A Woman's Life-Work — Labors and Experiences of Laura S. Haviland

by Laura S. Haviland

CHAPTER IX.

RESCUE OF SLAVES.

A family of six left their old Kentucky home in search of freedom. A young wife who was sold had made her escape three years previously. I noticed a stranger passing through my gate, and as he was a mulatto, I went out to see where he had gone. I found him sitting in the porch, waiting to see some one of whom to inquire whether he was at the right place. He handed a paper directed to me by an under-ground railroad ticket agent, who informed me there were six fugitives in his company. "Then there are six of you?" I asked; "and where are the balance?" "My two brothers are back a-ways," he replied, "'cause we's feared it wasn't the right place."

Being assured all was right, he went back for them. They had left their mother, with her two little grandchildren, in Carthaginia, until the boys could find a safe home for them, but they knew not whether they should go on to Canada or find the object of their search short of that place. They heard in Carthaginia that Michigan was the last place she had been heard from, and that was a short time after passing through that town. They were directed to me as being most likely to know the whereabouts of the young wife. They had been in my home a number of hours before the elder brother dared make the inquiry. I noticed the frequent heavy sigh and sad countenance, and I thought he was probably very anxious over the safety of his mother, and I assured him that she was in good hands, for I knew them to be true friends. While he assented, yet all my words of encouragement did not seem to cheer him, while the two younger brothers were happy. I went through my usual course of giving them new names. As they left that entirely with me, I gave as the family name Koss, and their given names Benjamin, Richard, and Daniel. But I came to the conclusion that the older brother was troubled over some friends he had left behind. At length, in a half hesitating and trembling manner, he ventured to ask if I knew any thing of a colored girl by the name of Mary Todd.

"Certainly I do," said I; "and did you know her?"

"Yes, ma'am," was his reply.

"Do you know whether her husband was sold? She worried a great deal about him."

"No, they talked of selling him lately." Then, after a pause, "She isn't married again, is she?"

"Why, no, she is a very steady, nice young woman. Every one in the neighborhood where she lives takes a great interest in her. Perhaps you are acquainted with her husband; why don't he come? He promised to follow her as soon as he could."

While his countenance lit up with joy, I had no suspicion of who he was until he said, "I am the man. I am her husband."

"Why didn't you tell me that before?"

"I was 'fraid of bad news if I got any."

"Afraid she was married?"

"Well, it's been mighty nigh three years, an' I couldn't go for a long time off the plantation, after she left."

As she was twelve miles from our school, and by this time it was nearly night, I hastened to inform brother Canfield, a Wesleyan minister, that the older brother of these fugitives was Mary Todd's husband. "Is it possible," he asked, "that Mary's husband has come at last?"

Soon, quite an excitement was produced in our neighborhood over the arrival of Mary Todd's husband. The next morning brother Canfield took him in his buggy to meet his wife and little son he had never seen; and a time of great rejoicing was in the whole neighborhood. As they were married after slave style, brother Canfield solemnized the marriage legally. The minister said we all forgot the black skin, when we saw that couple fly to each other's arms. Surely,

"Skins may differ, but affection
Dwells in black and white the same."

Mary had lived most of the time in the family of Fitch Reed, of Cambridge. They soon had a home for their mother, with her two little granddaughters, and were all happy, industrious, and highly respected.

One of the common trials of life, to mar our happiness in our family-like institution (February 23d) was the listless waywardness of some of our dear students, in a determined purpose to attend a dancing party under the guise of an oyster supper. How many delusive snares are laid to entrap and turn aside the youth into divergent paths. We found it necessary to suspend eight of our students for the remainder of the term. It is a painful duty of the surgeon to amputate a limb, yet it may be an imperative duty, in order to save the life of the patient, and restore the body to health.

This evening a very remarkable fugitive slave came from Tennessee. He had been five weeks on the way, in which time he had slept but one night, having traveled at night and buried himself in hay and straw in barns in the day-time to keep from perishing with cold, and to avoid detection. He says six years ago his wife and child were sold from him, which caused him days and nights of bitter tears. He then firmly resolved to make an attempt to gain his freedom by flight. He was captured in Illinois after a severe struggle. He showed us four pistol-ball holes in the arm he was most dexterously using in his own defense, and two large scars which he said were gashes made at the same time with a Bowie-knife, which enabled his enemies to capture him. After they secured him in jail he was advertised in papers, which his master saw, and came and took him back, and caused him to be whipped on the bare back until the flesh was so badly torn that he was compelled to lie on his stomach four weeks. During this time he was not able to turn himself. After recovering his master put him in the iron works, of which he was proprietor. "If I hadn't been one of his engineers he would have sold me instead of giving me that awful whipping that he thought conquered me; but he was mightily mistaken; for it only imbedded in my heart a more bitter hate than ever. I appeared contented and performed my work well. After a few months, he said one day, 'I've made you a good boy, Jim, and now I'll let you go to the big city with me.' I was very obedient, but he little knew of my determination to leave him as soon as I could make sure work of it. That is the reason I would not make friends with white people till I found Michigan, for we have heard that people in this State are friendly to us, and that it is next to Canada."

As this man was above mediocrity as to intelligence, his two days stay with us had a salutary influence over our school. He could not be prevailed upon to rest longer, as he could not be easy until he reached Victoria's dominions. His clothes were made comfortable, and I called on a few friends for a little pocket change, and sent by him a little note to the next station, where he was aided on to Canada.

Our Spring term opened with fair prospects. A number of our students who were suspended last term returned to us, they said, to redeem themselves, and they were as good as their word.

During our long vacation I attended an anti-slavery convention in Cincinnati, where I met a white slave man from Little Rock, Arkansas, who left his home in the night and by morning took public conveyance as any other white man would. On reaching Cincinnati he found friends of the slave to whom he revealed his condition. Levi Coffin advised him to go with me to Michigan. As he was in greater haste than I was, he proposed to go on at once. Consequently I wrote a letter of introduction to my friends, requesting them to furnish him with work. In two weeks I returned and found my young friend, Charles McClain, (for that was the name I gave him in Cincinnati) at work with a friend, who said it was a pity that I had introduced him as a fugitive slave, for they would not have believed it if the statement had not come from me.

He came to our school and improved very much upon what he had picked up from the white children who were going to school, and by the aid of a colored minister who could read and write, and by that means could read in the second reader and write a little. He was often seen in tears, and was very anxious to have his sister with him, who was as white as himself and, like him, had straight auburn hair, blue eyes, and perfect Caucasian features, without a vestige of African descent that could be detected. A deep sympathy was enlisted in his behalf. He was very anxious to convey intelligence to that sister of the ease with which he effected his escape, and that she too could free herself as easily. A number of the friends offered to aid, and one friend placed thirty dollars in my hands to bring about this result. I wrote to a colored minister in Little Rock, who replied, with a graphic account of their rejoicing at his success, and of his sister Ann's anxiety to come to him, but that she had no means. Charles wrote to her that he would send means with instructions. As I had for many years had a great desire to see more of the system of slavery in its own territory, as so many people of the North were insisting upon our exaggerations, and that we were judging the majority of slave-holders by the few unprincipled men we had seen, I concluded to become the bearer of this message.

With a well-defined plan of the streets and houses I left my home, in confidence that the God of Daniel would return me unharmed. After a little visit with my dear friends, Levi and Catharine Coffin, in Cincinnati, I resumed my journey. I felt a little disappointed at the leaving of a through boat an hour earlier than reported. Levi said, "Perhaps thou'lt find it's all for the best," and so it was. For the second day after leaving Cincinnati the vessel was burned and sunk, with great loss of property, and many of the passengers were seriously injured, and some fatally. As I soon after passed the wreck of partially burned furniture floating near the shore, and some hauled out lying on the bank, I was thankful for the disappointment.

At Napoleon I left the boat for another to go up the Arkansas river, and waited at the best hotel in the place, kept by the widow Reeves. She was probably a fair specimen of Southern women. The appearance of the people made me feel as if I was out of these United States. There was quite a company waiting to go up or down the river. Among them were six or eight young people—Colonel Thompson with his son and daughter, whom he was taking home from their school in Helena, Arkansas, and a young Dr. Jackson, who was very talkative and filled to over-flowing with affectation. With a twirl of his little cane, and half-bent bow, in a simpering manner he addressed the four young ladies sitting on the sofa before him:

"How did you rest last night, ladies?"

"Quite well, I thank you."

"Indeed, I am very happy to hear it, for I did not. I was dreaming all night of shooting and stabbing, and I had an awful time. I suppose it was owing to the awful time we had when I was here last over a nigger fight, or rather a fight over a nigger. It seems he had started to run away and they overtook him here, and he fought like a tiger. He had armed himself with a six-shooter, and I tell you he made the bullets fly lively, and they shot him before they could catch him. He shot one man dead and wounded two or three others, and I was called upon to extract a ball from the shoulder of one man."

During this conversation, and much more not recorded, I was writing a letter home, directed to a friend in Covington, Kentucky. There was an understanding, while in Cincinnati, that Levi Coffin was to take my letters from our Covington friends, and mail them home.

To my great relief, the small boat, "Rough and Ready," came in, and was to leave for Indian Territory, up the Arkansas River, in two hours; but a large boat was going up the next day. I went on both to see what they were, and I found the large boat looked more like an old slaver than a civilized craft, and made my choice without making known the reason. There was in the hotel an old lady going on the large boat, and she urged me to accompany her, and a young woman was going on the "Rough and Ready," who was anxious I should go with her, as she was alone, and going to her mother in Little Rock. The old lady said she was alone, and was going to her daughter, and asked Mrs. Reeves to intercede in her behalf. "Now, Mrs. Smith, I'll make a bargain with you. There is a rich widower on the big boat, and he's got lots of niggers and money. I'll give him to you if you'll go on that boat; and, I tell you, he's rich as Croesus." I had to enter somewhat into these familiarities, and told her I would not think of being so selfish as to take him from her.

I finished my letter-writing, and her Pomp was told to take my satchel to the boat with the young woman. There were Colonel Thompson and son and daughter, who made themselves quite too familiar to be comfortable. I soon noticed the captain seemed quite disconcerted, and made many excuses. His cabin help were set to cleaning and setting things in order, and his cook sent ashore for nuts, candies, and fruits. We hardly had started when Colonel Thompson charged me with being a reporter for some periodical. I assured him of his mistake.

Said he, "I knew you were a reporter; and when Mrs. Reeves was urging so persistently to have a dance, I whispered to my young folks not to have any thing to do with it, for you'd have us all in some newspaper."

I told him I was writing a letter to my folks.

Said he, "You need not think you are going to fool us in that way. I saw you write a few minutes, then stop, and listen awhile to Dr. Jackson and those young ladies, and then write again, then stop to listen to Mrs. Reeves, and then write again. I told my children they could see you had five or six pages for some paper; and you can never make me believe that was all for a letter. Now, if you will answer one question I'll release you. Haven't you written an article for a paper some time?"

I hesitated, for the next query would be, "What paper? At length I thought of the note of correction I wrote for the Louisville Courier, while in that city, in behalf of Calvin Fairbanks, while he was there in prison. I finally told him I would not say I had never written any thing for a paper.

"Now, if you will pardon me, just one more question, and if you will answer that I will be as good as my word, and trouble you no more on that score. What paper have you written for? I would like to know whether it was a Helena paper or any one in our State."

"No, not in this State," said I; "I did write a little card for the
Louisville Courier."

"Ah, yes, that's it; that is a good Democratic paper. I am acquainted with the editor. I knew you were trying to cheat us all the while. I wish you would write an article for the Little Rock Democrat, If you will I will send the editor a letter of introduction; and I know he will pay you well for it."

But I declined, and was very much relieved when the Thompson family reached their home in Pine Bluff. Here I saw their slaves come to meet them for their baggage. They urged me to stop with them and spend a week or two, and they would take me out into the country to see some beautiful plantations, as they had an excellent carriage driver. The young woman said "Pa has owned him a number of years, and could always risk us with him anywhere. Our plantation is not a very large one, as pa has always had a store on his hands, but there are some very large and beautiful ones beyond us."

A sense of relief came over me as I saw them leave the boat, and we were the next day landed in Little Rock. Being after dark, I spent the night at the Anthony House. Before sunrise I was at the house of our friends, who were greatly rejoiced, and sent for the minister, with whom we consulted. After making all necessary arrangements, with the signs fixed upon whereby I might understand when the expected boat would arrive, whether any unfavorable indications were noticed, etc I inquired for a private and convenient boarding house where I could remain a few days waiting for tidings from a through boat. The family they named happened to be where the young woman who came on the same boat with me was boarding, with her mother and brother in law, who was keeping a tailor's shop. I inquired of this young woman and her mother if they thought I could secure board there a few days, while waiting for tidings from a brother. They thought Mrs. Shears might not have a convenient room for me but they would be glad to have me in their room. Soon the matter was settled. The son in law brought in sewing for his mother and sister in law, and I made myself useful by assisting them. The mother, Mrs. Springer, had a nice shally dress for me to make, that she said she couldn't have got made to suit her as well for eight dollars, and urged me quite hard to go in with herself and daughter in opening a shop for dress-making. I also did some sewing for Mrs. Shears, who also became quite social.

Mrs. Shears was very cruel to her slaves, and complained of the indolence of Jack, a boy of twelve years. "But I haven't got him fairly broke in yet. Don't you think, after I paid eight hundred dollars in gold for that nigger, and set him to shell a barrel of corn, he spent all that day in doing nothing? I was just ready to go away, when a nigger-drover brought a few he had left, and said he'd sell cheap, as it was the last he had on hand. He wanted nine hundred; but I told him I'd give him eight hundred in gold, and at last he concluded to take it. Well, as I told you, I set him to shelling on that barrel of corn, and I don't s'pose he shelled a dozen ears after I was gone. Don't you think, that nigger spent all that day in bawling after his mother—a great booby, twelve years old! He might have some sense in his head. I gave him one dressing, to begin with; for I found he'd got to know who was master. I've had him six weeks, and he isn't hardly broke in yet."

Poor motherless child! No doubt she too wept bitterly over the separation; but no word of pity, or even a sigh of sympathy, must be allowed here. I must listen to this, and a great deal more, with stoical indifference.

As Mrs. Shears had more company than usual, she came to me one evening, and asked if I would take her daughter's bed in her room, shielded with curtains, for the night. This was satisfactory to me. The following morning, at gray dawn, the two little boys, Jack and Jim, came in with fire from the kitchen, with kindling. The mistress rolled out of bed, and took her heavy-heeled shoe, dealing blows upon their heads and shoulders, and said:

"How come you niggers till this time o' day in here to build fires?"

"Aunt Winnie didn't wake us."

"I'll wake you up; here almost daylight, and not a fire built yet, when these four fires ought to have been built an hour ago. And didn't wake up, ha? I'll teach you to wake up."

And so she kept up the heavy blows, chasing them round and round the chairs, and the boys crying, "I will get up early, missus; I will get up early," till it seemed to me an unreasonable punishment.

Just as the two fires were going, and the little fellows went to light the other two, the son, Joe Shears, came in.

"What are these niggers about, that these fires are not all going long ago?"

"O, they had to sleep this mornin'; they say Aunt Winnie didn't wake 'em."

"I'll wake the young devils; I'll see whether they'll sleep till broad daylight. It's their business to have these fires going an hour ago;" and out he went.

At breakfast, I noticed Jim, the waiter, was missing, and Jack was not at his wood-chopping as usual. Soon after, as I passed through the rear porch, I saw the two little boys hanging, as I supposed, by their wrists, to a pole over the bay in the barn. The door was just opened by Joe Shears, to commence his day's work of whipping, as I soon heard the cries of one, then the other, alternating in stripes heard with their cries, by spells, until noon. During this time Joe Shears was sitting before the fire, playing cards and sipping his brandy between the whippings. Whenever he was out the whipping and cries were heard.

At noon little Jim was let down, very hoarse from crying, and his eyes red and swollen. By his walk I knew the little fellow had suffered intensely. But the little wood-chopper was not at his post. Soon after dinner the lash was again heard, with the hoarse cry of little Jack; and each time Joe Shears sat down to his card-table I looked for Jack, but after a game or two of cards he was out again, and the lash and cries resumed. I became so distressed that at four o'clock I took a walk on the street, ostensibly to rest by exercise after a day of sewing, but really to give vent to tears that had been all day pent up, for all appearance of sympathy must here be restrained. On my return I heard the battling of the paddle, with the cries of poor Jack, so hoarse that I could hardly have recognized it as a human voice had I not known what it was. I got no glimpse of the poor child until the next morning.

As the tailor, Joseph Brink, came in, the sister-in-law said, "We ought to have a lamp or candle lit before this time."

Said the mother, "We don't feel half thankful enough for this grate-fire. Just think, Joe Shears has been whipping those two little boys all this blessed day, and I should think they must be half dead to-night."

"What have they done?" said Joseph.

"I don't know; do you, Mrs. Smith?"

"Yes; you know I slept in Mrs. Shears's room last night; and the boys came in at nearly daylight with their pan of fire and kindling, and the mistress wanted to know why their fires were not all built before, and they said Aunt Winnie didn't wake them. And she whipped them with her shoe quite a while; then Joe Shears came in, and swore at them, and said he would wake them."

"And that was it? Only think," said Mrs. Springer; "you know Aunt Winnie was sick yesterday. And just because they hadn't these fires all built before daylight they've had them tied up in the barn all day; that cowhide Mrs. Shears keeps hung on her door-knob her Joe has swung over those two little niggers all day. I tell you, if the devil don't catch such people there's no use of having a devil."

Her son-in-law, in an undertone, said, "Be careful; don't talk so loud, or it will make a fuss here."

"Well, I don't care, I am mad. I tell you, Joe, hell is lined this very minute with just such folks as these."

"Well, I think they are more cruel here than they are in Georgia."

"I've seen just such work in Georgia and in Alabama, and it's all over. I tell you, there's more in hell to-night for treating niggers this way than for all other sins put together, and I know it."

"Be careful; they'll hear you, and it will make trouble. It's their property; it's none of ours."

"I don't care for that; they are human beings, and have feelings as well as other folks. There's that little nigger, Bob, they've hired of Dr. Webb, down street; they whip him and pound him about, and they'll kill him some day. And I think somebody ought to report to Dr. Webb how they are treating that young nigger. He is a mighty nice-looking boy. He is almost white, and they've got him all scarred up."

"Well, what of that? The doctor himself is no better. About three months ago his boy Tom was throwing wood in his cellar, and he did something he didn't like, and he kicked him down the cellar, then jumped down after him and took a billet of wood and was pounding Tom over his head when two white men were passing by and saw the whole affair; and as Tom fell the doctor came up out of the cellar and went down town and reported his Tom had a fit. But the two men went into the cellar after the doctor left and found him dead and his skull broken in. They reported what they saw and had a coroner's inquest over him, who found that Tom came to his death by too severe punishment. They arrested the doctor and put him in jail a few days, when his trial came off. The doctor was fined five hundred dollars, and he paid it and went free."

"Yes, that is the doctor we've been sewing for, is it?"

"Certainly."

"I tell you, hell is heaped with just such people."

She went on in that strain that reminded me of St. Clair's "cursing up hill and down" that almost frightened the New England old maid of "Uncle Tom's Cabin." I trembled myself, expecting every moment that some member of the family would hear her.

Two days later was washing-day, and the cook, Aunt Winnie, told her mistress she was too sick to do the very large washing for three boarders besides the family. I heard the mistress cursing her, and telling her she could if she had a mind to, and charged her with being lazy.

In came her son Joe. "What's all this fuss?"

"O, it's Winnie says she's sick and can't do the washing this week."

"Sick! I'll see how sick she is," and he took up a billet of stove wood and commenced beating her over her head and shoulders, and swearing that he would give her something to be sick for. Mrs. Springer called my attention to the quarrel of Mrs. Shears with her cook before Joe Shears came in. Then said she, "Poor Aunt Winnie will catch it now, I'll warrant. There, just hear those blows; they sound like beating the table; he'll kill her." And table, stools, and tin-pans or pails made racket enough for the whole kitchen to be falling down. The struggle with a volley of oaths lasted a few minutes.

Mrs. Springer, up to boiling rage again, "Hear that; what devils they are; don't you believe Aunt Winnie will die? Why, I can't hold still." In as careless a manner as I could command I said, "We can do no good by saying any thing. You know what your son said the other night."

"I know it; but there isn't a particle of humanity about them. I feel as if I want to pitch into the whole Shears family." Soon all was quiet.

"I believe Aunt Winnie is dead, don't you?"

"I think not."

"I am going in there to see."

As she got up to go to the kitchen she took the pitcher for water. While she was pumping the water near the kitchen-door, Aunt Winnie staggered to the door trying to wind a cloth around her bleeding head, and one eye was swollen shut. As she came in and reported how badly she was bruised up, she wanted me to take the pitcher and go to the pump for water; but I told her I would wait a little, for they might think we went on purpose to see Winnie.

"Poor thing, I know she came to the door on purpose to let me see her." And Mrs. Springer could not rest satisfied until I drew the next pitcher of water, when the poor woman reeled to the door with her hand on her head and the cloth around it saturated with blood. I could not sleep a wink after the day of the unmerciful whipping of those two little boys. Again the night after this unmerciful beating of this poor woman was spent in weeping, and prayer to Him who hears the cries of his oppressed children.

A few days after Aunt Winnie came to Mrs. Springer and asked her if she would cut and make a green delaine sacque for her, and cut a calico skirt, as she could make that in the night, and charged her not to let her mistress see it or let her know she had it, because her husband got it for her and gave her seventy-five cents to get Mrs. Springer to cut it; "for he is going to take me away three weeks from next Saturday night, 'cause the people are so hard here; he says I shan't stay here any longer." "I am so sorry for her, I told her to come in when her mistress and Joe Shears's wife are away making calls, and I would take her measure and cut and baste it: then for her to come in after they are all in bed and I would fit it and make it any time, keeping it under a sheet I've got to make, and in that way I can keep it out of sight; and I told her you and my daughter will say nothing about it. Said Winnie, 'I knows that by her face.' Do you know how quick these black people read faces?"

While she was sewing on Aunt Winnie's sacque, Joe Shears's wife came into our room a little while, and the daughter looked out the back window, where Jack was chopping, and said, "I don't think your Jack is going to live long."

"Why? I'm sure he eats hearty."

"He looks so bad out of his eyes; I've noticed it a few days past, and
I've noticed he sort o' staggers sometimes, and he don't talk natural."

She jumped up and looked at him and hastened to her mother in law's room.

"Mother, Miss Springer says Jack is going to die."

"What makes her think Jack is going to die? I don't see any thing ails
Jack, he eats hearty."

Miss Springer (laughing): "I thought I'd scare her out. I wish I could scare them to death, so they would treat their niggers like human beings."

"Well, you've got her out of the way long enough to get Winnie's sacque out of sight before our Joe comes in, for he's so mighty careful for fear we'll get into trouble; I know he'd scold if he knew it."

Strange position I was occupying, here among the most cruel of slave-holders. And they were calling me a superintendent of the underground railroad at home; and here was the starting-point on our underground railway, but a silent listener, and in surprise, I said, "Where can Aunt Winnie and her husband go? As you say, he is a slave." "I don't know, but they do go somewhere out of the way of their owners, though they keep up a mighty hunt for a long time; yet a good many of 'em are never heard from; and I don't know where in creation they do go, and I don't care, so they get away from these hyenas that have no more feelings for their niggers than a wild animal, nor half as much. I just wonder sometimes that the niggers don't turn upon 'em and kill such devils. I know I would if I were in their places." "Yet there are those who treat their servants kindly," I replied. I felt sometimes as if I was compelled to be indifferent.

My friend passed the window at which I was engaged in sewing. After a few moments I made an excuse to rest myself by taking a little walk, as each of us frequently did. I soon overtook this friend who informed me that Ann wished to see me after her tea was over, when she would be released for a half hour to walk out on the back way with a free mulatto girl, who was her intimate and confidential friend, and I was to go in a large yard of shrubs and fruit trees where I was to meet this friend who would call for Ann, with whom we were to take the proposed walk. At the appointed time and place I met the friend, who directed me to stand in a place out of sight of the street, or little cabin, the home of her very aged and decrepit parents, who were worn-out slaves, and as I understood were given their freedom. Their slave-daughter was permitted to step in and do little chores for them after her day's work was done.

While waiting in this lonely and solitary nook, three large bloodhounds came in sight. I remembered of hearing about their being let loose after sunset, to reconnoiter the premises, and I called to mind what I had heard and read in history, that however ferocious an animal is, a stern and steady gaze in the eye, by a human being, would disarm it of ferocity, and cause it to leave. This course I resolved to pursue with these three formidable enemies, that were already assuming a threatening attitude, with a low growl, showing their teeth, with hair on end—the leader as large as a yearling calf, the two following him slightly smaller. I fixed my eyes upon the sparkling eyes of the leader, that came within six feet and stopped; soon the growl ceased, the lips dropped over the long tusks, the hair smoothed back, and he quietly walked off with his companions. Soon came the girl, all out of breath: "Did the hounds come to you?"

"They did."

"Oh, dear! what did you do?"

"I stood perfectly still," I answered, "and looked in the eyes of the leader, and they soon became quiet and walked away."

"Oh, dear, that was the only thing that saved your life. If you had stirred a particle they would have torn you in pieces. I was so anxious to have Ann see you, I forgot the hounds until I started back, and I liked to have fainted, for I know they were awful. I liked to have screamed out 'God have mercy on that dear friend,' for I was 'most sure I'd find you killed."

"Oh, no, the Lord has preserved me, and I am not harmed." She was so badly frightened that it was some time before her voice ceased trembling; but He who is ever present with his trusting children was there.

Arrangements were made for Ann to go North, but if a word of suspicion was heard, I told her she must defer going to a future time; that she must go as her brother went, perfectly independent of any one, which she was confident of doing; but she wished to go on the same boat with me, if no one else was going from their city. I learned through her friend that she was overheard to ask a friend of hers for a shawl for a journey. I sent her word to abandon the idea of going then at once; that I should take the first boat for home.

She did not obtain her freedom until after her mother's death, two or three years later. I did not regard the trip lost, painful as it was. There was on the boat a sad couple, taken from a number of their children by a young beardless boy, perhaps eighteen or twenty, small and slender. I noticed them frequently in tears. They were noticed by a few of the passengers, who made remarks about the sad faces of those negroes. Said one heartless woman, "Look at that nigger cryin'. I don't see what she's cryin' about; she's got her young one and man to her heels." I carelessly watched for an opportunity to speak with one or both of these children of sorrow. As they sat on a pile of cable on the rear deck I caught the opportunity to inquire where they were going.

"We don't know; our young massa got to frettin', an' ole massa gib us to him and some money, an' tole him to go. We lef' three bigger chillun behin'; never 'spects to see 'em ag'in; I wish he'd buy a plantation somewhar, so we could go to work; 'pears like thar's no comfort for us poor people, only when we's got work, an' stops studyin' so much."

As the tears began to fall thick and fast, I took them by the hand and told them Jesus was the friend of the poor, and he had many followers who also remembered them in prayer. And he knew of their sorrow, and as they went to him he would comfort their sorrowing hearts. Pointing to his wife, he said, "She knows that, and I wish I did." I charged them to make no mention of my having spoken to them. For while they were slaves, I was not free. This young man with his heavy-hearted couple left our boat at Pine Bluff.

Surely I had seen enough of slavery in its own household. Three weeks was long enough to see and feel its virus. I met my old friends in Cincinnati with a glad heart, where I could draw a free breath. I could visit them but two days before I was on my way home, where were many glad hearts to listen in private circles to my experience in a slave State. More than ever they were convinced that the cannon and sword would, at no very distant day, destroy the monster.

Our institution was now in its second academic year, in charge of Joseph D. Millard, of Oberlin College. The stockholders had turned it over into my hands, making me sole-proprietor of the institution, with all its multiform cares and responsibilities. I had also frequent calls from fugitives in flight for freedom, whose claims were second to none other. But to see prejudice in our students melt away by an acquaintance with our work, richly repaid me for all my day and night toiling and cares, that seemed almost crushing at times. I purchased for the young men's hall a building that was erected for a water cure. That project failed, and the building that cost $2,000 to erect, was offered for three hundred dollars for my institution. I moved it one mile, and repaired it with fifteen rooms; and it was well filled the first year. This academic year of our usual three terms our students numbered over two hundred, mostly of those who had been teaching, or preparing themselves for teachers, or for a collegiate course. I served as preceptress, and was closely confined in school work. Realizing in a great measure the importance of molding the mind of youth for usefulness, these years of constant care passed pleasantly with the hundreds of young people of our own and adjoining counties.

A colored man, with a farmer's bag swung over his shoulder, approached two men at work on the railroad between Palmyra and Adrian, and inquired how far it was to Michigan.

"You are in Michigan, you fool you," was their reply.

"Then, will you please tell me how far it is to Canada?"

"You go to Adrian, about a mile ahead, and take the cars, and they'll take you to Canada in two hours; or, if you haven't money to go that way, you can go up that road till you come to the Quaker meeting-house, and go direct east two miles to the Widow Haviland's school, and she will tell you how to go to Canada, and it won't cost you any thing.' She is a great friend to your people."

He soon found me. I got my supper out of the way, and my men folks out again at their work. I then inquired who directed him to me, and he told me "two men six miles from this school said you was a frien' to my people; an' I thought if folks knew you six miles off I would be safe to come to you, 'case I wants to go to Canada right soon. I started once before, and traveled three nights by the North star; and as Indiana was a free State I thought I would stop and buy me some broad, an' the people was mighty kind, and said I could rest a week, and they would pay me for the work I did, to help me on to Canada. But firs' I knew my master come for me, an' I seed him pay them money—s'pose 't was reward."

This time he was so cautious that he would make a friend of no one until he reached Michigan. They had always heard people were friends to colored people in this State. He was six weeks from Kentucky, and had not dared to make his condition known to any one, white or black, until he saw a colored man in the yard at Dr Bailey's, of whom he inquired for my house. I told him that his coat and pants were too ragged, and that I must repair them. As he had not a second shirt, I took one of my son's, and gave him a couple of towels, soap, and a pail of warm water, and told him to take off his coat for me to mend, while he went up stairs to the room over the kitchen to change his shirt. He hesitated about taking off his coat, until I told him he must. "I am not your mistress," said I, "and yet you must mind me." Tears started as he slowly drew it off, when the torn and bloody shirtsleeves revealed the long sears, and a few unhealed sores on his arms. Said I, "Are these the marks of the slave whip?"

He nodded assent, while tears were falling.

"When was this done?"

"Two nights afore I lef'."

"What was jour offence?"

"Dis was what I got for runnin' off, an' I fainted, an' master dragged me in my cabin, and didn't lock me in, 'case I's so weak. I reckon he thought I's safe. But I got an ing'on to rub over the bottoms of my shoes so dogs couldn't foller me, an' I got four loaves o' bread and a big piece o' boiled meat, an' crawled into de barn an' tuck dis bag an' buffalo-robe for my bed, an' dragged it into de woods, and tuck my bes' frien', de Norf star, an' follered clean to dis place."

"What did you do for something to eat?"

"I tuck corn in de fiel'. When I foun' log heaps an' brush burnin' I roasted a heap to las' a few days; but I was weak an' trimbly to start, an' kep' so all de way."

After this little history I made him take off his vest, which was also very reluctantly done. But what a sight! The back of his shirt was like one solid scab! I made him open his collar, and I drew the shirt off from his shoulders and from the appearance of the shoulders and back it must have been cut to one mass of raw flesh six weeks before, as there were still large unhealed sores. I told him he must sit here until I called in my son and son-in-law to see it. As they looked upon that man's back and arms, and walked around him, said Levi Camburn, my son-in-law:

"Mother, I would shoot the villain that did that as quick as I could get sight at him."

"But, Levi," I replied, "he is not fit to die."

"No, and he never will be; and the quicker he goes to the place where he belongs the better. Indeed, I would shoot him as quick as I would a squirrel if I could see him."

Joseph, my son, responded:

"I think Levi is about right, mother; the quicker such a demon is out of the world the better."

"I know this is a sad sight for us to look upon; but I did not call you in to set you to fighting."

Many of my friends, and my son-in-law Levi, had thought me rather severe in judging the mass of slaveholders by the few unprincipled men who had fallen under my special notice; but I never heard of any remark whatever from my son-in-law or neighbors, after this incident, that charged me with being too severe in judging slaveholders. I furnished the poor man with healing salve, and tried to persuade him to rest a few days until he would be able to work; but no, he must see Canada before he could feel safe. He was very loath to sleep in any bed, and urged me to allow him to lie on the floor in the kitchen, but I insisted on his occupying the bed over the kitchen. I gave him a note of introduction to the next station agent, with a little change; and a few weeks after I heard from my friend, whose name was George Wilson. The reporter said: "The first two weeks he seemed to have no energy for any thing. But then he went to work, and quite disappointed us. He is getting to be one of the best hands to hire in Windsor."

This was the second fugitive from slavery who slept in my home—mine being the first house they had dared to sleep in since leaving their old home. A few days later another fugitive came from Louisiana. He was a black-smith. I wrote to a wealthy farmer in Napoleon, Michigan, to learn whether he could not furnish business for one or the other of two new arrivals from slavery. To show the feelings of thousands of our citizens at this date, I will extract a portion of his letter:

"There are constantly in our moral horizon threatenings of strife, discontent, and outbreaks between liberty and slavery. The martyrdom of John Brown only whets the appetite of the monster for greater sacrifice of life. The continued imprisonment of Calvin Fairbanks and others are not satisfying portions. I read your letter to our Arkansas friend, and we are glad to learn that another has escaped from the land of bondage, whips, and chains. In view of the wrongs and cruelty of slavery, how truly may it be said:

'There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart;
It does not feel for man.'

"The natural bond of brotherhood is severed as flax that falls asunder at the touch of fire. Let the lot of bitter poverty be mine, and the hand of man blight every hope of earthly enjoyment, and I would prefer it to the condition of any man who lives at ease, and shares in every fancied pleasure, that the toil, the sweat, and blood of slaves can procure. Alas for the tyrant slave-holder when God shall make his award to his poor, oppressed, and despised children, and to those who seek a transient and yet delusive means of present happiness by trampling his fellow and brother in the dust, and appropriating the soul and body of his own crushed victim to the gratification of his depraved appetites and passions. I would rather enter the gloomy cell of your friend Fairbanks, and spend every hour of this brief existence in all the bitterness that the hand of tyrants can inflict, than live in all pomp and splendor that the unpaid toil of slaves could lavish upon man. Yours, etc.,

"July 27th, 1860. R.B. REXFORD."

Our blacksmith, whom we called Charles Williams, proved to be an honest and industrious man.

We solicited over seventy dollars for a poor woman by the name of Jackson, from Marseilles, Kentucky, who had bought herself by washing and ironing of nights, after her mistress's work was done. During seven long years she did not allow herself to undress except to change. Her sleep was little naps over her ironing board. Seven years of night work brought the money that procured her freedom. She had a son and daughter nearly grow up, and to purchase their freedom she was now bending her day and night energies. Her first object was to purchase the son, as his wages would aid her to accumulate more readily the amount required for the daughter, as she had the promise of both of her children. But her economizing to purchase the son first for the sake of his help failed, as the master's indebtness compelled him to sell one of them, and market was found for the girl of sixteen. Nine hundred dollars was offered, and the distressed mother had but four hundred dollars to pay.

She had trusted in her Lord and Savior in all these years of toiling, and now must she see that daughter sold down the river? In her distress she went from house to house, to plead for a buyer who would advance the five hundred dollars, and take a mortgage on her until she could make it. At length she found a Baptist deacon who purchased her daughter, and she paid him the four hundred dollars. He was to keep her until the mortgage was redeemed by the mother, who was compelled to abandon her first project, and bend her energies toward making the five hundred dollars. After working very hard one year, she was able to pay but one hundred and fifty dollars to ward the mortgage, when her health began to fail. The deacon told her the money was coming too slowly, and that he could not wait longer than another year, before he would have to sell her to get his money back. "Weeping and prayer was my meat and drink day and night. Oh! must I see my poor chile' go after all my hope to save her?" A merchant in that town by whom she had been employed, told her he would give her a little secret advice, which was, to go to Louisville as she had done before, but not to stop there, but to go on to Cincinnati, and he would give her a good recommendation to his brother, Mr. Ketcham, who was a merchant and knew the abolitionists. They would aid her in raising the three hundred and fifty dollars; but she must not let it be known that he had advised her, or that she was going North. Mr. Ketcham introduced her to Levi Coffin and lawyer John Jolliffe, who gave her letters of introduction to friends at Oberlin, and other places, and by the time she was sent to me she had over two hundred dollars toward the release of the mortgage on the daughter. As her health was poor from constant overwork and troubles incident to slave life, to give her rest I took her papers, and while calling on the friends of humanity, did not slight some of my Democratic friends, some of whom had some years previously told me if I would go to work and purchase the slaves they would aid me.

Consequently I called on one who was living in splendor within his massive pile of brick, and reminded him of the promise he made me on a certain occasion. Now was his opportunity, as I was assisting a mother to purchase her daughter. I gave him the line through which I had received the best of endorsements as to her industrious and honest Christian character, and what the friends had done for her upon whom I had called, and but for her poor health would have brought her with me. After listening attentively to all my statements, he arose from his chair, walked nervously to and fro across his room, as if striving to his utmost to brace against sympathy, and said, "Mrs. Haviland, I'll not give a penny to any one who will steal slaves; for you might just as well come to my barn and steal my horse or wheat as to help slaves to Canada, out of the reach of their owners."

"Did I do right," I asked, "in rescuing that Hamilton family from the grasp of those Tennessee slave-holders?"

"If I had taken a family under my wing, of course, I should calculate to protect them."

"That is not the answer I call for. I want from you a direct reply; did I do right, or wrong, in that case? You remember all the circumstances."

"Oh, yes, I remember it well, and as I tell you, if I had undertaken to protect a family I should do it."

"I shall accept no prevarication whatever," said I; "I demand a square answer, and it is your duty to give it; did I do right or wrong in that case?"

He drew out his pocket-book, and emptied it in my lap. "There is hardly a dollar, and if I had more you should have it; of course you are right, and every sane man or woman knows it; but my political relations are such I wish you wouldn't say anything about it."

It is no new thing for politics to stand in the way of humanity. A few weeks later the glad mother returned and redeemed her daughter. I saw them together at Levi Coffin's, in Cincinnati, happy in their freedom.

Another woman was directed to me by William King, who, with Rev. C. C. Foote, had founded a colony a few miles from Chatham, Ontario, for fugitives from slavery. She managed to escape with seven children, and her husband's master offered him to her for six hundred dollars, two hundred dollars less than the market price. I went with her a few days, and received from the friends one hundred and thirteen dollars. Then the sight of one whom she recognized hastened her back to Canada, a proceeding which probably saved us the fate of the Oberlin or Wellington rescuers, who spent a few weeks in jail. A year after we heard the husband and father was with his family in Canada.

A few weeks elapsed when another woman from Cincinnati learned that her husband could be bought for a low figure because of a rheumatic difficulty. She had been freed three years previously, and by industry had accumulated three hundred dollars. She came well recommended by Levi Coffin and others. While making calls in her behalf in a store owned by a Democratic friend, upon presenting her claim to the proprietor and a few bystanders, a gentleman stepped into the door with, "I see you come to Democrats for aid."

"She knows her best friends," said our merchant.

"I slight no one," I answered. "I call upon my acquaintances regardless of politics.

"I will give you five dollars for every one you'll get from an abolitionist in this place," said the sparkling, black-eyed stranger.

At this quite a shout arose in the store.

"That speaks well for your abolition friends," was the ironical retort of another bystander.

"Who is that gentleman?" I inquired.

"Mr. Lyons, the banker on Main Street," was the reply.

"All right," I said, "I shall remember him." I stepped into Edwin
Comstock's and mentioned this proposition.

"Very well; I will give five dollars for the sake of twenty-five dollars from Mr. Lyons," and I placed that in my book. I next met Stephen Allen on the street and I told him Mr. Lyons's pledge.

"All right," he said; "I will give four dollars, and that takes all I have in my purse to-day; but I am glad to give it for the twenty dollars we are to get from Mr. Lyons."

I called upon Anson Backus with my report and he said: "Here is five dollars for the twenty-five from Mr. Lyons." I then stepped into the Lyons's bank. "This, I believe, is Mr. Lyons, the proprietor, who pledged a few minutes ago five dollars for every one dollar I would get from an abolitionist in this place." His face flushed in reading the names with the fives and four dollar bills in the book I handed him.

"There is no abolitionist's name here."

"Isn't Edwin Comstock an abolitionist?"

"No, he isn't."

"Isn't Stephen Allen an abolitionist?"

"No, he isn't?

"Isn't Anson Backus an abolitionist?"

"No, he isn't."

"Then I ask you to define an abolitionist, for I call these men as radical abolitionists as we have in our country."

"Well, they are not."

"Please define them that I may know who they are."

"They are those who go down South and steal slaves away from their owners and report that they whip men and women and sell husbands and wives apart, and separate children from their mothers, and all that sort of thing, when it's all an arrant black-hearted lie."

"Mr. Lyons, you know all these flat denials are substantial truths. As you say you have lived in the South, you know in your own heart that men and women are cruelly whipped, and that families are separated, and these cases of cruelty are neither few nor far between. I will tell you what I have done for a woman who was a slave in Kentucky when she came to me for advice in Cincinnati, as she had a daughter to be sold, and her mistress was going to sell the whole family down the river. She was permitted to do her mistress's marketing in Cincinnati because she had confidence that she would not leave her family. I advised her to put her husband and children in that market-wagon and cover them with hay and bring them to a certain place I designated, and she would be aided in her flight to Canada. She took the plan I suggested, and her whole remaining family, nine in number, found themselves free in Canada. Was that the work of an abolitionist?"

"No, it isn't."

"Then I know not where to find one, for I see I too am out of the catalogue."

While this conversation was in progress he took three dollars from his desk and handed it to me; but as much as ever, I stopped to thank him, and told him the worst wish I had for him was that he would repent of his wicked position before the hour of death overtook him, and that he might find peace and pardon for these Satanic assertions he had made. He sat quietly listening while I gave out my indignation without stint. "Hand me back that three dollars," and it was as freely returned as I received it. He put it back in his drawer, took out five dollars and handed it to me, and hardly took time to nod "I thank you" for finishing my speech, which was not in the least interrupted, even with the increased subscription.

Poor man, I pitied him, for it was more than a year before I could get another opportunity to speak to him. His clerk left the bank as soon as he commenced his tirade. Although it is unpleasant to meet with such spirits, yet I never flee from them. If my cause is owned by the author of the Higher Law, none of these things move me. A few months after this we received a letter from Mintie Berry, the anxious wife, for whom we succeeded in raising enough to reunite the long separated couple, saying that their happy reunion was the result of favors from their many friends, to whom they returned grateful thanks, while they praised the Lord for the blessing.

I received a letter, July 4, 1859, from poor Calvin Fairbanks. Eight long years of the fifteen he had suffered in a Kentucky penitentiary. How sad are these lines, containing some of his prison reflections! He says:

"Speak kindly, ye muses, my spirit inspire,
Breathe softly and sweetly, sweep gently my lyre;
There's gloom in my harp-string's low murmuring tone,
Speak kindly, speak gently, to me here alone.

My spirit all broken—no soul-cheering ray
To warm, and illumine my cold dreary way,
No kind and beloved ones of days that are gone—
There's no one to cheer me, I'm alone, all alone.

From friends fondly cherished I'm severed away,
From the hills where I laughed at the bright early day;
And the morning of life like an arrow is gone,
Like a shadow, a moment, and here I'm alone.

The guardians of childhood, like the bright early flower.
Have blossomed with fragrance, and are lost in an hour;
And the cycle that brought them has eddied and gone,
And left me behind them, alone, all alone.

How solemn and dreary, how somber with gloom,
Are my lonely reflections, of the cold silent tomb,
The abode of a father once fearless and bold,
Of a sister once lovely, now silent and cold;

Of a mother lamenting her lost, lonely son,
Awaiting awhile, but a day to be gone,
And to mingle with spirits of blest early love,
And to rest in the bosom of Jesus above.

The thought of these loved ones, now silent for aye,
Or lingering and trembling, and passing away.
Breathes sadness on nature, most cheerful and gay,
And traces these numbers—we're passing away.

But cease my complaining, we'll soon be at peace,
We'll rest from our labors, forever at ease;
There's rest for the weary and joy for our gloom,
For God is our refuge, in heaven our home.

Yes, earth with her pleasures, and all that we love,
We shall leave for the land of bright spirits above;
No blasting nor mildew, nor soul-blighting care,
No sorrow, no dying, no sin shall reign there."

The year 1861 opened full of excitement. Both North and South assumed threatening attitudes. Raisin Institute was affected by it; yet the work of the Lord prospered with us. Within three weeks fourteen of our students experienced the new spiritual life. But soon our ranks were broken. The seventy-five thousand men in arms called for at the first by President Lincoln were not sufficient to suppress the slave-holders' rebellion. Seventeen of our students enlisted for the bloody conflicts of civil war.

Our principal, F. M. Olcott, had purchased my institution, and I looked forward to a happy release of the $15,000 indebtedness that was resting over Raisin Institute. The room-rent was not sufficient to meet the interest and other incidental expenses, and the tuition fees were required to pay the teachers. This indebtedness rested upon my shoulders. But for the salutary influence it exerted in molding the characters of our youth, I should have failed.

The declining health of our dear brother F. M. Olcott brought increasing darkness over our future prospects, and the memorable battle of Bull Run increased the shock that startled the liberty lovers of our nation at the firing upon Fort Sumter. The cloud that hung over our nation also overshadowed our beloved institution. We closed this year with sad forebodings. Our beloved principal was fast hastening to his reward. He suggested a friend of his to fill his position the ensuing year, and died of consumption within six weeks of our vacation. He was a noble Christian man, and had endeared himself to all who enjoyed the privilege of his acquaintance. His loss was severely felt by his students, who enjoyed his faithful teaching, and especially by myself, as I had indulged the fond hope that he would become the efficient permanent principal.

The following year the institute opened with as fair prospects as could be expected, in charge of Edward A. Haight. Until the third year of the war our school was continued in successful operation. But during the last term of 1863-4, when the war had taken seventeen of our noble young men into the field, and the condition of our soldiers, daily reported as suffering and dying in camp and hospital, called for tender nursing, I offered myself for that work.

Leaving an excellent young woman as preceptress in my stead, I gathered from eighteen hundred to two thousand garments for freedmen, and hospital supplies for soldiers, and with papers from Austin Blair, governor of our State, from F. C. Beaman, member of Congress, and from others, I left my sweet home and the loved ones who still clustered around it. On my way to the depot I was met by Rev. P. Powell, who inquired how much money I had. "Fifteen dollars," was my answer.

"Why, Mother Haviland," he exclaimed, "you can never go with only that.
Stop a day or two, and I'll get up eighty or a hundred dollars for you."

"But I have arranged for all my supplies to go on today. There are three or four boxes waiting for me at Hillsdale, and I wrote them I would be there to-night. I have not asked for money, but for supplies. I have a free pass to Chicago and return, and if I can get a pass free to Cairo and return, I think I can get along, and perhaps lives may be in peril in the twenty-four hours I might be waiting here for money."

"Will you telegraph me if you do not succeed in getting the passes in
Chicago?"

"I will," I said, and went forward.

As I was taking leave of my son Joseph, and was about to enter the car, he held me by the hand, and said: "One promise I want you to make me, and make it so strong that your conscience will come in for a share; and that is, that you will stop, once in a while, to think whether you are tired or not. You are going among the suffering and dying, and I know you so well that you will go and go and do and do, until you will drop before you will think of yourself. If you will make me this promise I will feel a great deal better about you."

"Joseph," I said, "I will promise to do this," and we parted.

On visiting the sanitary rooms in Chicago I met Mrs. Hague, Mrs. Livermore, and others, who thought it very doubtful whether I could secure a fare free to Cairo, as President Arthur had shut down the gate on free, or even half-fare, passes. He had told them that associations might pay their agents enough to pay their fare. But I was under the auspices of no association. I was only a self-constituted agent, and I must try. Leaning on the arm of my guide, I went to President Arthur, and introduced myself by handing him my papers. On reading them he asked, rather sharply, "What do you want?"

"I am hoping to obtain a free pass to Cairo and return," I replied, "and free transportation for the supplies referred to in those papers."

"Are you alone, madam?"

"I am alone."

"Well, I think this is a heavy responsibility for a lady of your age. Are you aware of the responsibility you assume in this?" holding the paper up.

"I think I am aware of the responsibility. I do not know but the experience of age, however, may somewhat make up for the strength of youth."

"Well, I guess it will."

Settling himself back in his easy arm chair, he said again, "How long a time do you want it for?"

"I can not answer intelligently," I said, "I may wish to return for more supplies, within two or three months, and I can not say how long it will take to disburse these supplies judiciously."

"Very well," and he took my papers to his chief clerk, and soon brought me back passes, saying, "There are your passes, and they'll bring you back any time this year." He gave me also an order for free transportation. I left his office praising God for another victory.

I was met in the door of the sanitary rooms with "Did you succeed in getting a half-fare pass?"

"A free pass to Cairo and return," I said, "and free transportation for all my supplies from President Arthur."

The clerk clapped his hands, cheering: "You are a favored one; not one of us would have got that favor."

Not till then did they know of my leaving home with only fifteen dollars; yet it was sufficient.

A few hours more landed me in Cairo, where the wharf was lined with cannon, and piles of shells and balls. My first work was to find a soldiers' home, and visit hospitals. Oh, what scenes at once were presented to my view! Here were the groans of the wounded and dying soldiers. Some were praying—a few were swearing; and yet even these would patiently listen to reading the promises of Jesus and his loving invitations, and become calm.