Such a fair as it was, opening with a great parade, “the potato procession,” the papers had called it, making sport of the scheme. The school children were given a holiday. Banks and stores were closed. Railroads ran excursions, bells rang, guns were fired, the whole city gathered to see the parade--children carrying flags, convalescent soldiers in carriages, captured standards of the Confederate armies, and farmers’ wagons with mottoes such as “Our father lies at Stone River” and “We buried a son at Donelson.” The flags on the horses’ heads were edged with black. The women who rode beside son or husband were dressed in black. And when the parade stopped in front of Mrs. Livermore’s house, the crowd was in tears. The farmers gave great wagon loads of potatoes and cabbages and onions, for shipment to the soldiers. Live stock was sold at auction just outside the main hall. In manufacturers’ annex were plows and reapers and stoves and trunks and washing machines, all for sale. There was a curiosity shop, an art gallery whose treasures were loaned for the fair, one hall for entertainments every evening--concerts, tableaux, lectures by Anna Dickinson, the girl orator. Dinner was served each day. When it was all over the women had cleared a hundred thousand dollars. But the fair did far more than raise this large sum of money. It was a splendid demonstration of loyalty to the Union. It encouraged the soldiers. It kindled an electric generosity and a contagious patriotism, infusing into widely scattered groups of workers an impetus that lasted through the war. It captured the attention of the entire loyal North for weeks. Its success led to Sanitary Fairs in Cleveland, Boston, Pittsburgh, St. Louis, New York and Philadelphia. Soon after the Chicago fair was over, Mrs. Livermore was asked to speak to an aid society in Dubuque, Iowa. She left on the night train, reaching the Mississippi River at a point where there was no bridge and travelers must cross by ferry. But the ice in the river had stopped the boats. She waited nearly all day. Could she keep her engagement? At last she saw two men starting out in a small rowboat, but they refused to take her. “You’ll be drowned,” they said. “I can’t see that I shall drown any more than you!” was her reply, and finally they rowed her across. Her determination to accomplish whatever she undertook was one reason for her success. She had expected to talk informally to a small group of women. To her dismay she found that great preparations had been made. The largest church in Dubuque was filled with an eager crowd, the governor and many noted men being present, and every county in Iowa represented. And her lecture was announced, “A Voice from the Front.” “I can’t do it,” she said. “I’m not a public speaker. What I had to say to a few ladies is not worthy to be called a lecture to this great audience. I can’t do it!”