n the road to somewhere.

Jessie was the obstructionist. She was both scared and resentful. She
had no desire to go to school in Osage. She wanted to stay where she
was. Mother needed her,--and besides she didn't have any decent clothes
to wear.

Ultimately I overcame all her scruples, and by promising her a visit to
the great city of Minneapolis (with the privilege of returning if she
didn't like the school) I finally got her to start with me. Poor, little
scared sister, I only half realized the agony of mind through which you
passed as we rode away into the Minnesota prairies!

The farther she got from home the shabbier her gown seemed and the more
impossible her coat and hat. At last, as we were leaving Minneapolis on
our way to Osage she leaned her tired head against me and sobbed out a
wild wish to go home.

Her grief almost wrecked my own self-control but I soothed her as best I
could by telling her that she would soon be among old friends and that
she couldn't turn back now. "Go on and make a little visit anyway," I
added. "It's only a few hours from Ordway and you can go home at any
time."

She grew more cheerful as we entered familiar scenes, and one of the
girls she had known when a child took charge of her, leaving me free to
play the part of distinguished citizen.

The last day of the races was in action when I, with a certain amount of
justifiable pride, rode through the gate (the old familiar sagging gate)
seated beside the President of the Association. I wish I could believe
that as "Speaker of the Day," I filled the sons of my neighbors with
some small part of the awe with which the speakers of other days filled
me, and if I assumed something of the polite condescension with which
all public personages carry off such an entrance, I trust it will be
forgiven me.

The event, even to me, was more inspiring in anticipation than in
fulfillment, for when I rose to speak in the band-stand the wind was
blowing hard, and other and less intellectual attractions were in full
tide. My audience remained distressingly small--and calm. I have a dim
recollection of howling into the face of the equatorical current certain
disconnected sentences concerning my reform theory, and of seeing on the
familiar faces of David Babcock, John Gammons and others of my bronzed
and bent old neighbors a mild wonder as to what I was talking about.

On the whole I considered it a defeat. In the evening I spoke in the
Opera House