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 N AT U R E ’ S
ALLIES

Eight Conservationists Who

Changed Our World

Fo r e w o r d b y C U RT M E I N E

LARRY A. NIELSEN
 About Island Press

Since 1984, the nonprofit organization Island Press has been

stimulating, shaping, and communicating ideas that are essen-
tial for solving environmental problems worldwide. With more
than 1,000 titles in print and some 30 new releases each year,
we are the nation's leading publisher on environmental issues.
We identify innovative thinkers and emerging trends in the
environmental field. We work with world-renowned experts and
authors to develop cross-disciplinary solutions to environmental
challenges.
Island Press designs and executes educational campaigns
in conjunction with our authors to communicate their critical
messages in print, in person, and online using the latest technol-
ogies, innovative programs, and the media. Our goal is to reach
targeted audiences-scientists, policymakers, environmental
advocates, urban planners, the media, and concerned citizens-
with information that can be used to create the framework for
long-term ecological health and human well-being.
Island Press gratefully acknowledges major support of our
work by The Agua Fund, The Andrew W. Mellon Foundation, The
Bobolink Foundation, The Curtis and Edith Munson Foundation,
Forrest C. and Frances H. Lattner Foundation, The JPB Foundation,
The Kresge Foundation, The Oram Foundation, Inc., The Overbrook
Foundation, The S.D. Bechtel, Jr. Foundation, The Summit Chari-
table Foundation, Inc., and many other generous supporters.
The opinions expressed in this book are those of the author(s)
and do not necessarily reflect the views of our supporters.
Nature’s Allies
 Nature’s Allies
Eight Conservationists
Who Changed Our World

Larry A. Nielsen

Washington | Covelo | London

 Copyright © 2017 Larry A. Nielsen

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright

Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any
means without permission in writing from the publisher: Island Press,
2000 M Street, NW, Suite 650, Washington, DC 20036

Island Press is a trademark of The Center for Resource Economics.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016946591

Printed on recycled, acid-free paper

Manufactured in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Keywords: Island Press, John Muir, Yosemite National Park, Robert Underwood
Johnson, Sierra Club, Hetch Hetchy, Ding Darling, Duck Stamp, National
Wildlife Refuge System, John Salyer, US Biological Survey, National Wildlife
Federation, Aldo Leopold, Sand County Almanac, The Shack, Game
Management, Thinking Like a Mountain, Rachel Carson, Under the Sea Wind,
The Sea Around Us, The Edge of the Sea, Silent Spring, DDT, Chico Mendes,
Extractive reserves, Brazilian rainforest, Rubber-tapping, Deforestation, Billy
Frank Jr., Judge Hugo Boldt, Hank Adams, Nisqually Tribe, Treaty of 1854,
Northwest Indian Fisheries Commission, Wangari Maathai, Green Belt
Movement, Uhuru Park, Nobel Peace Prize, Gro Harlem Brundtland, World
Commission on Environment and Development, World Health Organization,
Sustainability definition.
To the memory of Joe Florini, as true a conservationist
as those whose stories appear here
 Contents

Foreword xi
Acknowledgments xv

Introduction 1

Chapter 1: John Muir: Earth-Planet, Universe 13

Chapter 2: Ding Darling: The Best Friend a Duck Ever Had 39
Chapter 3: Aldo Leopold: A Very Large & Important Sumpin 65
Chapter 4: Rachel Carson: The Lady Who Started All This 95
Chapter 5: Chico Mendes: Gandhi of the Amazon 121
Chapter 6: Billy Frank Jr.: The Getting-Arrested Guy 147
Chapter 7: Wangari Maathai: The Green Crusader 171
Chapter 8: Gro Harlem Brundtland: Godmother of
Sustainable Development 197

Notes 223
About the Author 245
Index 247
 Foreword

Conservationist.
What picture does the word bring to mind? For many, and for a
long time, it might have suggested a standard image. Likely an older,
fair-skinned, well-to-do man, in brown boots and khaki field clothes,
toting a field notebook, binoculars, maybe a shotgun. And for a
long time that cliché might even have held some truth—though no
stereotype can hold up under closer examination of the real human
life behind it. But if a generation ago we had a hackneyed idea of what
a conservationist should look like and what he does . . . she does not
look and act like that anymore.
In these pages Larry Nielsen assembles a conservation portrait gal-
lery, pictures of eight disparate and remarkable lives, lived out in
their different places under widely varied circumstances. Collectively
they span an arc of history stretching from the modern origins
of conservation in the mid-1800s to the verge of our own future,
following concerns that range from forests, wildlife, and fisheries to
agriculture, climate change, and economic justice. They are women
and men, northerners and southerners, rural and urban, indigenous
and immigrant, advantaged and challenged, professionals and
citizens. They all contributed importantly to a movement that crosses
generations, political boundaries, and fields of knowledge. They are

xi
xii Foreword

elder sisters and brothers in a cause that, more than ever, requires every
kind of talent, background, perspective, and voice. And still requires,
on occasion, binoculars.
Don’t you wish we could gather them together in one place, and
hear their voices? John Muir’s tale-spinning Scottish brogue. Ding
Darling’s Midwestern American candor. Aldo Leopold’s casual elo-
quence. Rachel Carson’s steel and integrity. Chico Mendes’ soft-spoken
determination and courage. Billy Frank’s persistent, defiant dignity.
Wangari Maathai’s inspired pragmatism. Gro Harlem Brundtland’s
seasoned vision. Through their voices we would also hear those of
others: the families, cultures, traditions, and institutions that instilled
their conservation values.
And don’t you wish we could hear them in conversation together,
trading the quieter stories behind their signature accomplishments,
discussing the social cross-currents and political tensions of their
times, debating different paths forward? We could, if we wanted,
draw lines of connection through these lives: John Muir camping out
with Theodore Roosevelt, who put Gifford Pinchot in charge of the
US Forest Service; Pinchot’s family founding the forestry program at
Yale University, where Aldo Leopold studied; Leopold later working
with Ding Darling to strengthen the US Bureau of Biological Sur-
vey, which became the US Fish and Wildlife Service, where Rachel
Carson honed her communication skills . . . and so on and on. Through
these individuals and countless others, conservation has grown as an
ever-expanding movement, fitfully overcoming its own limitations
and forging new connections. But these kindred spirits can meet only
in our imagination—and in these pages.
Whether in word or image, it is not an easy task to depict such
rich, complicated, and consequential lives as these people led. Larry
Nielsen has given us essential portraits, describing not only the
facts of their experience, but the contexts in which they made their
way. All of them (indeed) changed the world by allowing the world
to change them—to excite their intellects and touch their hearts.
And they changed the world by reaching the hearts of others, and
by linking actions and ideas. A portrait tells a story, and these stories
together tell us of people, linked across time, who helped build a
movement.
 Foreword xiii

Yet, none of these people acted alone. All emerged themselves from
a community. In some cases, a community of place—often a threatened
place. In other cases, a community of interest and professional
expertise. Or a community bound by a shared sense of responsibility.
Each of them, in turn, fostered and expanded these communities. As
their work rippled out, all left enduring legacies—among those they
influenced and on the land.
And it turns out that, in the long run, these naturalists and hunters
and foresters and farmers and scientists and South American rubber
tappers and Native American fishers and Kenyan tree planters and
international policy-makers all belong to a yet larger community.
That community is defined by a common moral commitment to one’s
neighbors and fellow citizens, to future generations, to other living
beings and the complex living systems that support us all. That is not
to say that there are no differences of viewpoint or priority or strategy
within the conservation community. This collective portrait shows in
fact that conservationists have varied motivations, and come in many
shades of political persuasion—and they always have. Communities
hold together, and progress together, by testing their shared values
against changing circumstances. Leaders, including those portrayed
here, emerge to help guide that process in lasting and positive ways.
In the 1940s Aldo Leopold wrote, “Conservation, viewed in its
entirety, is the slow and laborious unfolding of a new relationship
between people and land.” The “unfolding” continues. It continues
by building on the accomplishments of those who came before; by
confronting past shortcomings, taking in new information, expanding
ethical horizons, forging new policies, and inventing new techniques;
by bringing people together and making common cause with other
areas of human need and endeavor.
Fundamental to all these, though, is the obligation to share the
stories of the “unfolding” itself. What I especially appreciate about
this book is the opportunity it provides for young people to learn a
bit more about those who came before, who challenged the status quo
and made change happen. Like democracy and justice—tied, in fact,
to them—conservation involves continual struggle, regular setbacks,
steady advances, and occasional leaps forward. We find our way for-
ward, in part, by carrying with us the stories of those who came before.
xiv Foreword

Conservationist.
Who do you see when you think ahead another generation?
Whoever you see, it is likely that they will look and work in ways quite
different from those profiled here. But my guess is that they will, like
these eight, love their places deeply. They will value the wild and the
beautiful. They will have a gift for working with people. They will
be both practical and visionary. They will demonstrate courage and a
thirst for justice. They will be curious and creative. And, from time to
time, they may well pull out their binoculars.
Curt Meine
Sauk Prairie, Wisconsin
 Acknowledgments

This book has been a career in the making. I am grateful to the many
colleagues who have shared their thoughts and perspectives about the
project over the past forty years and especially to those who provided
specific ideas and insights as the completion of the project drew
closer, especially Tom Busiahn (who recommended that I write about
Billy Frank Jr.), Erin Sills (who suggested Chico Mendes), and Dan
Robison, a continuing source of encouragement and inspiration. My
university, North Carolina State University, and my supervisors—
Barry Goldfarb, Tom Gower, and Mary Watzin—provided the time,
freedom, and encouragement to allow me to complete the book. I thank
the wonderful people at Island Press for their belief in the project,
and, particularly, Erin Johnson, who shepherded the book from idea
to publication. I am indebted to the individuals and organizations that
provided illustrations for the book; their names are acknowledged with
their photographs. Finally and most importantly, I thank my wife and
daughters—Sharon, Jennifer, and Amanda—for their ideas, support,
and patience on this and many projects, both those in the past and
those yet to come.

xv
 Introduction

O
ne accepted the Nobel Peace Prize for her commitment to
Kenya’s forests; one was murdered for protecting the forests
of Brazil. One proclaimed his message in drawings on the
front pages of the nation’s newspapers; one made his statement in
waders on the banks of the Nisqually River. One walked thousands
of miles on a lifelong journey of self-discovery; one seldom left her
suburban Maryland home. One directed our attention to the natural
rhythms of a small Wisconsin farm; one asked us to consider the en-
tire globe as our backyard.
This book profiles the lives of eight great conservationists. A
few are well known to people everywhere—ask anyone to name a fa-
mous conservationist or environmentalist, and the names of John
Muir and Rachel Carson are sure to come up. Some names might
ring a bell—Aldo Leopold, Wangari Maathai, and Gro Harlem
Brundtland—but the reason might be harder to remember. And the
names of Ding Darling, Billy Frank Jr., and Chico Mendes will be
new to most readers. My goal is to bring their stories—their highs
and lows, their admirable traits and human weaknesses, their tri-

Larry A. Nielsen, Nature’s Allies: Eight Conservationists Who Changed Our World, 
10.5822/ 978-1-61091-797-1_1, © 2017 Larry A. Nielsen
 Nature’s Allies

umphs and failures—to all who are interested in making the world
a bit better through conservation. Their stories are tributes, of course,
but more importantly they are examples of what each of us might
be and do on behalf of the sustainability of our world—as an ally to
nature.
This book is loosely patterned after another book of short bi-
ographies. In 1954, Senator John F. Kennedy was bedridden after back
surgery. His back, already weakened and battered throughout his early
life, was especially damaged during World War II when the small Navy
vessel he captained—PT-109—was rammed and sunk by a larger Japa-
nese ship while the PT boat was on night duty in the Solomon Islands.
Kennedy heroically led his surviving crewmen to safety on a small island,
where they were rescued several days later. A decade after his wartime
injury, Kennedy’s back needed extensive surgical repair—and months
of recovery time. Kennedy used his time as an invalid to research and
coauthor the book Profiles in Courage, along with Theodore Sorensen,
his colleague and lifelong advisor.1 Their book tells the stories of eight
United States senators who risked their offices and careers to stand
up for what they believed—even when those beliefs were unpopular.
The authors announce in the preface that they “have attempted to set
forth their lives—the ideals they lived for and the principles they fought
for, their virtues and their sins, their dreams and their disillusionments,
the praise they earned and the abuse they endured.”2 Profiles in Cour-
age won the Pulitzer Prize for Biography in 1957. I read the book as a
teenager—it was intended for young readers—and found the stories
inspirational.
Throughout my career, I have wanted to write a similar book to por-
tray the lives of individuals who have made a difference for our natural
environment. Conservation is still a young field—most accounts mark
its birth at Teddy Roosevelt’s 1908 Governors’ Conference on Con-
servation—and thus our history is still tied closely to the actions and
accomplishments of specific persons. And as broadly enacted public
policy, both in the developed and developing world, conservation is even
younger. In many parts of the world, considerations of conservation are
still just beginning to emerge as significant elements of how we govern
our lives.
 Introduction 

My decision to include lives from a continuum of conservation fame

is purposeful. I asked many people to give me suggestions for persons
to include. Most rattled off a list of “the usual suspects,” like John
Muir, Gifford Pinchot, Teddy Roosevelt, and Aldo Leopold. How-
ever, once the lives of a few were told (of the more famous, I chose John
Muir and Aldo Leopold), the stories of the others seemed redundant, as
did those of many of the other prominent leaders of the early conserva-
tion movement. Some colleagues suggested names that reach further
back in history—George Perkins Marsh, for example—or that evoke a
more philosophical tradition, like Emerson and Thoreau. While these
names are important as precursors of conservation, I have chosen to
stick closer to the actual practice of the field—people who rode the
trails, dug the holes, and planted the trees on their way to making a
national or international impact. Equally important was moving beyond
the mainstream of American conservation to represent a fuller diversity
of contributions. Because all people, everywhere, have a role in conser-
vation, three biographies feature stories from Africa, South America,
and Europe.
Regardless of how, where, or when these eight individuals lived,
they truly did create the concepts of conservation by which we live
today. Each was—or is, in the case of Gro Harlem Brundtland—a
pioneer in some aspect of conservation, environmentalism, or sustain-
ability. Their accomplishments vary, of course. Some occurred long
ago, like John Muir’s successful campaign for the establishment of
Yosemite National Park. Others are much more recent, like Billy Frank
Jr.’s David-and-Goliath campaign to gain recognition for treaties that
assured Native American fishing rights. However, as in both those
cases, the specific result led to replication of the impact in park after park
and fishery after fishery, not only in the United States but also around
the world.
Several leaders are known mostly for boiling down the wisdom
and experience of a lifetime of work into a signature written volume:
Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring and Aldo Leopold’s A Sand County Al-
manac grace the bookshelves of professional and avocational con-
servationists around the world. In Gro Harlem Brundtland’s case,
her impact is represented in just twenty-two words—the universally
 Nature’s Allies

accepted definition of sustainability. These accomplishments have no

specific action or target, but they inspired new perspectives that have
revolutionized public policies, private decisions, and personal at-
titudes.
Some of these conservation leaders made their mark through
sheer hard work. Wangari Maathai huddled on the ground with her
fellow Kenyan wives and mothers to plant more than 50 million trees.
Chico Mendes tramped the trails of the Amazonian rain forest to
support communities of rubber tappers and the trees on which they
depend. Because of Maathai and Mendes, forests remain and thrive
on the great continents of Africa and South America, under the spot-
light of public awareness and the protection of conscientious gov-
ernments.
And then there is Ding Darling, who defies categorization. A politi-
cal cartoonist who loved wildlife, Darling used his editorial privilege to
tell the story of environmental degradation on the front pages of scores
of daily newspapers. Then, in a gesture of monumental humility (and
perhaps with an underlying dose of hubris), he went to Washington
to do something about it. Less than two years later, the United States
had a functioning wildlife refuge system and a mechanism—the duck
stamp—that has paid to keep it going.
When I began this project, I wondered what the lives of these eight
great conservationists might have had in common. Perhaps, I thought,
each was a biologist, educated in the emerging discipline of ecol-
ogy. Indeed, some of them were: Wangari Maathai earned a doctorate
in biology, Gro Harlem Brundtland is a medical doctor, and Rachel
Carson and Aldo Leopold each held master’s degrees. Ding Darling
eventually earned an undergraduate degree, and John Muir gave it
the old college try for a couple of years. But Billy Frank Jr. and Chico
Mendes seldom saw the inside of a school. So a formal education—
especially higher education—doesn’t seem to be a requirement to create
conservation.
Do wealth and social standing play a dominant role? Gro Har-
lem Brundtland and Aldo Leopold both came from money and sta-
tus, but it seems that more fundamental values were at play as well;
both grew up in homes dominated by concerns of ethics and integrity
 Introduction 

rather than worries about getting ahead of the next person. John Muir’s
family actually threw away its prominent status in Scotland to establish
a new, rough-hewn life in Wisconsin; eventually Muir became a wealthy
man, but it most certainly was not his primary intention. The oth-
ers—Ding Darling, Rachel Carson, Wangari Maathai, Billy Frank Jr.,
and Chico Mendes—were all people of modest means. Although Ding
Darling and Rachel Carson became successful, their financial comfort
was much more a by-product of their accomplishments than a route
to them.
Were they all adventurers who set out to escape from the con-
straints of everyday life? That describes John Muir to a large extent
and Aldo Leopold a bit. But most were ordinary folks living in ordi-
nary surroundings: Wangari Maathai in Nairobi, Ding Darling in
his Iowa newspaper office, Rachel Carson in the Washington suburbs,
and Gro Harlem Brundtland in downtown Oslo. Billy Frank Jr. and
Chico Mendes lived and worked where they were born. Most of these
leaders, however, did have a refuge where they could get away—a Flor-
ida cottage for Darling and one in Maine for Carson, and a famous
little farm for Leopold. John Muir enjoyed a not-so-cozy hideaway that
became Yosemite National Park. So, perhaps, having one foot in civili-
zation and another in nature does keep a conservationist motivated and
grounded.
Were they all scientists? Far from it. In fact, I consider only one—
Aldo Leopold—to be a professional conservationist. Rachel Car-
son worked as a scientist for the US Fish and Wildlife Service, but
had resigned to be a full-time author well before her significant con-
servation contribution, Silent Spring, was even imagined. The others
were all amateurs—a cartoonist, medical doctor, union organizer,
commercial fisherman. Wangari Maathai was a tree-planter, a sort of
modern day Johnny Appleseed. And John Muir just called himself a
tramp.
The absence of a stereotypical life pattern shouldn’t really be a
surprise. Of course their lives followed different paths from differ-
ent beginnings and with different purposes. Like all of us, these are
complex individuals, each of whom had her or his own story. But aside
from their demographic differences, I see that three common char-
 Nature’s Allies

acteristics flow through each of their lives: passion, persistence, and

partnerships.

Passion

All eight were fired from within by a passion to understand, protect, and
enhance our environment. For some, the passion started from infancy.
Rachel Carson was raised by a mother who believed that nature was
the best teacher—and she raised her daughter to be a keen observer of
nature. Aldo Leopold spent his youth hunting with his father, but the
more important part of every outing was the simple experience of nature.
For others, the passion grew with the coming of age. Ding Darling and
his brother rode their horses at breakneck speed across the unbroken
prairie, immersing themselves in the wonder of their surroundings. John
Muir slipped into nature as often as possible in order to escape a repres-
sive home life as a boy in Scotland and a young man in Wisconsin. Gro
Harlem Brundtland always enjoyed nature, but gradually she became
conscious of its importance as her education broadened. For Wangari
Maathai, Chico Mendes, and Billy Frank Jr., however, nature was just
where they lived and how their families made their livings.
Yet each came to realize that the relationship between humans and
nature needed attention. Wangari Maathai and Ding Darling saw the
beauty and bounty of their memories erased by careless destruction
of farmland. Chico Mendes rebelled as Amazonian rain forests were
cleared and burned for cattle ranches, and he applied a unique form
of protest to confront the devastation. Rachel Carson heard the sto-
ries of wildlife death caused by the aerial spraying of pesticides, and
although she didn’t want to get involved, she felt compelled to right the
wrongs she was observing. John Muir and Aldo Leopold understood
the utilitarian benefits of nature, but they also realized that overuse was
worse than underuse; a generation apart from each other, they fought
for the protection of lands as parks or wilderness areas. Billy Frank Jr.
and other Native American commercial fishermen knew the truth from
their personal experience—too much harvest this year means too few
fish next year. And Gro Harlem Brundtland grew to understand the
 Introduction 

links between the human condition and environmental conditions on

a worldwide scale as chair of the World Commission on Environment
and Development.
Wangari Maathai expressed the need for passion in her Nobel Peace
Prize lecture in 2004:

In the course of history, there comes a time when humanity is

called to shift to a new level of consciousness, to reach a higher
moral ground. A time when we have to shed our fear and give
hope to each other. That time is now.
The Norwegian Nobel Committee has challenged the world
to broaden the understanding of peace: there can be no peace
without equitable development; and there can be no develop-
ment without sustainable management of the environment in a
democratic and peaceful space.3

Persistence

Passion may be necessary for accomplishment, but it is not sufficient.

Many lives burn brightly for a short time and then fade as the fuel of
passion runs low. Life, as some would say, gets in the way. Each of the
lives recounted here, however, also reveals the essence of persistence as
a condition of success. By studying a person’s entire life—not just their
pinnacle achievements, like A Sand County Almanac or a Nobel Peace
Prize—we can see their struggles, failures, courage, and persistence
shining through.
John Muir straddled a world between nature and industrialism
as a young man, but when an accident left him temporarily blind,
his decision to commit himself to nature, not commerce, was a com-
mitment that would last his entire life. Severe illnesses threatened
Rachel Carson’s ability to work every day of her adult life, yet she con-
tinued the painstaking task of creating Silent Spring. Billy Frank Jr.
was imprisoned more than fifty times in his struggle to acquire the
Indian fishing rights guaranteed in treaties with the US government;
he didn’t give up, never tiring of the battle and finding some other
 Nature’s Allies

way to make a living. After years of complaining about how incompe-

tent the federal government was, Ding Darling swallowed his pride and
went to work for a man he abhorred—President Franklin Roosevelt—
just so he could advance the cause of conservation. Friends warned
Chico Mendes and Wangari Maathai again and again to stay away
from the dangerous movements they had created, but neither would
give up the cause—a cause Mendes paid for with his life. And Gro
Harlem Brundtland and Aldo Leopold just kept at it, landing and
losing positions, suffering defeats as well as victories, project after proj-
ect, over lifetimes of accomplishments, large and small, on behalf of
us all.
Persistence should make sense to conservationists, because we under-
stand the importance of the slow, patient pace of nature. While the aver-
age person is attracted to an individual animal—perhaps an injured bird
or a newborn hippo at the zoo—conservationists know that the much
more crucial danger is the overharvest of a population and the destruc-
tion of habitat. Impacts that occur slowly over time or gradually over vast
areas are the real culprits in reducing the sustainability of the earth—and
people who spend a lifetime trying to resolve those problems are the true
heroes of the environment. Wangari Maathai didn’t mount a large, one-
time campaign to plant trees in Africa; she spent decades going from
one village to another, addressing small gatherings of Kenyan women.
And in so doing, she caused 50 million trees to be planted. Rachel Car-
son didn’t rush an incomplete analysis in order to make a publication
deadline; instead she plodded steadily through thousands of reports and
letters, regularly putting off her editor and publisher, until the story
could be told in full. John Muir didn’t spend a week in Yosemite Valley
and write a flowery travelogue about it; he spent year after year after
year hiking by himself to the farthest reaches of the Yosemite ecosystem,
eventually forcing a basic shift in the way geologists think about glaciers
and their movements.
Billy Frank Jr. talked often about the importance of hanging
around, even when the federal and state officials he worked with had
gone off to promotions or retirement. Persistence, he knew, was the only
thing that would keep his cause on the agenda of agencies, politicians,
and the public. As one biographer noted, “He’s made himself a credible
 Introduction 

spokesperson for the resources, and I can’t tell you what value that has.
He’s the guy that’s been there the whole time.”4

Partnerships

The eight biographies in this book are of individuals. But look a

bit deeper into their lives and accomplishments, and another quality
emerges: most of them worked closely with others to multiply and
strengthen their impact. Ding Darling is acknowledged as “the best
friend a duck ever had,” but his real triumph may have been hir-
ing a young John Salyer to oversee the expansion of our national
wildlife refuges. Darling in Washington and Salyer driving the na-
tion’s backroads turned into a pair that wouldn’t be stopped—and
today we have more than 500 wildlife refuges because of their joint
efforts. Gro Harlem Brundtland has her name forever attached to
the definition of sustainability, but her first act as chair of the newly
formed World Commission on Environment and Development was to
convince Jim MacNeill, a superb organizer and researcher, to join the
team as the full-time director of the commission’s work. Billy Frank
Jr., the Native American fisherman who specialized in getting ar-
rested, was transformed into a national hero through his partnership
with Hank Adams, a legal and communications genius who became
Frank’s right-hand man.
Photographs of John Muir generally show him alone in the wilder-
ness, his shaggy hair and beard, rough clothes, and walking stick rein-
forcing the myth of Muir the hermit. Yet Muir was a devoted family
man and a gregarious host, the life of the party. Moreover, his signa-
ture contribution—the establishment of Yosemite National Park—
was a productive partnership between Muir, writing about the mar-
vels of Yosemite, and Robert Underwood Johnson, lobbying the rich,
famous, and powerful in New York and Washington to protect the land.
Some partnerships are personal and specific, others are more dif-
fuse. Wangari Maathai, for example, wrote little about specific indi-
viduals that helped along the way, but her impact was entirely the
product of partnerships. She empowered small groups of rural women
 Nature’s Allies

to work with her to grow and nurture trees. Rachel Carson relied on
her dear friend Dorothy Freeman to restore her fragile emotional
balance and spur her creativity. A string of other mentors and collabo-
rators, mostly women, served the same purpose at earlier times in
Carson’s life.
In other words, none of these eight individuals created conservation
by themselves. They were taught, inspired, and prodded by their com-
panions. They walked arm in arm, using their talents and those of their
partners to multiply their impact.

What Their Lives Mean for Us

Few of us will ever climb a tree in a windstorm to feel an authentic thrill,

or write a series of stories that define an ecological theology, or become
the protagonist in a Supreme Court case. We need not be brilliant or
wealthy or even particularly virtuous. But each of us can have an impact.
Conservation asks only three things of us.
First, we must be passionate. Conservation doesn’t come from
“business as usual.” Accepting the way we do things today will not
bring about a better world for tomorrow. Challenging the status quo,
discovering ways to live that are more sustainable and more just, be-
coming, as Mahatma Gandhi said, “the change we want to see”—these
are the passions that have the potential to transform and sustain our
world.
Second, we must be persistent. Real improvements, those that last
through time, don’t happen overnight. “Inch by inch and row by row,”
goes the song by Pete Seeger, “gonna make this garden grow.”5 Nature is
resilient, both to our insults and to our attempts at healing. One watch
at the wheel will not turn the ship of nature. But a lifetime of care just
might.
Third, we must seek partners. Our individual efforts matter, but
our combined efforts can be the stuff of legend—indeed, the stuff of
biographies like these eight. Being a partner means sometimes working
on your own ideas but sometimes working on others’ ideas instead. It
means sometimes playing the lead, but more often being in the chorus.
 Introduction 

Remember that in the web of life, as in the biodiversity of nature, every

strand matters.
And with enough passion, persistence, and partnerships, perhaps the
next time a book like this is written, it will profile nine lives—including
yours.
Figure 1.1 John Muir, 1838–1914. (Reproduced courtesy of the Wisconsin
Historical Society, WHS-1946.)
 Chapter 1

John Muir
Earth-Planet, Universe

T
he winds began to freshen, a warning that the balmy Cali-
fornia day was about to change. In the Sierra Nevada Moun-
tains, experienced locals were retreating inside to wait out the
windstorm about to roar down the Yuba River valley.
One man chose the opposite reaction. Instead of running for cover, he
ran for the woods. “For on such occasions nature has always something
rare to show us, and the danger to life and limb is hardly greater than
one would experience crouching deprecatingly beneath a roof.”1 Trees
were breaking all around him, some torn out from the soil by their roots.
Branches and leaves flew past as clouds of pollen and bits of moss choked
the air. This would be a storm to remember.
Just being out in the storm was not enough, however, so he sought
a more authentic spot for observing it: “It occurred to me that it would
be a fine thing to climb one of the trees to obtain a wider outlook and
get my ear close to the Aeolian music of its topmost needles. . . . Being
accustomed to climb trees in making botanical studies, I experienced no
difficulty in reaching the top of this one, and never before did I enjoy so
noble an exhilaration of motion. . . . I clung with muscles firm braced,

Larry A. Nielsen, Nature’s Allies: Eight Conservationists Who Changed Our World, 
10.5822/ 978-1-61091-797-1_2, © 2017 Larry A. Nielsen
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 “I am so glad you could come, Cassy,” she said. “I know Eleanor
and you will enjoy playing together. What do you say to having this
room to play in this morning? You are going to have luncheon in the
garden, or at least Rock has a little scheme that he and John are
carrying out, and unless you would specially like to play there, I have
my suspicions that they would rather you would keep out of the way
this morning, and let them give you a surprise. You can have the
whole afternoon there, you know.”
“Oh, do let it be a surprise,” exclaimed Eleanor. “I love surprises.
Don’t you, Cassy?”
“Sometimes,” she replied. She felt rather shy as yet, and stood
somewhat in awe of this pretty lady in her dainty morning gown.
“I am going to lend Cassy the dolls to play with,” said Mrs. Dallas
to Eleanor, “Rock’s and mine, you know; and you will have your
precious Rubina, so you will both be provided.” She left the room for
a moment and returned bringing a doll dressed in boy’s clothes and
another in girl’s clothes; the latter was quite an old-fashioned one.
“These are Marcus Delaplaine and Flora McFlimsey,” said Mrs.
Dallas. “They are both Rock’s now, although Flora used to be mine
when I was a little girl, so naturally she is much older than Marcus.
Rock was always fonder of his own doll when he was a little fellow.
He used to say he felt more at home with him. You know where the
piece bag is, Eleanor, and if you want to make doll’s clothes you can
help yourselves. You don’t have to call the doll Flora if you’d rather
name her something else,” she said, smiling down at Cassy, and
holding the doll of her childish days affectionately.
“Oh, but I would like to,” Cassy replied. “My doll is named Flora.”
“Is she? then it will seem quite natural to you.” She smiled again
and nodding to the two girls, she left them together in the pleasant
room. It was not long before they were playing like old friends.
Indeed before the morning was over Cassy felt so at home with
Eleanor that she told her all about Miss Morning-Glory, and had
confessed her discomfort at having to wear a frock she had so nearly
outgrown.
 Eleanor comforted her upon this last score.
“I am sure it is a real pretty plaid,” she said, “and the warm
weather is coming when you won’t have to wear it.” Nevertheless,
Cassy knew that she had nothing else so good, and that it would be
some time before she could lay this aside. Eleanor was quite taken
with the idea of Cassy’s imaginary friend, and suggested that she
should make a third in their plays. “It is just as easy to make believe
that she is here as to make believe that the dolls can talk,” she
declared. “What does she look like?”
“She looks just like you,” Cassy told her a little timidly.
“Oh, then, I’ll be Miss Morning-Glory,” declared Eleanor. “Would
you like that?”
Cassy’s eyes showed her pleasure, as she nodded “Yes.”
“Then you won’t feel as if I were a stranger at all, and you can talk
to me just as you do to her,” Eleanor went on to say.
This did place Cassy upon easier terms with her new friend, and if
Eleanor was sometimes surprised by Cassy’s odd remarks, she was
none the less interested in the little girl, though she did not wonder
that Cassy’s schoolmates called her Miss Oddity. A little girl who felt
entirely at home with spiders, who thought daddy-long-legs
fascinating, and who would make such remarks as: “You remember
the dear little inching-worm I had last summer, Miss Morning-Glory. I
always feel so sorry to think I shall never see it again,” was a queer
person surely.
About one o’clock Rock appeared.
“What time will Jerry be here?” he asked Cassy.
“What time is it?”
“One o’clock.”
“Oh, then he can’t be long, for he is generally at home by half-past
twelve, at the latest, on Saturdays.”
“Are you all ready for us, Rock?” asked Eleanor. “I am just wild to
see what you have been doing.”
 Rock smiled. “You will see very soon.”
“Are we going to eat luncheon out of doors?”
“Not exactly.”
“Oh dear! I wish Jerry would come.” Eleanor could not curb her
impatience.
“There he is now,” cried Rock. “Come, girls.” And the three rushed
down-stairs and into the garden to meet Jerry, who was standing
with John McClure waiting for them.
“You want to see what we have been doing, don’t you, Miss
Eleanor?” said John, smiling at Eleanor’s eagerness. “Well, come
along.” And he led the way down to the foot of the garden where
stood a small brick building that was used in winter for the storage of
flower-pots, bulbs and such like things.
 “They Played All Sorts of Games”

As John opened the door the children exclaimed, “Oh, how fine!”
for it was like a fairy bower. Along the shelves at each side were
ranged flowering plants, and pots of trailing vines. On the floor
reaching up to the shelves were boxes of blooming shrubs and
palms; two canary birds, in their cages swung in the windows, were
singing blithely. In the middle of the floor a table was spread; a
centerpiece of ferns and pansies ornamented it, and at each one’s
place was a little bunch of sweet violets tied with green and purple
ribbons. A pretty basket at each end of the table was tied with the
same colors; one basket was filled with sticks of chocolate tied with
the lilac and green, and the other held delicate green and purple
candies.
“It is just lovely, Rock!” cried Eleanor. “Did you do it all yourself? I
think it is lovely, and—oh, yes, I see, to-morrow will be Easter, and
that is why you can use all the flowers and plants before they are
sent to the church.”
The luncheon that was served, though not a very elaborate one,
seemed so to Cassy and Jerry; they felt as if suddenly transported to
an Arabian Night’s entertainment, and they looked across the table
at each other with smiling eyes.
When the luncheon was over they played all sorts of games, up
and down the garden walks and in among the trees and shrubbery.
The day would have been one full of content, without a cloud, but for
a single accident.
The two girls were hiding in the tool-house, when Eleanor caught
sight of a chrysalis swinging from above them.
“Oh,” she cried, “I do believe that is a fine chrysalis of some kind, a
rare moth or butterfly. I am going to get it, and see what it will turn
out.” She clambered upon some boards to reach the prize, Cassy
deeply interested watching her, when suddenly her foot slipped and
she knocked from a lower shelf a can of green paint which went
down splash upon the floor, spattering Cassy from head to foot.
Cassy was overwhelmed, for poor as the dress was and half
ashamed of it as she had been, nevertheless it was the best she
had, and her eyes filled with tears. Eleanor, as distressed as her
visitor, was at her side in an instant.
 “Oh, what have I done? What have I done?” she cried. “Oh, dear,
oh, dear! I am afraid it won’t come out. Let us go to Aunt Dora; she
will know what to do.” She caught Cassy by the hand and sped with
her into the house, calling “Aunt Dora, Aunt Dora, do come and help
us! It was all my fault. I have ruined Cassy’s dress.”
Mrs. Dallas appeared at the door of the bathroom where Eleanor
had gone with Cassy to try the effect of hot water.
“You didn’t mean to,” put in Cassy hastily.
“No, of course not. My foot slipped, Aunt Dora. I was climbing up
for a chrysalis that was in the tool-house, and I knocked the can from
the shelf.”
“Cassy had better take her frock off,” said Mrs. Dallas, “and I will
see what benzine will do. I am afraid it will not take it out altogether,
and that it will leave a stain, but we will try it. Call Martha, Eleanor,
and we will do our best with it.”
Much abashed Cassy removed her frock and after some time the
paint was taken out as far as possible, but it did leave a stain, and
where the spots were rubbed the goods was roughened and
unsightly. Cassy’s stockings and shoes, too, were spattered, but the
latter were easily cleaned, and Eleanor furnished her with a pair of
clean stockings, so this much was readily settled. The frock was
another matter, and poor Cassy had visions of staying at home from
church, from Sunday-school, and upon all sorts of occasions that
required something beside the faded, patched, every-day frock
which she wore to school. She could hardly keep back her tears
when Mrs. Dallas and Eleanor left her in the latter’s room while they
went off to air the unfortunate frock.
PLEASANT DREAMS
 CHAPTER VI
PLEASANT DREAMS

After a little while Eleanor returned, went to the closet in her room
and hung two or three of her own frocks over her arm; then she went
out again and presently Mrs. Dallas came in alone carrying a pretty
blue serge suit over her arm.
“Cassy, dear,” she said, “will you try this on?”
Cassy shrank back a little, but Mrs. Dallas smiled and said,
coaxingly: “Please, dear,” and Cassy slipped her arms into the
sleeves. “It is a little large,” Mrs. Dallas decided, “but not so very
much, and it will take no time to alter it; I will have Martha do it at
once. Eleanor feels so badly about having spoiled your frock, and I
know her mother would wish that she should in some way make
good the loss. Please don’t mind taking this; it is one that Eleanor
has almost outgrown, and it is only a little long in the sleeves and
skirt for you. I will have Martha alter it before you go home, for we
would both feel so badly to have your best frock spoiled, and to-
morrow being Sunday how could you get another at such short
notice?”
She spoke as if Cassy’s were much the better frock and the little
girl was grateful, though she said earnestly: “It is much nicer than
mine, Mrs. Dallas.”
“It ought to be. When a person has spoiled your best frock she
ought to supply you with a new one, quite new, and this is not,
though it is not worn.” So Cassy was furnished in this unexpected
way with a frock which was neither too short in the sleeves nor the
skirt, and which was far better than she ever dared hope for.
“I will send the other one home when it is thoroughly aired,” Mrs.
Dallas told her.
“You must remember that I am Miss Morning-Glory,” Eleanor told
her as they parted, “and I shall expect to see you every time I come
to Uncle Heath’s.” So Cassy went off with her clouds lifted and with
the memory of the very happiest day of her life.
“She is a queer little child,” Mrs. Dallas told her husband, “but she
is a little lady and her mother must be one. I am very much
interested in them.”
“So am I, Uncle Heath,” Eleanor said, “and I think it is a dreadful
shame that Cassy’s father died of that accident, and that they have
never had any money from the railroad people. Jerry says they ought
to, and that his mother was advised to—to—what is it they do to
railroads to get money?”
“You mean sue them?”
“Oh, yes, that’s it. I knew it was a girl’s name. They ought to have
done that, but Mrs. Law hadn’t the money to get a lawyer, and
railroads are hard to fight, Jerry says. I don’t see how anybody could
fight a railroad, but that is what he said.”
“Humph!” said Mr. Dallas, thoughtfully, “we must look into this.”
Although Mrs. Law looked a little grave when Cassy told of how
she came by this fine new frock, she agreed that it was perfectly
right under the circumstances to accept it. She listened to the
account of the day’s doings with much interest, and was well pleased
that they should have had such a good time.
“Eleanor looks just like Miss Morning-Glory,” Cassy whispered as
her mother tucked her in bed.
“Rock Hardy is the splendidest boy I ever saw,” Jerry confided to
her, and his mother gave him a kiss assuring him that no boy could
be dearer than hers no matter how splendid he was. Jerry had
worked hard to earn his holiday, and he had proudly poured his
earnings, sixty cents, into his mother’s lap when he came home from
market that Saturday morning. Both the children were very tired from
the events of the day and they fell asleep so soon and slept so
soundly that they did not hear a tap at the door and a voice inquiring
for Mrs. Law, neither did they see Mr. and Mrs. Dallas enter, nor hear
the long conversation that followed.
 They would have been surprised to hear their mother tell all the
details of their father’s accident, for she did not like to talk of it, and
they would have wondered to see Mr. Dallas from time to time, jot
down something in a little note-book. And Cassy did not know that it
was not Miss Morning-Glory who kissed her as she dreamed, but
that it was Mrs. Dallas who leaned over the bed to see the sleeping
child still holding a violet in her moist hand, a little limp violet now,
but still a sweet one. Nor did she know that Mrs. Dallas handed her
mother two cunning baskets as she left the room, and that Mr. Dallas
set down something in the corner of the room when he came in.
Yet she had pleasant dreams, and the first thing when she woke in
the morning she remembered that it was Easter Day, and then she
sat up in bed very wide awake. They would have eggs for breakfast,
and they would have biscuits; she smelled them baking.
She popped up out of bed and looked towards the window where
the sun came streaming in; then she gave a glad cry and her bare
feet pattered across the floor, for, standing by the side of her
treasured geranium and casting it quite in the shade, was a tall white
lily, and on the other side a pot of pansies. Cassy clasped her hands
and stood on tiptoe to reach the tall lily.
“Oh, angel lily, angel lily, where did you come from?” she cried.
“Why, daughter, don’t you know it is Easter Day?” said her mother,
watching her delight with a pleased smile.
“Yes, but we never, never had a lily before. Did father send it?”
Her mother’s eyes grew moist.
“Perhaps he did,” she answered, softly. Then after a silence, “Mrs.
Dallas brought it and the pansies last night, the lily for you and the
pansies for Jerry.”
“Oh, mother, and what did they bring you?”
Her mother’s eyes smiled. “Good news, dear, and hope. Hurry
now and get dressed. I hear Jerry stirring, and the biscuits are nearly
done.”
 Cassy made her toilet with great haste, her eyes wandering every
minute to the tall, stately lily.
What a wonderful Easter morning for her. She remembered that
Eleanor had said that John would send to the church the flowers
which had decorated the room where they had lunched. She wished
that she had asked if it was the same church to which she and her
mother went, if so, how pleasant it would be to see the flowers again.
“For,” thought Cassy, “I know those flowers; they are friends of
mine, and I’d like to see them there all standing around the chancel.
Dear angel lily, are you sorry you couldn’t go too?”
She nodded towards the white blossom and then went back to her
room to put on the frock which was now a reminder of her pleasant
yesterday. She viewed herself with much satisfaction in the little
mirror over the bureau, and then she went out to where her mother
was setting the breakfast on the table.
“Oh, mother, let us put the pansies on the table,” she said; “they
are so sunny-looking and they are smiling all over their faces. The
lilies are so solemn; they make me feel as I do in church, but the
pansies are funny like brownies.” She lifted the pot of pansies and
set it in the middle of the table, and then stood off to see the effect.
“Jerry, Jerry,” she called, “hurry up; you don’t know what there is to
see out here.”
This aroused Jerry’s curiosity and he made short work of being
ready for Cassy to show him the plants.
“Just think,” she said, “Mr. and Mrs. Dallas were here last night,
and we didn’t know it. Wasn’t it lovely of them to bring these to us?
And, oh, Jerry, if they go to our church we’ll see our flowers there;
the ones we had in the luncheon room yesterday.”
That did not appeal very strongly to Jerry, though he admired the
pansies and thought the lily a “dandy.” He was more concerned at
the prospect of breakfast and certainly was better pleased with
something that Mrs. Law produced from the chest.
“Rock and Eleanor sent them to you,” she told the children as she
handed each of them a little box.
 Jerry had his open in a jiffy and gave a whistle of delight while
Cassy fumbled nervously at the string which tied hers. But it was
opened at last and disclosed a little nest holding three eggs, one of
pink sugar, one of chocolate, and one “a real righty egg” dyed purple
and with the name “Cassy” upon it. They had never had more than
one egg apiece on Easter and this rich supply was something
delightful.
“Oh, mother, mother, what makes them all so lovely to us?” Cassy
cried. “I feel like singing. I’d like to be a canary bird.”
“Sho! I wouldn’t,” responded Jerry. “I’d rather be myself. I don’t
want to be shut up in a cage and live on bird-seed.” He had just
finished his sixth biscuit and it is not to be wondered at that he
should consider bird-seed rather insufficient for his appetite. Hot
biscuits were much more to his liking.
Cassy set off very proudly for Sunday-school, yet, curiously
enough, the imaginative little soul felt a little regretful that her old
carefully worn frock must stay at home, for Mrs. Dallas had brought it
back with her the evening before. It seemed treating it with scorn,
and before she went out she turned to the closet where it hung and
touched it lovingly.
“You are a dear good frock,” she whispered, “and I love you. I am
proud of my new one, but I don’t love it.” And then she left a crack of
the closet door open that her old plaid frock might be in view of the
white lily on the window-sill. She did not tell her mother of her
feelings on this subject. There were many things which little Miss
Oddity said and did which few persons would understand, and she
was aware of it. Her world of fancy was a very different one from that
in which most persons live.
She stood rapt and thoughtful before her lily till her brother should
be ready. She was wondering if it would be right to allow Miss
Morning-Glory to go to church with her, and then she decided that it
would be better that she should remain at home to keep the lily
company, for maybe the lily would be lonely in a strange place with
no acquaintances but the pansies and the geranium. However, she
thought Miss Morning-Glory might be permitted to walk to church
with her, for she had on a new frock, too, this morning; it was of
purple and green, and in her mind’s eye Cassy saw plainly the many
floating ends of satin ribbon which ornamented this invisible
companion’s Easter gown.
When she reached the Sunday-school and had taken her seat,
she looked around to see if Rock and Eleanor were there, but they
were not, though in church she caught sight of Eleanor’s “angel
curls” in a pew near the front, and then she saw Mrs. Dallas, and by
peeping around the big pillar near them she could get a glimpse of
Rock, so she knew that the flowers that lifted their fair heads around
the chancel were her flower friends. She thought she could
distinguish them from the stranger ones, and she nodded gravely to
them as she left the church.
In consequence of sitting on the other side of the church she had
no opportunity of speaking to Eleanor unless she should wait
outside, and this she asked to be allowed to do.
“I want to thank her,” she told her mother.
After a while she saw Eleanor coming along ahead of her aunt.
She wore a pretty new frock and a hat trimmed with wild flowers.
She caught sight of Cassy and smiled, and then went over to where
she stood waiting.
“I didn’t know you came here to church,” she said. “Wasn’t the
music lovely?”
“Yes, and the flowers were, too. I knew some of them,” Cassy
added gravely. “I want to thank you for that dear nest of eggs. I never
had so many before.”
“There weren’t very many,” Eleanor returned. “I am glad you liked
them. We dyed the purple ones ourselves, Rock and I, and Rock put
the names on them.”
“And the lily, the lovely lily,” said Cassy. “I never, never thought I
should have one of my very own.” She wanted to thank Mrs. Dallas
for it, but felt too shy to go up to her before all that crowd of people.
“Please tell Mrs. Dallas I think it is so beautiful, and I think when she
is an angel she will look like one of my lilies.”
 Eleanor laughed.
“I will surely tell her,” she said. And when she repeated the
message Mrs. Dallas smiled, and then her eyes grew very moist.
“And to think that a little sweet soul like that must live in such
surroundings. But she shall not always, shall she, Heath?”
She laid her hand on her husband’s shoulder, and he made
answer: “Not if I can do anything to prevent it.”
HOW CASSY TRIED TO MAKE A
FIRE
 CHAPTER VII
HOW CASSY TRIED TO MAKE A FIRE

Only once more did Cassy see Eleanor before she returned home
after her Easter holiday, and that was one afternoon, which added
another red letter day to Cassy’s calendar. Looking over the top of
her geranium she saw standing before the door a shining carriage
drawn by a pair of glossy bay horses, and presently she heard
footsteps approaching the top floor, and then some one knocked.
Cassy opened the door and there stood Eleanor.
“I have come to take you to drive,” she said. “It is such a nice
afternoon to go to the park. Can you go?”
“Oh!” Cassy’s breath was almost taken by this announcement.
“Come in,” she said, “and I will ask mother.”
Eleanor stepped into the room. It gave her a little shock to see
how very plain it was, just as it had given her a shock to see the
street in which Cassy lived. She had not realized that this little new
friend was so very poor, although Rock had told her so. But it was
pleasanter up on this top floor than it was below, she reflected. Then
she heard Cassy saying, “Here’s mother,” and she stepped over to
where Mrs. Law sat sewing.
“Aunt Dora was not going to use the carriage this afternoon, and
she thought it would be nice for Cassy and me to take a little drive; it
is such a lovely day, and I am going home to-morrow. May she go?”
She looked with sympathetic eyes at Mrs. Law stitching away for
dear life, and thought how she would dislike to see her mother work
so hard.
Mrs. Law stopped the machine for a moment and looked up with a
smile at Cassy’s eager face.
“It is very kind of Mrs. Dallas and you to want to give Cassy such a
pleasure. I shall be glad to have her go, and I know she will enjoy it.
Go get ready, dear.”
“Couldn’t you go, too?” Eleanor asked wistfully, looking at Mrs.
Law’s pale cheeks.
“I am afraid not,” was the reply, “though I thank you for thinking of
it. I must finish this work this evening. Won’t you sit down and wait?
Cassy will not be long.”
Eleanor sat down and watched Mrs. Law’s swift movements.
“Could I see Flora?” she asked after a few moments’ silence.
Mrs. Law smiled.
“Why certainly. I think she is in her crib over there in the corner.”
Eleanor looked and saw no crib, but she caught sight of Flora’s
placid face peeping above the side of the overturned footstool which
served as her bed, and she went over and lifted the doll out. She
was not a beautiful creature, she reflected; not near so pretty as
Rubina, but she appreciated Cassy’s devotion to her, and she held
her tenderly in her lap till Cassy returned.
“I would like to give her one of mine,” she thought, “but it wouldn’t
be her own child, after all, and she cares just as much for her Flora
as I do for my Rubina.”
Cassy looked pleased to see Flora receive this attention from her
visitor, and was more pleased still when Eleanor insisted upon
putting the doll up on the window-sill where, as she said, she could
look out and see them drive off. At the door Eleanor turned:
“Good-bye, Mrs. Law,” she said. “I wish you could go, too,” and
then she followed Cassy down-stairs, glad to get out of the ill-
smelling house.
The fairy god-mother, the pumpkin coach, and all the other fairy
delights seemed to have come to Cassy as she stepped into the
carriage. The children of the neighborhood stared open-mouthed at
the spectacle of Oddity Law going to drive in a fine carriage. For the
moment she was a creature further removed from them than ever.
No wonder she was queer, if she could have friends like the pretty
little girl at her side.
Cassy was quite conscious of the excitement they were causing,
for even the women who lived near by, stood, arms akimbo, to stare
after them. Cassy felt a strong desire for a hat as pretty as Eleanor’s;
hers was only a plain little sailor hat, but it was inconspicuous, and
was really much more suitable than a gayer one, but Cassy did not
know that.
What a wonderful drive that was! Would Cassy ever forget it? The
dogwood was in blossom, and wild flowers were beginning to spring
up along the woodland roads. The child could not talk much, but she
was very content to listen to Eleanor’s lively chatter, and when the
shining carriage drew up again before her door, Jerry was there to
help her out, and his look of pride as he glanced around at the
astounded Billy Miles was good to Cassy. And then Eleanor drove off
and Cassy saw her no more, but she was not forgotten, and when
the two again met it was not in that street, though of what was to
come neither of them dreamed.
It was one Saturday morning two or three weeks later when the
glory of the lilies had departed and the pansies were dwindling in
size, and only the geranium held its own, showing new blossoms
and new buds. Early summer was at hand; the streets were
resounding with cries of “Red-ripe strawberries!” or “Rags, bones,
old bottles!” and the hand organs were out in force.
Cassy had been busy all morning, for her mother had gone out
upon an important errand, and Jerry was running his errands at the
market. From time to time the little girl addressed a remark to the
invisible Miss Morning-Glory, or to Flora, who stared at her with
round black eyes from her corner.
It being Saturday there was much to be done, and Cassy had
been busy sweeping and dusting, and putting in order. Now she was
a little tired and was resting in the big rocking-chair, swinging herself
back and forth and chanting a little song to herself, which she made
up as she went along:
 “There once was a lily that died,
And it was a lady, a lady,
But it went to heaven one night
And now it’s an angel, an angel.”

She sang the song very softly, looking over to where her pot of
lilies stood. Now it showed only green leaves, but Cassy’s thoughts
were busy in thinking of the lilies which had been and wondering
whether they were now alive in another world.
Suddenly the twelve o’clock whistles blew shrilly and the little girl
jumped down from her chair.
“There, Flora,” she said, “it is twelve o’clock and Jerry will be home
soon, and there’ll be no dinner for him unless I get it. I wonder if I
can. Mother said she couldn’t tell when she’d be back, so I’ll have to
do the best I can, for Jerry will be so hungry; he always is on
Saturdays. I will see what there is in the safe.” She opened the door
and looked at the various contents of the safe.
There was a plate of cold corn-bread, little dish of beef stew, and a
small, a very small plate of cheese. Cassy regarded these
thoughtfully; they did not look very promising, and she shut the safe
door.
“I’ll try and make the fire, Flora,” she remarked, “and then Miss
Morning-Glory and I will get dinner. We are going to have—to have—
chicken sandwiches, and green peas, and fried potatoes, and little
long rolls, and strawberries and ice-cream and cake. Oh, yes, and
first there will be soup in little cups.” She had her luncheon at Mrs.
Dallas’s in mind.
Going to the stove she took off the lids and looked in. She had
never made a fire, for Jerry or her mother always did that, and she
was a little dubious about the matter. Mrs. Law had to be very frugal
in the matter of fuel so there was no coal to be put on, and Cassy
thought she could easily manage the wood. So she stuffed in some
paper and piled some sticks of wood on top of it, then shut it all up
tight after lighting it. In a few minutes she looked at it, but it was dead