DIED MARCH 28, 1895

IN TALLMADGE, OHIO

She belonged to the race of hardy pioneers—whose ranks are so rapidly thinning—who reduced this, our beautiful State of Ohio, from a luxuriant wilderness to civilization. In 1817, her father and mother brought their family of nine children to Ohio, from Milford, Conn. She was then seven years old, having been born March 23, 1810.

Her ancestry were pure English, and can be traced through the Revolutionary War to the days of Knight Errantry in England, when the family name was spelled Ffenne.

The journey from Connecticut was accomplished in six weeks, in a covered wagon, drawn by six oxen. At one place where they spent the night, a large baking of bread had been drawn from the big brick oven that day. As they were out of that very necessary article, they asked the privilege of buying a supply. The good housewife stayed up all night and baked another oven full, that there might be no lack.

It was not an unknown experience to find limited accommodations at their stopping places, in which event they brought blankets from their own store, spread them on the floor and slept soundly till morning, The impression made upon the mind of this little seven-year old girl, by the sight of a thunderstorm, which raged beneath them while crossing the mountains, was never effaced. Slowly, day by day, this little company proceeded farther and farther into the wilderness, through forests where never an echo had resounded to the rush and roar of a railroad train, where not a wire had been stretched for the flashing of messages of any sort—crossing more streams without bridges than with them, until their destination was reached, and they were welcomed by those who had preceded them a few weeks or months. Within a very few weeks of their arrival, I think two, the father died of a fever.

The family remained on the farm. Among the episodes of her childhood that have interested the children of later years, this one is selected:

When still quite small she went to her mother one day, and being sleepy, asked to lie on her bed. Her mother who expected company that afternoon, and was busy in the kitchen, gave an unheeding permission.

The day progressed, the guests appeared, and in the course of the afternoon one of them asked, "Where is Clemence?"

"Clemence? She is here somewhere,’’ said her mother, and then tried to recall when and where she had last seen the child.

When she realized that some hours had elapsed since Clemence had been noticed, she became alarmed and started a search.

Benjamin was sent in one direction, Fowler, Jonathan, Lucinda in others, The guests united in the quest.

The mother bethought her of the old-fashioned well with its wide mouth and square curb, and with fear and trembling took a hook from the crane in the fire-place, fastened it securely on a long pole, and thrust it down the well.

After giving it some motion she tried to withdraw it, but it caught on a Stone, arid the almost frenzied mother called out, I’ve got her, I’ve got her.’’

One of the boys was immediately dispatched to a neighbor, half a mile away, who responded to the appeal for help, and coming on the scene threw off his coat and boots and descended the well, but announced from its depth no child was there.

The search was resumed. The orchard, barns, lanes, garden and house all were visited.

One of the brothers, Benjamin, ran down cellar and called aloud "Clemence, Clemence."

The child who was directly above him, awakened suddenly at the call, and answered, "Here I be."

Rushing up stairs he found her under the coverlid at the foot of her mother’s bed, where he told her to lie still. Then he brought the whole crowd in to see the lost child.

In her fear of disturbing the rounded symmetry of her mother’s lofty feather bed, she had left no token of her presence there.

To their home and hearts nine children were welcomed, every third child being a son. Of these, six survive her.

She was possessed of an affectionate and cheerful disposition, always looking for and finding the best there was in any one she came in contact with. Those who held her friendship for the major part of her life—her friends and neighbors—can hear testimony to the uniformity of her temper, her abounding charity, her sympathy.

In those early days the duties of a country doctor demanded and cultivated the qualities of goodness that were found in her. A patient who was not doing well and needed a change was not ordered to Europe, California or Florida.

However beneficial such changes might have been they were simply impossibilities. So the next best thing was considered, and if some relative or friend could not he found within easy distance, the patient was often brought by the Doctor to his own home. Especially was this the case with those who had been deserted, misused or abused.

No matter how full her house or numerous her cares, she was never known to lose her equanimity.

The world progresses.

The last end of the 19th century sees a far higher grade of civilization than was enjoyed at its first. But there were some qualities in common use then it is still worth while to cultivate, although the manner of cultivation must necessarily be changed. The conditions of life were such that one was obliged to call on friends and neighbors for help, whenever he desired to raise a house or barn. The heavy timbers deemed necessary were only moved by many hands. Many of the labor-saving farming utensils being then unknown, made community of interests in neighboring farms desirable.

A high sense of honor, a proper appreciation of kindness rendered, made the opportunity to reciprocate a joyful occasion.

Rogues were scarce. Confidence in humanity was the rule. Housebreakers were unknown. In many homes the doors were never bolted. I have heard my brother, Henry Camp, say he had more than once returned from spending an evening out, entered the house, proceeded up stairs to his room, and retired without opening or shutting a door.

In looking back it seems as if along some lines the ties of our common humanity were quite as strong then as now.

When there was no hotel in this place every home on the center knew it must share in the responsibility of filling the gap. Strangers still asked for accommodation and expected it.

One night, after dark, a family of eight—some of the children quite small—who had intended to reach the Falls, being belated, applied for hospitality. Other resources, for various reasons failing, they were stowed away in the house behind the elm, with heartiest good will and the best cheer the home afforded on such short notice.

She was always delighted with letters from absent friends, and enjoyed letter writing herself, as comparatively few do, to the very end of her life, dictating several, after writing was impossible.

Mother received the experience of religion when the responsibilities of motherhood first dawned upon her.

With the helpless bit of humanity in her arms, dependent on her for its physical life and well-being, herself to wield the largest influence in shaping its character for the unknown future, she realized her utter inability to accomplish, unaided, the mighty task, and sought the source of all knowledge and power, and found not only the help she asked, but for herself that Mighty Friend in Heaven, the Great Redeemer.

His service has ever been a delight to her.

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