I spoke of this to Cousin Dempster, and, says he:
"This makes no difference in the world. Take all you can from the Government. That is high patriotism."
I shook my head.
"Cousin," says I, "it kind of seems to me that this special train is a sort of a trap. How can I, a free-born Vermonter—national in some respects, and brimming over with first-class patriotism, but Vermont to the back-bone—first and foremost, lead off a party like this, one car choke full of Mr. Grant's cabinet people. Now, if Mr. Greeley and Mr. Grant should rile up against each other—which I hope they won't—don't you see that I am in an awful mixed position?—the National Government on one side with that stupendous soldier at the head, and that great white-hatted Vermonter on the other?"
"That is, you want to be neutral," says Dempster.
"Well, yes—kind of neutral," says I, "and a little for both."
"Not exactly on the fence, but cautious," says he; "keep your boat in harbor till the tide rises and the wind blows, then hoist sail and catch up with the old craft that has been tugging on in shallow water?"
"No," says I, feeling the old Puritan blood beginning to boil up. "That may answer for some people, but not for me. An idea has just struck me; a woman's political ideas should be suggested, not proclaimed."
Without speaking another word, I put on my things, went right down to Pennsylvania Avenue, and bought a soft white hat, a little broad in the brim, which I turned up on one side. Then I went into a milliner's store, carrying it in my hand, and made a woman curl a long white feather over the crown, which gave the whole affair a touch of the beehive, stamping it with beautiful femininity.
With this hat on my head, and a double-breasted white jacket over my black alpaca, I took my honored place in the cars that day.