As the company ran an open car all winter， I took my daily ride of nine miles in it for fifteen cents. My son Daniel， who escorted me， always sat inside the car， while I remained on an outside seat. He was greatly amused with the remarks he heard about that "queer old lady that always rode outside in all kinds of wintry weather." One day someone remarked loud enough for all to hear： "It is evident that woman does not know enough to come in when it rains." "Bless me！" said the conductor， who knew me， "that woman knows as much as the Queen of England； too much to come in here by a hot stove." How little we understand the comparative position of those whom we often criticise. There I sat enjoying the bracing air， the pure fresh breezes， indifferent to the fate of an old cloak and hood that had crossed the Atlantic and been saturated with salt water many times， pitying the women inside breathing air laden with microbes that dozens of people had been throwing off from time to time， sacrificing themselves to their stylish bonnets， cloaks， and dresses， suffering with the heat of the red-hot stove； and yet they， in turn， pitying me.
My seventy-third birthday I spent with my son Gerrit Smith Stanton， on his farm near Portsmouth， Iowa. As we had not met in several years， it took us a long time， in the network of life， to pick up all the stitches that had dropped since we parted. I amused myself darning stockings and drawing plans for an addition to his house. But in the spring my son and his wife came to the conclusion that they had had enough of the solitude of farm life and turned their faces eastward.
Soon after my return to Omaha， the editor of the Woman's Tribune， Mrs. Clara B. Colby， called and lunched with us one day. She announced the coming State convention， at which I was expected "to make the best speech of my life." She had all the arrangements to make， and invited me to drive round with her， in order that she might talk by the way. She engaged the Opera House， made arrangements at the Paxton House for a reception， called on all her faithful coadjutors to arouse enthusiasm in the work， and climbed up to the sanctums of the editors，朌emocratic and Republican alike，朼sking them to advertise the convention and to say a kind word for our oppressed class in our struggle for emancipation. They all promised favorable notices and comments， and they kept their promises. Mrs. Colby， being president of the Nebraska Suffrage Association， opened the meeting with an able speech， and presided throughout with tact and dignity.
I came very near meeting with an unfortunate experience at this convention.
The lady who escorted me in her carriage to the Opera House carried the manuscript of my speech， which I did not miss until it was nearly time to speak， when I told a lady who sat by my side that our friend had forgotten to give me my manuscript. She went at once to her and asked for it. She remembered taking it， but what she had done with it she did not know. It was suggested that she might have dropped it in alighting from the carriage.
And lo！ they found it lying in the gutter. As the ground was frozen hard it was not even soiled. When I learned of my narrow escape， I trembled， for I had not prepared any train of thought for extemporaneous use. I should have been obliged to talk when my turn came， and if inspired by the audience or the good angels， might have done well， or might have failed utterly.
The moral of this episode is， hold on to your manuscript.
Owing to the illness of my son-in-law， Frank E. Lawrence， he and my daughter went to California to see if the balmy air of San Diego would restore his health， and so we gave up housekeeping in Omaha， and， on April 20， 1889， in company with my eldest son I returned East and spent the summer at Hempstead， Long island， with my son Gerrit and his wife.
We found Hempstead a quiet， old Dutch town， undisturbed by progressive ideas. Here I made the acquaintance of Chauncey C. Parsons and wife， formerly of Boston， who were liberal in their ideas on most questions. Mrs. Parsons and I attended one of the Seidl club meetings at Coney Island， where Seidl was then giving some popular concerts. The club was composed of two hundred women， to whom I spoke for an hour in the dining room of the hotel. With the magnificent ocean views， the grand concerts， and the beautiful women， I passed two very charming days by the seaside.
My son Henry had given me a phaeton， low and easy as a cradle， and I enjoyed many drives about Long Island. We went to Bryant's home on the north side， several times， and in imagination I saw the old poet in the various shady nooks， inditing his lines of love and praise of nature in all her varying moods. Walking among the many colored， rustling leaves in the dark days of November， I could easily enter into his thought as he penned these lines：
"The melancholy days are come， the saddest of the year， Of wailing winds， and naked woods， and meadows brown and sear， Heaped in the hollows of the grove， the autumn leaves lie dead； They rustle to the eddying gust， and to the rabbit's tread."
