CHAPTER II.

The time I am writing about was in the early forties.

The country had not recovered from the financial crash of thirty-seven. Many families who had been accustomed to the comforts of life were reduced to poverty, Merchants were frequently sold out by the sheriff, and many distressing things happened. I was too young and full of hope and buoyant spirits to comprehend or be much worried over the state things were in, and another reason was, I had never been used to anything like affluence. But I had what I think now was better than wealth-I had health and energy and an intense desire to be educated. I had great reverence for scholars and, people who knew things. I was not afraid of anything but disgrace., My people were of Quaker stock who believed in justice. In my childhood I was taught that nothing was disgraceful but actual meanness in one's self. Opportunities for acquiring an education were poor, especially for poor people, though the poor were not very poor nor the rich very rich in Indiana fifty-seven years ago. The rich could send their daughters away off to, boarding-school, but the poor had to do as best they could. I never had the benefit of a public or free school. Not many years after the time of which I am writing many of the young people used to know in Indiana were sent to Earlham, but when I left they were just talking about building Friends Boarding School, which was afterward called Earlham. But now from Maine to California and from the great lakes to the Gulf of Mexico can be found persons who at some time in their lives have been students at Earlham.

In 1839 the citizens of the little town not far from where I lived built what was thought to be a very imposing structure-brick and two stories high. It was adorned with a portico with immense doric columns, reaching from floor to roof. The first story was used as town hall and public assembly room, for almost any kind of meeting-literary, political or religious. The upper story was one great big school-room; this edifice was called a "Seminary." As soon as the Seminary was completed a gentleman by the name of Samuel K. Hoshour opened a school in that upper room. Mr. Hoshour's fame as a teacher had reached our ears before he came. He taught all branches usually taught in that day, and many which were not usually taught in that region. His teaching ranged from the Third Reader to Higher Mathematics, Latin, Greek, French and German. I never heard anyone say that he was not master of all: I was wild to go to that school. I lived a little too far away to walk, and to hire my board in town was out of the question. Tuition alone was $1.50 term, and that seemed an immense sum. A dollar then was as hard to raise as twenty is now, much as people talk about hard times in this year of our Lord 1898.

It was finally agreed upon among us to have me work for my board in some family, if one could be found near the school who was willing to take me in. I was less than fifteen years old, but was healthy and strong and willing to do any kind of drudgery to pay my way if I could only have the privilege of going to that school. I found a family willing to board me for the amount of work I could do mornings and evenings, Saturdays and Sundays. This family lived only three blocks from the school. They were very respectable and proper people, but not much given to parting with their worldly possessions without receiving full compensation for the same. I was given a comfortable bed and good food, for which I thought then, and have thought ever since, I fully compensated them. I washed the dishes after every meal, did the washing and ironing, fed and milked the cow, carried the milk down cellar and carried it up again. I did all the scrubbing and carried the water up a long flight of steps. Besides the things I have named, I performed fully half the labor in making thirty yards of rag carpet. I never had the nerve to attempt to carry my books home and study in the evening, for the carpet rags were always awaiting my attention when the supper dishes were disposed of. The lady was an excellent housekeeper, and everything had to be done at the proper time. How I did want to study my lessons in the evening, but she managed me so adroitly I never dared by word or hint to suggest the thought. The family retired regularly at half-past nine o'clock. I would have been glad to have had the privilege of studying my lessons after the work was done, but the fire was covered up, and to have burned a candle after that hour was an extravagance not permitted in that house.

I would carry my books and slate home, on Friday evenings and study as much as I could on Sunday; but sometimes I wanted to see my mother and little brothers so much that I would take the "near cut" and walk home on Sunday. I say "walk," but it was run a good deal of the way. This "near cut" was through fields and woods and meadows, and necessitated climbing many, staked, and ridered fences. I didn't mind that, for I never knew in those days what it was to be tired.

I can see: even now, how pleased my mother looked when I came flying in; how interested she was in everything I had to tell. I would tell her how well I was getting on in school, keeping up with my classes, and what a wonderful man Mr. Hoshour was, and the many things he told us about which I had never heard spoken of in a school before. And then I would tell her how well I was getting on with the housework at Mr. Nero's; they treated me kindly and found no fault with my work.

Once she said 'to me: "Child, thee studies at night, don't thee?"

I said: "No, we are making a rag carpet, and work at that of nights."

I remember well the look of pain which came in her face. She sat a little while without saying anything; then with a look of tender sympathy she only said, "well, child, do the best thee can, and thee will come out all right."

How fast those Sunday afternoons would fly, and how soon the time would come when I would know I must hurry back to milk the cow.

Some of our neighbors found fault with me- said I was selfish. They said I ought to stay at home and help my mother instead of fooling my time away at school. I remember one woman in particular who took it upon herself to give me a piece of her mind on the subject. Having gone to her house one day on an errand, I found her in the yard vigorously stirring something in a large iron kettle hanging over a fire which was sending out huge volumes of smoke seemingly in every direction. As I drew near I saw that "Melinda" (as we called her) was making soap, and that vigorous stirring was to prevent its boiling over. Melinda didn't see me until I was at her side, for her face was hidden in the depths of a long slat sun-bonnet. When she looked up her eyes were red and streaming with tears, from the effects of that "contrary fire," as Melinda called it. She didn't stop to say "how de do," but in a sharp tone sang out:

"Take that gourd and bring me some lye, quick!"

I didn't lose any time in snatching up that big crooked-handled gourd and flying to the ash-hopper and dipping up about two quarts of lye and handing it to Melinda. She seized and dashed the whole of it into that boiling soap, which immediately settled down to more gentle motions, when Melinda remarked, "I believe this soap's done, and you take hold and help me lift it off. " I did as she desired, but as soon as the kettle was safely deposited on the ground Melinda began a tirade which I have not forgotten, although it has been nearly sixty years ago. Melinda was one of those persons who believed in saying just what they thought, regardless of anybody's feelings. She had the reputation of being able to accomplish more work in a given time than any woman in the neighborhood, She spun and wove the cloth for all the winter clothing for her family, the flax and tow for all the sheets, tablecloths and towels they used. She tended the garden herself and raised hundreds of chickens. She enjoyed the distinction of having the first peas, new potatoes and fried chicken of anybody in the neighborhood. She didn't pay much attention to raising flowers, but gourds were a specialty with her. Every Summer, gourds of all sizes and lengths of handle could be seen growing on vines trained over her garden fence. Melinda would divide her gourds with her less thrifty neighbors. I think she even delighted in being generous in that respect, but at the same time would snap out the remark: "If you was any account you could raise 'em yourself."

I used to think Melinda could make gourds serve more purposes than any woman I ever saw. She used one enormous gourd for holding salt, another for soap, another for storing away her garden seeds; a beautiful long-handled, clean gourd which would hold about a quart was always be seen in the water bucket, and another like it was always hanging at the spring, and one of convenient size for dipping lye when she made soap; which brings me back to what I was going to tell about the lecture Melinda gave me. She never stopped her work when a neighbor called, but went right on with anything she happened to be doing. Work never interfered with her talking. As soon as the soap settled down and stopped boiling, she took up a gourd and commenced dipping it out and pouring it into a barrel. At the same time she commenced talking to me in this wise:

"See, here, my girl! They say you are going to town and go to school in that big, Seminary, where a lot of proud, lazy, stuck-up boys and girls are trying to get smarter than their parents. I thought you had more sense than to fool your time away going to school. You had better stay at home and help your mother spin and weave, for I would like to know what good it is going to do you or any other girl to study all the nonsense I hear they do in that school. "

"You can read your Bible, can't you?" "You can read writing, can't you?" "You can write a letter can't you?" "What more do you want?"

"I think you ought to be ashamed to go away and leave all the work for your mother to do. "

If I had been disposed to answer her questions I could not have found an opportunity, she plied them in such haste. And then, she didn't expect a reply.

Melinda's scoring didn't effect me one way or the other, not even to make me angry. The neighbors used to say: "Melinda's bark is worse than her bite."

I kept watching the soap-dipping, and wondering if she would stop talking when she stopped dipping. She did stop long enough to take a breath after straightening up from her work, but just then the baby, that had been asleep in his cradle in the house, began to scream.

That seemed-to suggest another idea, which was a clincher to her other arguments, so she broke out again and her last thrust was:

"Now, I'd like to know what good geography and grammar is going to do you when you get married and have a lot of children to take care of."

I couldn't think of anything else to say, so I replied, "if that should ever happen I might be able to teach my children."

When I was ready to leave, Melinda gave me a handsome straight-handled gourd to take to my mother.

Melinda was something of a "Mrs. Poyser." "One of those women as is better than their word." And as Bartle Massey remarked, "Sound at the core, but sets one's teeth on edge."