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Authors: Carole Estby Dagg

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At first I thought she was sorry for me, and then I wondered—was it possible that that was how she ended up with Pa? That he proposed, and although he was not a kindred spirit, he was so kind and earnest that she couldn't find a way to refuse him?

I'd sit down and write that letter now. No—I'd write two letters; one to Erick, and one to Ida to make sure the message came across.

Dear Erick,

Before we left, you honored me with your proposal. After six months' consideration, I have concluded that the best answer for both of our sakes is no. I'm sorry to have to convey this personal decision by letter, but did not think it kind to make you wait until my mother and I returned for my answer. I wish you all the best; you deserve it.

Sincerely,
Clara

Dear Ida,

I have just written Erick with my refusal of his proposal. I do not flatter myself to think he will mourn for me for long, but it would ease my conscience if you could cheer him up if it looks like he needs it.

Your fond sister,
Clara

In my resolve to write to Erick, I had almost forgotten the letter I had from Mr. Doré.

Salt Lake City

Dear Miss Estby,

Thank you for your letter describing your meeting with Mrs. Bryan. I used your description of the Bryans' house and quotations from Mrs. Bryan for an article in the
Deseret Evening News
(crediting you as my source), and relayed to our readers your news that you had safely crossed Nebraska. Perhaps you could become a freelance reporter, although I should warn you not many people are able to support themselves that way.

Miss Fleming claims she should be quite jealous of you, since I have gone to some effort to do something on your behalf, which I hope will have a salutary outcome. I have assured her that I am only doing it to ensure your willingness to speak to her class. You will, won't you?

Very truly yours,
Charles Doré

P.S. Be prepared for a possible surprise in your mail in Pittsburgh or New York.

CHAPTER 24
OHIO: WE MEET THE NEXT PRESIDENT
Thursday, November 26–Day 205 Big Prairie, Ohio

T
ODAY
was my eighteenth birthday. Ma made no mention of it, so I didn't, either.

December 1, 1896

Dear Bertha and Ida,

When I get home, you can shake the hand that shook the hand of the next president of the United States! Canton was still celebrating when we arrived last Sunday. Red, white, and blue buntings draped from the buildings all along Tuscarawas Street. It looked like the Fourth of July except for the snow on the ground. Campaigning from home may have saved Mrs. McKinley's health, but it took a toll on their house. The porch steps had
valleys worn in them from the thousands of people a day tromping up to see McKinley during his campaign.

I didn't know if the McKinleys would still be home to visitors, but I tried the line Ma had used with Mrs. Bryan: "My mother and I have walked three thousand miles from Spokane, Washington, to shake the next president's hand" The butler let us in.

As we entered, McKinley stood and crossed the room to us. Ma and I each gave a hint of a curtsey as we shook his hand. Mrs. McKinley sat crocheting in a small, elaborately carved rocker to the right of the parlor's bay window. She nodded toward two small damask chairs behind us.

It was so dim in the room that I wondered why Mrs. McKinley didn't light the double-globe gas lamp on the table beside her, but she explained that the light aggravated her headache. Besides, she didn't need any light to crochet by. She had crocheted so many slippers since phlebitis confined her to a chair that she could crochet them with her eyes shut.

You've seen his pictures in the newspaper: thin hair, bushy eyebrows, cleft chin, smooth-shaven. The only surprises were that he was little taller than I am (though larger in girth) and he looked younger than his pictures. He wore a frock coat, striped trousers, white pique waistcoat, gold watch, wing collar, and black silk tie, which Mrs. McKinley had made for him.

During our replies he often looked over at his wife, to see her response to us and affirm that she was not discommoded by our visit. His regard was so tender, so solicitous in every respect, I could see that reports of his devotion to her were not exaggerated.

Mrs. McKinley had cropped her wavy auburn hair to nape length and wore it parted severely in the middle and tucked
behind her ears. She said she had cut her hair to reduce headaches from the weight of it, but I would be tempted to cut my own hair to make it easier to wash. Her dress was pale blue silk, and she wore a small diamond brooch at her throat. The rose-patterned wallpaper was similar to the paper in our bedroom at home.

Ma told Major McKinley he could make his place in history by supporting a constitutional amendment giving the vote to women, and I got out the Mayor Belt letter she'd been collecting signatures on so she could add McKinley's autograph.

As you may have guessed, the enclosed crocheted slippers are from the hand of the next first lady. Ma and I could not imagine putting our rough feet into such dainty, be-ribboned creations, so we are sending the slippers home so you two can be "ladies" instead.

I miss you both, and hope to see you all by Christmas.

Love, Clara

Dear Mr. Doré,

You may report that after crossing all of Indiana and over half of Ohio in two weeks, the two women walkers met President-Elect McKinley and his wife at their home in Canton, Ohio, on November 29. I am sorry to disappoint you in your prediction that I could become a freelance reporter. When I came into the presence of the next president of the United States, the details of my readings on tariffs fled my mind and I asked but the most simple-minded questions. In fact, we talked more about our trip
than his plans for this country. I shall have to think of another occupation, for Nellie Bly has no competition in me.

Sincerely,
Miss Clara Estby

P.S. Did your mysterious venture have its intended "salutary outcome"?

P.P.S. You may tell Miss Ernestine Fleming that I will be happy to visit her class if we pass through Salt Lake City on our way home. C.E.

Of course I had no doubt that I could convince Ma to take a route far north or south of Salt Lake City on the way home. There was no reason to waste a train trip home going over the same ground we had covered on foot.

To: Miss A. J. Waterson, 95 William Street,
New York City, New York

From: Helga and Clara Estby

Monthly report # 7: Ambridge, Pennsylvania

Miles covered, November 5–December 5: 492

Notes: We called on President-Elect McKinley at his home in Canton.

CHAPTER 25
A LATE BIRTHDAY
December 6, 1896–Day 215 Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

M
A WAS
as worried about my brother Olaf as she was about making it to New York by December 16. She was sure he had died in the sanatorium without her. He never would have contracted diphtheria if she and I had been home to help with harvest and he hadn't worked so hard. She shouldn't have named him Olaf; that name was too close to baby Ole, and he had died young so Olaf was going to die young, too. It was my fault; why hadn't I talked her out of this trip? It wasn't her fault; if the railroads and the banks didn't take advantage of hard-working farmers, we would not be about to lose the farm. It was her fault; if she hadn't insisted Pa build a house right away with borrowed money, we would not have been in debt. It was Pa's fault; if he had not hurt his back he could have earned more money carpentering last winter and we could have paid a little something on the taxes and mortgage.

Since we shared a bed or pallet every night, when she didn't sleep, I didn't, either. She poked me awake at two a.m., three-thirty a.m., and five a.m. to repeat her litany of fears for Olaf's health and blame for our circumstances. For three nights I was patient, but my ankle still throbbed and I was desperate for sleep. The fourth time she nudged me awake last night I shoved her back. "Just stop it," I hissed.

Worry and lack of rest had put black circles under Ma's eyes, and her lower lip trembled. How could I be so unsympathetic? I brushed the back of my hand across her cheek. "I'm sorry, Ma, I'm sorry. I'm just so tired." We both had to stay strong just a few more days. Then, as winners or losers, we could both give in to exhaustion and go to bed for a month if we needed it. At least this trip would be over.

Ma stared at me glassy-eyed, slack-mouthed. I touched her shoulder gently. "I'm sure Olaf is fine, we'll win the bet, and you'll be on the front page of the
New York World.
" She did not respond.

I helped settle her under the covers and she closed her eyes, but I don't think she slept. I didn't, either, for a while, but the next time I opened my eyes it was six-thirty. Ma was already dressed and sitting quietly on the foot of the bed, holding Pa's watch, staring at the hands as they counted out the hours and minutes to our deadline.

At the Pittsburgh post office, Ma sent home another batch of journal notes and we picked up three letters from home and a thick envelope from Salt Lake City. I wanted to open it immediately to see if there was news about Mr. Doré's secret project, but Ma tugged on my elbow. "Let's check in at the newspaper and read our letters later, in private," she said.

The reporter at the
Pittsburgh Gazette
must have noticed the circles under Ma's eyes, so after a brief interview, he excused himself for a telephone call and came back with good news. "It's all arranged," he said. "You can spend the night at one of the nicest hotels in town. I said you'd be willing to talk to some of the guests after you've had a chance to rest, but I'm sure they won't keep you long."

Ma nodded a weak assent. Thinking of a hot bath and a warm bed, I gathered energy for a grateful grin.

As we entered our hotel room, I dropped my bag, sank to the floor, and leaned against the mahogany dresser as I waited to hear what was in Ma's letters. She sat on the bed and opened Pa's letter first. As she read it, color dotted each cheek. A smile spread from her mouth to her eyes as she looked up. "Olaf is home."

I remembered to breathe. "I knew he'd be fine." I opened the letter from Ida and Bertha first, saving Mr. Doré's letter for last. I unlaced my boots and propped my feet up on my satchel as I read. Ida's P.S. was provoking, but she had not meant it to be: "Happy 18 th Birthday, Clara! What did you do to celebrate?" My answer, had she been here to talk to, would have been "nothing."

Ma extracted news from her letter from the boys. They closed with the words, "We love you, Ma. Come home soon." She held up the last page so I could see Billy's wobbly
B
at the bottom.

Olaf was alive and her children still loved her. That was all Ma needed to restore her spirits. She hooked the curling iron over the chimney of the gas lantern to heat and took off her shirtwaist before washing her face and arms in the basin under the mirror.

I carefully slit the envelope from Mr. Doré and pulled out the first sheet on which he had written "Happy 19th Birthday!" He had drawn a clumsy garland of daisies around the message. Nineteen? If he had found out when my birthday was, why didn't he get my age right?

The second enclosure was an oblong slip of blue paper. The first line was a blank with my name filled in with elegant copperplate handwriting. To:
Miss Clara Estby.
The second line had pinprick holes in the shape of the number five. It was a check from Chase National Bank. "Five dollars!" I yelped. I felt Ma's eyes on me as I read the attached letters. The first was typed on the engraved letterhead of Street and Smith, Publishers.

Dear Miss Estby:

We are pleased to inform you that we have accepted your story, "Our Wilderness Salon"for publication in the January 3, 1897, issue of the
Log Cabin Library.
We encourage you to think of us when you have another piece to submit.

Sincerely,
Francis Shubael Smith

Dear Miss Estby,

As you will see from the enclosures, my secret deed at last had the desired result. I submitted the article first to Beadle Press, which publishes those dime novels your brothers probably read, but they never answered. Luckily, I sent them a copy I had typed in duplicate, so I still had your original and the carbon, which I sent on to Street and Smith. Let this be a lesson: Don't give up too soon. I had eleven rejections on one of my stories before it was published.

When the editors asked for information about you, I realized I didn't know anything about you except that you were an adventurous, intelligent young woman of pleasing appearance who was born in Minnesota. With that lead, I thought I could at least find out for them how old you were, so I wired the Minnesota Vital Statistics Bureau. I not only found out that you were born in 1877, but that your first check as a writer might arrive in time for your birthday.

I trust that your journey has been smooth and swift, and my greetings reach Pittsburgh in time.

Sincerely,
Charles Doré

P.S. Congratulations! I remember what a thrill it was to have my first article published.

I stood and waved the check and Mr. Doré's letter like flags. "I'm published!" I held the check and letter against my heart. I was not just Helga and Ole Estby's daughter. I was Clara Estby, author, and esteemed correspondent of Mr. Charles Doré, of the Salt Lake City
Deseret Evening News.
I kissed his signature.

"Olaf is well, you've published a story, and we have a grand room tonight. This will be a day to remember," Ma said. "You might want to check a mirror before we go downstairs, though. You have a smudge of ink on your mouth."

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