a murmer of confusion.  One man threw a wad of paper at me, but I said:  “My loyalty to the homes of America demand that I denounce such a president and his crowd.”  It was a common thing to be hissed.  Once I spoke in Sioux City, Iowa, in the church where the martyred Haddock preached.  The crowd was so large, the church was filled and emptied three times.  I had cheers and hisses at the same time.  At the first meeting I was talking at the top of my voice, the audience was clapping and hissing and a good evangelistic brother by my side kept pounding his fist of one hand into the palm of the other and shouting:  “She is right!  She is right!” That was a great meeting, and I shall never forget it, neither will anyone who was there.  I spoke three times to audiences that night.  I have been hissed, and after giving the people time to think, have been applauded by the same parties.  “Oh, fools and slow of heart to understand,” Jesus said.

Murat Halstead, who wrote the book called, “Our Martyred President or the Illustrious Life of William McKinley”, wrote some positive falsehoods concerning me.  This Halstead has always been a defender of anarchy or the licensed saloon.

William McKinley was no martyr.  He was murdered by a man who was the result of a saloon and could not tell why he murdered the President.

I could tell of many amusing incidents, indeed.  I could fill a book of interesting anecdotes.  Once when I was among the Thousand Islands of the St. Lawrence, in the summer of 1902, a characteristic woman with a very low dress, with a very long train, the whole a mixture of paint, powder, lace, flashy jewelry and corset stays, with as much exposure of person as she dare, came to me in an affected manner, handed me a roll saying:  “I am a temperance lecturer, here is one of my bills.”  I replied:  “If you are such, you had better make a practical application of temperance and cover up yourself.”  The change of her countenance was instantaneous and she with a queer almost startled look said:  “You go to He—­l.”

Once in Elmira, N. Y. the streets were so crowded that we had to leave the Salvation Army Hall.  I climbed in a farmer’s two horse wagon.  He came out of a saloon and gathered up the reins and laid the whip to his horses, which were caught so as to let me out.

Mr. Furlong, my manager, had a keen sense of the ridiculous and would let me alone when I started out.  He said he knew I could take care of myself.  Often when I would rise to speak to the thousands in the parks, there would be yells and groans, and a manager at Youngstown, Ohio, said to Mr. Furlong:  “She will not get a chance to speak.”  Mr. Furlong said:  “You watch how she will handle them.”  I would always quiet them for at least a time.  Once they were determined not to let me talk.  I at last went to one side of the stage and began talking very explanatory to some parties in front.  The rest wanted to hear, so they were quiet.  Then