“THE LITTLE SIX.”
It is possible that some readers may recall the story of the “Little Six,” which was locally published at the time, but which I venture to reproduce, as an extract from the Erie Dispatch, of Monday March 24, 1884:
Dispatch readers doubtless recollect its account some weeks ago of the manner in which six children of Waterford gave a public entertainment for the benefit of the Ohio flood sufferers; how they themselves suggested it; how their efforts were crowned with success; and how they brought the entire proceeds, $51.25, raised by their unpaid efforts, to the editor of the Dispatch with the request that the latter forward it “where it would do the most good.” The Dispatch complied by forwarding it to Miss Clara Barton, president of the American Red Cross Association. The following letter tells the story of the disposition of the money. The names of the noble little band, of which any town in the nation ought to be proud of, are: Reed White, Florence Howe, Lloyd Barton, Joe Farrar, Mary Barton, Bertie Ensworth. The oldest is twelve years of age.
MISS BARTON’S LETTER
A TOUCHING INCIDENT VERY TOUCHINGLY RELATED.
Red Cross Relief Steamer, “Josh V. Throop,”
off Shawneetown, Illinois,
Ohio River, March 18, 1884,
Mr. M.E. Camp, Editor of the Erie Dispatch:
At length, I have the happiness to inform you that I have placed the contribution of the brave Little Six to my own satisfaction, and, as I believe, to the satisfaction of the little donors and the friends interested in them as well. Your letter inclosing the touching article describing their pretty thought and act, and the check for the sum donated by them to the sufferers from the floods, came during the early days of hurry and confused activity. The entire matter was too beautiful and withal unique, to meet only a common fate in its results. I could not, for a moment, think to mingle the gift of the little dramatists with the common fund for general distribution, and sought through all these weeks for a fitting disposition to make of it, where it would all go in some special manner to relieve some special necessity. I wanted it to benefit some children who had “wept on the banks” of the river which in its madness had devoured their home. I watched carefully all the way down on this trip, and tried, last Sunday, at Smithland on our return to make a little “foundation” for a children’s help and instruction at that town which had suffered so terribly; but I could not satisfy myself, and after telling the pretty story to the best people of the town assembled on our boat, I still declined to leave the appropriation, waiting in confidence for the real opportunity to present and which we have met in the last hour. As we neared that picturesque spot on the Illinois side of the Ohio, known as “Cave-in-Rock,” we were hailed by a woman and her young daughter. The boat “rounded to” and made the landing and they came on board—a tall, thin worn woman in a tattered suit, with a good, but inexpressibly sad face, who wished to tell us that a package which we had left for her at the town on our way down had never reached her. She was a widow—Mrs. Plew—whose husband, a good river pilot, had died from overwork on a hard trip to New Orleans in the floods of the Mississippi two years before, leaving her with six children dependent upon her, the eldest a lad in his “teens,” the youngest a little baby girl. They owned their home, just on the brink of the river, a little “farm” of two or three acres, two horses, three cows, thirty hogs and a half hundred fowls, and in spite of the bereavement they had gone on bravely, winning the esteem and commendation of all who knew them for thrift and honest endeavor. Last year the floods came heavily upon them, driving them from their home, and the two horses were lost. Next the cholera came among the hogs and all but three died. Still they worked on and held the home. This spring came the third flood. The water climbed up the bank, crept in at the door and filled the lower story of the house. They had nowhere to remove their household goods, and stored them in the garret carefully packed and went out to find a shelter in an old log house near by, used for a corn crib. Day by day they watched the house, hailed passing boats for the news of the rise and fall of the water above, always trusting the house would stand—“and it would,” the mother said “(for it was a good, strong house), but for the storm.” The wind came and the terrible gale that swept the valley like a tornado, with the water at its height, leveling whole towns, descended and beat upon that house and it fell. In the morning there was no house there and the waves in their fury rushed madly on. Then these little children “stood and wept on the banks of the river,” and the desolation and fear in the careful mother’s heart, none but herself and her God can know.
They lived in the corn-crib, and it was from it they came to hail us as we passed to-day. Something had been told us of them on our downward trip, and a package had been left them at “Cave-in-Rock,” which they had not received. We went over shoe-tops in mud to their rude home, to find it one room of logs, an old stone chimney, with a cheerful fire of drift-wood and a clean hearth, two wrecks of beds, a table, and two chairs, which some kind neighbor had loaned. The Government boats had left them rations. There was an air of thrift, even in their desolation, a plank walk was laid about the door, the floor was cleanly swept, and the twenty-five surviving hens, for an equal number was lost in the storm, clucked and craiked comfortably about the door, and there were two and a half dozen fresh eggs to sell us at a higher rate than paid in town. We stood, as we had done so many scores of times during the last few weeks, and looked this pitiful scene in the face. There was misfortune, poverty, sorrow, want, loneliness, dread of future, but fortitude, courage, integrity and honest thrift.
“Would she like to return to the childhood home in Indiana?” we asked the mother, for we would help them go.
“No,” she said tenderly. “My husband lived and died here. He was buried here, and I would not like to go away and leave him alone. It won’t be very long, and it is a comfort to the children to be able to visit his grave. No, I reckon we will stay here, and out of the wreck of the old house which sticks up out of the mud, we will put another little hut, higher up in the bank out of the way of the floods, and if it is only a hut, it will be a home for us and we will get into it.”
There were no dry eyes, but very still hearts, while we listened to this sorrowful but brave little speech, made with a voice full of tears.
Our thoughtful field agent, Dr. Hubbell, was the first to speak.
“Here are six children,” he said with an inquiring glance at me.
No response was needed. The thing was done. We told the mother the story of the “Little Six” of Waterford, and asked her if that money with enough more to make up one hundred dollars would help her to get up her house? It was her turn to be speechless. At length with a struggling, choking voice she managed to say—“God knows how much it would be to me. Yes, with my good boys I can do it, and do it well.”
We put in her hands a check for this sum, and directed from the boat clean boxes of clothing and bedding, to help restore the household, when the house shall have been completed.
Before we left her, we asked if she would name her house when it would be done. She thought a second and caught the idea.
“Yes,” she replied quickly, with a really winsome smile on that worn and weary face, “yes, I shall name it ‘The Little Six.’”
And so, dear Mr. Camp, will you kindly tell those brave little philanthropic dramatists, that they are to have a house down on the banks of the great rolling river, and that one day, I think, will come a letter to tell them that another six children are nightly praying God to bless them for the home that will shelter them from the floods and the storms.
Sincerely and cordially yours,
Clara Barton.
In reply the following letters were received:
Waterford, Pa., March 25, 1884.
M.E. Camp, Editor of Erie Dispatch:
Dear Sir: The “Little Six” met yesterday and wrote the accompanying letter, which they would like to have you forward to Miss Clara Barton. They wish me to thank you for sending them copies of your paper containing Miss Barton’s beautiful letter to them. If you or Miss Barton ever had any doubts in regard to a child’s appreciation of favors shown, I wish you could have seen those bright, happy faces as they gave three cheers for “ye editor” and three times three for Miss Clara Barton and the “Home of the Little Six” on the banks of the Ohio.
Mrs. Loyd Benson, Committee.
Waterford, March 24, 1884.
Dear Miss Barton:
We read your nice letter in the Dispatch, and we would like very much to see that house called “The Little Six,” and we are so glad we little six helped six other little children, and we thank you for going to so much trouble in putting our money just where we would have put it ourselves.
Sometime again when you want money to help you in your good work, call on the “Little Six.”
Joe Farrar, twelve years old.
Florence Howe, eleven years old.
Mary Barton, eleven years old.
Reed White, eleven years old.
Bertie Ensworth, ten years old.
Lloyd Barton, seven years old.
It could not fail to have been a satisfaction to me to know that I had done my work as they would have “done it themselves.”
As long as we remained on the river this family was occasionally visited by our boat. On one occasion a strong flagstaff twenty feet in length was taken and firmly set upon the bank near where they would place their house. Its well-lettered cross board at the top showed “Little Six Red Cross Landing,” and this point has remained a landing on the Ohio River probably unto this day.
During this trip on the upper Ohio, which was even yet scarcely safe for running at night, we had, after a hard day’s work, found a cove and tied our boat for the night. It was a rather sequestered spot, and the appearance of a full-size river steamer, halting for the night on one of its banks, attracted the attention of the few people residing there, and at dusk a body of five or six men came to the boat to ask if we were in trouble that we stopped there, and if there were anything they could do for us. We quieted their kindly apprehensions and invited them on board. The lights revealed a condition of personal poverty which should have more naturally asked help than offered it. On the entire trip with its thousands of miles, among white and black, we had never seen such evidences of destitution. They scarcely could have decently gone among civilized people, and yet as they spoke, there was no lack of sense. On the contrary, they seemed in many ways to be men of the world. Their language, while provincial, had nothing uncommon in it, and altogether they were a study to us. We gave them some supper, and while eating, learned the facts of their lives.
Either by blood or marriage, they were all relatives, consisting of six families, making in all about thirty people. They all lived together—such living as it was—and there seemed to be among them a perfectly good understanding. They had always lived on the river banks, probably more on the river than off of it. They were not farmers, never planted or raised anything, subsisting mainly upon fish and the floating drift to be picked up. Thus, they clung to the river like the muskrat and beaver, and were washed out with every flood. Sixteen of them at that time were living under some slanting boards.
After supper our men quietly invited them to the clothing department on the stern of the ship, and exchanged their garments.
Thus we got hold of these people, clothed, fed, encouraged and advised them, got them into houses, furnished them, formed them into a little colony, put up a landing named, at their own request, “Red Cross Big Six,” and took care of the women and children. Every man foreswore his drink, his cards and his betting, and went to work for the first time in his life.
We found a faithful merchant to stand by, advise them and report to us. From year to year we have helped to keep them clothed. The children immediately went to school, and the next year for the first time they planted land and raised their own food; and the growing thrift and strange prosperity of this body of heretofore vagrants began after a time to excite the envy of its neighbors, who thought they were getting on better than themselves, and their merchant friend had to repel it.
Only one or two of them could write a little, but they made good use of their accomplishment as far as possessed. One day I received a letter from one of their savants, Charley Hunter, out of which among much that was encouraging, with considerable labor, I deciphered the following: “We are all doing well. We don’t drink or play cards no more. I got the flannel undershirts and drawers and the medicine you sent me. My rhumatis is better. I know now I have got two friends; one is you and the other is God.”
I was sorry he named me first; I do not think he intended it. I might add that two years later these people had united with the church; that the children were all in school, and that one daughter was being educated for a teacher.
On the lower Ohio one of the villages most wrecked by the waters and the cyclone was Smithland, an old aristocratic borough on the Kentucky side. They had no coal, and we supplied them as we went down. On our return we lowered steam and threw out our landing prow opposite the town. The whistle of the “Throop” was as welcome to their ears as the flag to their eyes.
It was a bright, clear, spring morning and Sunday. In an hour the entire little hamlet of people stood on our decks; only four, they said, were left at home, and these sick and infirm. They had selected their lawyer to speak their thanks, and they had chosen well. No words will ever do justice to the volume of native eloquence which seemed to roll unbidden from his lips. We listened in mute surprise until he finished with these sentences:
At noon on that day we were in the blackness of despair. The whole village in the power of the demon of waters, hemmed in by sleet and ice, without fire enough to cook its little food. When the bell struck nine that night, there were seventy-five families on their knees before their blazing grates, thanking God for fire and light, and praying blessings on the phantom ship with the unknown device that had come as silently as the snow, they knew not whence, and gone, they knew not whither.
A few days later we finished the voyage of relief, having covered the Ohio River from Cincinnati to Cairo and back twice, and the Mississippi from St. Louis to New Orleans and return, occupying four months’ time on the rivers, in our own chartered boats, finishing at Pittsburg and taking rail for Washington on the first of July, having traveled over eight thousand miles, and distributed in relief, of money and estimated material, $175,000.
The government had expended an appropriation from the treasury on the same waters of $150,000 in money, and distributed it well. The difference was that ours was not appropriated; we gathered it as we used it.
THE TEXAS FAMINE.
Occasional rumors reached us in the years 1885 and 1886 about a drouth in Texas and consequent suffering, but they were so contradictory and widely at variance that the public took little or no heed of them. During the year of 1886 the Rev. John Brown, a North Presbyterian minister, located at Albany, Shackelford County, Texas, began making appeals by circular and oral address to the people of the Northern States, in which he asserted that there were a hundred thousand families in northwestern Texas who were utterly destitute and on the verge of starvation. He stated that since the close of the war a large number of poor families had been constantly crowding into Texas from the Southern States principally, induced thither by land agents and others, who gave glowing representations of the character of the soil for farming purposes.
These poor people, by hard labor and industry, had been generally able to make a living and nothing more. The last fall they had planted wheat and other grain quite extensively, but the rains came not and everything perished; and in the following spring and summer, too, everything put into the ground was blasted by the hot winds, so that not a thing was raised for man or beast. For fifteen months no rain had fallen, and the condition of the people was pitiable and called aloud to the charitable throughout the land for relief. They must be carried through to the next summer or they would perish. At a meeting of the citizens of Albany, Texas, they decided that the task of relieving the sufferers was greater than the well-to-do people of the State were able to undertake, and that an appeal should be made to the good-hearted people of the North for immediate aid. The Governor of Texas also published an appeal to the people of the whole land, asking for food for these people. But as there was no concerted action, and so many denials of the stories of suffering, little or nothing in the way of relief work was accomplished for some time. Spasmodic attempts were made, and some food for man and beast was contributed, but not enough to relieve a hundredth part of the needy.
The Rev. Dr. Brown went to the State Capital and endeavored to interest the legislature in the matter, but there were seemingly so much misunderstanding and unbelief, and so many conflicting interests to reconcile, that he failed to receive any substantial assurances and left the place in disgust. When the citizens of Texas could not agree as to the necessities of their own people it was not to be expected that the citizens of the country would take much interest in them, hence the relief movement languished from inanition.
About the middle of January, 1887, Dr. Brown came to Washington and, as solicitor and receiving agent for the committee which had issued an appeal to the country, appealed to me, as president of the American National Red Cross, asking our organization to come to the relief of the people, who were in a deplorable state, greatly needing food and clothing. I immediately shipped to Texas all the stores that were then in our warehouse, but they were no great quantity.
An appeal direct to the Red Cross required immediate attention, and I at once sought a conference with President Cleveland, who was greatly worried over the contradictory stories that were constantly printed, and was anxious to learn the truth about the matter. When I said that I should go to Texas and see for myself, he was greatly pleased, and requested me to report to him the exact situation just as soon as I had satisfied myself by personal investigation.
Dr. Hubbell and I proceeded directly to Albany, Texas, where we arrived near the end of January. We were met by the leading citizens and most heartily welcomed and accorded every privilege and attention. We began our investigations at once in a systematic way, carefully noting everything we heard and saw; and in the course of a two weeks’ trip over the afflicted region, we learned the extent of the need and formulated plans for its relief.
Making Albany our object point, we traveled by private conveyance over such territory as we thought sufficient to give a correct knowledge of the condition of the country and the people. We met large numbers of the residents, both collectively and at their homes, and learned from them personally and by actual observation their condition and what they had to depend upon during the next few months. It will be borne in mind that when we entered upon this investigation little or no relief had come from the State, and none was positively assured.
Almost no rain had fallen during a period of eighteen months; two planted crops had perished in the ground, and the seed wheat sown the previous fall gave no signs of life. The dust was rolling over the great wind-swept fields, where the people had hidden their last little forlorn hope of borrowed seed, and literally a heaven of brass looked down upon an earth of iron.
Here were twenty to forty counties of a size commensurate with Texan dimensions occupied by new settlers, making their first efforts in the pioneer work of developing home life in an untried country, soil and climate. They had put their all into the new home and the little stock they could afford for its use. They had toiled faithfully, planted two and three times, as long as there was anything to plant or sow, and in most instances failed to get back their seed. Many had grown discouraged and left the country. The people were not actually starving, but they were in the direst want for many of the necessities of life, and it was only a matter of days when they would have reached the condition of the reconcentrados as we later found them in Cuba. Hundreds of thousands of cattle had died for the want of food and water, and their drying carcasses and bleaching bones could be seen in every direction as the eye wandered over the parched surface of the plains.
I at once saw that in the vastness of its territory and varying interests the real need of these suffering communities was not understood by the Texas people—it had not come home to them—but that once comprehending, it would be their wish to have it known and cared for by themselves and not by others outside of the State.
Assuring these poor people that their actual condition should be made known to their own people, through the authoritative means of the Red Cross, and that they should be speedily cared for, we bade them farewell and hurried away to Dallas, where we intended to send out a statement to the people of the State.
Arriving there, we sought an interview with Colonel Belo of the Dallas News and laid before him the result of our observations. He placed the columns of his paper at our disposal, and through them we enlightened the people of the true status of affairs in their own State. The response was as quick as it was gratifying, and thence onward there was no further necessity for appealing to anyone outside of the State limits. Indeed, that act in the first place was the greatest mistake, as to the average Texan, feeling a genuine pride in the State’s wealth and resources, it savored of frauds and imposition, and prejudiced him against the brother who would pass him by and appeal to outsiders.
The Texas Legislature appropriated one hundred thousand dollars for food, and in the meantime rain began to fall and the entire aspect of affairs began to change for the better. But there were still many needs unprovided for—clothing, fuel, seeds for gardens and fields, live stock and many other things—and it was necessary to place these needs before the people. This the News took upon itself to do; and upon my suggestion it opened a popular subscription and announced that it would receive contributions of seed or cash and would publish the same from day to day and turn them over to the constituted authorities appointed to disburse them. In order to encourage the movement I inaugurated it with the first subscription, and from that time until now I do not believe any one has heard of any need in Texas that has not been taken care of by her own people.
Congress had appropriated ten thousand dollars for seed to be given the Texas drouth sufferers; but President Cleveland promptly vetoed the act and thereby laid himself open to a great deal of unkind criticism. He was right, however, and by his resolute action saved the nation’s money and the State’s pride. I know that it must have been an unpleasant duty for the President to feel compelled to apply his pruning knife to that tender shoot, for he was one of the first to respond with his own personal check to the call for aid for the drouth sufferers; and the subject had always held his kindly interest.
The services of the Red Cross, beyond those given by its president and field agent in making their investigation, were not required in this emergency; and as we had performed the duty most needed, viz.: to unravel the misunderstanding and rightly inform the people of the true condition of affairs in the stricken district, we concluded that our task was ended and that we could return to our home.
On our return to Washington the following report was made to the President:
February 19, 1889.
To the President of the United States:
Mr. President—I have not been unmindful of your distinguished permission to write you concerning the condition of the people of Texas suffering from the drouth. Desiring to spare your time and labor so far as possible, I delayed my communication until the investigations should be completed, and my opinions in regard to the extent of their necessities, and the sources from which relief should properly emanate, could be satisfactorily settled in my own mind.
The prime reason for my going in person, to Texas was my entire inability to solve the mystery of why Texas was not equal to the care of its own poor and the meeting of its own calamities. I could not comprehend how a couple of seasons of drouth in one sparsely settled corner of an old State of six millions of acres, with a treasury out of debt, should throw the people of that State upon the charity of the other States, or upon the support of the general government. My investigations brought to light the following perplexed conditions:
She had contending interests between her original cattlemen who wanted the lands left open, and the farmers who came in to settle them up; the former placing every obstacle, like the cutting of fences and driving off stock, in the way of the little immigrant! A second conflicting interest arose between these same original lords of the soil—the free ranchmen—and those, who, through railroad grants or purchase, had become actual owners of land which they desired to sell, and for this purpose, and to this end, held out unwarranted inducements, clothed in glowing descriptions, both false and dangerous, to encourage immigration, for which no preparation against the failure of crops from any cause, or toward the opening of industries of any other kind had been made—not even the taking care to leave a small sum at the discretion of the governor in case any harm might befall these newly invited citizens. The immigrants, on their part, coming, as they had been instructed to believe, into a semi-tropical climate, with exhaustless soil covered with almost perpetual verdure, made no provisions beyond the wants of the hour. One looked long and generally in vain for some trace of a cellar, or storehouse, or barn, or even the marks of some former hayrick, which might betoken some thought of provision for the future on the part of these so-called farmers. Pioneer like, they had wasted what they could not at the moment use. In this condition the drouth struck this section of the country.
Fearing the effect of these conflicting interests, the mistake was made of their coming out of the State to solicit aid, in the place of turning bravely and confidently to the people of her rich Southern sections for help among themselves.
Again, the mistake of overstatement was made, and a population of thousands represented as “starving,” when in reality no one had starved nor was expected to. They were in far too great want, but not “starving.” These statements served to mortify and incense the people, and to turn the strength of nearly the entire press of the State against the statements of those representing the distress, and literally to kill all help from both without and within.
Added to this, the courtesy of the railroads entering the State, and which at the first call for help had generously offered free freight on all gifts for the drouth sufferers, had most unfortunately been abused, and the occasion used by dealers to send goods in free to their customers for sale. This had the effect in ten days to shut off all free railroad transportation into the State, and thus it remains to-day, and the freight on a carload of gift oats from the grain centres of the Northwest would exceed their value when there.
These were a part of the perplexing conditions which confronted me upon my arrival in Albany, January, 1887.
The Legislature was occupied in electing a senator, and so continued during two weeks, paying no attention to the Relief bill before it. Meanwhile, I occupied myself in traveling by private conveyance among the people, learning their conditions from themselves. They suffered every necessity but homelessness, and this was the worst feature in the case. Lacking this, they would have felt justified in going away and seeking plenty in the homes of others; but how to pick up their unfed children and travel out, leaving their few cattle to the cowboys and the farm to the tax collector.
I attempted to write the real state of things to you; but of what use? I might as well have sent you a tangled skein of silk to pick out for the winding. It was clearly no case for a great call for charity from the people at large, neither for governmental aid. Texas was a thousand times equal to it herself, when once she looked it clearly in the face and set about the work. This she at length commenced by an appropriation of $100,000 for food.
As good fortune would have it, rains commenced, the wheat was apparently saved, and hope revived. There was still need for staple grains at once to plant and sow the fields. These must come from the people within the State, as they had closed all avenues from without, and it was proper they should furnish them. But it could only be accomplished by the aid of the press, which was still pointing its horns at John Brown, who persisted in declaring that “a million of dollars must come from Congress or the people of the North.” There was no way but to reach the press, and turn its powers in the true direction.
The arrangement was not difficult for us to make. The columns of both the Dallas and Galveston News are open for a “Seed Fund” from the State, pledged to close them only when the need is met. I left that night, feeling that the skein was unraveled, and our part of the work done.
I thank you with all my heart, Mr. President, for the encouragement given me at the commencement, and the privilege of writing you. I have done this little bit of work faithfully, and hope it may meet your approval. I am home, with scarcely strength to leave my bed, but I trust we have heard the last of “Texas drouth.”
I have the honor to be,
Most respectfully,
Clara Barton.
Copyright, 1898, by Clara Barton.
CAMP PERRY.
The Northern Florida Yellow Fever Quarantine Station of the U.S. Marine Hospital, during the epidemic of 1888, for refugees coming north.
Copyright, 1898, by Clara Barton.
RED CROSS HEADQUARTERS.
PARLORS.
FIRST OFFICE.
VESTIBULE AND LOWER HALL.
SECOND OFFICE AND BREAKFAST ROOM.