s church, an effort was
made to have me join the choir. Mother first objected, because my
clothes were not good enough. Then an offer was made to clothe me
suitably and pay me something besides. And now father objected, because
he did not want me to listen to preaching of a sect other than that to
which he belonged. The incident set me to thinking, and finally drove
me, young as I was, into a more liberal faith, though I dared not openly
espouse it.

Another incident that occurred while I was working in the printing
office I have remembered vividly all these years. During the campaign of
1844, the Whigs held a gathering on the Tippecanoe battle ground. It
could hardly be called a convention; a better name for it would be a
political camp meeting. The people came in wagons, on horseback,
afoot--any way to get there--and camped, just as people used to do at
religious camp meetings.

The journeymen printers of the _Journal_ office planned to go in a
covered wagon, and they offered to make a place for the "devil" if his
parents would let him go along. This was speedily arranged with mother,
who always took charge of such matters. When the proposition came to
Noel's ears, he asked the men to print me some campaign songs. This they
did with a will, Wood running them off the press after the day's work
while I rolled the type for him.

My, wasn't I the proudest boy that ever walked the earth! Visions of a
pocketful of money haunted me almost day and night until we arrived on
the battle field. But lo and behold, nobody would pay any attention to
me! Bands were playing here and there; glee clubs would sing and march,
first on one side of the ground and then on the other; processions were
parading and crowds surging, making it necessary to look out lest one be
run over. Although the rain would pour down in torrents, the marching
and countermarching went on all the same and continued for a week.

An elderly journeyman printer named May, who in a way stood sponsor for
our party, told me that if I would get up on the fence and sing the
songs, the people would buy them. Sure enough, when I stood up and sang
the crowds came, and I sold every copy I had. I went home with eleven
dollars in my pocket, the richest boy on earth.

In the year 1845 a letter came from Grandfather Baker in Ohio to my
mother, saying that he would give her a thousand dollars with which to
buy a farm. The burning question with my father and mother was how to