As he readily consented, we wrote on cards the names of a dozen leading women, and tacked them on their respective trees.

Whether Lucretia Mott, Lucy Stone, Phoebe Couzins, and Anna Dickinson still retain their identity, and answer when called by the goddess Sylvia in that majestic grove, I know not.

Twenty-five years have rolled by since then, and a new generation of visitors and guides may have left no trace of our work behind them.

But we whispered our hopes and aspirations to the trees, to be wafted to the powers above, and we left them indelibly pictured on the walls of the little chapel, and for more mortal eyes we scattered leaflets wherever we went, and made all our pleasure trips so many propaganda for woman's enfranchisement.
Returning from California I made the journey straight through from San Francisco to New York.

Though a long trip to make without a break, yet I enjoyed every moment, as I found most charming companions in Bishop Janes and his daughter.