In the near future I had reason to regret the ex- t ravagant expenditure of my first earnings. For my second year of teaching, in the same school, I w as to receive five dollars a week and to pay my own board. I selected a place two miles and a half from the school-house, and was promptly asked by my host to pay my board in advance. This, he ex- p lained, was due to no lack of faith in me; the money would enable him to go ``outside'' to work, leaving his family well supplied with provisions. I a llowed him to go to the school committee and col- l ect my board in advance, at the rate of three dol- l ars a week for the season. When I presented myself at my new boarding-place, however, two days later, I found the house nailed up and deserted; the man and his family had departed with my money, and I was left, as my committeemen sympathetically remarked, ``high and dry.'' There were only two dollars a week coming to me after that, so I walked back and forth between my home and my school, almost four miles, twice a day; and during this en- f orced exercise there was ample opportunity to re- f lect on the fleeting joy of riches.
In the mean time war had been declared. When the news came that Fort Sumter had been fired on, and that Lincoln had called for troops, our men were threshing. There was only one threshing- m achine in the region at that time, and it went from place to place, the farmers doing their thresh- i ng whenever they could get the machine. I re- m ember seeing a man ride up on horseback, shout- i ng out Lincoln's demand for troops and explaining that a regiment was being formed at Big Rapids.
Before he had finished speaking the men on the ma- c hine had leaped to the ground and rushed off to enlist, my brother Jack, who had recently joined us, among them. In ten minutes not one man was left in the field. A few months later my brother Tom enlisted as a bugler--he was a mere boy at the time-- a nd not long after that my father followed the example of his sons and served until the war was ended. He had entered on the twenty-ninth of August, 1862, as an army steward; he came back to us with the rank of lieutenant and assistant surgeon of field and staff.
Between those years I was the principal support of our family, and life became a strenuous and tragic affair. For months at a time we had no news from the front. The work in our community, if it was done at all, was done by despairing women whose hearts were with their men. When care had become our constant guest, Death entered our home as well.
My sister Eleanor had married, and died in childbirth, leaving her baby to me; and the blackest hours of those black years were the hours that saw her pass- i ng. I can see her still, lying in a stupor from which she roused herself at intervals to ask about her child.
She insisted that our brother Tom should name the baby, but Tom was fighting for his country, unless he had already preceded Eleanor through the wide portal that was opening before her. I could only tell her that I had written to him; but before the assurance was an hour old she would climb up from the gulf of unconsciousness with infinite effort to ask if we had received his reply. At last, to calm her, I told her it had come, and that Tom had chosen for her little son the name of Arthur. She smiled at this and drew a deep breath; then, still smiling, she passed away. Her baby slipped into her vacant place and almost filled our heavy hearts, but only for a short time; for within a few months after his mother's death his father married again and took him from me, and it seemed that with his going we had lost all that made life worth while.
The problem of living grew harder with every- d ay. We eked out our little income in every way we could, taking as boarders the workers in the log- g ing-camps, making quilts, which we sold, and losing no chance to earn a penny in any legitimate manner.
Again my mother did such outside sewing as she could secure, yet with every month of our effort the gulf between our income and our expenses grew wider, and the price of the bare necessities of exis- e nce{sic} climbed up and up. The largest amount I c ould earn at teaching was six dollars a week, and our school year included only two terms of thir- t een weeks each. It was an incessant struggle to keep our land, to pay our taxes, and to live. Cal- i co was selling at fifty cents a yard. Coffee was one dollar a pound. There were no men left to grind our corn, to get in our crops, or to care for our live stock; and all around us we saw our struggle reflected in the lives of our neighbors.
At long intervals word came to us of battles in which my father's regiment--the Tenth Michigan Cavalry Volunteers--or those of my brothers were engaged, and then longer intervals followed in which we heard no news. After Eleanor's death my brother Tom was wounded, and for months we lived in terror of worse tidings, but he finally recovered.
I was walking seven and eight miles a day, and doing extra work before and after school hours, and my health began to fail. Those were years I do not like to look back upon--years in which life had de- g enerated into a treadmill whose monotony was broken only by the grim messages from the front.
My sister Mary married and went to Big Rapids to live. I had no time to dream my dream, but the star of my one purpose still glowed in my dark horizon.
It seemed that nothing short of a miracle could lift my feet from their plodding way and set them on the wider path toward which my eyes were turned, but I never lost faith that in some manner the miracle would come to pass. As certainly as I have ever known anything, I KNEW that I was going to college!
