Mrs. Robinson, Miss Anthony, and I were invited to dine with the Bird Club.  No woman, other than I, had ever had that honor before.  I dined with them in 1870, escorted by “Warrington” of the Springfield Republican and Edwin Morton.  There I met Frank Sanborn for the first time.  Frank Bird held about the same place in political life in Massachusetts, that Thurlow Weed did in the State of New York for forty years.  In the evening we had a crowded reception at the home of Mrs. Fenno Tudor, who occupied a fine old residence facing the Common, where we met a large gathering of Boston reformers.  On Decoration Day, May 30, we went to Providence, where I was the guest of Dr. William F. Channing.  We had a very successful convention there.  Senator Anthony and ex-Governor Sprague were in the audience and expressed great pleasure, afterward, in all they had heard.  I preached in Rev. Frederick Hinckley’s church the previous Sunday afternoon.

From Providence I hurried home, to meet my son Theodore and his bride, who had just landed from France.  We decorated our house and grounds with Chinese lanterns and national flags for their reception.  As we had not time to send to New York for bunting, our flags—­French and American—­were all made of bright red and blue cambric.  The effect was fine when they arrived; but, unfortunately, there came up a heavy thunderstorm in the night and so drenched our beautiful flags that they became colorless rags.  My little maid announced to me early in the morning that “the French and Americans had had a great battle during the night and that the piazza was covered with blood.”  This was startling news to one just awakening from a sound sleep.  “Why, Emma!” I said, “what do you mean?” “Why,” she replied, “the rain has washed all the color out of our flags, and the piazza is covered with red and blue streams of water.”  As the morning sun appeared in all its glory, chasing the dark clouds away, our decorations did indeed look pale and limp, and were promptly removed.

I was happily surprised with my tall, stately daughter, Marguerite Berry.  A fine-looking girl of twenty, straight, strong, and sound, modest and pleasing.  She can walk miles, sketches from nature with great skill and rapidity, and speaks three languages.  I had always said to my sons:  “When you marry, choose a woman with a spine and sound teeth; remember the teeth show the condition of the bones in the rest of the body.”  So, when Theodore introduced his wife to me, he said, “You see I have followed your advice; her spine is as straight as it should be, and every tooth in her head as sound as ivory.”  This reminds me of a young man who used to put my stoves up for the winter.  He told me one day that he thought of getting married.  “Well,” I said, “above all things get a wife with a spine and sound teeth.”  Stove pipe in hand he turned to me with a look of surprise, and said:  “Do they ever come without spines?”