And should I sleep in my shroud at eve,
Not lilies pale and cold,
But the purple asters of the wood
Within my hand I’d hold;—­
For goldenrod is the flower of love
That time and change defies;
And asters gleam through the autumn air
With the hues of Paradise! 
EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.

Shortly before the Civil War, I went with father to St. Louis, he to take a place in the Washington University, while I was offered a position in the Mary Institute to teach classes of girls.  Chancellor Hoyt of the university had been lured from Exeter, New Hampshire.  He was widely known in the educational world, and was one of the most brilliant men I ever knew, strong, wise, witty, critical, scholarly, with a scorn of anything superficial or insincere.

I had thought of omitting my experience in this city, to me so really tragic.  Just before we were to leave Hanover, a guest brought five of us a gift of measles.  I had the confluent-virulent-delirious-lose-all-your-hair variety.  When convalescent, I found that my hair, which had been splendidly thick and long, was coming out alarmingly, and it was advised that my head be shaved, with a promise that the hair would surely be curly and just as good as before the illness.  I felt pretty measly and “meachin” and submitted.  The effect was indescribably awful.  I saw my bald pate once, and almost fainted.  I was provided with a fearsome wig, of coarse, dark red hair, held in place by a black tape.  Persons who had pitied me for having “such a big head and so much hair” now found reason for comment “on my small head with no hair.”  The most expensive head cover never deceived anyone, however simple, and I was obliged to make my debut in St. Louis in this piteous plight.

We then had our first taste of western-southern cordiality and demonstrativeness.  It occurred to me that they showed more delight in welcoming us than our own home folks showed regret at our departure.  It was a liberal education to me.  They all seemed to understand about the hideous wig, but never showed that they noticed it.  One of our first callers was a popular, eloquent clergyman, who kissed me “as the daughter of my mother.”  He said, “I loved your mother and asked her to marry me, but I was refused.”  Several young men at once wanted to get up a weekly dancing class for me, but I was timid, fearing my wig would fall off or get wildly askew.  Whittier in one of his poems has this couplet, which suggests the reverse of my experience: 

“She rose from her delicious sleep,
And laid aside her soft-brown hair.”