memories as of beauty.

To the surprise of my neighbors, I built my house with its back toward
the public road, facing the valley and the stream. "But you will never
see anybody go by," they protested. I answered that the one person in
the house who was necessarily interested in passers-by was my maid, and
she could see them perfectly from the kitchen, which faced the road.
I enjoy my views from the broad veranda that overlooks the valley, the
stream, and the country for miles around.

Every suffragist I have ever met has been a lover of home; and only the
conviction that she is fighting for her home, her children, for other
women, or for all of these, has sustained her in her public work.
Looking back on many campaign experiences, I am forced to admit that it
is not always the privations we endure which make us think most tenderly
of home. Often we are more overcome by the attentions of well-meaning
friends. As an example of this I recall an incident of one Oregon
campaign. I was to speak in a small city in the southern part of the
state, and on reaching the station, hot, tired, and covered with the
grime of a midsummer journey, I found awaiting me a delegation of
citizens, a brass-band, and a white carriage drawn by a pair of
beautiful white horses. In this carriage, and devotedly escorted by the
citizens and the band, the latter playing its hardest, I was driven
to the City Hall and there met by the mayor, who delivered an address,
after which I was crowned with a laurel wreath. Subsequently, with this
wreath still resting upon my perspiring brow, I was again driven through
the streets of the city; and if ever a woman felt that her place was in
the home and longed to be in her place, I felt it that day.

An almost equally trying occasion had San Francisco for its setting. The
city had arranged a Fourth of July celebration, at which Miss Anthony
and I were to speak. Here we rode in a carriage decorated with
flowers--yellow roses--while just in front of us was the mayor in a
carriage gorgeously festooned with purple blossoms. Behind us, for more
than a mile, stretched a procession of uniformed policemen, soldiers,
and citizens, while the sidewalks were lined with men and women whose
enthusiastic greetings came to Miss Anthony from every side. She was
enchanted over the whole experience, for to her it meant, as always, not
a personal tribute, but a triumph of the Cause. But I sat by her side
acutely miserable; for acr