine years. Notwithstanding his loyal love for his birth-place, the new life great- ly interested him with its urgent demands and its high hopes. He respond- ed with his whole soul to the wants peculiar to the new community. At a time of panic from an epidemic of "spotted fever", little under- stood, he went fearlessly from one house of sickness to another. Page thirty-nine Strangers without funds were often taken into his home. Once a com- pany of emigrants, bound for the farther west, had camped in their wagons near the home during a rain-storm, and he brought them all into the house for the night, kept them and gave them a warm breakfast. So he trusted and so he befriended. An incident illustrates his charity. A poor Irishman, victim of the drink habit, had been "reformed" during a temperance campaign and im- mediately took the platform for the cause. One day there came a report that he had been tempted in a near-by town where he was booked to speak and that he had yielded. That evening the father left home and was gone over night, but his children were not told where nor why. Later they learned at school that their father had gone to find the poor man and bring him back home, to save the drunkard and his family as far as possible from disgrace and discouragement. He gave himself to the needs of others, not as a sacrifice but as free- ly and as joyously as to a brother. One ambition he sometimes expressed Page forty a hope that when he could retire from business cares, he might support and tend a reading-room and rest-room for men who had no homes. This hope, ungratified, writes his name with those of Carnegie and Pels, as one who would serve his fellow men. Religion was the very heart of his being. There were no problems, no dogmas, in his theology. It was a vital faith which communicated it- self to others. His children felt safe in the severest storm if they could stand close by his side and hear him say "I think our Heavenly Father will take care of us." It was easy for him to say "God knows best." He believed it. But once, those nearest to him heard him say it when they knew that it was very hard. Still he trusted. Still he could say, "God knows best." His religion was the culture element of his mind and soul. He loved to go to church and to attend prayer meeting, he gloried in the mission- ary concert. He reverenced the ministry and all the missionaries, and Page forty-one it used to be said that whoever asked for one of his daughters would have to be a foreign missionary or at least a preacher. He liked to read the church papers. Hymns were to him the choic- est poetry. A company of late serenaders was easily forgiven for their midnight disturbance when he was told that they were singing "The old- time religion." Family worship was a daily institution, not postponed for the sleepy evening hours, but held immediately after breakfast. Every member of the circle read, in turn, two verses each. The chapter was sometimes di- vided if it was long, but the prayer was not shortened, and school girls with a half-mile walk before them and an early recitation occasionally grew res- tive. I can hear now that dear voice as it invoked a blessing upon each one and breathed the petition "that we all may meet at last, an unbroken family circle, around Thy throne in heaven." Page forty-two A high tribute was paid to his sincerity by a fellow-townsman who had no reverence for preachers or for churches. He said, "When I die let the good Deacon offer a prayer at my funeral. That's all I want." The "good deacon" served in the great church for many years, thirty I think, and then was made Deacon Emeritus for life. It is doubtful if any honor could have pleased him more. He had the most perfect democracy of spirit I have ever known. He received a favor with the same self-respect with which he granted one, and was as free from mock-humility as from a patronizing attitude. He knew no class distinctions. A lady of fashion came among us. She wore a seal-skin coat and plumes and rustling silks. People said she was proud and came to church to show off her costly clothes. This man met her with the same cordial hand-shake and welcoming word he had for every stranger at the church door. After a few weeks she called at his shop and asked him to tell Page forty-three the people that she wanted to be one of them. I do not know how he helped her, but she became his devoted friend. Among the many genuine and lasting friendships he enjoyed, none pleased him more than that of the boys who worked for him in the shop. He followed closely the Sabbath observances of his early training but was tolerant of other ideas and preferences. If the Sunday mail was brought into the house his letters were put on the shelf. He did not look at them till Monday morning. He never took a pleasure walk on Sunday and did not read the secular papers. There was no shade of insincerity or inconsistency in him, but be- cause I am showing you a real man and not an ideal, I must confess that in two things he was intemperate and in two things he was weak. He had an immoderate appetite for tea, and for pie. He lacked the power to exer- cise authority and he never got the best of a bargain. A story is told of his first attempt to secure obedience by punish- ment. Page forty-four A three-year old child had disobeyed him by throwing a book upon the floor. He picked it up and told her not to do it again. She laughed in his face and did it again, and again. He said "Must papa punish?" She laughed and did it again. He spatted her hand. She laughed and did it again, and he called for mother. There is another story, about the Jersey cow he milked. She was a favorite with the family and well-behaved so far as any one knew. But once when he went away from home for two or three days, the boy he had engaged to care for her reported trouble. She would not stand still. Two or three neighbors who came lo the rescue succeeded no better. She seemed incorrigible. When the owner returned he was surprised and grieved that his well-mannered cow had caused any trouble. The boy re- solved to understand the case and watched the process of milking the next evening. He declared that half a dozen times the animal stepped away from the stool and the milker followed her patiently about with a gentle Page forty-five "So boss!" and waited until she felt like standing again. Thus did the dumb beast tyrannize over her indulgent master. His humor was very quiet. He seldom laughed but often looked as though he had a pleasant thought. It would shine in his face and some- times ripple over into words. Few men carry such an atmosphere of hap- piness with them. "Oh, I find myself pretty good company," he used to say in a droll way, when the family were sorry to leave him alone. He had many little ways of making himself happy, a whole pro- gram of self-entertainment. It was a kind of self-indulgence as far as possible removed from selfishness. Are not the most delightful people we know those who enjoy themselves? They make us feel that life is good. He loved to walk in his garden, or out into the fields, or to take a little drive into the country. "Man made the city, God made the country" was a favorite saying. Page forty-six There was one of his children who didn't like to wash dishes nor to play with dolls, but she dearly loved to follow her father about ; with him to shell and pop the corn, dropping a few kernels for the cat; to gather a plate of big red currants and sit in the shade to eat them from the stem; to watch him pare an apple with one long spiral paring. She loved to be with him at the shop and help him arrange the awls and brads and punches. She loved with him to feed the chickens, and to help him plant the garden seeds. The best treat of all was to listen to one of his stories. There were three favorites: The lost child, The delayed stage-coach, and How we went mackerel fishing. True every word and far more fascinat- ing than the romances of Scott or Cooper, as he told them in a sort of monotone with no affectation of feeling. Happy child to know the companionship of such a father. At home, at business, working or resting, he was "a splendid man to know." Page forty-seven ASCUTNEY Mountain, my father's reverent childhood eyes Dwelt on thy presence, knowing God was near ; And from thy silent summit could he hear The timeless teaching of the good and wise. Prom youth to manhood's drearier day, sunrise Found thee unchanged above his faith or fear ; Homesick and worn, thy memory still could cheer His toil beneath the burning prairie skies. And unsought mound and unrecording stone; Triumph of death over life that gave me birth : mountain ! as I watch thee, sad and lone, Fainting from doubt and spiritual dearth, Is one whose praying mingled with mine own, So watching me, beyond the bounds of earth ? From Selden L. Whitcomb. Page forty-nine MOTHER AND GOOD TIMES AT HOME Nothing has ever made a nation shine but homes. McLeod. Where's mother ? It was her husband's first question when he came into the house, and the family had many a laugh because he did not even wait to see that she was sewing in her usual corner. It was much so with them all. When mother was not to be seen they must know where she was, and things didn't seem just right until she came back. Mother was the home. There was much of reserve in her. Even to near friends she did not speak much of her own feelings. She never liked public notice. Such a nature is not to be described in the printed page. But her life was full of deeds. Let me try to tell you something of what she did. Page fifty-one The capability of a successful housewife of half a century ago is a marvel. To do all that a home required in that time of the home-grown and the home-made, to do it with but little outside help, to see that a family of seven was well cared for, the house sweet and orderly, with cooking and cleaning done up in the morning and the afternoon for sewing, to keep the head above the clouds of worry and drudgery, open to large thoughts and new light, all this was task enough for mind and heart and hand. It took industry and devotion and "knack." This woman did it all. She had a clear and strong mind. Her winters in the New Eng- land academy had given her a lasting interest in higher studies and she enjoyed keeping pace with her daughters in much of their school work. A woman with her bent of mind today would write papers for a club, or shine in literary circles, or study a profession, but she did not spend her time and talents in that way. Page fifly-tivo Her rare good judgment was well-known; and her influence was strong, but it was not the result of much speaking. At one time there was a disturbed state of things in the public school. Many complained and demanded the removal of the schoolmaster. The board of directors was in an uncertain state of mind about it. This mother said nothing until a director, appointed by the board to look into the mat- ter, came to her and said they wanted her opinion. She told him that she had decided to take her girls quietly out of school unless there was a change. That statement, without any discussion of the unworthy behavior of the pedagogue, settled it. I have never known another home so free from the habit of criticism or unkind comment as that one was. The father's broad charity and easy forgiveness was matched by the mother's strong sense of justice. She would not judge adversely without knowing all. Criticisms were al- most forbidden, scandals were not repeated. There was little talk about the mistakes or misfortunes of people. Page fifty-three This was one thing which gave the home its rare quality and its strong influence. This mother found time to visit the schools, to attend a weekly mother's meeting, and at one urgent time she met with the Soldiers' Aid society to scrape lint and make comfort-bags for the boys in blue. She visited sick neighbors and sat up with the dead. For twenty years her hands prepared the communion bread and kept the silver for the large church. No small task. But her usual place was at home. There was her chosen realm. She was its chief executive, its legislative and judicial department and all the cabinet officers. She acted as general health officer, relying upon a big book on hydropathic treatment. We hear about the variety of talents which are needed to make a west- ern college president of the mayor of a first-class city. Their tasks, I be- lieve, would make light demands upon such abilities as hers. To her husband she was more than help-meet. She deferred to him all the more because her decisions were naturally quicker and more positive. Page fifty-four The children learned that hers would be the deciding vote, he made it so but her first answer to all important requests was, "I'll talk it over with your father." In many ways she was his helper. For a long time they went over the business of the day together in the evening and she kept his books from the records he had brought home. So she shared with him the manage- ment of affairs which sometimes became perplexing. It was due to her thrift, too, that there was always a little roll of milk and egg money in the house to meet emergencies. You have seen that there were tasks for the children. How far this was the result of a desire to forestall Satan, how far because the parents believed in the real value of working, who knows ? There were chickens to be fed, flower-beds to be weeded, carpet rags to sew, knitting to do, seams to be sewed over and over. In some magical way the tasks were managed so that they seemed more like play than drudgery. The "five Page fifty-five times round" to be knitted was converted into a race for the end, as excit- ing as any progressive game. To care for the chickens was a treat, for the caretaker had a percentage of the harvest and so incidentally learned a little about business methods. The morning walk to the pasture was made pleasant by permission to linger for a bunch of violets or a cup of wild strawberries. Then there was plenty of play for its own sake, though it was long years before teachers were reading books on Play as a Factor in Education. The lawn was never too fine for a crowd of children to play pomp- pomp-pullaway. While some good folks were still shuddering at card games, father brought home the first pack of "Authors". Many long win- ter evenings they played at parlor croquet on a fine board which mother had showed the carpenter how to make, and had covered with cloth she had dyed the right color. Another winter sport was enjoyed just as much. Often on starry nights the big Atlas of the Heavens was open on the table in the dining- Page fifty-six room, while mother and the girls in mufflers and mittens ran in and out tracing the constellations, Orion and his dogs, Cassiopaeia, the Pleiades, the Sickle, Ursa Major and the rest. Weren't the girls proud to find that mother knew them even better than the school teacher ! When a little unexpected money came to her by bequest, she bought the children an organ. There had been music before. On Sunday even- ings in the twilight they had sung hymn after hymn, the mother leading. "I love to steal a while away, from every cumbering care" and "If through unruffled seas" were always chosen. It was at that twilight hour, too, that they played "capping verses." Each verse must begin with the last letter of the one just said. Mother al- ways held out till last, but father, not good at it, was likely to say "God so loved the world" for any letter of the alphabet. Mother was good at word-squares and enigmas and rebuses too, es- pecially of the kind published in the Well-Spring and the Youth's Com- panion, and often helped the young folks over some hard point. Page fifty-seven I can't begin to tell you about all the good times. There were the sev- en birthdays, and Christmas and Thanksgiving Day with a family re- union. Three brothers, three sisters and two cousins with their families, had followed these pioneers from the east. So the circle of relatives was large and there were dinners and picnics together, and in summer vaca- tions the girls spent a grand week with the uncles on the farms. Didn't the children of the Old Home have good-times! The girls and boys I know today have bicycles and roller skates and kodaks, they go to the theater and to moving picture shows and dancing classes, but I can't believe that their cup of joy is fuller or sweeter than that of the old-time children. It seemed to be the mother's chosen work to make the home happy, to see that her dear ones missed no good thing. For that she spent herself. Who can recall a single selfish act? For long I supposed that all homes were like this one, all parents as perfect, all children as happy. Now I see that it was because a father Page fifty-eight radiated his own sunny nature, because a self-giving mother planned it so, because together they worked for it, that the children of that home found their daily path bright with flowers and their skies star-strewn. Page fifty-nine A PERFECT DAY ON THE PRAIRIE There is no road to happiness. The road is happiness. Newman. Does some one of you shudder at that word prairie ? There are peo- ple to whom it suggests only a dreary expanse swept by fierce winds and threatened by racing flames. The prairies of Iowa even in their virgin state were not to be con- fused with the starved desolation of the plains, nor with the parched and thirsty stretches of the desert. They were covered with long grasses and with blossoms of almost countless variety, and their fertile acres only needed the touch of the plow to bestow upon the farmer who managed well, a rich reward. Their billows were cut by frequent creeks languidly creeping toward the little rivers which help to swell the mighty Mississippi, and the streams were often bordered by a strip of woodland. Page sixty-one The eye could reach so far that to some the very limitlessness was depressing, but I knew one woman who had long been cramped in wall and purse who was far from depressed by it. She found satisfaction and relaxation in this unbounded area. "It is so good," she said, "to find that there is enough of something." To the camera the unimproved prairie shows a monotonous picture, but there are beautiful pictures which the camera does not see. You will never think of monotony again if you will spend a single summer's day on an Iowa farm with open eyes, if you have once seen the sun convert the cool gray mists of the night into fire opals, have watched the palpi- tating air at noontime as it quivers visibly over the fields, the shadows of the low clouds go skidding over the earth, the long grasses bend before the rising breeze, revealing the inimitable shades of their green and pur- ple and yellow stems, the blackness of the coming storm unroll itself upon the horizon until sky and earth are one. Page sixly-tivo It does not need the cycle of the seasons to reveal variety of color and mood. A day is enough. Even the desert has its compelling charm, as Mary Austin shows us in her "Land of Little Rain." What wonder that when the prairie-born child comes home from mountain or from sea the soul leaps in response to the familiar scenes and voices. One of the chief holidays of the family was the summer drive to C. Long it was talked of and planned for. Father must find a day when he could leave his business. The child -en's school was never to be inter- rupted. The mud must be well dr'c'd up after the' last rain. Most diffi- cult of all, a perfect day must be found, not too hot, not too windy, with no likelihood of rain or sudden storm. Delightfully perplexing problems, sometimes unsolved for weeks, and never to be settled beyond reconsider- ation until the last hour. But when the carriage was really at the door, and all were aboard and they were actually off, what joys were anticipated. No, it was better than that. Already every breath was joy. Page sixty-three Oh for the pen of a Stevenson to describe that day. They made an early start, for there were many miles to travel and visiting to do, and the horses must rest during the mid-day heat. You might almost have thought the drive was for the benefit of the horses, to watch the driver's care of them. They were watered, in moderation, at every stream, and at the top of the long hill the tugs were shortened and at its foot the check-line was dropped for an easier climb. If you have not driven over these prairies you may not know that the road leads down hill first, crosses the little stream and then climbs back to the general level. As a visitor from the mountains once said, "Your Iowa valleys make your little hills. Our mountains make the valleys." Those little hills loomed up high and threatening before the young travelers, even when father held the lines. But again the miracle was wrought by which life's terrors dwindle and disappear before a courageous approach, and the carriage was again on the safe level. Page sixty-four More than once father said, as he looked up at the clear sky, "How fortunate we are to have a perfect day." Hadn't he a wise way of woo- ing fortune ! Once as they passed a farmer on his load, father's greeting was so brotherly that some one was sure he knew the man this time, but no, it was only the "brother-man" he was greeting. The air was sweet with the twittering of birds. They heard a bob- white close by the roadside. On the fence sat a dickcissel with his black and orange waistcoat, and, alas, on a barb of the fence wire hung the vic- tim of a butcher bird. They stopped to gather a handful of spotted field- lilies. Would the water-lilies be out in the creek! It was possible, for this was late June. Do you know those exquisite beauties? No where else does nature bestow such delicate perfection as in their spotless cups, half concealing the long golden stamens. The magnolia bloom and the calla are like them in purity and magnificent size, but lack the grace and modesty and dewy freshness of the lily in its shaded pool. Page sixty-five Bear Creek bridge was an epoch. Here were the woods and mosses and ferns and plum blossoms, here a red-headed woodpecker flashed behind a hickory tree, and from here, it was only one mile more to the nearest uncle's. So the day passed, a panorama of delights capped by the welcome of aunts and uncles and cousins, and the bountiful repast and sweet fellow- ship. Ah! that was a joy-ride. No wild automobile spin can be compared to it. No tourist over the Corniche Road can feel a purer satisfaction. Father's pleasure at being in the open shone on his face and communi- cated itself to all the family. Mother's calm content and the unrestrained enthusiasm of the children united with the cloudless sky to make a day marked in memory with a star, a perfect day. Page sixty-six HARD TIMES Often for each other flows The sympathizing tear. Faivcett. Life on the frontier is not all poetry. These pioneers on the prairie had their full share of hardship and privation. They had left the East expecting to reach their destined home by the railway. They found it more than a hundred miles beyond the terminus, and finished their journey under the canvas cover of the prairie-schooner or by the tiresome stage-coach. They waited for the delayed road to overtake them, waited twelve long years. Those who have never lived beyond the railway can not realize what it means to be dependent upon an uncertain stage-service, subject to de- lays from drifted roads in winter and from washed-out roads and washed- out bridges in summer. Page sixty-seven Instead of frequent news from the old home and regular supplies from the great centers, are delayed or lost mails and interrupted supplies, and heavy freight charges which convert many comforts into luxuries. It is enough to make strong hearts weaken and grow homesick, and it is upon the women that the burdens of pioneer life press most heavily. Men and women who endure this life learn to lean upon their own abilities. They grow resourceful. They learn, too, to lean upon each other and to share. They co-operate. Not a tree was in sight when our new-comers began to build their homes, for the nearest grove, though not far away, bordered the stream and was wholly below the line of vision. The winds had an unbroken sweep for miles and brought dust or cold and snow with a violence the well-sheltered residents of today can scarce- ly conceive of. And mud! All who know the fertility of those fields can understand how impassable the roads and walks often became. To be "mired" or Page sixty-eight "sloughed" after the spring thaw was a common experience. The main street was kept in shape for foot-passengers by a string of planks where they were needed most. But planks were costly. Sometimes on Saturday afternoons, during the muddy season, a load or more of straw was pitched off near the church and the faithful ones might be seen with forks distrib- uting it. So these good people answered their own prayer that their feet might be kept in slippery places. In the very early years of the town a violent storm occurred. It was long referred to as "The Tornado", and houses showed the dint of the hail- stones for years. When the Old Home was shaken enough to ring the front door-bell, which was suspended by a long wire, the wind was called "high". Twice the Home was the victim, or the target, of the elements. The house had been hastened into a state fit for occupancy and the family had moved in to leave room for others in the only hotel. The father had gone to a saw- mill for lumber for partition walls. The mother with the two little girls Page sixty-nine was alone when a fierce storm arose in the blackness of the night. She felt the danger and, guided by a swift inspiration or by a kindly providence, sought safety, not in the strong deep cellar, but out in the open, screened from the storm only by the well curb. The house was torn to pieces, no corner in the cellar would have been a safe haven, but the three crouched down by the well curb were unharmed. A few years later during a terrible thunder storm a heavy crash alarmed the parents sleeping below. The father hurried upstairs to the children. He saw a blinding flash within the walls, and sparks snapping through the air. For a moment he thought the house was struck. What had really occurred was learned months after, when workmen repairing the chimney found that the end of the lightning-rod had been melted. It had been an imperfect medium but still the salvation of the house. Thunder-storms were frequent and fire from lightning sparks was a constant fear. Page seventy There is a majesty in the big storm, in the power of the elements. Hours of intense heat are followed by a cool breath, by the shade of gath- ering clouds, and by a distant growl. Then comes a rustle in the trembling poplars and a welcome patter on the leaves. Suddenly great tree-tops sway, the rain dashes in white sheets and the crash and burst are near at hand. But these are not the experiences which people choose. I think the pioneers in Iowa would count these storms among their trials. I shall not attempt to tell you of the cyclone much later, but already nearly twenty years ago, when out of a black night in June came chaos and death. Forty were killed, a hundred more were injured, many homes and the loved college buildings were in ruins. Ask one who lived through that night of terror to tell you the story, if you have heart for it. Page seventy-one When the country's life was threatened and President Lincoln called for volunteers, there came a sad day to the Old Home. A cloud seemed to rest over everything. All the family, an uncle and aunt and a few neighbors sat in the parlor though it was still forenoon. Only the father was busy and one child followed him about. "Papa," the child asked, "Why is everybody crying but you and me ?" She was told that it was because Uncle Edward was going to the war. Didn't they want him to go? Yes, but they were sad because he might never come back. Two brothers, the "uncles", were farming their new land near to- gether. One was already married. The other was soon to go back to Ver- mont for his promised bride. But they thought one of the two, both strong and young and loyal, ought to answer the country's call. Uncle Edward could go best. A letter had come from the girl in Ver- mont telling him to do his duty. She would do her part. And so it was decided. Page seventy-two And did he come back ? Once on furlough he crawled home, weak from fever, for his sister to nurse him back to strength. But he returned too soon, and after months of exposure and weakness and neglect, was given a discharge, a sick and broken man. He had given, not life, but his best strength and health to his country. The gift was not his alone, for after a few years he died, leaving the young widow to fight life's battle for herself and their little ones. What meaning such facts give to the words of the great speech, "See to it that these dead shall not have died in vain !" What fellowship to all who mourn their patriot dead! So out of the dread and the storm and the loss was born that oneness which is the best part of any community life. Sorrow is better than a kindergarten game to teach "the magic of together." A common joy may do something to unite hearts, but no bonds are so strong as those which are welded by the fires of a common suf- fering. p age seventy-three SOME OTHER PEOPLE Culture and character in active relation to social life. That is one definition of the Grinnell spirit. Main. Two institutions, church and college, dominated the town and to a great degree determined the trend of its development. Several church organizations were maintained and have long ago grown to strength, but in the early years it was said to be lonely for a man who was not a Con- gregationalist and a republican. Often the pulpit was supplied by one of the professors, for they had the habit of being ministers. This New England town of the west, this new Oberlin, as it was called, attracted many other clergymen retired from pastoral work. Soon the town became noted for its great number of preachers. When the population was two thousand there were twenty of them. Page seventy-five It was due in part to this fact, that moral and religious interests were foremost. The very founder of the colony was a Congregational min- ister, and though he became a railway official and a United States con- gressman, his deepest interest was always that the town, his namesake, should be a model in matters social and religious. He was a staunch prohibitionist and it was his plan that every deed to town property should be worded so that title would be forfeited by a purchaser who allowed it to be used for saloon purposes. A few deeds read so. To this day no sale of liquors has ever been allowed within the city limits except for medicinal uses. "Saints' Rest" was a name given to the place, in scorn or praise according to the standards of the speaker. It may be that ideas and habits were Puritan-like. Certainly those men brought with them the best New England standards, the highest type of character. They were men of scholarly tastes. They brought li- braries and pictures such as are not often found in a village on the fron- tier. They brought rich personal experiences, and some of them a knowl- Page teventy-stx edge of other shores. Their courteous manners gave a dignity and grace to society. Their high silk hats and long black coats were an ornament to the streets. How well they looked after the young folks. One of them, who was a stickler for more thorough religious train- ing of the child, offered to listen once a week to all the boys and girls who would learn the Westminster Catechism. Quite a number began with "the chief end of man," but I fear not one got to the end of the catechism. Another friend of the children, widely know by the beautiful harmony "Stockwell" found in many hymn books, promised to give a Bible to every Sunday School pupil who would memorize the lesson text each week, about fifteen verses, for a whole year. More than fifty received the prize. If you know what an old-fashioned Thursday-night prayer meeting was, with its testimonies and reminiscences and prayers, you will natur- ally wonder how long theirs lasted. Of course the retired ministers and the college professors attended in goodly numbers. There were few long Page seventy-seven pauses. Not often did the leader consulting his watch announce, "We have a few minutes more, brethren." More often the younger element grew restless because the hour was over-past. This was a time when the foundations of the faith were threatened and its pillars attacked and defenders were many and fearless. For one I confess to remembering better how they spoke than what they said. It was so interesting to follow their various tones, mellow or strident, their inflections and gestures and sonorous periods. The deacons, too, had their innings. One of them stood persistently for the postulate that the Sunday School is the child of the church. Year after year he pointed out that as no father takes his children's pennies to pay their board, no church should allow the Sunday School collections to be used for the support of the school. Every cent the children bring should be used for foreign missions. This deacon used to offer prayer regularly. I liked his voice and I liked the grand roll of these phrases, Page seventy-eight "Grant that we may not forever hang like dead weights on the wheels of the car of Thy salvation." Once this safe and sober man caused laughter in prayer meeting. He told of an occurrence when he was in the "calaboose", changed the word quickly to "caboose", but it was too late. The association of ideas was too incongruous to be forgotten. Among the dear old ladies who attended was the original one who "en- joyed very poor health" and that was part of her testimony. Let me introduce you to one of the first pastors. He was called a giant among preachers and treated his texts exegetically and lengthwise. With what force he defended the existence of the evil one. "I tell you if there is a God there is a devil !" He was a picture of zeal, growing redder and redder in the face as he grew more emphatic. One Sunday, he startled those in his audience who were not sleeping, with this anti-climax : "I tell you this is true. Jesus Christ says so. Paul says so. And I say so." Page seventy-nine It was his concluding sentence and high time to stop. The old folks were beginning to nod and the younger ones were watching the minute- hand to see if he would preach until fifteen or twenty or thirty minutes past twelve. This doctor gave his people a surprise one summer. His hair was very black, a striking frame for his ruddy face. So it was when he left for his vacation. He returned with hair snowy white. What had changed it ? Had he met with sudden grief ? His daughter told her friends that papa had long used a "prepara- tion" for his hair and when he found that it was causing headaches he left it off and the color all at once changed. How many men and women one may recall who contributed in a de- finite way to make up the atmosphere of that place. One citizen for years stood as an example of public-spiritedness. He built himself into the life of the college by a gift of his own home grounds and by a larger gift of service as guardian of the treasury and library and other interests. Page eighty Many hearts recall gratefully a man who put small emphasis upon the harsher tenets of the creed. He was Sunday School Superintendent when there was complaint that some of the younger teachers were substi- tuting a modern health food for the pure bread of the word. The teachers, earnest and conscientious, felt discouraged by the wrangle and were ready to resign. How good was his strong assurance of confidence and support, and his words, "Teach what you think will be good for your class. Go ahead." The towns-people were conservative about some things, in their views of divorce for instance. The very word was spoken in a lowered voice as not fit for the level of ordinary themes. A divorced woman came among them. She wished to teach a private school for girls but she met opposi- tion. The women hesitated to encourage her. Would it be safe ? Strangely enough it was the mother in the Old Home who settled it. For after hearing the teacher's life story from her own lips, she said, "She is a Page eighty-one good woman. I'm not afraid that she will do my girls any harm." And the school was opened. It is a little strange to find progressive cities today questioning the fitness of women to serve on a board of public education. Thirty years ago in that conservative community two women were on the board, and they were wise and efficient. There were other conspicuous departures from the traditional, a few early followers of Amelia Bloomer's striking costume, a man milliner, the first woman notary in the State, a case of cremation after death. But these departures, it will be found on examination, were never for sensa- tion's sake. There is a law which wise people and wise communities fol- low in adjusting the balance between fearless and independent action on the one hand, and respect for established customs on the other. Page eighty-two Many of the questions which agitate educators of the present time had to be met and solved by the young college on the prairie: The ques- tion of co-education, best methods of government, vocational training, elective courses, proper place of college athletics and others. Co-education was adopted at the beginning. This school didn't wait, as Beloit did, for a special dispensation of nature. As far back as any one can remember, the winding path which led to the west stile was wide enough for two, a proper co-educational trail. When a two-board walk appeared, the planks were separated by a discreet distance. But what a deal of trouble the faculty did make the students, or the students made the faculty, over the attempted enforcement of rule number thirteen, a rule which limited the rights of young gentlemen to call upon the young ladies, walk with them or talk with them without permission of the lady principal. Really it is about time for some one to collect statistics regarding the success of the many marriages which have resulted from class-room Page eighty-three acquaintance. I don't now recall one which has proved a conspicuous failure. The matter of electives had not reached its present stage. At first, choice lay between a classical, a scientific and a literary course, commonly called the two gentlemen's courses and the ladies' course. The few scattering women who chose to study Greek, about half a dozen in all before '77, were counted a bit strong-minded. One young man who elected the ladies' course was dissuaded. It didn't seem proper. Records show that the institution has rung the changes in forms of government, but the basis was laid in government by Rules, not student rule or self-rule but Rules with a capital letter. They were many and chiefly prohibitive, but so is the Mosaic code. Students seemed to catch the spirit of greater liberty earlier than the governing body did. It was a little hard to feel that a game of cards or a smoke was iniquitous when the fact was patent that certain young pro- fessors might be traced in their evening strolls by the light of their cigars. Page eighty-four Circus attendance was not considered necessary to one's development in those days. As often as the bill-boards announced the approach of one, the President gave a chapel talk on their degrading and pernicious influ- ence. He ended by saying that no student must so far forget himself and the good name of the college as to be seen at the circus. Few went. Fewer were found out. One interesting case a certain class will never forget. The self-reporting system was on trial. Each student was asked what rules he had broken during the week and how many times. He was given a chance to state extenuating circumstances and then received demerits according to the schedule. It was the turn of a student credited with liberal ideas and a high sense of honor. He had reported breaking study hours a few times, had seen a young lady home occasionally, (she needed an escort) and, "I believe that's about all." "Is that all?" asked the reporting officer with a falling inflection. "Oh, I went to the circus" the student added, in an off-hand way as if Page eighty-five the incident were hardly worth mentioning. The confession of a crime could scarcely have caused more excitement among his classmates. What would the faculty do about it? The case was without precedent. Stu- dents had attended the circus, of course, but it was thought no one had ever reported it, certainly not with that audacious unconcern of manner. Well, he survived, was graduated cum honore, and today sits as His Honor, Judge of the Superior Court in a southern city. It was generally understood that the origin of the extreme prohib- itory government was in the spirit of the grand old man who was presi- dent. His antagonism against dancing, cards, theatrical performances, college athletics, late hours, fraternities and all secret societies was in- tense. They were evil and he feared them as he feared the theory of evolution. Naturally his ideas were sometimes challenged. Students had other notions. The young professors who came to teach mathematics and chem- Page eighty -six istry had other notions. The friction cost the college some fine teachers. Others left because their conspicuous merit won them larger salaries in stronger institutions. So Bowdoin, Dartmouth, Sheffield Scientific and State universities stole some brilliant teachers from this prairie college. What a procession of scholars and gentlemen they were who sat in the faculty row at morning chapel! They were men of "light and leading." The masterful president swayed the scepter for nineteen years. Who that had seen him once ever forgot that commanding presence. His voice was strong and vibrant, eloquent in speech, and in song it sounded above a full chorus so that it lead, whether it fell behind the notes or was ahead of them. It was good to hear him pour forth his tones, rare in quality and quantity, in his favorite chapel hymn, "How shall the young secure their hearts?" to the tune Federal Street, and at the senior class parties in his home when he sang Marc Antony's dying song: I am dying, Egypt, dying. Ebbs the crimson life-blood fast Page eighty-seven His was a personality never to be over-shadowed nor safely to be op- posed. His face suggested power, authority, the rule of the autocrat. If the students did not love him, they admired his strong nature and brilliant talents. There was another of the first group, one whose chiselled features seemed well-fitted to scholar's cap and gown. He talked of early Greece and Rome as though he had lived among the ancients, and by his touch he vivified the old records. He was himself a classic. For a few years he was missing from the college platform, a university had borrowed him, but he was welcomed back to be honored and cherished until today. There was a gentleman of the "fine old Yankee school" who didn't stay long, perhaps he didn't quite hit it off with the president, but there are students who are grateful today for the memory of his gracious man- ner and poetic speech. They were as lovely as the flowers of English literature he disclosed. Page eighty-eight Later a Latin teacher, whose rich and kindly nature endeared him to the very students who laughed at his sentences because they were formal and complex and illustrated the construction of the oratio obliqua even to the subordinate clauses. One of the lady principals was a charming woman of French descent and graces, a beautiful spirit and the idol of a good many young hearts. Another had been abroad three times and could tell how she felt when she stood before the Sistine Madonna! Best loved of all, perhaps, was one who lead his classes in study of the heavenly spaces, while to hundreds of students he was better than a teacher, an affectionate and interested friend. The students did not lack for models of cultured character and mind. Worthy men and beautiful women were always before them. One question now discussed from Harvard to Berkeley did not arise in the days we are telling of, the question of the chief aim of college life. Page eighty-nine Those students knew that they were there chiefly to learn. They were expected first and last to study. College honors were given for real work. Do you ever wonder with a recent writer (See Gayley's Idols, chap- ter two) whether with the pursuit of so many absorbing activities, such as "class meetings, business meetings, committee meetings, editorial meet- ings, football rallies, baseball rallies, vicarious athletics on the bleachers, garrulous athletics in the dining room, rehearsals of the glee club and mandolin club, rehearsals for dramatics, dances and banquets, fraternity suppers, running about for items for ephemeral papers, soliciting adver- tisements, soliciting subscriptions, college politics, canvassing for votes, hours at sorority houses for sentiment", and more, there is enough time left for the one legitimate college activity, study? We have seen that the young folks of our town did not lack the in- fluence of choice and classic models. There were other influences in the so-called "special privileges," the lectures and musical treats, secured some- times for the benefit of a fund but oftener for the good of the community. Page ninety Henry Vincent came, the eloquent British patriot; Joseph Cook of massive brow and brain, Mary Livermore, Henry Ward Beecher, at both church and chapel; Theodore Tilton (under sufferance), Wendell Phillips the silver-tongued, Bronson Alcott of Concord in a parlor "conversation," John G. Saxe reading his own poems, "Proud Miss McBride" and others ; Jessie Couthoui, always entertaining and always twelve years old; Mrs. Scott Siddons as Lady Macbeth, Bayard Taylor on the Rosetti stone, Paul du Chaillu the African traveler, David Swing on "The Ideal Novel, the Novel of the Future" ; Robert J. Burdette, when he was Bob Burdette of the Burlington Hawkeye and "The Rise and Fall of the Moustache" was a new lecture; Thos. Nast with crayon, Camilla Urso and the Hungarian Re- menyi with their violins, and many sweet singers. What inspiration breathed from those orators and explorers and artists. What fires of ambition they kindled, what enthusiasm for the ideal. Young folks do not often absorb the ideas which hold them, either from books or from preachments. They catch them from people. Page ninety-one Was it not good that children born and brought up in the little west- ern town could come in touch with so many great souls and minds. The parents of the Old Home saw to it that no matter how few their dollars were, there was never lacking the price of a real "opportunity" for the children. Somehow the influence of the good people who walked those streets seemed to blend with the influence of church and school and platform and form one harmony. It was the Voice of the town. It spoke for democ- racy, for respect for work which is service, and it reverenced culture as a high privilege. I seem to hear it as it said to those young folks in tones not solemn but serious, Respect yourself and others. Do something worth doing. First get ready; learn how. Good precepts, though they are old-fashioned. Page ninety-two AS WE SAY GOOD-BY It is easy to praise past days and ways but we must not say that the former times were better than these. The light that made the Old Home beautiful still shines. Not even the greed of things and the passion for parade can darken it. The cry for the simple life, the slogan "back to nature", the eager appetite for the old truths called New Thought, all are witnesses that the things of the spirit have not been overwhelmed by the material. They all are reflections of the Old Home light. And everywhere from cottage and from palace, in the field and by the sea, the light is shining in a bright and steady flame. It glows wherever dwells a quiet spirit, a heart set on high purposes and content with pure joys. Page ninety-three UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY