It was the year of 1876, the year of the great Centennial, at Philadelphia.

Everybody went, but it had no attractions for me.

I was happy enough, enjoying the health-giving air and the comforts of an Eastern home.

I wondered that I had ever complained about anything there, or wished to leave that blissful spot.
The poorest person in that place by the sea had more to be thankful for, in my opinion, than the richest people in Arizona.

I felt as if I must cry it out from the house-tops.