From every country I have visited I have brought back a tiny tree for this little forest, and now it is as full of memories as of beauty.
To the surprise of my neighbors, I built my house with its back toward the public road, facing the valley and the stream. ``But you will never see anybody go by,'' they protested. I answered that the one person in the house who was necessarily in- t erested in passers-by was my maid, and she could see them perfectly from the kitchen, which faced the road. I enjoy my views from the broad veranda that overlooks the valley, the stream, and the country for miles around.
Every suffragist I have ever met has been a lover of home; and only the conviction that she is fighting for her home, her children, for other women, or for all of these, has sustained her in her public work. Looking back on many campaign experi- e nces, I am forced to admit that it is not always the privations we endure which make us think most tenderly of home. Often we are more overcome by the attentions of well-meaning friends. As an example of this I recall an incident of one Oregon campaign. I was to speak in a small city in the southern part of the state, and on reaching the station, hot, tired, and covered with the grime of a midsummer journey, I found awaiting me a delegation of citizens, a brass-band, and a white carriage drawn by a pair of beautiful white horses.
In this carriage, and devotedly escorted by the citi- z ens and the band, the latter playing its hardest, I w as driven to the City Hall and there met by the mayor, who delivered an address, after which I was crowned with a laurel wreath. Subsequently, with this wreath still resting upon my perspiring brow, I w as again driven through the streets of the city; a nd if ever a woman felt that her place was in the home and longed to be in her place, I felt it that day.
An almost equally trying occasion had San Fran- c isco for its setting. The city had arranged a Fourth of July celebration, at which Miss Anthony and I w ere to speak. Here we rode in a carriage deco- r ated with flowers--yellow roses--while just in front of us was the mayor in a carriage gorgeously fes- t ooned with purple blossoms. Behind us, for more than a mile, stretched a procession of uniformed policemen, soldiers, and citizens, while the sidewalks were lined with men and women whose enthusiastic greetings came to Miss Anthony from every side.
She was enchanted over the whole experience, for to her it meant, as always, not a personal tribute, but a triumph of the Cause. But I sat by her side acutely miserable; for across my shoulders and breast had been draped a huge sash with the word ``Orator'' emblazoned on it, and this was further embellished by a striking rosette with streamers which hung nearly to the bottom of my gown. It is almost unnecessary to add that this remarkable decoration was furnished by a committee of men, and was also worn by all the men speakers of the day.
Possibly I was overheated by the sash, or by the emotions the sash aroused in me, for I was stricken with pneumonia the following day and experienced my first serious illness, from which, however, I soon recovered.
On our way to California in 1895 Miss Anthony and I spent a day at Cheyenne, Wyoming, as the guests of Senator and Mrs. Carey, who gave a dinner for us. At the table I asked Senator Carey what he considered the best result of the enfranchisement of Wyoming women, and even after the lapse of twenty years I am able to give his reply almost word for word, for it impressed me deeply at the time and I h ave since quoted it again and again.
``There have been many good results,'' he said, ``but the one I consider above all the others is the great change for the better in the character of our candidates for office. Consider this for a moment:
Since our women have voted there has never been an embezzlement of public funds, or a scandalous misuse of public funds, or a disgraceful condition of graft. I attribute the better character of our public officials almost entirely to the votes of the women.''
``Those are inspiring facts,'' I conceded, ``but let us be just. There are three men in Wyoming to every woman, and no candidate for office could be elected unless the men voted for him, too. Why, then, don't they deserve as much credit for his election as the women?''
``Because,'' explained Senator Carey, promptly, ``women are politically an uncertain factor. We can go among men and learn beforehand how they are going to vote, but we can't do that with women; t hey keep us guessing. In the old days, when we went into the caucus we knew what resolutions put into our platforms would win the votes of the ranch- m en, what would win the miners, what would win the men of different nationalities; but we did not know how to win the votes of the women until we began to nominate our candidates. Then we im- m ediately discovered that if the Democrats nomi- n ated a man of immoral character for office, the women voted for his Republican opponent, and we learned our first big lesson--that whatever a candi- d ate's other qualifications for office may be, he must first of all have a clean record. In the old days, when we nominated a candidate we asked, `Can he hold the saloon vote?' Now we ask, `Can he hold the women's vote?' Instead of bidding down to the saloon, we bid up to the home.''
Following the dinner there was a large public meeting, at which Miss Anthony and I were to speak.
