This makeshift platform was not large, and men, women, and children were seated on the ground around it, pressing up against it, as close to the speaker as they could get. Directly in front of Miss Anthony sat a woman with a child about two years old--a little boy; and this infant, like every one else in the packed throng, was dripping with perspiration and suffering acutely under the blazing sun. Every woman present seemed to have brought children with her, doubtless because she could not leave them alone at home; and babies were crying and fretting on all sides. The infant nearest Miss Anthony fretted most strenuously; he was a sturdy little fellow with a fine pair of lungs, and he made it very difficult for her to lift her voice above his dismal clamor. Sud- d enly, however, he discovered her feet on the dry- g oods box, about on a level with his head. They were clad in black stockings and low shoes; they moved about oddly; they fascinated him. With a yelp of interest he grabbed for them and began pinching them to see what they were. His howls ceased; he was happy.
Miss Anthony was not. But it was a great relief to have the child quiet, so she bore the infliction of the pinching as long as she could. When endurance had found its limit she slipped back out of reach, and as his new plaything receded the boy uttered shrieks of disapproval. There was only one way to stop his noise; Miss Anthony brought her feet for- w ard again, and he resumed the pinching of her ankles, while his yelps subsided to contented mur- m urs. The performance was repeated half a dozen times. Each time the ankles retreated the baby yelled. Finally, for once at the end of her patience, ``Aunt Susan'' leaned forward and addressed the mother, whose facial expression throughout had shown a complete mental detachment from the situa- t ion.
``I think your little boy is hot and thirsty,'' she said, gently. ``If you would take him out of the crowd and give him a drink of water and unfasten his clothes, I am sure he would be more comfortable.''
Before she had finished speaking the woman had sprung to her feet and was facing her with fierce indignation.
``This is the first time I have ever been insulted as a mother,'' she cried; ``and by an old maid at that!'' Then she grasped the infant and left the scene, amid great confusion. The majority of those in the audience seemed to sympathize with her.
They had not seen the episode of the feet, and they thought Miss Anthony was complaining of the child's crying. Their children were crying, too, and they felt that they had all been criticized. Other women rose and followed the irate mother, and many men gallantly followed them. It seemed clear that motherhood had been outraged.
Miss Anthony was greatly depressed by the epi- s ode, and she was not comforted by a prediction one man made after the meeting.
``You've lost at least twenty votes by that little affair,'' he told her.
``Aunt Susan'' sighed. ``Well,'' she said, ``if those men knew how my ankles felt I would have won twenty votes by enduring the torture as long as I did.''
The next day we had a second meeting. Miss Anthony made her speech early in the evening, and by the time it was my turn to begin all the children in the audience--and there were many--were both tired and sleepy. At least half a dozen of them were crying, and I had to shout to make my voice heard above their uproar. Miss Anthony remarked afterward that there seemed to be a contest between me and the infants to see which of us could make more noise. The audience was plainly getting rest- l ess under the combined effect, and finally a man in the rear rose and added his voice to the tumult.
``Say, Miss Shaw,'' he yelled, ``don't you want these children put out?''
It was our chance to remove the sad impression of yesterday, and I grasped it.
``No, indeed,'' I yelled back. ``Nothing inspires me like the voice of a child!''
A handsome round of applause from mothers and fathers greeted this noble declaration, after which the blessed babies and I resumed our joint vocal efforts. When the speech was finished and we were alone together, Miss Anthony put her arm around my shoulder and drew me to her side.
``Well, Anna,'' she said, gratefully, ``you've cer- t ainly evened us up on motherhood this time.''
That South Dakota campaign was one of the most difficult we ever made. It extended over nine months; and it is impossible to describe the poverty which prevailed throughout the whole rural com- m unity of the State. There had been three con- s ecutive years of drought. The sand was like pow- d er, so deep that the wheels of the wagons in which we rode ``across country'' sank half-way to the hubs; and in the midst of this dry powder lay with- e red tangles that had once been grass. Every one had the forsaken, desperate look worn by the pioneer who has reached the limit of his endurance, and the great stretches of prairie roads showed innumerable canvas-covered wagons, drawn by starved horses, and followed by starved cows, on their way ``Back East.'' Our talks with the despairing drivers of these wagons are among my most tragic memories.
They had lost everything except what they had with them, and they were going East to leave ``the wom- a n'' with her father and try to find work. Usually, with a look of disgust at his wife, the man would say: ``I wanted to leave two years ago, but the woman kept saying, `Hold on a little longer.' ''
Both Miss Anthony and I gloried in the spirit of these pioneer women, and lost no opportunity to tell them so; for we realized what our nation owes to the patience and courage of such as they were.
We often asked them what was the hardest thing to bear in their pioneer life, and we usually received the same reply:
``To sit in our little adobe or sod houses at night and listen to the wolves howl over the graves of our babies. For the howl of the wolf is like the cry of a child from the grave.''
