High or low, rich or poor, we are the people of this God-given nation; we are also the arbiters of its fate.
“For sure as sin and suffering’s born We walk to fate abreast.” CLARA BARTON.
I am here at Galveston, my fingers are in the wound, and I assure you that the side was pierced and the nails did go through.
Despite all its woes and terrors, the memory of Galveston comes ever back to me with a gleam of pleasure for the hope in humanity, which it has kindled, and the noble characteristics of our country which it disclosed. CLARA BARTON.
In every instance the gratitude of the people has been the glad heritage of the Red Cross and its willing servers.
PEOPLE, LIKE JACK RABBITS—NO “SHOW-WOMAN”
In 1900 a devastating flood visited Galveston. Thousands of human lives were destroyed. For two miles back from the shore not a house remained standing. Only here and there on the barren sands were seen the wreckage of the storm-swept city. Suffering and death held sway in that city of once happy homes. Clara Barton, with a corps of able assistants, was there having come from Washington at the urgent solicitation of the authorities of the City of Galveston.
From overwork and nervous strain she had been taken ill. She was in bed at the Tremont Hotel. For three weeks her life hung in the balance. The writer, with a party of California tourists, happened to be in the city on his way east. He incidentally “dropped in” the hotel, only to learn of the serious condition of his friend. Fanny Ward was standing guard at the door of the sick room. Undaunted, the writer ventured to suggest: “I’d like to see Miss Barton.” “Well, sir, you can’t see Miss Barton.” “Why not?” “She is ill, and nobody is permitted to see her.” “But she is a friend of mine.” “That makes no difference. I have orders from her physician not to let _anybody_ go to her room. No one but the nurse has been permitted to enter this room for three weeks.” “Well, if that’s so, I don’t expect to see her, but kindly take in my card.” “No, I’ll not do that either.” “Well, it seems strange to me that I cannot at least send a card of sympathy to my friend.” “Oh, well, if you insist, I’ll take in your card, but it won’t do you any good.” “All right, I insist.”