THE STORY OF MY CHILDHOOD


                                   BY

                              CLARA BARTON


                                NEW YORK
                         THE BAKER & TAYLOR CO.
                                  1907




                          Copyright, 1907, by
                      THE JOURNAL PUBLISHING CO.,
                             Meriden, Conn.


                           THE JOURNAL PRESS.




                       THE STORY OF MY CHILDHOOD.




                                PREFACE


  _Dear Miss Clara Barton_:

  Our classes in The History of the United States are studying about
  you, and we want to know more.

  Our teacher says she has seen you. That you live in, or near
  Washington, District of Columbia, and that, although very busy, she
  thought you might be willing to receive a short letter from us, and
  I write to ask you to be so kind as to tell us what you did when you
  were a little girl like us. All of us want to know. I am almost
  thirteen.

  If you could send us a few words, we should all be very happy. I
  write for all.

                                         Your little girl friend,
                                                       MARY ST. CLARE,
                                                       * * * New York.

  October third, nineteen hundred, six.


  _Miss Clara Barton_:

  I am studying about you in my History, and what you did in the war,
  and I thought I would write and ask you what you did afore you did
  that.

                                                  Yours truly,
                                                      JAMES C. HAMLIN.

  * * * Center, Iowa,
    May 24th, 1906.


  =Dear Children of the Schools:=

  Your oft-repeated appeals have reached me. They are too many and too
  earnest to be disregarded; and because of them, and because of my
  love for you, I have dedicated this little book to you. I have made
  it small, that you may the more easily read it. I have done it in
  the hope that it may give you pleasure, and in the wish that, when
  you shall be women and men, you may each remember, as I do, that you
  were once a child, full of childish thoughts and action, but of whom
  it was said, “Suffer them to come unto Me, and forbid them not, for
  of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.”

                                             Faithfully your friend,
                                                         CLARA BARTON.

  Glen Echo, Maryland,
    May twenty-ninth, 1907.


[Illustration]




                       THE STORY OF MY CHILDHOOD.

                            BY CLARA BARTON.


It was May—the cherry trees were in bloom. For the first time in three
years I had been able to sit for an evening among a company of persons
(invalids like myself seeking strength), trying to entertain them with
some remembrances of bygone days. I see it still, the broad parlor of
that grand old “Hillside Home,” the mother and inspiration of all the
hundreds of sanitariums and health restoring institutions of the country
to-day. I had made my home near it, at the foot of the blossoming
orchard.

Down among the trees and twittering robins next morning came one of my
listeners; a broad-shouldered, manly looking man, the face so full of
benign intelligence that once seen was never to be forgotten. He came in
at the open door, merrily shaking off the cherry blossoms like large
flakes of early snow, an entire stranger to me until the previous
evening. He seated himself and entered into conversation with a familiar
ease that bespoke the cultured gentleman. After a few minutes he turned
earnestly to me with: “Miss Barton, I have an errand in coming to you. I
have a request to make.”

I said I hoped I should be able to comply. He hesitated, as if thinking
how to commence, but at length said: “I want you to recall and write the
first thing you remember—the first event that made sufficient impression
upon you to be remembered.”

I waited in silence and he went on:

“And then I want you to write the next, and then the next, and so on,
until you have written all—everything connected with yourself and your
life that you can recall. I want it; we want it; the world wants it, and
again I ask you to do it. Can you promise me?”

His earnest manner demanded an earnest reply. I could not promise to do
it, but would promise to consider it.


This was in the spring of 1876. I have never forgotten the request
through all these thirty-one busy years, and have carefully kept the
promise to consider it; and to-night take my pencil to describe the
first moment of my life that I remember.

By the dates I must have been nearly two and a half years old, for I was
born on Christmas day, and now the lilacs were in bloom. It was a rather
newly built country house where I had commenced my earthly pilgrimage,
and being the youngest by a dozen or so years, of a family of two
brothers and two sisters, I naturally lacked child playmates and was
left much to my own entertainment.

On this occasion I must have been enjoying a ramble by myself in the
grass-green dooryard, with the broad hand-hewn doorstep and the
traditional lilacs on either side. Suddenly my resounding cries brought
the whole family to the door in alarm. My wailing took the form of a
complaint expressed with my best linguistic ability:

“Baby los’ ’im—pitty bird—baby los’ ’im—baby mos’ caught him—pitty
bird—baby mos’ caught ’im.”

At length they succeeded in inducing me to listen to a question, “But
where did it go, Baby?”

Among my heart-breaking sobs I pointed to a small round hole under the
doorstep. The terrified scream of my mother remained in my memory
forever more. Her baby had “mos’ caught” a snake.

I recall nothing more for nearly a year and a half, when my terrors
again took possession. An esteemed and greatly beloved relative of the
family had died. The funeral services were to be held four miles away.
All the household would attend excepting myself and the younger of my
two brothers, David, some sixteen years old, who was deputed to act as
body guard, doubtless under strict orders.

I can picture the large family sitting room with its four open windows,
which room I was not to leave, and my guardian was to remain near me.
Some outside duty called him from the house and I was left to my own
observations. A sudden thunder shower came up; massive rifts of clouds
rolled up in the east, and the lightning darted among them like blazing
fires. The thunder gave them language and my terrified imagination
endowed them with life.

Among the animals of the farm was a huge old ram, that doubtless upon
some occasion had taught me to respect him, and of which I had a mortal
fear. My terrors transformed those rising, rolling clouds into a whole
heaven full of angry rams, marching down upon me. Again my screams
alarmed, and the poor brother, conscience stricken that he had left his
charge, rushed breathless in, to find me on the floor in hysterics, a
condition of things he had never seen; and neither memory nor history
relate how either of us got out of it.

In these later years I have observed that writers of sketches, in a
friendly desire to compliment me, have been wont to dwell upon my
courage, representing me as personally devoid of fear, not even knowing
the feeling. However correct that may have become, it is evident I was
not constructed that way, as in the earlier years of my life I remember
nothing but fear.

There can be no doubt that my advent into the family was at least a
novelty, as the last before me was a beautiful blue-eyed, curly-haired
little girl of a dozen summers. That the event was probably looked for
with interest is shadowed in the fact of preparations made for it. The
still existing few pieces in my possession testify to the purchase of a
full, complete and withal rather aristocratic dinner set of “Old
Willow,” which did faithful service many years; and the remaining bits
of dainty pink and white, tell of the tea set to match, in the cups of
which were told the future of many a merry party that learned their
reality through still later years, not all pink and white.

I became the seventh member of a household consisting of the father and
mother, two sisters and two brothers, each of whom for his and her
intrinsic merits and special characteristics deserves an individual
history, which it shall be my conscientious duty to portray as far as
possible as these pages progress. For the present it is enough to say
that each one manifested an increasing personal interest in the
newcomer, and as soon as developments permitted, set about instructing
her in the various directions most in accord with the tastes and
pursuits of each.

Of the two sisters, the elder was already a teacher. The younger
followed soon, and naturally my book education became their first care,
and under these conditions it is little to say, that I have no knowledge
of ever learning to read, or of a time that I did not do my own story
reading. The other studies followed very early.

My elder brother, Stephen, was a noted mathematician. He inducted me
into the mystery of figures. Multiplication, division, subtraction,
halves, quarters and wholes, soon ceased to be a mystery, and no toy
equalled my little slate. But the younger brother (he of the thunder
storm and hysterics) had entirely other tastes, and would have none of
these things. My father was a lover of horses, and one of the first in
the vicinity to introduce blooded stock. He had large lands, for New
England. He raised his own colts; and Highlanders, Virginians and
Morgans pranced the fields in idle contempt of the solid old farm
horses.

Of my brother, David, to say that he was fond of horses describes
nothing; one could almost add that he was fond of nothing else. He was
the Buffalo Bill of the surrounding country, and here commences his part
of my education. It was his delight to take me, a little girl five years
old, to the field, seize a couple of those beautiful young creatures,
broken only to the halter and bit, and gathering the reins of both
bridles firmly in hand, throw me upon the back of one colt, spring upon
the other himself, and catching me by one foot, and bidding me “cling
fast to the mane,” gallop away over field and fen, in and out among the
other colts in wild glee like ourselves. They were merry rides we took.
This was my riding school. I never had any other, but it served me well.
To this day my seat on a saddle or on the back of a horse is as secure
and tireless as in a rocking chair, and far more pleasurable. Sometimes,
in later years, when I found myself suddenly on a strange horse in a
trooper’s saddle, flying for life or liberty in front of pursuit, I
blessed the baby lessons of the wild gallops among the beautiful colts.


Various as were the topics of instruction pursued by my youthful
teachers, my father had still others. He was “Captain” Stephen Barton,
had served as a non-commissioned officer, under General Wayne (Mad
Anthony) in the French and Indian Wars on the then Western frontiers.
His soldier habits and tastes never left him. Those were also strong
political days—Andrew Jackson days—and very naturally my father became
my instructor in military and political lore. I listened breathlessly to
his war stories. Illustrations were called for, and we made battles and
fought them. Every shade of military etiquette was regarded. Generals,
colonels, captains and sergeants were given their proper place and rank.
So with the political world; the president, cabinet and leading officers
of the government were learned by heart, and nothing gratified the keen
humor of my father more than the parrot-like readiness with which I
lisped these often difficult names, and the accuracy with which I
repeated them upon request. My elder sister, with a teacher’s intuition,
mistrusting that my ideas on these points might be somewhat vague,
confidentially drew from me one day my impressions in regard to the
personages whose names I handled so glibly, and to the amusement of the
family found that I had no conception of their being men like other men,
but had invested them with miraculous size and importance. I thought the
president might be as large as the meeting house, and the vice-president
perhaps the size of the school house. And yet I am not going to say that
even this instruction had never any value for me. When later, I, like
all the rest of our country people, was suddenly thrust into the
mysteries of war, and had to find and take my place and part in it, I
found myself far less a stranger to the conditions than most women, or
even ordinary men for that matter; I never addressed a colonel as
captain, got my cavalry on foot, or mounted my infantry.

My mother, like the sensible woman that she was, seeming to conclude
that there were plenty of instructors without her, attempted very
little, but rather regarded the whole thing as a sort of mental
conglomeration, and looked on with a kind of amused curiosity to see
what they would make of it. Indeed, I heard her remark many years after,
that I came out with a more level head than she would have thought
possible.


My first individual ownership was “Button.” In personality (if the term
be admissible), Button represented a sprightly, medium-sized, very white
dog, with silky ears, sparkling black eyes and a very short tail. His
bark spoke for itself. Button belonged to me. No other claim was
instituted, or ever had been. It was said that on my entrance into the
family, Button constituted himself my guardian. He watched my first
steps and tried to pick me up when I fell down. One was never seen
without the other. He proved an apt and obedient pupil, obeying me
precept upon precept, if not line upon line. He stood on two feet to ask
for his food, and made a bow on receiving it, walked on three legs when
very lame, and so on, after the manner of his crude instruction; went
everywhere with me through the day, waited patiently while I said my
prayers and continued his guard on the foot of the bed at night. Button
shared my board as well as my bed. This fact gave opportunity for an
amusing bit of sport for the family at my expense, as was their wont.

One would, with considerable ado (to lend importance to the occasion),
make me a present of some divisible luxury, as cake or candies. This
called, on my part, for positive orders to all to sit down and share my
gift with me, as I never partook of it alone. A line or circle was
formed, comprising the entire family, Button occupying the last seat. I
then proceeded to make a careful hand count of each, including Button;
then retired and accurately divided my gift, a piece for each, but not
myself, as I was not in the count. I then went and gave a piece to every
one. The fun came in watching the silent wonderment and resignation with
which I contemplated my own empty hands, a condition of things I could
not at all comprehend, but made no complaint. Of course, each in
generous sympathy offered to give back to me his or her piece; but here
came in my careful mother’s protest and command, so seldom heard. “No,”
I must not be taught to think I could give a thing and still possess it,
or its value. A gift must be outright. I must do earnestly all that I
did. Each might generously give me back a very small piece, to make in
all no more than would have been my share, and I must be made to
understand that even this was a favor and not a right. I then went
around and received my crumbs. This all went well till I came to Button.
When I held out my hand for his little charity, he had nothing for me. I
could never understand this discourtesy of Button.

This was one of the many jokes reserved for me as I grew older. But far
above and beyond it all, as the years sped on, and the hands were still,
shone the gleam of the far-sighted mother’s watchfulness that neither
toil could obscure, nor mirth relax.


My home instruction was by no means permitted to stand in the way of the
“regular school,” which consisted of two terms each year, of three
months each. The winter term included not only the large boys and girls,
but in reality the young men and young women of the neighborhood. An
exceptionally fine teacher often drew the daily attendance of advanced
scholars for several miles. Our district had this good fortune. I
introduce with pleasure and with reverence the name of Richard Stone; a
firmly-set, handsome young man of twenty-six or seven, of commanding
figure and presence, combining all the elements of a teacher with a
discipline never questioned. His glance of disapproval was a reprimand,
his frown something he never needed to go beyond. The love and respect
of his pupils exceeded even their fear. It was no uncommon thing for
summer teachers to come twenty miles to avail themselves of the winter
term of “Col.” Stone, for he was a high militia officer, and at that
young age was a settled man with a family of four little children. He
had married at eighteen.

I am thus particular in my description of him, both because of my
childish worship of him, and because I shall have occasion to refer to
him later. The opening of his first term was a signal for the Barton
family, and seated on the strong shoulders of my stalwart brother
Stephen, I was taken a mile through the tall drifts to school. I have
often questioned if in this movement there might not have been a touch
of mischievous curiosity on the part of these not at all dull
youngsters, to see what my performance at school might be.

I was, of course, the baby of the school. I recall no introduction to
the teacher, but was set down among the many pupils in the by no means
spacious room, with my spelling book and the traditional slate, from
which nothing could separate me. I was seated on one of the low benches
and sat very still. At length the majestic schoolmaster seated himself,
and taking a primer, called the class of little ones to him. He pointed
the letters to each. I named them all, and was asked to spell some
little words, “dog,” “cat,” etc., whereupon I hesitatingly informed him
that I did “not spell there.” “Where do you spell?” “I spell in
‘Artichoke,’” that being the leading word in the three syllable column
in my speller. He good naturedly conformed to my suggestion, and I was
put into the “artichoke” class to bear my part for the winter, and read
and “spell for the head.” When, after a few weeks, my brother Stephen
was declared by the committee to be too advanced for a common school,
and was placed in charge of an important school himself, my unique
transportation devolved upon the other brother, David.

No colts now, but solid wading through the high New England drifts.

The Rev. Mr. Menseur of the Episcopal church of Leicester, Mass., if I
recollect aright, wisely comprehending the grievous inadaptability of
the school books of that time, had compiled a small geography and atlas
suited to young children, known as Menseur’s Geography. It was a
novelty, as well as a beneficence; nothing of its kind having occurred
to makers of the school books of that day. They seemed not to have
recognized the existence of a state of childhood in the intellectual
creation. During the winter I had become the happy possessor of a
Menseur’s Geography and Atlas. It is questionable if my satisfaction was
fully shared by others of the household. I required a great deal of
assistance in the study of my maps, and became so interested that I
could not sleep, and was not willing that others should, but persisted
in waking my poor drowsy sister in the cold winter mornings to sit up in
bed and by the light of a tallow candle, help me to find mountains,
rivers, counties, oceans, lakes, islands, isthmuses, channels, cities,
towns and capitals.

[Illustration:

  MY BIRTHPLACE.
]

The next May the summer school opened, taught by Miss Susan Torrey.
Again, I write the name reverently, as gracing one of the most perfect
of personalities. I was not alone in my childish admiration, for her
memory remained a living reality in the town long years after the gentle
spirit fled. My sisters were both teaching other schools, and I must
make my own way, which I did, walking a mile with my one precious little
schoolmate, Nancy Fitts. Nancy Fitts! The playmate of my childhood; the
“chum” of laughing girlhood; the faithful trusted companion of young
womanhood, and the beloved life friend that the relentless grasp of time
has neither changed, nor taken from me.

On entering the wide open door of the inviting schoolhouse, armed with
some most unsuitable reader, a spelling book, geography, atlas and
slate, I was seized with an intense fear at finding myself with no
member of the family near, and my trepidation became so visible that the
gentle teacher, relieving me of my burden of books, took me tenderly on
her lap and did her best to reassure and calm me. At length I was given
my seat, with a desk in front for my atlas and slate, my toes at least a
foot from the floor, and that became my daily, happy home for the next
three months.


I partially recall an event which occurred when I was five years old;
the incidents which I could not have personally remembered, must have
been supplied by later relations. It seems that I was suddenly
discovered to be alarmingly ill. In response to the terror of the
moment, the saddle was thrown on Black Stallion, the king of the herd,
his rough rider mounted and away for the doctor, on “Oxford Plain,” five
miles away. “Not at home—out on a professional drive.” Followed to
“Sutton Street,” six miles further on. “Gone.” Back over “Hog Hill” and
across the town to the west. At length overtaken and brought back at a
speed little less than that which had called him, for the doctor was a
fearless driver. The thunder of the flying hoofs and the speed of the
rider as they passed had alarmed the people. All the town knew the horse
and the rider, and knew as well that something bad had happened at
Captain Barton’s. Men dropped their work, harnessed their own teams and
drove with all haste to see if, perchance, it were anything in which
they could help. When the doctor arrived, the yard and road were filled
with people, waiting his coming and diagnosis.

Shortly the verbal bulletin went out: “A sudden, unaccountable and
probably fatal attack of bloody dysentery and convulsions.” There was no
more for the sympathetic neighbors to do; they turned sadly away, and
with them went the report that Captain and Mrs. Barton had lost their
little baby girl.

[Illustration:

  CAPTAIN STEPHEN BARTON, MY FATHER.
]

[Illustration:

  SALLY STONE BARTON, MY MOTHER.
]

Of all this I have, naturally, no recollection—neither do I know the
lapse of time till memory again got hold; but her first grasp of the
event was this: I had occupied as a bed a great cradle which had been
made for some grown invalid, and preserved in the household. I was
bolstered up in this cradle, with a little low table at the side on
which was my first meal of solid food. How I had previously been
nourished I do not know, but I can see this meal as clearly as if it had
been yesterday. A piece of brown bread crust, about two inches square,
rye and Indian, baked on the oven bottom; a tiny wine glass, my
Christmas gift, full of home-made blackberry cordial, and a wee bit of
my mother’s well cured old cheese. There was no need to caution me to
eat slowly; knowing that I could have no more, and in dread of coming to
the last morsel, I nibbled and sipped and swallowed till I mercifully
fell asleep from exhaustion.

There are a good many men over the country who would readily believe
that sometimes, at the end of a long fast, food might have tasted very
good to me, as it did to them; but no food through the longest fast,
ever had the relish of that brown bread crust; and no royal table has
ever been so kingly as that where I presided alone over my own feast.


Of the succeeding years, six, seven and eight, I recall little of note
beyond my studies, excepting a propensity I indulged for writing verses,
many of which were preserved to amuse, others to tease me for many
years. Colonel Stone had closed his series of common schools, and opened
a special institution on “Oxford Plain,” known as the “Oxford High
School.” Its fame had spread for miles around, and it was regarded as
the _Ultima Thule_ for teachers, and in a manner a stepping stone or
opening door to Harvard and Yale.

My brother Stephen had succeeded Col. Stone in the winter terms of the
home school, and my sisters mainly had charge of them in summer. Thus
six months of each year offered little change, the others were long
vacations in which the out-of-doors played by far the most prominent
part. There were garden and flower beds to be made, choice pet animals
to look after, a few needy families with little children to be thought
of, and some sewing to be attempted. These latter were in accordance
with my mother’s recommendations. I recall no season of dolls, and
believe they were never included in my curriculum.

Meantime, I fell heir to my mother’s side saddle, a beautiful piece of
workmanship, and with some difficulty learned to adjust myself to it, a
rather useless adjustment it seemed to me at the time, which opinion I
still entertain.

These were years of change in the family. My brothers had become of age
and were young men of strength, character and enterprise. They had
“bought out” as the term went, the two large farms of my father, and
commenced business in earnest for themselves. My father had purchased
another farm of some three hundred acres, a few miles nearer the center
of the town.

This was a place of note, having been one of the points used for
security against the Indians by the old Huguenot Settlers of Oxford, and
which has made the town historic. Their main defense was on “Fort Hill,”
several miles to the east. I was naturally greatly interested in the
changes, and doubtless gave them all the time I could spare from my
increasing studies. I can recollect even now that my life seemed very
full for a little girl of eight years.


During the preceding winter I began to hear talk of my going away to
school, and it was decided that I be sent to Col. Stone’s High school,
to board in his family and go home occasionally. This arrangement, I
learned in later years, had a double object. I was what is known as a
bashful child, timid in the presence of other persons, a condition of
things found impossible to correct at home. In the hope of overcoming
this undesirable _mauvais honte_, it was decided to throw me among
strangers.

How well I remember my advent. My father took me in his carriage with a
little dressing case which I dignified with the appellation of
“trunk”—something I had never owned. It was April—cold and bare. The
house and school rooms adjoined, and seemed enormously large. The
household was also large. The long family table with the dignified
preceptor, my loved and feared teacher at three years, at its head,
seemed to me something formidable. There were probably one hundred and
fifty pupils daily in the ample school rooms, of which I was perhaps the
youngest, except the colonel’s own children.

My studies were chosen with great care. I remember among them, ancient
history with charts. The lessons were learned to repeat by rote. I found
difficulty both in learning the proper names and in pronouncing them, as
I had not quite outgrown my lisp. One day I had studied very hard on the
Ancient Kings of Egypt, and thought I had everything perfect, and when
the pupil above me failed to give the name of a reigning king, I
answered very promptly that it was “Potlomy.” The colonel checked with a
glance the rising laugh of the older members of the class, and told me,
very gently, that the P was silent in that word. I had, however, seen it
all, and was so overcome by mortification for my mistake, and gratitude
for the kindness of my teacher, that I burst into tears and was
permitted to leave the room.

[Illustration:

  COLONEL RICHARD C. STONE, MY TEACHER AT THREE YEARS OF AGE.
]

I am not sure that I was really homesick, but the days seemed very long,
especially Sundays. I was in constant dread of doing something wrong,
and one Sunday afternoon I was sure I had found my occasion. It was
early spring. The tender leaves had put out and with them the buds and
half open blossoms of the little cinnamon roses, an unfailing
ornamentation of a well kept New England home of that day. The children
of the family had gathered in the front yard, admiring the roses and
daring to pick each a little bouquet. As I stood holding mine, the heavy
door at my back swung open, and there was the colonel, in his long,
light dressing gown and slippers, direct from his study. A kindly spoken
“come with me, Clara,” nearly took my last breath. I followed his
strides through all the house, up the long flights of stairs, through
the halls of the school rooms, silently wondering what I had done more
than the others. I knew he was by no means wont to spare his own
children. I had my handful of roses—so had they. I knew it was very
wrong to have picked them, but why more wrong for me than for the
others? At length, and it seemed to me an hour, we reached the colonel’s
study, and there, advancing to meet us, was the Reverend Mr. Chandler,
the pastor of our Universalist church, whom I knew well. He greeted me
very politely and kindly, and handed the large, open school reader which
he held, to the colonel, who put it into my hands, placed me a little in
front of them, and pointing to a column of blank verse, very gently
directed me to read it. It was an extract from Campbell’s “Pleasures of
Hope,” commencing, “Unfading hope, when life’s last embers burn.” I read
it to the end, a page or two. When finished, the good pastor came
quickly and relieved me of the heavy book, and I wondered why there were
tears in his eyes. The colonel drew me to him, gently stroked my short
cropped hair, went with me down the long steps, and told me I could “go
back to the children and play.” I went much more easy in mind than I
came, but it was years before I comprehended anything about it.

My studies gave me no trouble, but I grew very tired, felt hungry all
the time but dared not eat, grew thin and pale. The colonel noticed it,
and watching me at table found that I was eating little or nothing,
refusing everything that was offered me. Mistrusting that it was from
timidity, he had food laid on my plate, but I dared not eat it, and
finally at the end of the term a consultation was held between the
colonel, my father and our beloved family physician, Dr. Delano Pierce,
who lived within a few doors of the school, and it was decided to take
me home until a little older, and wiser, I could hope. My timid
sensitiveness must have given great annoyance to my friends. If I ever
could have gotten entirely over it, it would have given far less
annoyance and trouble to myself all through life.

To this day, I would rather stand behind the lines of artillery at
Antietam, or cross the pontoon bridge under fire at Fredericksburg, than
to be expected to preside at a public meeting.

Referring to the breaking up of the first home, and the removal of my
father and mother to the new one, it might be well to state the reasons
for the change. A favorite nephew of my father, Mr. Jeremiah Larned, had
died after a lingering illness, leaving a widow and four children, from
thirteen to six years of age, on the fine farm which had descended to
him from his father, Captain Jeremiah Larned, one of the leading men of
the town. Unfortunately, during his long illness the farm had become
involved to the extent of necessitating a sale. This would result in
depriving the widow and her small children of a home, and in order to
prevent this, and the disadvantages of a creditor’s sale, it was decided
that my father and a brother-in-law of Mrs. Larned, Captain Sylvester
McIntire, who had no children, purchase the farm, and remove there,
keeping the widow and children with them.

The hill farms—for there were two—were sold to my brothers, who,
entering into partnership, constituted the well known firm of S. & D.
Barton, continuing mainly through their lives. Thus I became the
occupant of two homes, my sisters remaining with my brothers, none of
whom were married.

The removal to the second home was a great novelty to me. I became
observant of all changes made. One of the first things found necessary
on entering a house of such ancient date, was a rather extensive
renovation, for those days, of painting and papering. The leading
artisan in that line in the town was Mr. Sylvanus Harris, a courteous
man of fine manners, good scholarly acquirements, and who, for nearly
half a lifetime, filled the office of town clerk. The records of Oxford
will bear his name and his beautiful handwriting as long as its records
exist.

Mr. Harris was engaged to make the necessary improvements. Painting
included more then than in these later days of prepared material. The
painter brought his massive white marble slab, ground his own paints,
mixed his colors, boiled his oil, calcined his plaster, made his putty
and did scores of things that a painter of to-day would not only never
think of doing, but would often scarcely know how to do.

Coming from the newly built house where I was born, I had seen nothing
of this kind done, and was intensely interested. I must have persisted
in making myself very numerous, for I was constantly reminded not to
“get in the gentleman’s way.” But I was not to be set aside. My combined
interest and curiosity for once overcame my timidity, and encouraged by
the mild, genial face of Mr. Harris, I gathered the courage to walk up
in front and address him: “Will you teach me to paint, sir?” “With
pleasure, little lady, if mama is willing, I should very much like your
assistance.” The consent was forthcoming, and so was a gown suited to my
new work, and I reported for duty. I question if any ordinary apprentice
was ever more faithfully and intelligently instructed in his first
month’s apprenticeship. I was taught how to hold my brushes, to take
care of them, allowed to help grind my paints, shown how to mix and
blend them, how to make putty and use it, to prepare oils and dryings,
and learned from experience that boiling oil was a great deal hotter
than boiling water, was taught to trim paper neatly, to match and help
to hang it, to make the most approved paste, and even varnished the
kitchen chairs to the entire satisfaction of my mother, which was
triumph enough for one little girl. So interested was I, that I never
wearied of my work for a day, and at the end of a month looked on sadly
as the utensils, brushes, buckets and great marble slab were taken away.
There was not a room that I had not helped to make better; there were no
longer mysteries in paint and paper. I knew them all, and that work
would bring callouses even on little hands.

When the work was finished and everything gone, I went to my room,
lonesome in spite of myself. I found on my candle stand a box containing
a pretty little locket, neatly inscribed, “To a faithful worker.” No one
seemed to have any knowledge of it, and I never gained any.


The new home presented a phase of life quite unfamiliar to me. From
never having had any playmates, I now found myself one of a very lively
body of six—three boys and three girls nearer of an age than would have
been probable in the same family. My father had taken charge of the
young son of a friend—Lovett Stimpson—a fine, robust, intelligent lad of
about my age, who lived with us.

It would be difficult to describe what this new life, for the time it
continued, became to me, or indeed I to it. As I look back upon it I
realize that we were a group of good children with honorable instincts,
obedient and kindly disposed. In later years none of us could recall a
serious difference of any kind, no cruelty and no broken faith. It took
just six, and no more, to keep a secret. But this portrayal of
characteristics gives no clue to, indeed casts no shadow, of what we
were capable of accomplishing in a day. The territorial domain comprised
something over three hundred acres. We knew it all. From “Peakèd Hill,”
to “Jim Brown’s”—across the “Flowed Swamp,” three miles, we knew every
rod of it. Old “Rocky Hills,” so high, so steep, so thickly wooded that
a horse would never attempt them, were no strangers. We knew where the
best chestnuts were. We explored the “Devil’s Den,” in spite of the
tradition that it was an abode for the tempters of Eve. The “French
River,” that later carried all the factories of North Oxford, spread
itself out in lazy rest, after its rugged leaps, as it meandered through
the broad, beautiful meadows and interval land, the pride of the farm.

A long hewn log or pole stretched across it in its narrowest, deepest
place. I would not dare to say how long, but it could not have been more
than fourteen inches wide, and swayed and teetered from the moment the
foot touched till it left it. The waters glided still and black beneath.
It was there as a convenience for the working men in crossing from one
field to another; but if ever a week day passed that we did not cross it
several times, we knew one duty had been neglected. The only sawmill in
that section of the town was a part of my father’s possessions. The
great up-and-down saw cut its angry way through the primeval forest
giants from morning till night, and not unfrequently from night till
morning. The long saw-carriage ran far out over the raceway at the rear
end. How were we to withstand the temptation of riding out over the
rushing mill stream twenty feet below, and then coming quickly in as the
sawn log was drawn back for another cut? Hurt? Never one of us. Killed?
We knew not such a thing could be.

There were three temptingly great barns, scattered between the house
premises and the interval. Was there ever a better opportunity for
hide-and-seek, for climbing and jumping? It would have been no athlete
at all that couldn’t jump from the great beams to the hay, in scant
summer time before the new hay came in, and land on the feet safely.
There was, and still is, directly in front of the house, a small,
circular, natural pond, fed by springs in the bottom and surrounded by a
cordon of hills forming a basin in which the little pond basks and
sleeps through the summer, but in winter becomes a thing of beauty and a
joy forever to the skater. From its sheltered position it freezes
smooth, even, and glare, and has no danger spots. I dwell upon this
description, for that little pond was my early love; the home of my
beautiful flock of graceful ducks. The boys were all fine skaters; I
wanted to skate, too, but skating had not then become customary, in
fact, not even allowable for girls; and when, one day, my father saw me
sitting on the ice attempting to put on a pair of skates, he seemed
shocked, recommended me to the house, and said something about
“tomboys.” But this did not cure my desire; nor could I understand why
it was not as well for me to skate as for the boys; I was as strong,
could run as fast and ride better, indeed they would not have presumed
to approach me with a horse. Neither could the boys understand it, and
this misconception led them into an error and me into trouble.

One clear, cold, starlight Sunday morning, I heard a low whistle under
my open chamber window. I realized that the boys were out for a skate
and wanted to communicate with me. On going to the window, they informed
me that they had an extra pair of skates and if I could come out they
would put them on me and “learn” me how to skate. It was Sunday morning;
no one would be up till late, and the ice was so smooth and “glare.” The
stars were bright, the temptation was too great. I was in my dress in a
moment and out. The skates were fastened on firmly, one of the boy’s
wool neck “comforters” tied about my waist, to be held by the boy in
front. The other two were to stand on either side, and at a signal the
cavalcade started. Swifter and swifter we went, until at length we
reached a spot where the ice had been cracked and was full of sharp
edges. These threw me, and the speed with which we were progressing, and
the distance before we could quite come to a stop, gave terrific
opportunity for cuts and wounded knees. The opportunity was not lost.
There was more blood flowing than any of us had ever seen. Something
must be done. Now all of the wool neck comforters came into requisition;
my wounds were bound up, and I was helped into the house, with one knee
of ordinary respectable cuts and bruises; the other frightful. Then the
enormity of the transaction and its attendant difficulties began to
present themselves, and how to surround (for there was no possibility of
overcoming them), was the question.

The most feasible way seemed to be to say nothing about it, and we
decided to all keep silent; but how to conceal the limp? I must have no
limp, but walk well. I managed breakfast without notice. Dinner not
quite so well, and I had to acknowledge that I had slipped down and hurt
my knee a little. This gave my limp more latitude, but the next day it
was so decided, that I was held up and searched. It happened that the
best knee was inspected; the stiff wool comforter soaked off, and a
suitable dressing given it. This was a great relief, as it afforded
pretext for my limp, no one observing that I limped with the wrong knee.

But the other knee was not a wound to heal by first intention,
especially under its peculiar dressing, and finally had to be revealed.
The result was a surgical dressing and my foot held up in a chair for
three weeks, during which time I read the “Arabian Nights” from end to
end. As the first dressing was finished, I heard the surgeon say to my
father: “that was a hard case, Captain, but she stood it like a
soldier.” But when I saw how genuinely they all pitied, and how tenderly
they nursed me, even walking lightly about the house not to jar my
swollen and fevered limbs, in spite of my disobedience and detestable
deception (and persevered in at that), my Sabbath breaking and
unbecoming conduct, and all the trouble I had caused, conscience
revived, and my mental suffering far exceeded my physical. The Arabian
Nights were none too powerful a soporific to hold me in reasonable
bounds. I despised myself and failed to sleep or eat.

My mother, perceiving my remorseful condition, came to the rescue,
telling me soothingly, that she did not think it the worst thing that
could have been done, that other little girls had probably done as
badly, and strengthened her conclusions by telling me how she once
persisted in riding a high mettled unbroken horse in opposition to her
father’s commands, and was thrown. My supposition is that she had been a
worthy mother of her equestrian son.

The lesson was not lost on any of the group. It is very certain that
none of us, boys or girls, indulged in further smart tricks. Twenty-five
years later, when on a visit to the old home, long left, I saw my
father, then a grey-haired grandsire, out on the same little pond,
fitting the skates carefully to the feet of his little twin
granddaughters, holding them up to make their first start in safety, I
remembered my wounded knees, and blessed the great Father that progress
and change were among the possibilities of His people.

I never learned to skate. When it became fashionable I had neither time
nor opportunity.


Along these lines I recall another disappointment, which, though not
vital, was still indicative of the times. During the following winter a
dancing school was opened in the hall of the one hotel on Oxford Plain,
some three miles from us. It was taught by a personal friend of my
father, a polished gentleman, resident of a neighboring town, and
teacher of English schools. By some chance I got a glimpse of the
dancing school at the opening, and was seized with a most intense desire
to go and learn to dance. With my peculiar characteristics it was
necessary for me to want a thing very much before mentioning it; but
this overcame me, especially as the cordial teacher took tea with us one
evening before going to his school, and spoke very interestingly of his
classes. I even went so far as to beg permission to go. The dance was in
my very feet. The violin haunted me. “Ladies change” and “all hands
round” sounded in my ears and woke me from my sleep at night.

The matter was taken up in family council. I was thought to be very
young to be allowed to go to a dancing school in a hotel. Dancing at
that time was at a very low ebb in good New England society, and
besides, there was an active revival taking place in both of the
orthodox churches (or rather one a church and the other a society
without a church), and it might not be a wise, nor even a courteous,
thing to allow. Not that our family, with its well known liberal
proclivities, could have the slightest objection on that score; still,
like St. Paul, if meat were harmful to their brethren they would not eat
it, and thus it was decided that I could not go. The decision was
perfectly conscientious, kindness itself, and probably wise; but I have
wondered if they could have known (as they never did) how severe the
disappointment was, the tears it cost me in my little bed in the dark,
the music and the master’s voice still sounding in my ears, if this
knowledge would have weighed in the decision.

I have listened to a great deal of music since then, interspersed with
very positive orders, and which generally called for “all hands round”
but the dulcet notes of the violin and the “ladies change” were missing.
Neither did I ever learn to dance.


From the peculiar gifts that were wont to be made me in those days, I am
led to infer that my peculiarities in the direction of the dumb animal
part of creation, were decidedly noticeable. On one occasion an English
gentleman, a friend of the family, and, like my father, a promoter of
fine stock, had been paying us a visit, and upon returning to his home,
near Boston, sent to me a beautifully soft, wool-wadded basket
containing two and a half dozens of fine, large duck’s eggs. It was not
difficult to find among the numerous feathered inhabitants of the barns,
three domestically inclined, motherly hens, willing to take charge of
the big tinted eggs, albeit not their own, giving to them the strictest
attention. The result was, that within four weeks, the shallow end of
the little pond was covered with tiny balls of yellow down floating
calmly and majestically on the water—darting rapidly this way and that,
for every fly or bug so unfortunate as to appear, while the shore
presented the scene of three of the most distracted mothers that
imagination can picture. There was nothing majestic nor calm in their
motions, and the tones which called the recreant broods were far from
soothing; but like the mothers of other wayward, unnatural offspring,
the lesson of submission was theirs to learn; and through resignation at
length came peace.

In the course of two or three years my flock of ducks became so numerous
as to attract the attention of the wild ducks, passing over from the
northern lakes to the southern bays, and it was no uncommon thing for an
entire flock, wearied with a long journey, to alight for a few days’
rest. My tame ducks learned athletics from these native divers and
dippers, and the scene became at times not only interesting, but
inspiring and instructive.

It is very evident to me, as I remember it, that my aspirations were by
no means satisfied with an interest in these small specimens, such as
ducks, hens, turkeys, geese, dogs, cats, etc., of which I had no lack.
This not including canaries, of which I received from time to time a
number as gifts; but I had no pleasure in them, and although doubtless
the most inhuman thing that could have been done, I invariably opened
the cage door and let them out.

But all that farm land, the three great barns and accompanying yards,
called for cattle. A small herd of twenty-five fine milch cows came
faithfully home each day with the lowering of the sun, for the milking
and extra supper which they knew awaited them. With the customary greed
of childhood I had laid claim to three or four of the handsomest and
tamest of them, and believing myself to be their real owner, I went
faithfully every evening to the yards to receive and look after them. My
little milk pail went as well, and I became proficient in an art never
forgotten.

One afternoon, on going to the barn as usual, I found no cows there; all
had been driven somewhere else. As I stood in the corner of the great
yard alone, I saw three or four men—the farm hands—with one stranger
among them wearing a long, loose shirt or gown. They were all trying to
get a large red ox onto the barn floor, to which he went very
reluctantly. At length they succeeded. One of the men carried an axe,
and stepping a little to the side and back, raised it high in the air
and brought it down with a terrible blow. The ox fell, I fell too; and
the next I knew I was in the house on a bed, and all the family about
me, with the traditional camphor bottle, bathing my head to my great
discomfort. As I regained consciousness they asked me what made me fall?
I said “some one struck me.” “Oh, no,” they said, “no one struck you,”
but I was not to be convinced and proceeded to argue the case with an
impatient putting away of the hurting hands, “then what makes my head so
sore?” Happy ignorance! I had not then learned the mystery of nerves.

I have, however, a very clear recollection of the indignation of my
father (my mother had already expressed herself on the subject), on his
return from town and hearing what had taken place. The hired men were
lined up and arraigned for “cruel carelessness.” They had “the
consideration to keep the cattle away,” he said, “but allowed that
little girl to stand in full view.” Of course, each protested he had not
seen me. I was altogether too friendly with the farm hands to hear them
blamed, especially on my account, and came promptly to their side,
assuring my father that they had not seen me, and that it was “no
matter,” I was “all well now.” But, singularly, I lost all desire for
meat, if I had ever had it—and all through life to the present, have
only eaten it when I must for the sake of appearance, or as
circumstances seemed to make it the more proper thing to do. The
bountiful ground has always yielded enough for all my needs and wants.


I had been eleven years old the Christmas before. Great changes had
taken place during the two or three preceding years. My energetic
brothers had outgrown farming, sold their two farms on the hill, and
come down and bought of my father all his water power on the French
River, as well as all obtainable timber land in the vicinity. The
staunch old up-and-down saw still stood in its majesty for the handling
of the forest giants too massive for a lesser power, but it was
surrounded by a cordon of belted “circulars,” whirling with a speed that
quite obscured their motion, screaming, screeching and throwing out the
product of their work in all directions; shingles, laths, thin boards,
bolters and slitters. New dams had been thrown across the shifty,
flighty stream, to be swept away in the torrents of the spring freshets
and floating ice, but replaced at once with an obstinate manliness and
enterprise that scarcely admitted of an interruption in the work.

In a new building along the side of the dam, the great burr-stones of
that date ground out the wholesome grain of all the surrounding country,
and where I had first seen it under the control of the one lone sawyer,
now fifty of the strongest working men that could be procured, and great
four-horse teams covered the once quiet mill-yard. The entire line of
factories above had caught the inspiration, and the French River
villages of North Oxford were models of growth and activity.

One sister had married and settled in her home near by, and a wife had
come into my eldest brother’s home. Mrs. Larned, the widow to whose
assistance my father had gone in her early desolation, had found her
children now so well grown as to make it advisable to remove to one of
the factory villages, where she became a popular boarding house keeper,
and her children operatives in the mill.

Thus, I was again left to myself. The schools were not the best, but all
that could be done for me, in or out of them, was done. I had been
especially well taught to sew and liked it, but knitting was beyond me.
I could not be held to it, and it was given up.

Through the confirmed invalidism of my elder sister, Dorothea, I lost
her beautiful guidance, but the watchful care of my younger sister, now
Mrs. Vassall, was truly pathetic. She never lost sight of my welfare,
and her fine literary taste was a constant inspiration.


While thus in the midst of my various pursuits and vocations, an
accidental turn in my wheel of fortune changed my entire course (for a
time at least) and how much bearing, if any, it may have had on the
future, I have never been able to determine. I have spoken of the
younger of my two brothers, of the firm of S. & D. Barton, as a fine
horseman. He was more than that. In these days he would have been an
athlete. The two men were but two years apart in age, of fine
disposition and excellent physical strength, integrity and courage; of
fine disposition and equable temper; yet neither of them men with whom
an opponent would carelessly or tauntingly covet an encounter. The
younger, David, from his physical activity and daring, was always
selected for any feat of danger to be performed.

These were days when even buildings were “raised by hand.” All the
neighborhood was expected to participate in a “raising.” Upon one
occasion, an uncommonly large barn, with what was then still more
uncommon, a cellar beneath, was to be raised. The rafters must be
affixed to the ridgepole, and David Barton was assigned to this duty.
While in its performance, a timber on which he was standing, having been
weakened by an unobserved knot, suddenly gave way, and he fell directly
to the first floor, striking on his feet on another timber near the
bottom of the cellar. Without falling he leaped to the ground, and after
a few breathless minutes declared himself unhurt, but was not permitted
to return aloft. It was spoken of as a “remarkable adventure,” “a
wonderful escape,” etc., and for a few days all went well, with the
exception of a slight and quite unaccustomed headache, which continued
to increase as the July weather progressed. At length he showed symptoms
of fever; the family physician was called, and here commenced a system
of medical treatment quite unknown to our physicians of the present day,
other than as results of historical research and milestones of
scientific advancement.

He was pronounced in a “settled fever,” which must not be “broken up,”
and could only be held in check by reducing the strength of the patient.
He had “too much blood,” was “too vigorous,” “just the patient for a
fever to ‘go hard with,’” it was said. Accordingly, the blood was taken
from time to time, as long as it seemed safe to do so. The terrible pain
in the head continued and blisters were applied to all possible places,
in the hope of withdrawing the pain. Sleepless, restless, in agony both
physical and mental, his case grew desperate. He had been my ideal from
earliest memory. I was distressed beyond measure at his condition. I had
been his little protégée, his companion, and in his nervous wretchedness
he clung to me. Thus, from the first days and nights of illness, I
remained near his side. The fever ran on and over all the traditional
turning points, seven, fourteen, twenty-one days. I could not be taken
away from him except by compulsion, and he was unhappy until my return.
I learned to take all directions for his medicines from his physician
(who had eminent counsel) and to administer them like a genuine nurse.

My little hands became schooled to the handling of the great, loathsome,
crawling leeches which were at first so many snakes to me, and no
fingers could so painlessly dress the angry blisters; and thus it came
about, that I was the accepted and acknowledged nurse of a man almost
too ill to recover.

Finally, as the summer passed, the fever gave way, and for a wonder the
patient did not. No physician will doubt that I had given him poison
enough to have killed him many times over, if suitably administered with
that view. He will also understand the condition in which the patient
was left. They had certainly succeeded in reducing his strength.

Late in the autumn he stood on his feet for the first time since July.
Still sleepless, nervous, cold, dyspeptic—a mere wreck of his former
self. None were so disturbed over his condition as his kind-hearted, and
for those days, skillful physicians, who had exhausted their knowledge
and poured out their sympathy and care like water, on the patient who,
for his manliness and bravery, they had come to respect, and for his
suffering learned to love with a parent’s tenderness.

It now became a matter of time. Councils of physicians for twenty miles
around sat in judgment on the case. They could only recommend; and more
blisters, setons and various methods of external irritation for the
withdrawal of internal pain followed, from month to month and season to
season. All these were my preferred care.

I realize now how carefully and apprehensively the whole family watched
the little nurse, but I had no idea of it then. I thought my position
the most natural thing in the world; I almost forgot that there was an
outside to the house.

This state of things continued with little change—a trifling gain of
strength in my patient at times—for two years, when, entirely
unexpected, the most tabooed and little known of all medical treatments,
restored him to health. It is to be remembered at that date there was no
homeopathy, no hydropathy, no sanitariums, no Christian Science, nothing
but the regular school of allopathic medicine. Medical practitioners,
baffled by lack of science, surrounded by ignorance on all such subjects
and more or less of superstition, struggled manfully on toward the
blessed light of the scientific knowledge of to-day, which they have so
richly attained.

It was not to be wondered at that the slightest departure from the
beaten track, under these conditions, was held as unpardonable and
punishable quackery; and that the first “ism” that broke through the
defense fought the fight of a forlorn hope. There are young physicians
of good historical knowledge to-day, who have never learned that
“Thompsonianism” was that “ism”; that Dr. Samuel Thompson fought that
fight, and that they are pursuing many excellent methods which are the
result of his thought; that it was he who first advanced the theory (in
this country at least,) that fever was not the foe, but the friend of
the patient; that it was simply unequal animal warmth and vigor—that
people did not have too much blood any more than they had too much bone,
and could as ill afford to lose it; that if the blood were too thick, or
too thin, or of a bad quality, taking away a portion of it would not
rectify or purify the remainder. That a blister was not likely to soothe
a nervous patient to sleep, or to extract a pain, save by creating a
greater. But that a better way to treat disturbances was to open the
pores generally, by a vapor bath—designated “Thompson’s Steam Box,” and
greatly to be feared. He and his few followers were known as “Steam
Doctors”—and the public warned against them.

It happened that one of his disciples, a “Steam Doctor,” residing in a
neighboring town (I will write his name in grateful remembrance—Dr. Asa
McCullum), had watched this remarkable case with interest and pity,
convinced that the right remedies had not reached it.

He ventured at length to approach my father on the subject; then my
brother, who was willing to attempt anything short of suicide. The
result was the removal of the patient to the home asylum of the doctor
for treatment. In three weeks he was so far restored as to return home
and take his place in his business, like one come back from the dead. I
remember the greetings—the tears of gladness on the blessed face of our
family physician when he came to welcome him home: “And so, David,
something good has come out of Nazareth.”

I was again free; my occupation gone. Life seemed very strange and idle
to me. I wondered that my father took me to ride so much, and that my
mother hoped she could make me some new clothes now, for in the two
years I had not grown an inch, had been to school one-half day, and had
gained one pound in weight.

This singular mode of life, at so young an age, could not have been
without its characteristic effects. In some respects it had served to
heighten serious defects. The seclusion had increased the troublesome
bashfulness. I had grown even more timid, shrinking and sensitive in the
presence of others; absurdly careful and methodical for a child; afraid
of giving trouble by letting my wants be known, thereby giving the very
pain I sought to avoid, and instead of feeling that my freedom gave me
time for recreation or play, it seemed to me like time wasted, and I
looked anxiously about for some useful occupation.

As usual, my blessed sister, Mrs. Vassall, came to the rescue. Taking
advantage of an all-absorbing love of poetry (which I always had) she
made a weapon of it by providing me with the poetical works of Walter
Scott, which I had not read, and proposed that we read them together. We
naturally commenced with “The Lady of the Lake.” I was immediately
transported to the Highlands and the Bonny Braes, plucking the heather
and broom and guiding the skiff across Loch Katrine, listening to the
sweet warning song of poor crazed Blanche of Devon, thrilling with,
“Saxon, I am Roderick Dhu,” and trudging along with the old minstrel and
Ellen to Sterling tower and the Court of Fitz-James. “Marmion” followed,
and then all the train of English poetry that a child could take in.


My second individual ownership was “Billy.” His personality (which I
never questioned), was represented by a high stepping brown Morgan
horse, with glossy coat, slim legs, pointed ears, long curly black mane
and tail, and weighing nearly nine hundred pounds.

Although a good driver, his forte was the saddle. His gait (or rather, I
should say, gaits) was first a delightful single-foot; but which he had
the faculty of changing to a rack, or pace or trot, as occasion or haste
seemed to call for; and as a last resort, he could cover them all by
something one does not like to name; but we only used that gait on
extraordinary occasions. My father had purchased and given Billy to me
when about ten years old. The same figures will do for us both.

I had three or four neighboring girl associates who also had their own
or family horses, and our riding parties were the events of the season.
Anticipating the deep, forbidding snows of the winter in New England, we
had the custom of celebrating Thanksgiving day by a final party for the
season. Even this was cold and had often some traces of snow.

On the present occasion there were but three of us, Martha, Eveline and
myself. Martha had a fine sorrel trotter, Eveline a spirited
single-footer. The day was cold and threatening. Our ride was to
Worcester, some ten miles. When about three miles from home, on our
return, a blinding snowstorm set in, literally a gale. This either
frightened or excited Eveline’s horse, which, mastering the situation by
a quick toss of the head, and catch of the bit (a trick he evidently
understood), dropped his single-foot as something adapted to ladies and
little girls, and fell to using all the feet he had, the best he knew.
Awed by her peril, but powerless to aid, we could only follow our
fleeing comrade to be ready to help when she should fall, as we were
sure she must. The gale mercilessly increased; so did our speed. We kept
nearly alongside, every horse upon the “dead run.”

We must have presented a striking miniature picture of the veritable
“Three Furies” on a rampage. A country road and no one passing. Martha
and myself each rushing directly past our own homes unobserved in the
storm, till at length we rounded the curve that brought the flying horse
in sight of his own stable. They had sighted the coming cavalcade. The
gates were thrown wide open, and a man stationed on either side to catch
both horse and rider when they should enter.

Seeing the worn-out girl once safely in her father’s arms, we turned
away, with an entirely new chapter added to our very limited stock of
equestrian knowledge. We were all alive and unharmed, and I alone am
here now to tell the little stories of childhood’s terrifying dangers
and miraculous escapes.


We were midway between the two district schools, a long mile and a half
from either, and it frequently chanced that a season or two of
indifferent schools followed each other in train. The experiment of
sending me away to school was not to be repeated, and accordingly I was
undertaken at home. My mathematical brother, Stephen, took charge of
that department, and Mrs. Vassall the other needful studies, while my
former patient, brother David, the equestrian of early days, now grown
strong and well, kept to his rule of practical teaching. I recall
vividly the half impatient frown on his fine face when he would see me
do an awkward thing, however trivial. He detested false motions; wanted
the thing done rightly the first time. If I started to go somewhere, go,
and not turn back; if to do something, do it. I must throw a ball or a
stone with an under swing like a boy and not a girl, and must make it go
where I sent it, and not fall at my feet and foolishly laugh at it. If I
would drive a nail, strike it fairly on the head every time, and not
split the board. If I would draw a screw, turn it right the first time.
I must tie a square knot that would hold, and not tie my horse with a
slip noose and leave him to choke himself. These were little things,
still a part of the instructions not to be undervalued. In the rather
practical life which has sometimes fallen to me, I have wondered if they
were not among the most useful, and if that handsome frown were not one
of my best lessons.

At length there came a school that could be utilized, and my family
instructors were relieved. The school to the north of us was undertaken
by Mr. Lucian Burleigh, a younger member of the noted Burleigh family,
and brother of William H. Burleigh, the poet. It seemed very strange to
me to be in school again. I had been so long accustomed to govern
myself, in a manner, that I wondered how any one should need others to
govern them. If scholars came there to learn, why should they try, or
want, to do anything else? There is no doubt that I seemed equally
unaccountable and prudish to them.

[Illustration:

  MR. JONATHAN DANA,

  MY OXFORD TEACHER.
]

The quick perceptions of the teacher at once comprehended the
conditions, and he treated me with the greatest consideration and
kindness; advising such changes and additions as seemed suitable, and
most in accord with the studies I had taken with me; even, as I could
later see, forming some new classes in branches outside of the customary
routine of the public school; as elementary astronomy, ancient history,
and the “Science of Language”; his own literary and scholarly tastes
pointing significantly to the latter. If Milton’s “Paradise Lost,” and
Pollok’s “Course of Time” were ever dissected, transposed, analyzed and
“parsed” by any class of vigilant youths, it was then and there.

The winter passed all too soon. A mile and a half through the snow had
been only a pleasure. Our faithful, brotherly teacher left us, never to
return; but the still brotherly friendship between teacher and pupil
remained unbroken until his summons came.

After a busy summer a similarly good fortune awaited me in the next
winter term of school. Mr. Jonathan Dana, one of Oxford’s most scholarly
men and a teacher of note, commenced the winter school to the south of
us. I have no words to describe the value of his instruction, nor the
pains he took with his eager pupil. I had been far too thoroughly
drilled to require time for the customary classes of the public school,
but did require instruction in branches forbidden in their lawful
curriculum.

In spite of the labor of a school of sixty pupils of all ages, with no
assistant, I was permitted to take philosophy, chemistry and elementary
Latin—all to be taught outside of school hours. With no laboratory at
hand, I have often marveled at the amount of experimental instruction he
found it possible to give me. So generally appreciated was the
excellence of the school that the term was continued beyond the
customary three months. My grateful homage for my inestimable teacher
and his interest in his early pupil, became memories of a lifetime, and
the social acquaintance was never interrupted until the late summons
came to him, white haired and venerable, to go up higher.

My family were all gratified by my progress and my deportment as a
student, but I was still diffident, timid, non-committal, afraid of
giving trouble and difficult to understand. My physical growth had not
met their expectations nor their hopes. I grew slowly and was still a
“little girl” in appearance. This went to show how positive the early
check had been, and how slowly the repairs were made, for it was said
that I gained an inch in height between the ages of twenty and
twenty-one.


The firm of my brothers, S. & D. Barton, had added to their ever
increasing business the manufacture of cloth. A factory had been erected
and a partnership entered into with Messrs. Paul and Samuel Parsons, two
elegant gentlemen among the earlier manufacturers of satinet in this
country, and the new factory was known as “The Satinet Mill of North
Oxford.” A very superior article of cloth was made, the operatives
almost entirely American, and very largely from families of the
neighborhood or surrounding country. Occupations for women were few in
those days, and often the school and music teacher, weary of the
monotonous life, sought change in the more remunerative loom of the
factory. I name this as a matter of history, as the North Oxford Mills
were the third, if not the second after Slater, who produced the first
spindle and power looms in America, at the risk of his life.

I had been taken through the new factory by my brother; had seen these
young persons at work; watched the shuttles fly under the deft fingers
of the weavers, and felt that there was something I could do. There was
no school, I was idle. After a little quiet reflection I astonished the
family by announcing my desire to go into the mill. I wanted to weave
cloth. At first they tried laughing at me. I was too sensitive to be
dealt with in that way. Then reasoning. I was “too small”; it was not a
proper thing for me to do. But I was not easily dissuaded. One day in
the midst of a family council, my brother Stephen chanced to call. He
listened attentively, saw that I was anxious and troubled, and was
giving trouble to others as well. At length he spoke. Addressing my
mother, he said: “I do not see anything so very much out of the way in
the request. I wonder if we are not drawing the lines too tightly on our
little sister? A few years ago she wanted to learn to dance; this was
denied as frivolous and improper; now she asks to work. She took up a
work by herself and did it two years, a work that no child would be
expected to do, and did it well. She is certainly a properly behaved
little girl, and I cannot understand why we should trouble ourselves or
her so much concerning the proprieties of her life. For my part, I am
very willing to arrange a pair of looms for her and let her try.” A hush
fell on the group. My anxious mother seemed relieved. The big brother
had spoken. I crept shyly up under his stalwart arm and kissed his
bearded cheek.

The next day a low platform was run along in front of a pair of new,
glossy looms, just by the desk of the overseer of the room. A good
weaver was given charge to instruct me, and when I stepped upon that
platform and looked down upon the evenly drawn warp and the swiftly
flying shuttles, and felt that they were mine, I imagine the sensation
was akin to that of a young queen whose foot first presses the throne. I
was too carefully watched to permit a mistake, and too interested to be
tired. Before the end of the week I was able to discharge my
instructress, or it is more probable she discharged herself in view of
my self-sufficiency. I could scarcely wait in the morning for the bell
to call me, early as it would be, and I walked up that long, outside
flight of black, greasy stairs and entered that whirring, clashing room
with as much pride and satisfaction as I would have entered the finest
and most highly embellished schoolroom. I observed that the help all
looked at me as I went in, and McDonald, the overseer, always raised his
Scotch cap a bit by the tassel, or touched his finger to the rim,
fitting so closely to his high forehead. I thought I ought to make some
acknowledgement of this, and always did so, but could not understand it.
I told my mother about it and asked her what he did it for? She said
that it was probably because I was “so little.” That perhaps if I were
as large as the other girls he might not do it. I thought this a
reasonable solution and was satisfied.

I finished my first week, commenced my second, and went through with no
assistance. On Saturday my webs were cut from the looms, examined and
pronounced of first quality, showing great care. I took my proud record
home. The next day (Sunday), Mr. Samuel Parsons, with the prudent care
that could not trust even the watchman too implicitly, went into the
mill by himself, ascending to the picker room in the top story, where
the light, oiled wool was piled in great quantities. He casually placed
his hand upon it in passing, and observing that it felt warm, he plunged
his arm in to lift it. The flames enveloped him. He ran at full speed
the length of the building to the bell rope. The fire was there almost
before him. He gave two strokes, when the flames drove him from the
room; they licked down the air shafts and belt holes, lapping up the oil
like so much food, as it was.

The perfection of the magnificent fire departments of the present day
was far in the future then. In three hours it was all over, and the new
North Oxford Satinet Mills were a smoking pile of rubbish, a thing of
the past. No heart was heavier than mine. The strong, energetic brothers
knew that rebuilding would commence at once, but I mourned without hope.

If ever there were lost or omitted a well-turned joke or a bit of humor
by the various members of the Barton family it was clearly an accident,
no such omission being ever intended; and thus it was suggested to me,
that, as the fire was manifestly a case of spontaneous combustion, could
it have been that I worked so fast that the friction set the mill on
fire? That joke on me lasted many years. The mill was rebuilt, as well
as several others, some to be burned, some to be sold; but I had found
other occupations more congenial to the other members of the household,
it is to be hoped, if not to me.

The recital of this incident by myself, or some one else, has given rise
to the bit of romance cropping out occasionally, in the sketches one
sees, that I was a factory girl and earned the money to pay off the
mortgage on my father’s farm. I wish the first statement might have been
true. Nothing to-day would gratify me more than to know that I had been
one of those self-reliant, intelligent, American-born girls like our
sweet poetess, Lucy Larcom, and like her had stood before the power
looms in the early progress of the manufactories of our great and
matchless country. I fear that my plain, simple facts will rob many a
fancy sketch of its brightest tints, as in this instance. I am compelled
to confess in regard to the second statement, that my father never had a
mortgage that I knew of, and, therefore, had no need of my brave help.
On the other hand, he had something to give to me.


I think it usually occurs in small communities that there is one family,
or one house, to which all strangers or new comers naturally gravitate.
Nothing was plainer than that ours was that house. All lecturers, upon
any subject, clergymen on trial, whoever had a new idea to expound and
was in need of an abiding place meanwhile, found one there. My father’s
active and liberal mind inclined him to examination and toleration, and
his cordial hospitality was seconded by my mother’s welcome to any one
who could bring new thought or culture to herself or her family.

These were the very earliest days of phrenology. The famous brothers, O.
S. and L. N. Fowler, worthy disciples of Spurzheim and Coombe, were
commencing their lifelong work. Young men of advanced ideas, thought,
energy and purpose.

The “Phrenological Journal,” if existing at all, was in its infancy. The
Fowler brothers were among the most interesting and popular lecturers in
the country. Two courses of lectures by L. N. Fowler were arranged for
our town; one for North and the other for South Oxford, or “Oxford
Plain,” as it is better known. He very naturally became the guest of my
father and mother.

These two courses of lectures covered nearly a month of time. How can
the value of the results of that month, extending through a lifetime, be
put into words? How measure the worth of the ideas, the knowledge of
one’s self, and of others, growing out of it? Aside from this was his
aid and comfort to my mother in her perplexity concerning her
incomprehensible child. I recall the long, earnest talks, in which it
was evident that I was the prime subject, although not clearly realizing
it at the time. Upon one occasion there was no question. I was ill (of
mumps, I believe) and to avoid loneliness was permitted to lie on the
lounge in the large sitting room through the day. Forgetting my
presence, or believing me asleep, the conversation went on in my
hearing, portions of which at this late day I recall. My mother remarked
that none of her children had ever been so difficult to manage. “Was I
disobedient, exacting or wayward?” asked Mr. Fowler. Oh no! she often
wished I were, she would then know what to do, for I would make my wants
known, and they could be supplied. But I was so timid and afraid of
making trouble that they were in constant fear of neglecting me; I would
do without the most needed article rather than ask for it, and my
bashfulness increased rather than diminished as I grew older. As an
illustration, she stated that only last Sunday the child appeared with
bare hands when we were ready for church. Upon being asked where were
her gloves, she reluctantly replied that she “had none. They were worn
out.” Upon being asked why she had not said so and asked for others, the
reply was a burst of tears and an attempt to leave the room. “We would
not permit this unhappy day at home alone, and took her as she was,”
said my mother. All this sounded very badly to me as I heard it
rehearsed. It was all true, all wrong; would I, could I ever learn to do
better?

Mr. Fowler replied that these characteristics were all indicated; that,
however much her friends might suffer from them, she would always suffer
more. “They may be apparently outgrown, but the sensitive nature will
always remain. She will never assert herself for herself—she will suffer
wrong first—but for others she will be perfectly fearless.” To my
mother’s anxious question, “what shall I do?” he replied, “Throw
responsibility upon her. She has all the qualities of a teacher. As soon
as her age will permit, give her a school to teach.” I well remember how
this suggestion shocked me. I should not have remembered all these
advices, but years after they were found with much more among my
mother’s carefully preserved papers; some correspondence must have
followed. The depth and faithfulness of the interest felt, was shown in
the fact that the great reader of human character, through his long life
in foreign lands as well as his own, never forgot the troublesome child.
Occasional correspondence and valued meetings across the sea marked the
milestones of life, till one road came to an end. A great and true man
and friend of humanity had gone, and the world was better for his having
lived in it.

At the close of the second term of school, the advice was acted upon,
and it was arranged that I teach the school in District No. 9. My sister
resided within the district. How well I remember the preparations—the
efforts to look larger and older, the examination by the learned
committee of one clergyman, one lawyer and one justice of the peace; the
certificate with “excellent” added at the close; the bright May morning
over the dewy, grassy road to the schoolhouse, neither large nor new,
and not a pupil in sight.

On entering, I found my little school of forty pupils all seated
according to their own selection, quietly waiting with folded hands.
Bright, rosy-cheeked boys and girls from four to thirteen, with the
exception of four lads, as tall and nearly as old as myself. These four
boys naturally looked a little curiously at me, as if forming an opinion
of how best to dispose of me, as rumor had it that on the preceding
summer, not being _en rapport_ with the young lady teacher, they had
excluded her from the building and taken possession themselves. All
arose as I entered, and remained standing until requested to sit. Never
having observed how schools were opened, I was compelled, as one would
say, to “blaze my own way.” I was too timid to address them, but holding
my Bible, I said they might take their Testaments and turn to the Sermon
on the Mount. All who could read, read a verse each, I reading with them
in turn. This opened the way for remarks upon the meaning of what they
had read. I found them more ready to express themselves than I had
expected, which was helpful to me as well. I asked them what they
supposed the Saviour meant by saying that they must love their enemies
and do good to them that hated and misused them? This was a hard
question, and they hesitated, until at length a little bright-eyed girl
with great earnestness replied: “I think He meant that you must be good
to everybody, and mustn’t quarrel nor make nobody feel bad, and I’m
going to try.” An ominous smile crept over the rather hard faces of my
four lads, but my response was so prompt, and my approval so hearty,
that it disappeared and they listened attentively but ventured no
remarks. With this moderate beginning the day progressed, and night
found us social, friendly and classed for a school. Country schools did
not admit of home dinners. I also remained. On the second or third day
an accident on their outside field of rough play called me to them. They
had been playing unfairly and dangerously and needed teaching, even to
play well. I must have thought they required object lessons, for almost
imperceptibly either to them or to myself, I joined in the game and was
playing with them.

My four lads soon perceived that I was no stranger to their sports or
their tricks; that my early education had not been neglected, and that
they were not the first boys I had seen. When they found that I was as
agile and as strong as themselves, that my throw was as sure and as
straight as theirs, and that if they won a game it was because I
permitted it, their respect knew no bounds. No courtesy within their
knowledge was neglected. Their example was sufficient for the entire
school. I have seen no finer type of boys. They were faithful to me in
their boyhood, and in their manhood faithful to their country. Their
blood crimsoned its hardest fields, and the little bright-eyed girl with
the good resolve, has made her whole life a blessing to others, and
still lives to follow the teaching given her. Little Emily has “made
nobody feel bad.”

My school was continued beyond the customary length of time, and its
only hard feature was our parting. In memory I see that pitiful group of
children sobbing their way down the hill after the last good-bye was
said, and I was little better. We had all been children together, and
when, in accordance with the then custom at town meetings, the grades of
the schools were named and No. 9 stood first for discipline, I thought
it the greatest injustice, and remonstrated, affirming that there had
been no discipline, that not one scholar had ever been disciplined.
Child that I was, I did not know that the surest test of discipline is
its absence.

If the published school report, so misunderstood by me, had given me
displeasure, it had also given me a local reputation, quite as
unexpected. I soon found myself the recipient of numerous invitations to
teach in the nearby towns, especially such schools as required the
“discipline” so largely accredited to, and so little deserved, by me.

Declination, on my part, was not to be thought of. All members of the
family were only too grateful for the progress I had made towards proper
self-assurance to permit any backsliding, and it was early settled that
I accept the application of the honorable committee, to teach the next
summer school at what was known as the “Mill-ward” in the adjoining town
of Charlton, commencing on the first Monday in May of the following
year—a “master” teaching the winter term.


One day, early in September, my brother David, now one of the active,
popular business men of the town, nearly took my breath away by inviting
me to accompany him on a journey to the state of Maine, to be present at
his wedding and with him bring back the wife who was to grace his home
and share his future life.

There was now more lengthening of skirts, and a rush of dressmaking such
as I had never known before; and when, two weeks later, I found myself
with my brother and a rather gay party of ladies and gentlemen, friends
of his, at one of the most elegant hotels in Boston (where I had never
been) waiting the arrival of a delayed steamer, I was so overcome by the
dread of committing some impropriety or indiscretion which might
embarrass my brother that I begged him to permit me to go back home. I
was not distressed about what might be thought of _me_. I did not seem
to care much about that; but how it might reflect upon my brother, and
the mortification that my awkwardness could not fail to inflict on him.

I had never set foot on a vessel or seagoing craft of any kind, and
when, in the glitter of that finely equipped steamer, I really crossed
over a corner of the great Atlantic ocean, the very waves of which
touched other continents as well, I felt that my world was miraculously
widening.

It was another merry party, and magnificent spans of horses that met and
galloped away with us over the country to our destination.

But the crowning astonishment came when I was informed that it was the
desire and decision of all parties, that I act as bridesmaid. That I
assist in introducing the younger of the guests, and stand beside the
tall, handsome young bride who was to be my sister, while she pledged
her troth to the brother dearer to me than my own life.

This responsibility seemed to throw the whole world wide open to me. How
well I remember the tearful resolution with which I pledged myself to
try to overcome my troublesome propensities and to strive only for the
courage of the right, and for the fearlessness of true womanhood so much
needed and earnestly desired, and so painfully lacking.

[Illustration:

  DAVID BARTON.

  MY YOUNGER BROTHER AND RIDING MASTER.
]

November found us home again. Under the circumstances, there must
naturally be a share of social gayeties during the winter, and some
preparations for my new school duties; and I waited with more or less
apprehension for what would be my first life among strangers, and the
coming of my anticipated “First of May.” With slight variation I could
have joined truthfully in the dear old child refrain:

                    “Then wake and call me early,
                      Call me early, mother dear,”
                    For that will be the veriest day
                      “Of all the glad New Year.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
 2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
 4. Enclosed bold font in =equals=.