A few evenings later Miss Anthony attended a meeting held in Rochester by the Cuban League. As soon as she entered she was invited to a seat on the stage and then the audience insisted on a speech. Finally she came forward and said:

From the report of the first outrage in Cuba down to the present time, there has not been a moment but that its people have had my sympathy. Never since I began to know the meaning of the word "freedom" has anything taken a stronger hold on me than this struggle in Cuba. Even where all men are free, women are not, and I trust that when Cuban men achieve their independence and frame their constitution, they will not forget the women who have borne the struggle with them, as our Revolutionary fathers forgot the women who toiled by their side. The men of only four out of forty-five States of our republic have yet granted liberty to the women. I never can speak in a meeting like this without bearing testimony to the cowardice of the men of this nation in refusing to make the women free. I believe in liberty and equality for every human being under every flag, not for men alone but for women also.

The last of February a telegram announced the death of Maude, wife of Senator L. H. Humphrey, who but a few weeks before had visited the Anthony home, and stated that the husband desired Miss Anthony to speak at the funeral. She was a young and lovely wife and mother, treasurer of the State Federation of Clubs and an officer of the State and county suffrage associations. It was said that Miss Anthony spoke as one inspired of the woman in whose death everything good had lost a helpful hand, who had gone out of life with no fear for herself but only loving thoughtfulness for others. She told of her courage in following the truth wherever it might lead, of the freedom into which she had grown, and the beautiful faith and trust in which she had lived; she said that it was such who walked with God, and that her spiritual life could be comprehended only by those who lived on the same high plane. It was a deep regret to all who heard this exquisite eulogy that it was not preserved word for word.

Reference has been made in a preceding chapter to Miss Anthony's preparations for the writing of her biography, which were interrupted by the urgent call from California. All her letters from friends and many from strangers, for several years, had urged that it should not longer be deferred. But who should do it? That was the important question. There were a number of women who possessed the ability and the desire, but some were absorbed in family cares and others in breadwinning occupations; where was the one who could and would give a year or more of her life to this vast undertaking? The question was still unanswered when Miss Anthony laid everything else aside and plunged into the California campaign. Long before this had ended, she had exacted a promise from Mrs. Harper, who had charge of the State press during that long and trying period, to come to Rochester and write the biography. She herself agreed to remain at home till the work should be finished, and give every possible assistance from the storehouse of reminiscence and the wealth of material which had been so carefully garnered during all the years.

So the first of March, 1897, the work began. A little while before, Miss Anthony had written to a friend: "Some one soon will write the story of my life and will want everything she can get about me, but she will find there is precious little when she sits down to the task." What the biographer did find was two large rooms filled, from floor to ceiling, with material of a personal and historical nature. It seemed at first as if nothing less than a cyclopedia could contain what would have to be used. Ranged around the walls were trunks, boxes and bags of letters and other documents, dating back for a century and tied in bundles just as they had been put away from year to year. There were piles of legal papers, accounts, receipts and memoranda of every description, and the diaries and note-books of sixty years. The shelves were filled with congressional, convention and other reports; there were stacks of magazines and newspapers, large numbers of scrap-books and bushels of scraps waiting to be pasted. There was, in fact, everything of this nature which can be imagined, all carefully saved and put away, waiting for the leisure when they could be sorted and classified.

It was fortunate indeed that the two women, who went to work so cheerfully on that March morning, did not realize the task which was before them, or their courage might have wavered. With the assistance of their efficient secretary, Miss Genevieve Lel Hawley, the work went steadily on from daylight till dark for many days, until at length the sheep all were separated from the goats; the matter likely to be used placed in one room, and the remainder arranged conveniently for reference in the other. Every scrap of writing was pressed out and each year's quota not only placed in a separate box, but arranged according to months and days. The printed matter was carefully classified and the scrap-books all finished, a complete set of nearly fifty years.

Then commenced the far more difficult labor of culling the most important and interesting points from this great mass of material, and condensing them into such space as would permit the reading of the biography during at least an average lifetime. And thus was the task continued, day after day, and far into the night, for much more than a year. The snows of winter melted away; the bare branches of the tall chestnut trees which towered above the windows put forth their buds and burst into a wilderness of snowy blossoms; the birds built their nests among the green leaves, reared their young and flew away with them to warmer climes before the chill winds of approaching autumn; the luxuriant foliage faded and dropped to the earth; again the naked branches stretched out to a stormy sky, and the snow lay deep on the frozen ground; while the story followed the life and work of this great historic character through the slow unfolding out of the depths of the past; the development from the springtime of youth into the fruitful summer of maturity; the mellowing into the richness and beauty of autumn; the coming at last into the snowy spotlessness of serene and beautiful old age.

The attic workrooms were an ideal place for this long and exacting task, secluded from all interruption and dedicated so entirely to the work that not a book or paper ever was disturbed. A pretty description written by Mrs. Minette Cheshire Hair, of the Rochester Democrat and Chronicle staff, and published in a number of papers, thus began:

ATTIC WORK-ROOMS WHERE THE BIOGRAPHY WAS WRITTEN.