"Ever cordially yours,
"Annie C. L. Botta."
It had been suggested that the committee which had exhibited so much ability should not disband, but remain as a permanent organization for the relief of sudden national disaster. I had wished to see Mrs. Botta at the head of this committee.
We finally, to our regret ever since, elected to disband. When I rendered my report and bade my dear co-workers adieu, I told them some pleasant truths. Every banner and every blossom had been given us. The American District Telegraph Company had made no charge for service—messengers sent me daily to await orders.
The press had been very generous to us. For advertising our entertainments, all charges were remitted by the Tribune, Herald, Sun, and other papers. The editors of sixteen New York papers gave us unstinted praise and encouragement. If they perceived cause for criticism, they withheld it. They helped us in every way, and rejoiced our hearts by the sweet reward of approbation. They said that we were "a band of self-denying and gifted women, who add another to the roll of gracious achievements which do honor to piety and womanhood."
We could not follow our work in the little towns of Florida, by the cot of the poor negro or the home of the widow and orphan and destitute. It should be enough for us to know that through us some cooling influence reached their fevered brows, that suitable food and clothing was found for them, that their hearts were cheered in a dark hour by perceiving that they were not forgotten or friendless. We were told that our alms for the orphans were in response to the dying prayers of mothers (a little band of New York children elected to become the guardian angels of one of these hapless orphans), and we learned that our gift to the Catholic sisters was larger than any they received from any other source. We were assured that comfort was restored, pure conduits for water constructed, and good food and clothing provided for the Protestant orphans. We reopened the hospital, needed more than ever in Jacksonville, and about to be closed for want of money. All this was much reward, and we could add to it our own grateful consciousness of having done a noble and worthy deed.
I shall ever feel the deepest gratitude for my support in this charity; for the gift of beloved and honored names,—names never withheld from a noble cause,—for generous forbearance towards myself, and for many words of approbation and encouragement. My heart is full of gratitude, and full also of all "good wishes, praise, and prayers" for the noble band of players who made the great work possible.
"The little band" of children who elected to become the guardians of one orphan was the Morning-side Club, their president a very lovely little girl—Renée Coudert.
CHAPTER XLII
In the autumn of 1900 a strange disaster befell the beautiful city of Galveston. A mighty wave lifted its crest far out at sea and marched straight on until it engulfed the city. It all happened suddenly, in a night. Thousands of men, women, and children perished. Hundreds of babies were born that night, and picked up alive, floating on the little mattresses to which drowning mothers had consigned them. The Catholic sisters and their orphan charges all perished. The Protestant Orphan Asylum, on higher ground, had been built around its first room, and in this central chamber the children were gathered, and spent the night in singing their little hymns. The outer rooms received the shock of the waves, but this small sanctuary remained intact. For many days after the waters subsided, children were found wandering in the streets—some did not know their own names, others anxiously questioned the passer-by—"Where is my mother? Have you found my papa yet?"
The country rushed to the rescue, not to save—it was too late—but to succor the homeless, relieve the destitute.