Why, the very elevator you rode up to the ruff garden on wuz made by a woman.

And then there wuz cotton raised and ginned by wimmen of the South, and nets by the wimmen of New Jersey, and fruit raised by the wimmen of California—­the most beautiful fruit I ever sot my eyes on, and wine made by her, too.

(I could have wept when I see that, but presoom it wuz for sickness.)

And from Colorado there wuz tracin’s of minin’ surveys.  Wimmen a-findin’ out things hid in the bowels of the earth!  O good land! the idee on’t!

And engravin’s and etchin’s done by wimmen way back to 1581.

And in stamped leather, wall decoration, furniture, it wuz a sight to see the noble doin’s of my sect; and a exhibit that done my soul good wuz from Belva Lockwood, admittin’ wimmen to practise in the Supreme Court.  That wuz better than leather work, though that is worthy, and wuz more elevatin’ to my sect than the elevator.

The British exhibit is arranged splendidly to show off wimmen’s noble work in charity, education, manafacture, art, literature, etc., and amongst their patents is one for a fire-escape, and one to extract gold from base metals.  Both of these are good idees, as there can’t anybody dispute.

Another exhibit there that appeals strong to the feelin’ heart wuz Kate Marsdon’s Siberian leper village.

She is a nurse of the Red Cross, and her heart ached with pity for them wretched lepers, in their dretful lonely huts in the forests of Siberia.

She went herself to see their awful condition, and tried to help ’em; she raised money herself for horsepitals and nurses.

[Illustration:  Relics of Kate Marsdon.]

Here is a model of the village, with church, horsepital, schoolhouse, store, and cottages for them that are able to work.

Here is the saddle she wore durin’ her long, dretful journey to Siberia, and the knife she carried, and some of the miserable, hard black bread she had to eat.

Here are letters to her from Queen Victoria, and the Empress of Russia.

But a Higher Power writ to her, writ on her heart, and went with her acrost the dark fields of snow and ice.

Wall, after lookin’ at everything under the sun, from a Lion’s Head, by Rosa Bonhuer, to a piece of bead-work by a Injun, and every queer and beautiful Japan thing you ever thought on, or ever didn’t think on, and everything else under the sun, moon, and stars, that wuz ever made by a woman—­and there is no end to ’em—­we went up into the ruff garden, where, amidst flowers, and fountains, and fresh air, happy children wuz a-playin’, with birds and butterflies a-flyin’ about ’em over their heads.

The birds couldn’t git out, nor the children either, for up fifteen feet high a wire screen wuz stretched along, coverin’ the hull beautiful garden.  Nothin’ could git in or out of it but the sweet air and the sunshine.