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18 71089 



3 1833 02322 3347 


A Series of Stories 
by Old Settlers of 
Fulton County, 



Marceline. Vlo , ISA 




In compiling the personal history and experiences of our 
fellow townsmen, the pupose is not to sue for the praise which 
sometimes come to those who give expression to great and lofty 
ideas that sway the literary world, but. to preserve to coming 
generations, the simple life stories of those who are our neigh- 
bors and friends. Realizing that the hourglass of time, which 
is even now casting its lengthening shadow over these brave 
men, will soon check off the hour of their earthly depart- 
tire, we owe it to them to keep their memory green f by reason 
of the many privations they endured, that we and those to come 
may enjoy the blessings which have followed as a natural se- 
quence. The stories are those of pioneer days, of the incidents 
not found in history, but which made history in this county 
possible. To this end, '■'■Home Folks'" is circulated locally, that 
we may read and reflect on the duty and honor we owe those 
who laid the foundation for the civilization of today. 


Digitized by the Internet Archive 

in 2010 with funding from 

Allen County Public Library Genealogy Center 


Volume I 

Doings in Fulton County by William A. Ward page 1 

Coming of the Pioneer by Jonathan Dawson 8 

Deer Hunting Escapades by John E. Troutman 14 

By Ox Team to Pike's Peak by Robert S. Jewell 21 

Inspiration — Determination by Dr. William Hill 29 

In Andersonville Prison by Samuel Miller 39 

Pioneer Editor's Story by Michael L. Essick 57 

Some Old, Familiar Names by Charles Jackson 62 

Sunshine and Shadow by Charles A. Mitchell 67 

Stranger to Aristocracy by Nelson B. Way mire 77 

Lake Manitou Fish Tales by Alfred B. Sibert 85 

Some New Old Stories by Jonas Myers 94 

Over the Alleghenies by George Perschbacher 104 

Random Recollections by Enoch H. Mow 110 

First Love Explained by Frank Dillon 117 

Tragedy in Liberty by Job V. Pownall 128 

Soldiering Down South by John R. Stallard 134 



Some Important Events and Interesting Incidents 
Concerning Our Early History. 


n£V S I GO BACK IN MEMORY, over my long and some- 
-*- -^- what eventful life, it is almost impossible to realize 
that it has been my good fortune to see this part of 
Indiana change from unbroken forest, filled with wild game and 
inhabited by Indians, to a highly civilized land of cities, fertile 
farms and comfortable homes. Neither can our boys and girls in 
this thriving age of education and competition in the affairs of 
men, understand anything of the hardships endured by the brave 
men and women who left their kith and kin in other states, came 
to a strange country, built homes and blazed a way for coming 
generations to find comfort and competence. 

It is not my intention to relate any historical data of those 
early days, when Rochester did not exist, even in fancy, but to 
tell some of the incidents which are indelibly stamped on my 
memory, and acquaint a modern public with matters that are of 
importance to me. 

When a mere babe, two and one-half years of age, my parents, 
Ebenezer and Rachel Ward, with their seven children, left their 
home in New York, and journeyed, by slow degrees, to Indiana, 
arriving here in about four months. I was too young to remem- 
ber incidents in the overland trip, but recall that my parents fre- 
quently talked of the journey, and said that not far distant from 
this place, we staid three nights at one house, yet traveled every 
day, the ground being so soft that our teams and horses were 
nearly lost in the mire. It was hitch and unhitch, the advance 
being slow indeed. After a long and patient struggle we reached 
our destination and became citizens of the Hoosier state. 


To go into the details of constructing a home, clearing land 
and the many privations sustained by my people, would length- 
en this effort too much. Suffice it to say that the only whites 
here in those days, which I think was in 1831, were George Bo- 
zarth, William Lindsey, Joseph Truckey, Thomas Robb, DeClair, 
a haif Frenchman, and "Friend" Johnson, who was the Indian 
gunsmith. We soon made friends with the red men, and as I 
grew in size and age, I became the interpreter for the whites. As 
time went on, the pale faces became more numerous, and stores 
and houses were built. Among those early store keepers, I recall 
the names of Johns and Dave Holland, the store standing on 
what is now the corner of Main and Third streets. James Moore 
was also a store keeper and held forth in a log building, where he 
sold whiskey bv the barrel, receiving |125 per barrel, the same 
being purchased by the Indians. The story went that Moore 
sold the liquor straight until the Indians were drunk, then 
watered the whiskey, and they would drink until they were sober. 
Discovering the deception, they would pour the remainder on the 
fire with the comment, "Too much bish." 

About this time Benjamin Benjamin put in an appearance 
and erected the first frame house of any consequence. It still 
stands, a monument to the enterprise of the builder, and may be 
inspected by any citizen. I refer to the first house south of the 
Barcus lime house on Main street. It was in this house that the 
first tragedy occured among the white settlers. Margaret Reese, 
who lived there with her husband, decided that she wanted to 
get rid of her spouse, and daily administered broken doses of 
arsnic, the man dying in two weeks. Dr. Howes and Dr. Chas. 
Brackett removed the stomach of the dead man and took it to 
LaPorte, where it was analyzed by Dr. Meeker, who could not tell 
whether the poison had been administered before death or had 
been dropped in the bottle containing the stomach on the way to 
LaPorte. Mrs. Reese was acquitted and allowed to go her way. 
Another incident that may be of interest now comes to my 
mind. A band of thieves began to make life miserable for the 
settlers. Houses, stores, mills and stock received visits from the 
band, the territory of their operations reaching as far as Ft. 
Wayne, LaFayette and Logansport, Forrest mills, near the latter 
place losing heavily. The headquarters of the band was an old 
house which stood a mile south of what is now Fulton, on land 
owned by William Wright. The band was composed of two 
Murdock brothers, Wright boys, Kingsley and Stotenburger. All 
efforts to capture the theives and bring them to justice seemed of 
no avail. 

I have passed over the time when the settlement had attain- 
ed to the dignity of a village, and Fulton county had been organ- 


ized. James Gregory had been elected sheriff, and had left noth- 
ing undone to bring about the arrest of the offenders of the law, 
accomplishing but little. The following men then decided they 
would capture the outlaws and laid plans which were success- 
fully carried out: Dr. Lyman Brackett, Eli Clifford, Luke Ward 
and William Spencer. Men were stationed at the south end of 
the village, others at the north end, where the stage, which was 
driven by Henry Barcus, always stopped. When all was ready 
the above named men rode boldly to the rendesvous of the rob- 
bers, which they surrounded. Wm. Spencer, who was the lead- 
er, knocked at the back door, and was met by a cross dog, which 
he promptly dispatched with a club, then hearing some one with- 
in, without further ceremony, broke in the door, coming face to 
face with Stotenburger, the most desperate of the gang. It was 
a hand to hand fight, and Spencer surely would have lost his life 
had he not called for the others to come to his aid, for Stoten- 
burger, who was a strong man, was slowly, step by step, forcing 
Spencer backward to a table on which laid a long knife. The 
front door was soon demolished, others of the band captured and 
Spencer freed from his dangerous position. A search was made 
of the upper floor. Here a bed was found that seemed empty 
and smooth. A grab at the cover though, revealed another of 
the thieves, who was soon tied to the rest and the coterie march- 
ed to town. As an example to the rest, Stotenburger was tied to 
a tree and lashed until his body was a mass of cuts and bruises. 
The theives were then put in safe keeping, tried before Judge 
Wright and sentenced to prison. The prisoners were to be taken 
to Jefferson ville, the journey being made in an open wagon. Is 
there any cause for astonishment when I say all escaped save 
one, and he was too sick to make the attempt? He died soon 
after reaching prison. For several years after breaking Tip this 
band, dress goods, silks, satins, groceries, flour and money were 
found in hollow trees and various places where the theives had 
concealed their spoils. 

Another tragedy that occured at a somewhat later day, but 
still an incident of those primitive times, was a cold-blooded 
murder east of town, and the circumstances may be remembered 
by one or two still living. Arnold Perry, an old bachelor, resid- 
ed on a farm with his sister and nephew, Jackson Clemens. 
The lad wanted to secure the farm and marry a girl of the neigh- 
borhood, so followed his uncle to the woods where he was clear- 
ing the land, and deliberately shot him in the back, killing him 
instantly. All night neighbors searched for the missing man, 
finally finding the body and gave it burial, then turned their at- 
tention to locating the murderer. Old man VanLue openly ac- 
cused the boy of killing his uncle and he confessed to the crime 


and the motive. The criminal was brought to town, a prelimin- 
ary hearing given him and he was bound over to circuit court- 
Rochester could not boast of a jail, so Clemens was kept in the 
County Auditor's office in the old court house, during the day, 
and taken to the court room at night, where he was chained to 
the floor. Abel GreenwcocV was sheriff and he and I watched 
Clemens night about. The night before the trial, Greenwood 
suggested that he stay with the prisoner while I take a rest. I 
am not prepared to say the sheriff planned the escape of the mur- 
derer, but the facts are that when daybreak came the bird had 
flown, no one knew where. He had broken his chains, burned 
the boards from the windows and departed for parts unknown 
Long afterward, I heard that he had settled in Nebraska, chang- 
ed his name to Jackson Burse, married and prospered. I offered 
to bring him back, on learning his whereabouts, but the authori- 
ties seemed to think the expense would be greater than the bene- 
fit derived to the county, so Clemens died a free man as far as 
that crime is concerned. I realize these crimes I have related, 
are nothing compared to the awful tragedies occuring all about 
us in these modern times, but coming in those early days, when 
every man was a law unto himself and each feeling the responsi- 
bility of the well being of the community, they struck the inhab- 
itants with horror, which was only appeased when we felt that 
justice had been meted to the law breaker. 

One of the most pleasing things I recall of my earlj experi- 
ence, was my association with the Indians. Perhaps the readers 
of this sketch will be interested in knowing something of the 
customs of those children of nature. The burial of the dead was 
in some respects peculiar. The deceased was tied in a sitting 
posture against a tree, all his personal belongings, tomahawk, 
arrows, gun and blankets were laid around him. A screen of 
brush was then put around the corpse, and he was visited each 
day by members of the tribe until the law of disintegration re- 
solved the form back to nature. The tribe were honest with each 
other, and had great respect for their dead, touching nothing that 
belonged to them lest when they came to die the Great Spirit 
would refuse them entrance to the Happy Hunting Ground. I 
saw the remains of two Indians receive the last rites as above de- 
scribed. Only once to my knowledge did they go on the war 
path during my association with them. That was when they 
refused to accept the amount of money agreed upon in the treaty 
with the government, in exchange for their land. So unruly did 
they become, a message was sent to Logansport for the troops 
stationed there. Well do I remember what an imposing sight I 
thought the soldiers presented in their uniforms, brass buttons 
and stripes, as they came in and wheeled into line. The Indians 


were gathered at Pottawattomie mills, near the lake, where a 
wagon laden with silver money stood to pay each red man his 
claim. The interpreter for the government spoke, explaining the 
meaning of the presence of the soldiers, after which each Indian 
speedily took his money and the troops returned to Logansport. 
Not a shot was fired on either side. 

Tradition says the red men buried money at different points 
in the county. I believe this is true. Indians owned the land 
which is now the farm of Mrs. Edith Cowgill-Bryant, north of 
town. I am almost positive money is buried on that land, and 
in large quantities. Some day it will be discovered, buried in an 
iron kettle, and the coin in gold. Years after the Indians had 
gone from among us, a young brave returned, staid at the Wal- 
lace house several months and employed Andy Edwards to turn 
over the soil on that land. He said that the oldest man in the 
tribe had told of the buried gold, and said it was hidden so many 
feet under ground, between three trees. The ground had been 
cleared, however, the trees removed and the soil under cultiva- 
tion, so the search was fruitless. I also believe money is buried 
in the field east of what was the Duke Kilmer farm. It was 
here DeCair, the half-breed, lived many years in a little cabin, 
burying his money after the custom of his tribe, and died with 
the secret untold. 

As a general thing the red men were peacable, although they 
had a fondness for the white men's "fire-water." We-we-see was 
very firm with the tribe and demanded fair conduct of his sub- 
jects. It was no uncommon thing for Poor Lo to imbibe freely, 
lose his blanket and have to buy it back from some nimble-fin- 
gered white man, after sobering, always paying a good big price 
for that which was already his own property. Several of these 
shrewd fellows piled up a nice competence as a result of the red 
man's ignorance. It was not often that my people had trouble 
with them, but my mother, who was a slender little woman, once 
whipped one until he was glad to cry for mercy. He had been 
drinking, and answered her rudely. She knocked him over with 
a stick, then used a small whip. He finally crawled off into the 
bushes and sobered up. He then returned and begged mother to 
keep the matter secret from the chief, who surely would have put 
him to death. We raised corn, turnips and other vegetables for 
the Indians, they refusing to take anything without paying well 
for the same. 

Living was very cheap. We need not go one hundred rods 
from our door to bring down a deer or squirrel. I have seen deer 
in herds of great numbers, but strange as it may seem, when the 
Indians went away, they also disappeared, none knowing where 
they went. 


I could go on with many legends of the lake and river, but 
will only relate one that came under my personal observation. 
DeClair was paddling about the lake in his log canoe, one even- 
ing, when he observed something he thought to be a log. He 
gave it a push with his paddle, when, to his astonishment, it 
turned, gave a swish with a mighty tail, which nearly spilled the 
Indian-Frenchman into the water. It did not take him long to 
put for shore, relate the facts to the Indians, who at once built 
big fires, danced around it and called to the Great Spirit for pro- 
tection from Manitou. For many years Lake Manitou was called 
"Devil's Lake," because DeClair had seen the "Evil Spirit." 

I shall never forget with what deep regret I witnessed my 
red brethren bunched together and driven like cattle from their 
native land, to a place selected for them by the Government, be- 
yond the "Father of Waters." Among them were my boyhood 
playmates and staunch friends, whom I regarded with brotherly 
affection, and who held a friendship for me equal to kinship. 
Out of their kindly disposed feeling for me, they had offered me 
gold and enough land to make me a wealthy man, had I taken 
advantage of them, which I am glad to say I refused to do, not- 
withstanding that I was repeatedly urged to accept their gener- 
ous offers. They were gathered together, — the chief, braves, 
squaws and old men — some walking, some on ponies, some in 
wagons because too old to walk, and started westward on their 
long journey. For more than a mile I followed them out of town 
fully determined that I would go with them, my mother follow- 
ing and as much determined that I should return home. Sue 
won the victory, but after several years I had still further proof 
of their loyalty to me, as they sent word that if I would pay tneui 
a visit they would agree to give me large tracts of land. 

Lot M. Bozarth at one time held three county offices, — clerk, 
auditor and treasurer. John Davidson was the first sheriff of the 
county. My father was the first justice of the peace, and held a 
number of responsible positions. He also delivered the first 4lh 
of July oration in Rochester and Fulton county. In fact, to read 
the history of the county, and of Rochester, is to read the history 
of Ebenezer Ward and several of his children. My brother John 
was the first man to practice law in the town, and my sister 
Mary Jane was first school teacher. To my knowledge, "there are 
but two persons still living who are connected with the period I 
have given some history of, and those persons are C. A. Mitchell 
and his mother, Mrs. Jane Smith, the latter being ninety-four 
years of age. Two others, now deceased, were Jesse Shields and 
James Martin. There is not one person living who attended my 
wedding, when I married Adaline Howes. I remember three 
young ladies who were present, — Ann, Eliza and Amanda Bur- 


roughs, but these too, no doubt, are numbered with the dead. 

I was elected sheriff" of Fulton county in 1876 and served two 
terms (four years) . It was during this time that I helped to 
break up a gang of counterfeiters which were operating in the 
county. I became acquainted with the facts of their existence, 
through an attempt to locate a baud of horse thieves, who were 
stationed some place in Marshall county. Letters began to come, 
hinting that spurious money was in circulation and they put me 
on the trail of the counterfeiters, who occupied a house beyond 
Glaze Hill, north of town. I spent many a night in the woods, 
near the house occupied by Langdou and Ferdone, and aftersome 
time succeeded in getting some of the dies they used. George W. 
Holman and I then sent a letter to the United States Secret Ser- 
vice Commission, to send a detective, but heard nothing in reply 
for a long time afterward. One day, during court, I was told 
that a stranger wished to speak to me, and to me alone. I went 
into the corridor of the old court house and found a large man, 
who introduced himself by name of Brooks, and that he had been 
sent by the Secret Service Commission. I appointed a time to 
meet him in my office, and after satisfying myself that he was all 
that he represented himseif to be, showed him the dies and told 
him what I knew. Shortly afterward the house was surrounded, 
the outlaws captured, taken to Logansport, then to Indianapolis, 
where they were tried in Federal court and sentenced to prison. 
The counterfeiters were located at different points in the county, 
one at Fulton, who was arrested at Logansport. In all, seven men 
were made to feel the iron hand of the law. There were several 
men in Rochester at that time, who might have told what they 
knew of the circulating of the money made by the counterfeiters, 
but they kept quiet, and having no positive proof, thought best 
to let the matter drop. 

I am eighty years of age, still in reasonably good health, 
and enjoy life and the pursuit of business. The past years have 
been actively spent, much of the time out doors, to which I 
believe is largely due the ripe age I have attained. On the whole 
the world has been exceedingly kind to me, and while the expe- 
riences have been varied and such as falls to the lot of many who 
are. reared in a new country, still I am thankful that it has been 
my privilege to help make "the desert blossom as the rose," and 
out of the semi-savage state I have lived to enjoy the blessings of 
refined civilization, the acquaintance of countless friends, and re- 
tain the memory of the days Which were the history-makers of 
Fulton county, for hard as those days were, they contained much 
of pleasure, of loyal friendship and constant devotion to the prin- 
ciples which denominate this country as the grandest exponent 
of freedom on the globe. 


Some of His Hardships, Adventures, Adversities 
and Manner of Amusements. 


IT IS NO SMALL TASK to get in the reminescent mood to 
the extent that one can tabulate their thoughts, and bring 
forth incidents of the past in their regular order, but 
since I have been invited to give some account of my youthful 
days, will write as clearly as possible such things as I remem- 
ber, principally concerning the mode or manner of living, and 
beginning at the time my father moved from Lawrence county, 
Pennsylvania, to Indiana, driving a two-horse team, to make the 
journey. Prior to this, I have no recollection, save of very few 
things, one of them being the Mahoming river, on the bank of 
which we lived. 

An incident on the overland trip from Pennsylvania to this 
state is worth repeating. We had reached Muncietown and 
lodged over night with a man by name of Wilhelm. In the morn- 
ing father paid the bill for accommodations and hitched up the 
team to continue the journey. I remember that Wilhelm had a 
son-in-law, but do not recall his name. We had not traveled far 
when we were overtaken by five or six men on horseback, among 
them being Wilhelm and his son-in-law. They flourished their 
revolvers and ordered father to hand over his money. He did as 
he was ordered, handing to the highwaymen a purse containing 
about fifty dollars. Luckily, Father and Mother had divided 
their money, and she had secreted her share on her person, else 
the remainder of the trip would have been fraught with greater 
hardship. After we were settled in Fulton county, Father made 
several trips back to Muncietown to prosecute Wilhelm, and he 
and his son-in-law were finally sent to Jeffersonville, but the 
others went free, as Father could not identify them. 



Our family reached Fulton county in 1837, stopping a short 
time with William Biddle, a neighbor who had left Pennsyl- 
vania the year previous. Father soon found an empty log hut, 
on the banks of Lake Manitou, and we moved in, living there the 
remainder of that year and early spring, when it was decided to 
build a house on his land, eight miles east of Rochester. 

There was a settlement in the vicinity of Newark, known 
now as Akron, some of the settlers being William Whittenber- 
ger and his sons, Dr. Sippy and the Welton family. West of 
there were the Staton, Barrow, Clemens and Felix Clevenger 
families, the last named man being the great-grandfather of 
Alex Clevenger of this city. 

Dan Mclntire and our family were the first settlers in that 
particular neighborhood, and each erected a log house, Mclntire 
completing his two or three weeks previous to ours. The houses 
were almost a mile apart, and thick woods between. All houses 
were built of logs as there were no sawmills to cut timber and 
no lumber yards, where material is finished ready for the carpen- 
ter's saw, as in these modern days. By spring, our house was 
far enough along to inhabit, although there was no floor and the 
door was covered with a bed-quilt. To build a house, it was 
necessary to go to the forest, select suitable trees, chop them 
down and then haul to the location where the home was to be 
erected. Neighbors helped to pile the logs, notching the ends to 
make the corners meet. The roof was made of slabs, split from 
blocks, resembling boards as much as possible. As soon as a 
a house had a roof on, it was thought to be ready for occupancy, 
even though the cracks between the logs would admit throwing 
a small dog though. In due time the cracks were closed with 
chinking and mortar made of clay. The next thing needed were 
windows, which were cut out and covered with paper, nicely 
oiled, through which the light penetrated. But it is of the wide, 
cheery fireplace, around which we delighted to gather, and in 
whose ruddy glow cluster the most sacred memories of my child- 
hood, that affords me the greatest pleasure to describe. 

Our fire place was not less than six feet wide and as high 
as a man's shoulders. This was built of niggerheads at one end 
of the house. On this wall of stone and mortar, the stick chim- 
ney rested, it being daubed with clay, inside and out, to prevent 
danger from fire. Previous to this, the fire was made on the 
ground and the cooking done out of doors. Fire, by the way, was 
rather a precious thing, for it must be remembered this was long 
before matches were made, consequently, perchance the fire 
went out, we must go to our neighbors for another supply, and if 
the neighbor lived a mile away, you were still likely to be with- 
out fire on arriving home. One way of getting a fire started, was 


to pour powder on a piece of punk, then expode it by striking 
stone and iron together until the sparks ignited the power. This 
was no easy process and I have seen my father work for an hour 
before he succeeded in getting a blaze. 

Our fire place was wide enough to admit a backlog as large 
as a man could get into the house, then we would pile smaller 
wood in front, using dogirons to keep the wood in place. I used 
to wonder why they were called dogirons, then conceived the 
idea that it was because they resembled little dogs with one leg 
in front and tails turned up for handles. It was in this fire place 
tnat my mother did the cooking. When there was bread to 
bake, the dough was put in an iron pot, the same set on a bed of 
ruddy coals, which had been drawn out On the hearth, and more 
coals piled on the iron lid. In cooking, sometimes the kettles 
would upset, unless suspended on the iron crane, which was fast- 
ened at one side and swung in and out. I must not forget to 
mention the johnnie-cake board which was about fifteen inches 
long and five wide. It was made very smooth, and on this was 
spread the dough and set before trie fire. When one side was 
a crisp brown, they were turned with a deft hand and the other 
side baked. A Johnnie cake thus baked is not to be forgotten. 

The first thing to be accomplished after we moved in the 
spring of 1838, was to clear a patch of ground, and plant corn, 
potatoes, etc. It was no small thing to clear a piece of land. 
No one wanted to buy timber and everyone wanted to seli theirs. 
Of course it was all green and hard to burn. The neighbors help- 
ed each others pile the logs to burn, but it was hard and slow 
work. Sugar trees were numerous, so some of them were tapped 
and molasses made. We raised some pumpkins and then we 
had pumpkin and molasses with our corn bread. We knew 
nothing about the process of canning, so it was the custom to 
invite in the neighbors, in the evening, to a pumpkin peeling out 
of which grew much wholesome pleasure. Some people could 
pare the entire pumpkin without breaking the rind. The pieces 
were then hung up to dry. When we got far enough along to 
raise wheat, Mother made baked pumpkin pies. We children 
were very anxious for Sunday morning to come, as that meant 
biscuit and pie for breakfast. Every year added a little more 
cleared land and as time went on the patch grew into a farm of 

many acres. 

For several years there were no schools in our settlement, al- 
though a number of new settlers moved in, among them being 
the Bright, Ball, Wagoner, Prili and Hoover families. Those 
were the days of large familes, and parents decided that schools 
had become a necessity. The men therefore chopped down trees 
and before many months, there were several comfortable log 
school houses within a radius of a few miles. 


One of the greatest pleasures for the young people, were the 
night spelling schools. I remember the Prill school claimed the 
best spellers in the neighborhood, being no less than James F. 
Wagoner and his sister Mary, now the wife of Zane Russell. 
In our school, Daniel H. Mclntire carried off the prize, and I 
had a pretty good opinion of my own ability in that line of edu- 
cation. In the Ball school, Ancil Ball, now of Seattle, Washing- 
ton was the champion and occasionally William Osgood would 
visit us and he was as good as the best. The greatest times were 
when all the schools met at one place and choose sides, then spell 
down. The old Elementery Speller was used. 

Among the settlers were several ministers or exhorters. I re- 
call the names of Rev. Joseph Terrel, Isaac Stallard, and a little 
later James and Robert Burns and Barzel Clevenger. The early 
minister was an earnest, sincere worker and preached around in 
the homes of the parisioners without money and without price. 
These were the first sermons I ever heard. Rev. Terrell had a 
brother Josiah, who moved into the community about this time 
and built a house within forty rods of our own. He was handy 
with a fiddle and loved to dance, and was called far and near to 
play for dancing parties and often held them in his own home. 
He began to attend the rural revival meetings and after a time 
became converted. One evening the meeting was held in Ter- 
rel 's home. After the sermon by the minister, Mr. Terrel arose, 
told his neighbors of his recent change of heart, then produced 
his fiddle saying: "Henceforth I will have no more use for this," 
and suiting action to the words, walked to the fireplace and laid 
the bow and fiddle on the blaze, where both were soon consumed. 
He also became a preacher. 

The farmer now has his riding plow and other agricultural 
machinery to make his work convenient and farming a pleasure 
instead of a burdensome task, as suffered by the pioneers. Near- 
ly all the plowing I ever did was with a jumping plow. A cut- 
ter was put in front of the plow to run over the roots, much as a 
sled would have done, but it was somewhat dangerous to the one 
having hold of the handles, for to strike a root meant a punch in 
the waistband. Around beach trees, there wonld be a rod of 
ground where the plow never touched. 

I also recall some of the customs in ladies' apparel. One 
rather unique head dress was a white cap, starched very stiff and 
smoothly ironed. The women thought they were not present- 
able without their caps and were as proud of them as the ladies 
of the present day are of their Merry Widow hats. Another 
thing they did was to smoke. The majority of them would 
carry their pipes and tobacco whereever they went and be soci- 
able by having a smoke with their friends. The most of them 


smoked home grown tobacco, but a few purchased the weed. I 
have not seen a woman smoke in a dozen years. 

Sixty or seventy years ago, a man was considered stingy if 
he did not furnish whiskey during harvesting, log rolling or 
barn raising, when a man was expected to do hard work. Whis- 
key was supposed to make a man strong, and there were some 
who wished to be noted for their strength, so they drank an 
extra amount and were soon so strong they laid down in the 
shade of a tree, and the others not so strong did the work. 

Another thing common to that period, was the ague. It was 
no unusual incident to find an entire family afflicted with the 
•'shakes," in summer time, one not able to care for the other. 
The chills came with punctual regularity, and no amount of heat 
could make the victim warm. Then a pain-racking fever would 
follow and no amount of cold could allay the fever, until it ran 
its course. Some could go to work immediately after the fever 
passed off, but unless the chills were broken, the system became 
so weakened and reduced that work was out of the question. 

The land we settled on once belonged to the Indians, and at 
that time there were almost as many Indians as whites. They 
frequently visited at our house, asking for coffee, bread, tobacco 
or anything we had to divide. The squaws would have their 
little papooses strapped on their backs. The red men were very 
peaceable as far as my people were concerned. Before the mill 
was built, they pounded their corn in a hole scooped out on the 
top of a log. The mill was erected at the dam or outlet of Lake 
Manitou. At that locality 1 found many a dart or arrow head. 
The only real experience I had with the Indians, was one time 
when my parents were going to Rochester to trade and left us 
children at Neighbor Terrel's. After a time we decided to go 
home, taking the Terrel children with us. We opened the door, 
but jumped back In fright, for the house was full of Indians. 
We beat a hasty retreat and did not wait to count the number, 
but I am sure there were no less than twenty in our house help- 
ing themselves to half of our coffee and other provisions. Each 
piece of tobacco was cut exactly in the middle, leaving half. 

Of course there were no roads in those days, every family 
making its own way by driving or walking where it was high 
and dry and avoiding the mud or low lands as much as possible. 
The lands then thought to be worthless, have been under culti^ 
vation for the last quarter of a century. For many years no one 
thought of raising hay as the prairies funished an abundant sup- 
ply. There were no buggies, all traveled in a big wagon to which 
were hitched horses or oxen. If a young man wished to take 
his lady love anywhere, they either went afoot or she would ride 
behind him on his horse. 


The first lamps we had were very crude affairs. Grease was 
put in an iron vessel in which was inserted a piece of wick or 
cotton, the outer end being lighted. We thought the light was 
very good, but of course, would now pale into insignificance com- 
pared with our modern electric or gas light. I often helped my 
mother make candles. We had candle-moulds through which 
wicks were stretched and the moulds then filled with the melted 
tallow. Another way was to get loag sticks, and on them hang 
wicks as long as we wanted to make the candles. Then we 
took an iron pot and almost filled it with warm water, and in 
the water poured the hot tallow, which came to the top. In 
this we dipped and re-dipped the wicks, cooling each time they 
were removed from the kettle, until they were the required size 
and length. Previous to oil lamps and candles, we only had fire 
light and will say, in passing, that many were the lessons conned 
in the light from the great fireplace. 

Well do I remember the first tomatoes we raised, knowing 
no other use for them than to admire as we did flowers. We 
called them Jerusalem apples. Long after we learned they were 
good to eat. 

Meat was very scarce, unless there was a good hunter in the 
family. Father was not an adept with shooting irons but I re- 
call that he killed two or three deers and several wild turkeys. 
Neighbor Mclntire though, was an excellent shot, and oftimes 
killed a deer before breakfast. 1 was no hunter, still would often 
shoot squirrel and ducks. I had the pleasure of shooting at 
turkeys and deer but suppose I must have had the "buck" fever, 
for I never brought any of them down. 

On Sunday, the boys had to amuse themselves in some fash- 
ion, as there were no Sunday schools. We played mumelde- 
peg, walked on stilts, swam in "the old swimming hole," or if 
in winter, hunt the streams for ice, slide down hill on our sleds. 

Another pleasure, and one I think foreign to the youths of 
the twentieth century, and that was hunting skunk. If one was 
found, and there was a dog along, there was no need to spend 
much money for perfume. Many of the animals then numerous, 
have become almost extinct in this part of the country, among 
them being the coon, muskrat, mink, porcupine, opposum. 
There were also many snakes, black snakes, water snakes and 
various other kinds and the boys delighted in killing them. I 
have seen the outer wall of a cabin, half covered with the skins 
of animals and snakes stretched up to dry. 

I left the old home place in the spring of 1854, almost fifty- 
five years ago. The first eight years spent in Rochester, was be- 
hind a dry goods counter, the balance of my business life, in sell- 
ing drugs. In 1856 I was captured by Isabella V. King, and am 
still a prisoner January 1, 1909. 


Forest and Stream are Scenes of Exciting Chase 
Where Now are Fine Farms. 


"X7"e EDITOR HAS REQUESTED ME to write something 
-*- of the pioneer days of Fulton county. I close my 

eyes and look at the past, as memory spreads it out 
before me. As I turn the pages of time back, one by one, year 
by year, decade by decade, score by score, how quickly the scene 
changes from the present beautiful, well improved country, 
dotted with white farm dwellings and red barns, gravel roads, 
railroads, telegraph lines, telephone lines, flourishing cities and 
towns, to the primeval forests and prairies, with a cultivated 
patch here and there on the dry places, in the midst of which 
stood the rude log cabin, thatched with clapboards, built up 
against a huge chimney, daubed inside and out with red clay, 
and log stables covered with prairie hay, dirt roads winding 
around the edge of prairies and ponds, crossing streams where 
it was shallow enough to ford. 

But there is one thing I can see in this picture of half a cen- 
tury ago that looks good to me, that I can't see in the panorama 
of the present, and that is the wild game. There was plenty of it 
here then. Deer in abundance everywhere; wild turkeys in 
droves, in the woods; all the big prairie west of Rochester, to 
Pleasant Grove (now Kewanna), was alive with wild ducks, 
wild geese, sandhill crane, prairie chickens, and quail. Not a 
patch of wood but you could hear all kinds of squirrels — red, 
black and gray, fox barking and pheasants drumming. Every 
fall of the year, at mast time, the air was fairly black with wild 
pigeons. There was a pigeon-roost in the great willow patch 
southwest of Rochester, where now is the beautiful Lovatt farm, 



where we used to go with lanterns, clubs and meal-sacks. The 
willows were breaking with pigeons roosting there, and we could 
knock down and kill all we could carry in a little while. Oh r I 
liked to hunt pigeons; it was so easy. All you had to do in the 
morning or evening, was to stand and shoot into the flocks as 
they flew past, bringing down a bunch at every shot, or slip 
around in the woods on a wet day and find the top of some tall 
dead tree black with them, crawl up under it, point your gun up 
that way, shut your eyes aud pull trigger, then pick up a dozen 
or more. Oh, it was fun and such easy fun. 

All the streams and lakes were alive with the best varieties 
of edible fish. So plenty were they in Lake Manitou, that of- 
times the water wheel of the old gristmill at the outlet would get 
clogged with them. I remember, when a boy of eleven year^, of 
seeing a seining party finish up a series of hauls in Tippecanoe 
river near the John Leiter farm, where now is the town of Lei- 
ter's Ford, and they hauled and carried away eleven two-bushel 
sacks full of pike, bass and redhorse. The smaller varieties' they 
threw back into the river. I am willing to make affidavit in 
Judge Ewing's court that I have helped haul a thirty-foot seine 
in Mud creek, fifty times or more, and the average haul would not 
be less than a bushel of as fine pike, suckers and goggie-eyes as 
ever graced a frying pan. Now let Mel Gibbons, Willis Peters 
and Nels Kirkendall take the stand if they can beat it. There 
was no lynx-eyed game law then, and farmers did not flock 
to the Sentinel office to buy "No Hunting on These Premises'' 

You didn't have to have a license with your photograph 
pinned to your hunting-shirt. The game was free and you could 
hunt it wherever you pleased and find plenty of it anywhere. 
And this natural and bountiful supply of game and fish was a 
Godsend to the pioneer settlers of this country. The wolf of 
hunger would have crossed the threshold of many a cabin door 
had it not been for this. 

Well, I never was much of a hunter and I don't want to be 
the hero in any of the stories of this article. And besides the 
foundation of all the big hunting yarns date back to a time when 
I was too young to do more than remember. But I have an ex- 
cellent memory, and a still better imagination. I did though 
once kill a deer. I had been to Bumbarger's orchard to see if 
the ramboes were ripe, and on the way home, going through a 
thicket of hazel brush, I saw one. I could only see the tips of its 
ears and long hair on its neck. I ran home and told mother and 
said I wanted to shoot it. She helped me load the old musket 
with powder and buck-shot and I went back, crawled through 
the brush to the spot I had marked by leaving my cap and sure 


enough, there it was. I was trembling like a leaf. I believe Mr. 
Dawson called it "buck fever". I cocked the musket and steadi- 
ed it in the fork of a bush, got a bead, shut both eyes and pulled 
the trigger. As soon as I recovered from the shock, I got up and 
heard a racket where the deer had been and knew something had 
happened. I went to the spot and found it as dead as a herring, 
half of its head was shot away. Well, as I stood in the pres- 
ence of grim death, I didn't feel as good as I though I would. 
In fact, I was ashamed of the deed I had committed. And I 
made up my mind to just let it lay and tell no one anything 
about it, not even my mother. She asked me about the deer 
when I returned, and I said it was gone. She asked me what 
I was shooting at and I replied "a rabbit." The next day our 
Dutch neighbor, John Kishely, was making a great howl about 
some one shooting his little yellow calf, but I never mentioned 
any names. 

I killed a wild turkey once, too, but the owner caught me at 
it. My mother had to pay for it, and I had to take my meals 
standing up for a week. Such experiences were not calculated 
to encourage one of my age m the pursuit of wild game. 

Late in the fall of 1861, Uncle Jimmy Burton, for whom the 
school house and neighborhood thereabout was named, came to 
our house one afternoon and said to my stepfather, William 
Mossman, "Say Bill, me and Richard was up to the ridge for a 
load of hay, this morning, and the little ridge was covered with 

deer tracks. They're feedin' on the acorns. "The D 1 you 

say," said Pap, as I called him. Uncle Jimmy and Pap soon 
had arrangements made to go to the little ridge that night and 
watch for deer. The ridge referred to was the sandhill just west 
of Mud creek, where is now the farm of Mel Slick. There was a 
pole shanty there, where the Milliser boys camped part of the 
time, to trap and hunt and feed cattle in the winter time, or 
make wild hay in summer. There was always something there 
to eat and drink; especially drink. The little ridge was about 
a quarter of a mile west of it. I was only ten years old, but I 
wanted to go along. Pap was an awful fellow to swear. He 
could swear by note in all the meters and ragtime, and he said: 
"No! What the h — 1 would a little snot-nose like you do watch- 
in' for deer?" But Uncle Jimmy said "Oh, let the lad go long, 
he can stay in the shanty and keep fire. We may get cold to- 
wards morning^ and want some place to warm." So I went. 
We reached the shanty before sundown, and went to the ridge to 
review the deer signs. Pap and Uncle Jimmy picked out the 
trees they would roost in to watch for the deer and shoot them 
by moonlight. I heard Pap say: "They'll come about three 
o'clock in the morning, just about the time the moon gets up 


good, and then we'll give'm h — 1. They wont run away when 
we shoot, unless they see us, and they won't be apt to look up a 
tree for us." 

We went back to the shanty, started a fire in the old stove, 
made some coffee and fried some bacon. Pap removed some 
straw from one corner of the shanty and lifted up a board that 
covered a hole in the ground. He ran his arm in the hole, then 
looked up, smiled and said: "She's here all right, Jim!" then 
he pulled a black gallon jug out of the hole. No, I don't 
know what was in it. They did'nt ask me to taste it; I think 
though, it was something to keep folks warm, for I heard Pap 
say to Uncle Jimmy, just before they started: "Better take a 

purty good snort of it Jim, we'll get pretty d d cold before 

mornin'." After we had fed and watered and Uncle Jimmy had 
told his usual batch of witch and ghost stories, they left me in 
the shanty and went to the watch, and a lonely time I had of it. 
I heard all kinds of noises in the night, and wished a hundred 
times that I had not been so anxious to come along. 

The hoot-owls hooted and the screech-owls screeched, and 
now and then a wolf would howl a sound that I was perfectly 
acquainted with. Under ordinary circumstances it had no ter- 
rors, but being alone, in a lonely place, and thinking of the ghost 
stories I had recently heard, it had all the tendency to keep my 
hair standing up straight. 

I barricaded the door with all the furniture I could pile 
against it and went to bed in the bunk of straw, covering with 
the robes and blankets. I went to sleep and did not waken 
until I heard pounding on the shanty door and recognized my 
stepfather demanding admittance. The first thing he said to me 
was: "We got 'em Jawny — three of em," and I said "bully." 
Pap and Uncle Jimmy started me home at once for the old horse. 
Uncle Jimmy insisted that I better get his team, but Pap said 
he thought we could tie them together and swing them across 
old Charley and he'd take them home all right. I think I made 
the three miles in about thirty minutes. Just as the sun was 
coming up, I ate a bite of johnny-cake spread with sorghum mo- 
lasses, drank a cup of milk and straddled old Charley and gal- 
lopped away, my Uncle Jesse Blandin following as fast as he 
could. He was a boy some four years my senior. 

I got to the shanty by the time Pap and Uncle Jimmy had 
their breakfast and got the jug put away, and we all went to the 
little ridge for the deer. And there they were — three in a row. 
Old Charley acted like he smelt something and when he got 
sight of them he at once went through a complete transformation, 
from the gentle old family horse that he was to a bucking 


Uncle Jimmy shook his head and said: "He won't carry 'em 
Bill." But Pap said he'd fix him, and took ofl' his wamus and 
put it over the old horse's head, completely blindfolding him. 
That seemed to make him easier and they tied the iegs of two of 
the deer together and swung them gently across his back, then 
laid the other one on top and tied it fast with prairie hay. They 
hoisted me on top of it all, gave me the rein, took the bandage 
from his eyes and told me to go. I started him, and holy Saint 
Peter, when the deer heads began to dangle on his flanks, he 
reared, pitched and bucked, knocked over Uncle Jesse, who was 
trying to hold him down, and threw me about twenty feet into 
a briar patch, kicked the deer gaily west and made a bee line for 
home and there we were. My stepfather didn't simply swear; 
he raved, and cussed, and swore he'd shoot old Charley, soon as 
he got home— but he didn't. Uncle Jimmy talked him out of it. 
Well, there was nothing to do but carry them home. We got 
two poles and Pap and Uncle Jimmy took the two smallest and 
swung them across the pole, and Uncle Jesse and I took the 
other, and I being smallest, Uncle Jessie said I might take the 
short end of the pole. We had to rest every quarter of a mile, 
but we got home along toward noon. Mother said old Charley 
had been there for three hours or more. 

My stepfather, being a noted deer hunter, venison was as 
common an article of food on his table, as liver is on mine 
now. Charles Brackett, who will be remembered by many old 
citizens, was a prominent physician of this county at that time, 
and was also a genial good fellow. Being quite fond of venison 
and an occasional chase, he would often call at our primitive 
cabin and join my stepfather in a deer hunt, or carry home with 
him on his buckboard, a saddle of fat doe-hams for which he 
would make a liberal credit on his ledger in payment for pills, 
quinine and other "physick." One morning, just a few days be- 
fore Christmas, 1859, I awoke from my slumbers in the cabin loft 
and found the floor as well as the feather-bed I slept under, cov- 
ered with snow, a thing not infrequent, as the roof of the cabin 
was covered with clapboards, through which there were many 
cracks and the cracks between the logs, from the loft up, not be- 
ing very well chinked and not daubed at all, every time it 
snowed, the flakes would sift or blow through the crevices or 
cracks between the logs and cover the whole loft. But we 
children did not mind it much, and 1 presume were the health- 
ier for the fresh air we enjoyed. We slept under heavy duck- 
feather ticks and a skift of snow on top made it all the warmer, 
and the snow was always swept down the hatch hole and out 
of doors before it melted. 

On that particular morning when I climbed down the lad- 


der from the loft, about tbe time the first beams of old Sol 
were peeping over the tree tops, I discovered a visitor already 
there, in no less a personage than Doctor Charles Brackett. 
And I heard him saying to my stepfather: "Say Bill, where's 
your dimmijohn?" And then talked about the fine snow, and 
it being a good day for them, and easy to track, etc., and that 
kind of talk continued while mother fried the bacon and baked 
a jonny cake and made the coffee, and then they sat down to 
breakfast. I was just a bit bashful in those days, and didn't 
often go to the table to eat when we had company. That 
morning, while they were eating, I went out to the road to 
take a look at the Doctor's horse and buck board, and try a 
wade in the fresh snow. Just west of the cabin was a cleared 
patch of ground and then a dense patch or thicket of white 
oak grubs. And there at the edge of the thicket, where some 
corn rows stood not yet shucked, I saw three deer. I immedi- 
ately ran into the house and said: "Pap, there's a hull drove 
of deers in the clearin'," indicating which clearing with a 
gesture. My stepfather jumped from the table and said: 
"Come on Doc." He took his rifle and shot-pouch from the 
rack, and struck out, and the Doctor said to my mother: 
"Mandy, where's my hat?" He put it on and ran to his buck 
board for his gun and powder horn and they were off. My 
stepfather got a shot at the deer and crippled cne. I went out 
to the place and saw blood on the snow, but no deer and no 
hunters. I went back to the house and my mother said: 
"Jonny, we'd better find some place for Doc's horse, for if 
they've crippled a deer they wont come back till they git it." 
We unhitched the horse and put him in the smokehouse, that 
being the nearest approach to a stable there was on the 

Then I heard mother say, half to herself, "That doctor hain't 
got a bit of sense." And I said, "why ain't he Maam?" for I 
had always regarded the doctor as a man of unlimited knowl- 
edge. "Why," said she, "he haint got no boots on at all, nuth- 
in' but low slippers, and he'll freeze his feet and catch his death 
of cold wadin' in this snow that way." 

I don't remember what o'clock it was, but it was nearly dark 
when the hunters returned, but they had the deer, a fine big fat 
doe, and were dragging it between them with a couple of hooked 
sticks. I remember hearing them tell mother how many miles 
they had run it, across the Tippecanoe river and back again, and 
how the Doctor broke through the ice and came near going un- 
der, and afterward lost one of his slippers in the snow and had to 
dig around in the snow a long time before he found it. 

They were tired, wet and cold but happy, contented and 


cheerful. The Doctor took off his slippers and roasted the red- 
dest pair of feet before the the fireplace I ever saw. After they 
were warm and dry, they skinned the deer and selected some 
nice broiling steak from the loins. Just before I received notice 
from my mother to climb the ladder to my bed in the loft, I 
remember seeing my stepfather and the doctor sitting flat 
down on the hearth before the old fireplace, each broiling venison 
on a "spit" and I am not sure but the famous "dimmijohn" 
was near by, for my stepfather could not keep house without it, 
anyhow I heard the doctor say: "Say Bill, this is what I call 

And as I crawled under my duck-feather bed and the arms 
of Morpheus wrapped about me and shut out the conscious 
world, the prayer I breathed to my maker was: "Oh Lord, 
when I get big let me be a doctor or a deer hunter, or both, I 
don't care which." 





Crossing the Buffalo Range in Quest of Gold and 
Return Empty Handed and Sick. 


IN 1838, WITH MY PARENTS, I removed from Hamilton, 
Ohio, and settled in Knightstown, Ind. The country was 
new, times close, money in "shin-plasters," scarce at that, and 
only small change in silver coin. There was general complaint 
of hard times, and for a reason, we therefore had to subsist on 
corn bread and the little we could raise in our truck patch, and 
considered ourselves fortunate if we could get wheat bread on 
Sunday. In the fall, there was a struggle to secure warm cloth- 
ing for the winter, and I remember well, it was near Christmas 
before I got a pair of shoes. Therefore, to run barefoot in the 
frost and snow was no uncommon thing, but there were hurried 
return trips to the house to warm one's half-frozen toes. Many 
of the poorer class suffered for comfortable clothing 

An able-bodied man worked for $8.00 and his board per 
month, and oftimes took his pay in trade— corn, potatoes or any- 
thing that helped him to live and provide for his family, for 
pay in money was nearly out of the question. Anyway, the 
value of money was very uncertain for sometimes it was worth- 
less the next day after receiving it, for the bank would fail or 
close suddenly. 

The wife had to spin rolls to make their clothing for 
the winter. I have seen young ladies come to church in their 
homemade plaid linsey dresses and the young men in blue 
jeans suits, and if they were new, some one less fortunate 
would say, "my, but they are putting on lots of style." Yet 
those who were wealthy, did not treat the poor class disre- 
spectfully, if they were worthy, so there was more of the spirit 
of equality, sociability and real enjoyment than in modern times. 


I did not see a train of cars until I was twenty-one years 
of age. We had no way of getting our produce to market ex- 
cept to haul it, and the nearest market was Cincinnati, where 
we also drove our hogs, through mud and slush. How differ- 
ent today. With railroads and home markets, we are living 
in a paradise compared to seventy years ago. I pity the per- 
son now who complains of hard times or the scarcity of money. 
How little he or she knows the meaning of hard times com- 
pared to the days of which I write. 

Soon after my father had purchased a small piece of land 
joining Knightstown, he became ill and died, leaving my 
mother with three children, two sons and a daughter. His 
demise left us in debt $500.00 and we lost the land and all 
father had paid on it. Our home then becarre a thing of the 
past, I being the oldest boy found a home in Centerville, 
Wayne county, and I was taught the tailors' trade, going from 
there to Charlottsville, where I was married, and from there 
moved to Randolph county. 

About this time the Pike's Peak gold fever became preva- 
lent. E. Harris, James and John Addington and myself 
formed ourselves into a company, purchased two horses, a 
wagon and six months' provision and shipped the same to 
Leavenworth, Kansas. 

At Leavenworth we found a great many persons in camp, 
getting ready for the trip into the mountains. We fell in 
with some Indiana and Ohio boys and formed ourselves into a 
eompany of seventy-two men, to better protect ourselves from 
the Indians. We elected a captain, drew up by-laws, etc., 
and in case we did not agree on any point, we were to put 
the point in question to a vote, the majority to rule. We 
started from Leavenworth about the last of April, five men, 
(a mess) to a wagon, but soon found the grass was too short 
for our teams. The settlers along the road had burned off the 
dead grass, and that had delayed the growth of the new crop. 
This compelled us to buy corn of them at their own price, 
which, I assure you, was high enough. We went into camp 
on Grasshopper river to wait for grass to grow. Settlers said 
that the farther we went the worse it would be. There was 
plenty of corn and hay, but at extravagant prices. While in 
camp, three hundred wagons passed on their way to the gold 
fields. After a week in camp, we decided that if others could 
make the trip in safety, we could, and found plenty of grass a 
little way from the settlement. We met the first Indians at 
Grasshopper, the Caws, a tribe of beggars. We had been 
cautioned by the settlers not to recognize their petitions, or it 
would mean trouble, and was told the only way to get rid of 


their presence was to use harsh methods. Example of the 
treatment was given us by a settler who was approached by 
an Indian who asked for aid. The settler picked up a club 
and yelled, "Pacachee," which, translated, is about to this 

effect: "Leave here or I'll knock h 1 out of you." The 

Indian lost no time getting away. 

The next tribe encountered were the Pottawattomies. 
They were quite friendly. They were splendid marksmen, and 
we often tested their skill by placing a five-cent piece in a 
split weed and telling them they could have it if shot out 
with an arrow at twenty paces. Nine times out of ten they 
got the money. 

Before leaving Grasshopper, one of our horses became in- 
jured and could not travel, so we traded our team and har- 
ness for two yoke of oxen, chains and outfit, being all we 
could do under the circumstances. We crossed Blue river at 
Manhattan, and from there to Ft. Riley, that being the last 
settlement, although at Solomon's Fork there was a large 
ranch, the best we saw on the trip. The house was one and 
one-half story, of hewed logs, and everything looked neat and 
nice. It was at least fifty miles from any settlement. We 
only saw two men on the place. We had to be ferried across 
the stream, for the water was about twenty feet deep, although 
not over sixty feet wide. The man at the ranch ran the 
ferry, and he was a tough and rather suspicious looking char- 
acter. We had been informed that there was considerable 
thieving done around Ft. Riley, but we did not know the ex- 
act location of the outlaws. 

It was almost night when we were all across the river, so 
we went into camp. We "picked" our oxen close to the tent 
until about three o'clock in the morning, then turned them 
out to grass until time to start again. There were a great 
many cattle, but they always staid pretty close together, but 
not infrequently roamed a half-mile from camp, yet in view, 
for there was no obstruction between them and camp. When 
we went after the cattle, next morning, our four were missing. 
We searched for several hours, then the company started on 
the trip, leaving a crippled man with us who rode a mule 
who was to report to the company in the afternoon, in case 
we did not find our oxen. 

There was a low, marshy place about a mile away from 
where we camped and there we found cattle tracks, and the 
tracks of a man also. We finally found the cattle, but the 
man had skipped, and it may be well that he had, for once 
away from the civilizing influences of law, a man's conscience 
become very elastic and that fellow's skull would have been 


left to bleach in the sun, for we would have shot him on 
sight, being so wrought with anger. We overtook our fellow 
travelers about midnight, completely worn out. Next day we 
came upon some antelope, providing the boys with fine sport, 
and also fresh meat for dinner. The antelope is about the 
size of a sheep and very swift on foot. As the plains are in 
small hills and shallows, the shooting of an antelope is a 
pretty piece of work. They run with lightning speed to the 
hill top, down the other side and to the next, then wait to see 
if the pursuer is in sight, if not, they retrace their steps, curi- 
osity being their weak point. If one is not in sight and they can 
not smell you, they come closer and closer until they reach 
the point from which they started. A red rag tied to the 
ramrod of your gun, which is then stuck in the ground, will 
draw them step by step, until they see what it is. We next 
came upon a buffalo range. That was a sight not to be for- 
gotten. As far as the eye could carry vision, in every direc- 
tion, the earth was black with them, seemingly millions. 
We were in sight of them for several days. This may sound 
like exaggeration, but any one who has seen a buffalo range 
in an early day, will tell you this is true. To see them stam- 
pede is an awesome sight. They make a noise similar to the 
rushing of the wind, and nothing impedes their progress, men 
cattle, wagons, everything goes down before their mighty 
strength. The leader is followed by the whole number and 
only stops when he stops. 

The next band of Indians we met were the Commanchies, 
and they too were great beggars. The company had walked 
ahead, leaving only one man with each wagon. The drivers 
decided they would not give them anything, so their requests 
were met with language not eloquent in sound or meaning, 
and after some time the tribe rode away, in the same direction 
we were going, and, overtaking the company, waited until the 
teams came up. They asked who the captain was, then laid in 
their complaint, saying an apology must be forthcoming or 
something given them in return for the bad treatment they 
had received from the drivers. It was one of the days when 
it was my duty to drive, and our captain said it might be 
better to get something from each wagon and give to the In- 
dians than to have any trouble with them. Some wanted to 
follow the captain's advice, others wanted to fight, thinking 
we could soon clean them out, but the captain said the In- 
dians could soon bring five hundred more to their assistance, 
and we'd better get away without further trouble. We followed 
his advice. The Indians then buried their tomahawks, shook 
hands and went their way. 


Our next hardship was found in the desert. We had 
reached a stream supposed to be the head of the Smokey Hill 
river, so small in places that we could step across it, and the 
last watering place before entering the desert. We therefore 
filled our water tanks, preparing for a drive of forty miles be- 
fore finding another place to water the cattle and refresh our- 
selves. Reaching there we were disappointed, for the water 
had dried up and another stretch, according to the guide 
books, had to be made before water could be found. Our sup- 
ply was about gone, so we traveled all night to avoid the hot 
sun during the day. Our company had a pony cart with it, 
so one man volunteered to ride ahead until he found water, 
fill all the tanks the pony could haul, then come to meet us. 
He started away, but had a close call for his life, from wolves. 
They followed close enough to strike them with his club, as 
he walked and led the pony. He did not dare shoot, fearing 
he might wound one, and that meant death for him. They 
snapped at him, but he managed to keep them ofl by waving 
a club. The sand was so dry and fine that no trace of a 
track was left and it was a dead pull all the time for every 
wagon. During the day, an egg could have been cooked by 
the intense heat of the sun, and our shoes fairly burned our 

About seven o'clock next morning, we were rejoiced to see 
the pony cart, with thirty gallons of water, hove in sight. 
The next watering place was not reached until noon that day. 

We passed many prairie dog towns which sometimes cov- 
ered an acre or more of ground. The prairie dog resembles a 
muskrat, but not so large. They burrow in the ground and 
pile the dirt at the side of the hole. They sit upon the mound 
and bark on seeing one approach, then dart into their holes 
until danger is past. A bark from one will call all the others 
to the surface to do the same thing. 

Across Cherry creek was the little town of Arrard, a place of 
fifteen or twenty log houses or shacks. There the "boomers" 
or sharpers collected, trying to boom Denver. I was offered a 
warranty deed in Denver, the only stipulation being that I erect 
a small log house thereon. But I said I would not take the lot 
as a gift, for the country looked rough and wild, but that is 
where I missed a golden opportunity, for within a year that 
same lot was worth a large sum, and within three months 
after, fine brick buildings were built. The population jumped 
to 10,000 and buildings going up as fast as materials could be se- 
cured and employes found to do the work. Mechanics were few 
and hard to get, consequently brick and stone masons received 
all kind of prices, and any one knowing how to use tools, could 


get work at good wages. The first hotel was named the Denver 
City Hotel. It was 20x40 feet in size, built of logs for the first 
three feet ofFthe ground, and from there up of canvass like a tent 
with a ridge pole in the center. The rooms were also partitioned 
with canvass. 

There was no lumber except that sawed out with a whip 
saw, which was operated by a log being rolled up on a scaffold, 
one man above the log, the other under, to pull and draw the saw 
back and forth and thus saw off a board. When I was in the 
mountains, I paid $25.00 per hundred for lumber with which to 
build our sluice and ripple boxes. 

When well rested from our long and tedious trip, we passed 
through Denver, across Cherry creek to the ferry boat, then plying 
Piatt river and on to Golden City, on Clear creek. There were no 
houses but a number of tents dotted the place, giving shelter to 
the citizens. It was about two miles to the foot of the mountains 
where the road made the first ascent. We had a light wagon, 
a few provisions and our blankets and to the wagon were hitched 
three yoke of oxen. So steep was the road that it was impossi- 
ble to drive straight up, so the ascent was made by quartering, or 
in a zigzag manner, the incline making from 75 to 100 feet each 
effort, two men following behind to chock the wheels with a 
stone at each stop. The first pull was a mile in length, the sec- 
ond one-eighth of a mile and then we found the ground level. 
Part of the time the wagon stood almost on end, and we were 
glad to find a stretch of level land. Here we had a little excite- 

A bear crossed our path and we were soon on his track, guns 
in hand. He was an old settler, knew the ground and could get 
over the rocks faster than we, so he got away. We went back to 
the wagons happier for the diversity, and journeyed on to Greg- 
ory and Russell diggings. The Gregory mine was a shaft dig- 
gings, the Russell gulch diggings. There were few claims that 
"were paying big and you might prospect six months and not 
strike "pay dirt." It was not difficult to find the "color" but to 
strike it rich, that was another question. There were hundreds 
of prospectors longing to get away, but had nothing to get away 
with. We had a claim offered us, and panned out several pans 
of dirt, and it seemed to be a paying claim, but we had only 
worked the surface. It was ten or twelve feet to hardpan, where 
gold is usually found. A contract was made for the claim, with 
the owner, who gave as a reason for selling, that he was unable 
to work the claim, although he had gone down in one corner and 
found it rich in gold. We were to pay him one-half of what we 
took out of the claim, the expense to come out of his half. 

We made a long torn, sluice box, and ripple box, and went to 


work. The first day we took out $12.00 and thought we were do- 
ing well for the surface. Next day the man wanted to take our 
team to Golden City, and accept it as part pay on the mine. To 
this we objected, knowing that if the team was driven to Golden 
City by him, that would be the last we would ever see of it, so 
we said no, we would stand by the contract. To make a long 
story short, that mine had been "salted." Every dollar we took 
out of the mine cost us two to get, as it was so fine we had to col- 
lect dust with quicksilver. The Russell claim was 500 feet above 
us and from a three days' run, would pan a tin-cup of gold-dust. 

Hundreds were discouraged and leaving the diggings, we 
with the rest. Coming out of the mountains, we found where 
the gulch widened three or four hundred feet and a mile long. 
In less than ten days there were fifty or more houses, log cabins, 
erected by the miners. The town was named Rocky Mountain 
City. A newspaper was started, — was about one-eighth the size 
of the Republican, sold for 25 cents per copy, and called the 
Rocky Mountain News. We passed to Golden City, where our 
team had been kept, and then on to Denver where we went into 
camp for a few days. Here we rested and made ready for the re- 
turn trip. This was about the last of August. Never did I see 
so many mosquitoes as along Piatt river; they were not quite 
as large as elephants, but they presented their bills with regular- 
ity every night, and we had to make war on them until about 
ten o'clock when the wind would come up and blow them away. 
We could then lie down and sleep until morning. 

We had not traveled over fifty miles when I was taken sick 
and developed third-day ague and from that to every-day shakes. 
I was very ill the entire journey and to be hauled four hundred 
miles in a wagon and lying across the top of trunks was any- 
thing but pleasant and not calculated to inspire one with cour- 
age. By the time we reached Brownsville, my hips were worn 
through and I weighed less than one hundred pounds. We camp- 
ed there but one night. The boys said: "Now Bob, we have 
some hope of getting ycu home." To which I replied: "I have 
never had any other thought but that I would get home." They 
afterward said, that for two weeks they thought every day they 
would have to dig a 2x6 hole and lay me in. We sold our oxen 
at Brownsville, took the boat for St. L,ouis, and the cars to In- 

Comiug down the river, we stopped at Wyandotte, where we 
anchored, and I got off the boat and went into a store and pur- 
chased a hat. The only kind that would fit me was one of the 
cow-boy style. I was so thin in flesh that I looked like a ghost, 
and I had not been shaved since leaving Indiana. I had written 
home, but owing to the uncertainty of the mails, the letters did 


not reach my folks until after my return, and as they read in the 
newspapers of the death of many emigrants and how they were 
being murdered by the Indians, they naturally concluded we 
were dead. 

My wife was standing on the porch of our modest "^home 
when I went in the yard, but she did not recognize me until I 
reached out my hand, then she would have fallen had I not held 
her, for I looked very rough. Tears flushed our eyes, but they 
were tears of joy. 

We came from Randolph county to Rochester in the fall, 
November 2, 1862. For six years after coming to Rochester, I 
worked at my trade, tailoring, first for B. S. -Lyon, then for 
Truslow, Lyon & Kendrick until my health failed, tnen bought 
twelve acres of ground of C. A. Mitchell, near the West Side 
Hotel, Lake Manitou, and started a boat landing which I ran for 
several years. Since then I am taking life'easy, resting, visiting 
and enjoying myself as becomes a man of 77 years, who has led 
an industrious life and had a share of the world's joy and sorrow. 




Evidence That the Plow Guides Men Toward the 
Professional Walks of Life. 


tory of my active life, I will have to call up from 
memory's halls a few of the scenes and incidents 
written there along the stream of time. 

Being engaged in the practice of medicine and surgery, 
the greater portion of my life from early manhood, the inci- 
dents mostly brought to view will be those that at times came 
across the pathway of the busy doctor while engaged in his 
professional casing. 

I was born in a log cabin on the 3d day of March, 1832, 
in the state of Michigan, Oakland county, town of Farming- 
ton, Pontiac being the county seat. Among my early recollec- 
tions, my mind goes back to that memorable night of Nov. 
13, 1833, that will live in history while the world stands. I 
was lying in my cradle, looking out through the window, and 
saw the "stars" falling thick and fast towards the earth, 
father and mother going out at the door to view the scene. I 
called to them to bring me some of the stars. They said they 
all went out just before they struck the earth. It proved to 
be the largest meteoric showers of falling stars ever brought 
to view from the earliest period of recorded time, excepting 
the Seer of Patmas had antedated, and witnessed the scene 
near eighteen centuries before. My field of vision was some- 
what limited to the narrow zone of my cabin window, so I 
will use the eyes of one of maturer years to describe the grand- 
ness of the scene. The following is a description of this event 
published in the Des Moines (la.) Register by the agricultural 
editor, an aged man who was then one of the few surviving 
eye witnesses of the phenomenon: 


"The agricultural editor of the Register was out alone with 
a team and a load of lumber on that never-to-be-forgotten 
night; and he cannot now consent to hear of human fireworks 
being superior to that most grand and sublime spec acle ever 
before or since beheld by mau. Immense meteors, mingled to- 
gether with smaller shooting stars, fell like snowflakes, and 
produced phosphorescent lines along their course. Intermingled 
with these, large fireballs, some larger than the moon, fell or 
shot in the arc of a circle of thirty or forty degrees. These 
left behind them luminous trains which remained in view 
several minutes and sometimes half an hour or more. Some 
of these luminous bodies, whatever they were, remained 
stationary for a considerable time, irregular in form, emitting 
brilliant streams of light. There was no moon, but starlight, 
and as the whole firmameat was lit up and descending in 
fiery torrents, everything was on a grander scale than man 
may ever aspire to imitate. This display extended all over 
North and South America and the West India Islands. Pat- 
ent fireworks were no nearer this wonderful phenomenon than 
lightning bugs are equal to the sun. The display lasted from 
about ten o'clock on the evening of the 13th until it was 
obscured by the light of the sun on the morning of the 14th 
of November, 1833." 

At Another time I was lying in my cradle when several 
Indians came into the cabin. The squaws came to my cradle 
and pointed me to their pappoose on their shoulder. Some of 
their men followed, pointing to their pappooses, and passed 
on. Their dark complexion caused me to look at them sharp- 
ly. Later on I learned that every fall they would come to 
trade cranberries for corn bread which my mother baked for 
them. Doubtless they belonged to some of the tribes that 
Tecumseh came from Michigan to Indianapolis to join the 
nine tribes that fought the battle of Tippecanoe, Nov. 7, 1811, 
some twenty-two years before. His brother brought on the 
battle while he was away, against General Harrison and his 
men, but lost the victory. The nine tribes scattered to their 
native homes, peace soon came to the whites and Indians, 
spreading her mantle over the historical valley of the Tip- 
pecanoe and many of our children hardly know that the very 
ground we live on was ever trodden under foot by hostile 

Our brains, in early childhood, are very impressible, some- 
thing like the sensitized plate in the photographer's box. 
Scenes, incidents and words impressed there while young, 
will remain for a life time, and we can call them up even in 
old age, apparently living them over again, unto the partiug 
of the ways. 


My parents soon got tired of living in the wilderness and 
moved back to York state, Ontario county, where I attended 
the common schools of the country. In the fall of 1839 we 
moved to Miami county, Indiana, where I continued to at- 
tend the country schools, later on, only during winter seasons. 
In summer worked on the farm. One hot day in June I was 
plowing with one yoke of oxen, slowly ascending the hill- 
side in the held. I stopped the oxen to have a rest, as they 
were warm and tired, and sat down on the plow-beam. Then 
I began to meditate and think of the future, counting my age, 
found that I had three years to stay at home before I would 
be of age. Three years seemed a long time to stay with Father 
and Mother. Should I stay my time out or arise and go to 
the far distant west and lead a strenuous life? I concluded 
to stay and be a plowman, returning home as the curfew tolls 
the knell of departing days. Then the thought came to me, — 
"What shall I follow after I become of age?" Giving the sub- 
ject mature thought I decided to study medicine and become a 
physician. Arising from the plow-beam full of courage and 
hope, grasping the plow handles, I spoke to the oxen to move 

At the first opportunity I told my father that I was going 
to study medicine, and after I became of age I woud make 
the study and practice of medicine my life work. Said I 
would buy some medical books and commence right then. 
Would study of evenings and work through the day. "All 
right," he said, "I am in debt some on the farm and do 
not see how I could spare the money to buy the books." I 
answered: "If you will give me the time, I will go out and 
work and get money and buy the books." He said he would. 
I then took the ax, maul and iron wedge, started for the 
woods. A man offered me fifty cents per hundred for making 
rails. Went to work and made one hundred rails the first 
day. That was all I could make in one day. Averaged that 
for ten days, receiving five dollars in cash for the same. 

I wrote a letter to a New York firm, to send me a copy 
of a new book they had just published, price being $5.00, 
on "The Principles and Practice of Medicine and Surgery, 
Obstetrics, Materia Medica, Therapeutics, Anatomy, Physi- 
ology and Hygiene." I took the money and had the post- 
master put it in the letter in my presence, seal it up and put 
in the mail for New York, as there were no money orders to 
be had in those days. In about ten days the letter was re- 
turned to me from the New York house, stating that there 
was no money in the letter when received, and they had 
opened the letter in the presence of witnesses. The letter had 
been robbed and the money taken out. 


When the news came that the letter was robbed, my 
prospects along medical lines were under a cloud. Since then 
I have read of "Black Friday," in New York and Chicago, 
but it did not seem to me as dark a day as mine was. Should 
I give up the study of medicine and remain on the farm? 
After studying over the matter four weeks, I concluded to try 
again. Taking my tools to the woods 1 made another one 
thousand rails, receiving another five dollars. I mailed the 
money at another postornce, other witnesses, to the same firm. 
Why should not a two-thousand-rail maker, or spliter, be- 
come a doctor — if not, why not? As I read of a rail splitter 
becoming President of our country. 

In about ten days the book arrived all right, in good 
shape. Then I called off my hounds from the chase and 
laid aside my hunting outfit. Commenced my evening studies, 
working through the day and reading up to nine or ten 
o'clock at night. When the three years were up, I had pretty 
well mastered the book and several others besides. I studied 
and practiced medicine for ten years, then went to Phila- 
delphia, attended medical colleges and hospitals there, gradu- 
ating with honors, bringing home three diplomas as evi- 
dence of the same. I received the appointment from the gov- 
ernment as Examining Surgeon for cadets at South Bend, 
Ind., for this congressional district during the civil war. 

Afterward, I received the appointment as Examining Sur- 
geon for pensions, for Fulton county, from the Commissioner 
of Pensions. In that capacity I served the government for 
twelve years and three months. 

At this point I pause, and my mind goes back over the 
long journey in coming to this county. 


The great battle of hounds and a buck deer, comes to mind, 
as being one of the hardest fought of modern times, and doubt- 
less rarely excelled if ever equaled between hounds and deer. 
It was approximately near sixty-four years ago this winter, and 
has never been published heretofore. The battle ground was lo- 
cated on the side of the foothills east of Weesaw creek, in a thick- 
et of oak grubs, about four miles north of Eel river, in Miami 

One morning I called the two hounds and told them to go on 
the school path, or trail, and clear the surrounding woods of wild 
animals, making it more safe to go to school. I stood on our 
back porch, saw the hounds run along the trail, on the ridge, 
across the prairie, creek and prairie again, then out of sight in 
the jungle of the far hills, over three-quarters of a mile away. 

The trail extended beyond the foot hills, through a dense 


forest, to the school house. We blazed the trees, so we would 
not get lost by the way in time of storm, cloudy days or the long 
walks home at nights from the spelling school, two miles to our 
home. I returned from the porch and sat down by the tire. My 
mind became absorbed in other topics and forgot the hounds had 
not returned, and had been gone about four hours. I took a gun 
and started down the trail on the run, reaching a high ridge I 
stopped, listended and heard them bark in the foothills about a 
half-mile away. They were located and the battle was on, the 
sharp voices of the hounds indicating the fight was to a fin- 
ish. Soon covering the distance, I noticed the bark of the 
hounds became less and less, ceasing almost entirely. Then I 
found myself on the battle field. Limbs were broken from the 
oak grubs, bark peeled off, many places snow and leaves torn 
from the ground and blood all around. Passing through the 
brush, I saw a large buck deer with large and heavy antlers, ly- 
ing perfectly still on the ground, with feet and legs drawn under 
him, paying no attention as I approached. The hounds were on 
guard, at the head and rear, within two feet of the deer. Both 
hounds were tired out and panting for breath but were in posi- 
tion to continue the fight should their adversary move. The deer 
however, was done for, his horns and hind legs ruined in the 
fight which had lasted four hours, and covered a quarter-acre of 
ground, ending within a few feet of where it began, for undoubt- 
edly the deer laid in a fallen tree top all night, and the hounds 
had come upon it evidently, when they first struck the trail. I 
raised my gun to put him out of his misery and be rolled over 
on his side dead. Thus ended the fray. 

I left the nounds on guard and went home after the horse 
and sled, to haul the slain monarch. I saved his hide and ant- 
lers for years. I soon abandoned the hunter's life for that of 
the plowman. 

Ten years ago I stepped on the platform at the Lake Erie & 
Western station, and saw a young man with a repeating rifle 
capable of exploding sixteen consecutive times. He allowed me 
to examine the gun, which I did carefully, recalling the progress 
made in firearms, in the last fifty years. The spirit of my early 
hunting experience came back and I half desired to buy such a 
rifle and go to the woods. It seemed that if I could have owned 
that gun fifty years ago, I could have brought down a half herd 
of deer without removing it from my shoulder. 

That very night I was shown in a dream the danger of the 
gun, and the suffering resulting, at times therefrom, which cool- 
ed my ardor for taking innocent life from that day to this. In 
the dream I was permitted to take the gun and go to the woods 
to hunt for game, and the first I saw was a pheasant, sitting on 
a limb. I raised the gun and fired, the bird fell to the ground 


near by, shot in the wing. Then it seemed gifted with human 
speech and ran to me crying "I am shot! 1 am shot! I am shot!'' 
A man then came along and taking the bird suspended it by the 
neck, ruthlessly stripped the feathers from its body by one 
downward stroke and with the feathers went its life and its cry 
ceased. I then turned into the wood to hunt for bigger game. 
I saw the frame and antlers of deer in the. bushes, again raised 
my gun and fired. It was only a glancing shot, for they hurried 
away. But beyond the deer, unknown to me, arose the dying 
groans of a hunter. With the aid of others he was carried to his 
home, then I awoke from the dream. 

I was so glad it was only a dream, yet how often we read of 
some one being shot by standing in range of the hunter's gun. 

Oh, how careful we should be in handling the deadly gun 
and remember that birds and animals can suffer as well as we. 
child's life saved by a plunge bath. 

Something over twenty years ago, I stepped out of my 
kitchen door and heard the sharp, shrill scream of a woman. 
Looking up, I saw Mrs. 8. O'Blenis coming out of her room with 
her child in her arms, saying her child had been scalded to death. 
I ran to meet her on the porch, and took the child from her 
arms, plunged it into a large open rain barrel full of water that 
stood at my side, and took out my pocket handkerchief and 
wiped the water from eyes and nose. I told the mother to 
bring a dry woolen blanket , then slipping the wet handkerchief 
over the face and neck, I lifted the child out of the water and 
wrapped it closely in the woolen blanket, replaced it in its moth- 
er's arms and she carried it back into the house. 

I told her to sit down in the rocking chair and hold the child 
twenty-four hours and allow no air to reach its surface, except a 
small amount to the mouth for breathing, which she did. In a 
half hour, the child quit crying and went to sleep. 

The child could not quite walk alone, but could stand by 
holding on to something. The mother had placed a washtub 
on a low stool and half filled it with boiling water, and gone to 
the cistern to get a pail of cold water, and got as far back as the 
door. By this time the child had crawled to the stool and taking 
hold of the edge of the tub pulled it over on itself, the boiling 
hot water passing down over its arms and chest, bowles, limbs 
and feet, thoroughly saturating its clothing. The wild screams 
of the child, with the piercing cry of the mother as she ran to 
meet me, grasping the child, the plunge in the rain barrel of 
water, the wrapping in the blanket, and return to the rocking 
chair, was a dramatic scene long to be remembered. 

I visited the child about once every hour, to see that no air 
came in contact with its body. When the twenty-four hours 



were up, I took off the blanket, carefully loosed the clothing and 
found the skin in good condition, with only one small blister be- 
tween the two little fingers of the left hand, which soon healed, 
and there was only a slight discoloring along the margin of the 
scalded skin. In a few days the child was well and grew to wo- 
manhood and still living in this county a few years ago. The 
cold, wet pack had done its work, and this is the first time that 
it was ever made a matter of record. 


Two incidents at the same hour, near eight thousand miles 
apart, unknown to each other by previous arrangement. One 
the real thing, the other an imitation of the real. 

In the days of Dr. A. K. Plank, twenty-five or more of his 
friends were invited to a social party at his home. After partak- 
ing of an elaborate supper, the subject of the Franco-Prussian- 
German war came up in conversation. As the telegraph brought 
word that the German army had invaded Paris, it was suggested 
that we play a charade, depicting the surrender of Paris and the 
French army, to the Kaiser and his army. This met with the 
hearty approval of all present, and we proceeded to carry out the 
plan. Orderlies were dispatched to collect proper regalia, and 
officers selected,. King, Emporer, Great Field Marshals, Captains 
and other Great Counselors of State. Uniforms were brought 
and every officer dressed according to his rank. Their miilitary 
appearance was grand. Then came the division into different 
rooms, the French Emperor, his Field Marshal, Captains of the 
army, Councelors of State, in one room, the Kaiser, the German 
ruler with his Marshals, Generals, Bismark and Conselors of 
State in another. There was a flag of truce, capitulation and sur- 

The great doors of the rooms were thrown open and the 
high dignitaries of state and army introduced. The French 
Emperor gracefully bowed to the Kaiser, hat in one hand and 
sword in the other as he advanced and presented his sword in a 
few well chosen words, surrendering the City of Paris and 
French army to the Kaiser. The dove of peace seemed to fly 
through the room. 

Retiring to our homes, we thought our parts had been well 
played in the world's great drama soon to be enacted beyond the 
sea. Next morning the telegraph brought the news that peace 
had been declared between France and Germany. The most re- 
markable thing of all was, when we learned that in a house in 
Paris, the same night, hour and minute, a peace treaty was nego- 
tiated and surrender of Paris and the French army made to the 
Kaiser of Germany. 

As near as could be learned from reading, about the same 


program was carried out there as we enacted here. I have al- 
ways regarded this as a remarkable coincident. 


Near forty-five years ago the moon had not risen above 
the horizon and night had spread her broad and sable mantle 
over the face of the earth in this latitude. In the gray 
dawn of the star light, might be seen the faint outlines of a 
lonely horseman starting from young Ralstin's, six miles 
north on the Michigan road, coming to town in great haste 
for a doctor. Under whip and spur, at times out of sight in 
the darkness of the night, as he descended in the valleys of 
the hills, north of Tippecanoe river. He soon left the hilly 
country and descended to the plane, the clatter of his horse's 
hoofs and creaking of the bridge might have been heard while 
crossing Tippecanoe river. Suddenly he beheld the forms of 
two men coming out of the hazel brush on each side of the 
road, a little in advance of him, and both sprang for his 
horse's bridle. The horse, under the excitement of the moment, 
and command of the rider, sprang forward at full speed and 
both men missed their hold. The rider came on to my office. 
He said, "I want you to go with me to see a patient north 
of town. Mr. Ralstin is very sick." He then related his ex- 
perience. I asked him who he thought the men were. He 
said he did not know. I replied that they might be highway 
robbers. Do you think they will be there when we return? 
He said he thought they would. I then asked if he was 
armed. He said no. Told him I did not feel like making 
the trip without something to defend myself. I knew of a 
road that left the main road, quarter of a mile this side of 
them and ran in a circle through the woods and out on the main 
road just this side of the bridge. We can take that and flank 
them, said I, but they will have that guarded too. They may 
be a band of guerillas. We will have to charge the enemy's 
lines to go through. It will be the safest to take the forest 
route for the darkness of the night will be in our favor as they 
can't see us. Then I stepped up to my instrument case, taking 
out a large amputating knife. I said "I can use this as a 
saber. It is about eighteen inches long. Taking up some 
cotton batting and roller bandage, I made a temporary scab- 
bard, carefully wrapping cotton around the blade and follow- 
ing it with the roller bandage, leaving them both loose at the 
handle end of the knife. Then taking up the knife and plac- 
ing it up my overcoat sleeve of my left arm, I said: "I have 
read of General Santa Anna, I have read of a charge of five 
hundred union cavalry against the Confederate lines at the 
battle of Cumberland Gap. I have read of Sherman's ride of 


twenty miles away, but who in all history had ever read of 
two lone troopers, in the darkness of the night, charging the 
enemies' lines, both civilians, only one armed, one a doctor 
and using for a sword his amputating knife?" 

1 told him we would train our horses to run close together, 
neck and neck until we get to the culvert, half-mile this side 
the enemy's lines, then we will not speak or make any noise 
until we arrive at the bridge. Should our horses' bridles be 
caught by men, one lick with the amputating knife will cause 
them to let loose. I will use it right and left and the rapid 
charge of the horses will carry us through the lines and we 
will pass on. With these preliminaries all arranged we mounted 
our horses and started from my office where now is located the 
Shore grocery. Our horses started in a moderate gallop down 
North Main street, then to a full run for a half-mile or more, 
then slacking the speed, and so on until we arrived at the 
culvert near the turning off place in the woods. We reined 
up and spoke to our horses to go forward. They sprang for- 
ward in a full run into the darkest forest I ever traveled. So 
dark one could not see the horse he was riding. For the first 
quarter-mile we expected to be attacked any minute, also the 
last quarter. We swept on at the speed of a race horse, through 
the mile of forest, and safely came out on the Michigan road 
at the bridge. We were happily disappointed in not meeting 
the enemy. 

Found the patient dangerously ill, gave him medicine and 
stayed with him the balance of the night and left him some- 
what improved. Came home next morning and saw the hazel 
brush and men's tracks in the sand in the road where the 
would-be holdup took place. They could not have selected a 
better place. 

It was afterward learned that a plan had been laid to 
capture the U. S. Marshall on his return home, to whom Gov. 
Morton had sent a cotrpany of soldiers to assist in enforcing 
an enrollment for a draft in Fulton county, during the civil 
war. Wiser councils of noble men prevailed that it was use- 
less to resist the draft. If one hundred soldiers already here 
was not enough, one thousand more would follow, and if that 
was not enough ten thousand more would be supplied. 

I read in sacred history of those that stayed at home and 
cared for the homes shared equally in the spoil, with those 
that went to battle. 

We can all say that America's flag is our flag. The 
United States of America is our country. We all should enjoy 
the rights of civil and religious liberty and the rights of con- 
science guaranteed to us by the Declaration of Independence 
and the Constitution of our country. 


Looking out of my window I see our flag elevated high on 
the flag staff, with stars all shining in sparkling light, with 
ample folds spreading to the breeze. I look again and it is 
flying half-mast, and now it represents our soldiers' dead, whose 
life was largely spent that the flag may still continue to wave. 
The soldier has laid his armor down, wrapping his blankets 
around him he is quietly moved put to the silent camp of the 
soldiers' dead. I look again, and the flag is raised at full 
mast. The American eagle has taken his place on his perch 
close to the shining stars of light, with his talons in the ample 
folds of the flag of our nation, crying with a loud voice, as he 
goes flying through the midst of the states, the immortal truths 
of the Declaration of American Independence "that all men are 
endowed by their creator with certain rights, that among these 
are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness." And further 
guarantees of constitutional rights of civil and religious liberty 
and the perfect freedom in worshiping God according to the 
dictates of his own conscience. I look up and say, "wave on, 
wave on, wave on, most noble flag! May thy influence for 
good be felt in every land and in every clime, and from wave 
to wave on every sea, on your great march around the world, 
carrying peace and good will to all mankind." 




Incidents in a Busy Life from Childhood, Through 
War and Want to Peaceful Age. 


Ty7~HO WAS BORN ON A FARM six miles southwest 
'-'*-' of Gettysburg, in Mount Joy township, Adams 

county, Pennsylvania, on Nov. 30, 1834, where his 
parents, Andrew B. and Catharine Culps-Miller settled on a 
one-hundred-acre tract of land, all in the green, where, by 
industry and economy, they erected comfortable buildings and 
cleared for themselves a comfortable home. To them were 
born seven children, names as follows: Sarah Ann, Mary Jane, 
John Hineh, William Jeremiah, Michael M., Samuel and 
Andrew Silas. 

Father, in addition to clearing up the farm, with some 
hired help, built a blacksmith shop, having learned the trade 
while a single man. He also applied himself as an auctioneer 
and was considered a good one, as he could say it to the peo- 
ple in German or English. Our clothing consisted of home- 
spun wool for winter, home-spun flax, some unbleached muslin 
and some calico for summer — good for comfort and wear. 1 
well remember my first outfit for Sabbath school. It consisted 
of tow pants, muslin suspenders and shirt, a straw hat and 
bare feet. I thought I looked real nice, being a handsome 
boy, compared favorably with the other children. To attend 
school we had to walk nearly two miles through mud and 
snow, and sit on long benches without backs, so that the 
teacher, when he wanted to correct us, took the gad, and he 
always kept a supply of them on hand, and "skutched" a 
whole row at a time, and I didn't tell Father when I went 
home, either. Oh no, I was too smart for that. But while 
the rulings in the home were firm they were tempered with 


For shoes, when fall came, we all went to the shoemaker 
and had our measures taken, and with one pair of stogies made 
they were supposed to last a whole season. On one side of the 
kitchen there was a large fire-place, with crane and pot-hooks 
so they could be adjusted for height. The cooking was all done 
in pots hung over the fire. There was a wide hearth, Dutch 
oven, with cover over the top, and with coals of fire under 
and coals of fire on the top, my mother used to bake the best 
potpies that I ever ate. Father used to make his own char- 
coal. This was done by setting cordwood on end, rounded over 
the top, and fifteen or twenty feet in diameter, covered first 
with leaves and then earth packed over it, so that the fire 
could be controlled, leaving an air hole at the top and several 
around the bottom, to give it air where the fire was started, 
and when it got red hot, the places below were closed to shut 
off all the draft, to prevent it from burning entirely, and it 
had to be watched day and night until it was completely 
smothered out, when it was raked out and the coal put in the 

Those boyhood days were happiest of my life. Coasting on 
the hillside on the crusted snow and sliding on the ice, as I 
had no skates, and various games were played in summer time. 
We feasted on good fruits of various kinds, and it was a 
happy home indeed. The scenes of my childhood are yet fresh 
in memory, and if Heaven would be no better, that would be 
good enough for me. Clouds came and death entered the home. 
Mother died Aug. 1, 1842, aged 44 years. I was then seven 
years of age. After a lapse of two years or more, Father re- 
married, uniting with Miss Nancy Mackley. To that union two 
children were born, Noah B., who now lives at Richmond, 
Indiana, Clementine Elizabeth, who now lives near Gettysburg, 
Pa. Father died Sept. 14, 1846, aged 47 years. I was then 
twelve years of age. Then the family was scattered, except 
stepmother and her two children, who remained ou the old 
homestead. It was a pleasant place for us older children to 
visit, always being treated kindly and given the best she had 
in the house. 

Sarah Ann married Henry Saltzgaver, a coach painter in 
Gettysburg, and after his death married John Herbst, a farmer. 
Mary Jane married Peter Sheads, a coach-lace weaver in 
Gettysburg. John and William went to Cashtown, in the 
vicinity of the Blue Ridge mountains, to Adam Beasecker's, to 
learn the carpenters' trade. Michael went to Gettysburg to 
learn coach painting with H. Saltsgaver. I went to Cousin 
Michael Miller, who lived on a farm, and ran a huxler wagon, 
and every two weeks hauled produce to Baltimore, Md., and I 
made several trips with him, which was quite a treat to me. 


Andrew 8. went to Uncle JoLn Miller's. He and I were only 
a short distance apart. 

Step-mother died in 1868, after which the homestead was 
sold to Geo. W. Hoffman and wife, who hold a life dower and 
at their death it will become public property of the state, and 
then an Orphanage will be instituted in order to perpetuate its 

My grandfather Miller's farm extended to Round Top, on 
the southwest side, the place near Gettysburg, where the great 
battle was fought, the one which broke the back of the rebel- 
lion. Round Top was used for a signal station. I had living 
there, at the time of the battle, two sisters and a sister-in- 
law, whose husband, Michael M., was with the Union army 
and there at the time and in the fight. Their homes were 
sacked by the rebels. They got a taste of the horrors of war. 
I was personally acquainted with John Burns, the hero of 
Gettysburg, who shouldered his musket and asked permission 
to go on the fighting line. That showed metal of the right 
kind, and over whose grave there has been a monument erect- 
ed to perpetuate his memory for ages to come. 

I was only twelve years of age when the family were 
seperated and up to that time there never had been a phy- 
sician called to treat one of the family. We must have been 
pretty tough, for we ate everything in sight. My first sick- 
ness, after leaving home, was home-sickness, and that, when 
taken to heart, is bad enough. I lost my appetite and cried 
whenever I thought no one would see me, but young as I 
was, realized the situation, and that I must be resigned to 
my fate. I never have had the disease since, although I 
have been where it looked pretty gloomy. 

Brother Andrew died Feb. 1, 1851, aged 12 years. 

During the time I lived with my cousin, I went to school 
some in the winters, but the terms were short and my time 
broken, and never attended school but a few days after that. 
So what little education I have, was gained by observation 
and by experience in looking after and managing my own 
affairs. At the age of sixteen I left the home of my cousin 
and went to Gettysburg to the home of my sister, Mary J. 
Sheads, and bargained with her husband, P. Sheads, who oper- 
ated a couch-lace weaving establishment, to serve three years 
apprenticeship and to get twenty-five dollars per year and 
board, clothe myself, and get six months' schooling. But after 
serving my time, instead of going to school, I remained in the 
shop and worked for wages. That was once I made a great 
mistake, but being a poor boy the money looked tempting. 

In the fall of 1855 I took a trip down into Old Virginia, 
with some coach peddlers, the principal business in Gettys- 


burg was coach making, carriages and buggies, and in order to 
find sale for them, took a great many of them to Virginia to 
sell. I was down there about three months. At that time 
slavery was in full force. It was quite a sight to me to see 
the slaves come in from the plantations, where they had been 
picking worms from tobacco, and various other kinds of labor, 
to get their sow-belly and corn bread. The overseers would 
curse and drive them around like Northern men would drive 
cattle. When one was to be whipped right good, the land- 
lord did that himself. To sleep, they lay down on the floor 
in stables or any old place. While at Buckingham court 
house I saw two sold on the block, and while there were tears 
shed they availed nothing. One girl sold for $700.00, a young 
man brought $1,000.00. That looked like a tough proposition, 
to me. At Bedford court house I saw one darky hung. He 
had waylaid a darky and cut his victim to pieces. The hang- 
ing took place in an open field and all the darkies in that 
whole country were present. It answered a good purpose in 
terrifying the negroes. That was the first hanging I ever 
witnessed and I have no desire to see any more. 

After coming back to Gettysburg that same fall, Brother 
Will came back, on his second trip home from Fulton, Ind. 
On his first trip home he married Miss Agnes McCreary and 
in about one year she died. He then came back to Gettys- 
burg, and about Jan. 1, 1856, he and I started for Fulton, Ind. 
There was plenty of snow on the ground and we made the 
trip to Harrisburg in a sleigh, and crossing the Susquehanna 
river on the ice, thence by rail to Pittsburg, crossed over to 
Allegheny City, where we stopped at a hotel, and were put 
on the fourth floor where we nearly froze. Next morning the 
mercury went 22 below zero. After warming up inside and out, 
we started for Indianapolis, Ind., but had not gone very far 
when a car wheel burst, which caused quite a delay. Next 
thing met was a freight train off the track, which caused another 
delay, but finally reached Indianapolis. By this time it com- 
menced to moderate. We then started for Logansport, over 
what was then termed the "Jerk-Water R. R.," and I thought 
it was properly named. Could sit in the car and see the water 
squirt in all directions. The ties had stringers on top and 
strap iron spiked on top of that. At Logansport I met Brother 
John, Who had located there several years previous, and was 
married to Elizabeth Hillis. To them were born four children, 
Mary, Harriett, John and Emma, and with the two latter 
at Minneapolis, Minnesota, he is now making his home, being 
past eighty years old. After visiting with John for some two 
weeks, I came to Fulton by stage, where Brother Will was 
located. The Michigan road was planked from Logansport to 


the Rochester township line. It was a toll road and owned 
by John W. Wright, of Logansport, and was then in fair con- 
dition. In a few years, when the plank began to wear out, 
it was the worst road I ever saw. Fultou, at that time, did 
quite a good business. John W. Wright, of Logansport, who 
had a general stock of goods, a flouring mill, bought wheat, 
made flour to ship, and did custom work. He ran a saw mill, 
one of the old kind, the up-and-down saws. Just west of 
Fulton there was a body of fine timber and he employed quite 
a number of men. D. C. Buchanan kept a general store, as 
also did John Green, father of W. H. Green, of Rochester. 
One wagon shop, operated by J. S. Louderback; two cooper 
shops, one blacksmith shop, a tan yard, hotel and two 

I was not favorably impressed with the surrounding coun- 
try. There was too much water. Stock would mire down. 
I had not been here long when, one morning, I was called 
on to help pull a horse out of the ditch at the side of the 
road and this calls to my mind a circumstance I heard re- 
lated not very long ago. A man living not far from Fulton, 
came to town on horseback, and on his return, near his own 
home, there was one of his horses in the ditch, stuck in the 
mud. He hurried home, put harness on the one he was rid- 
ing, got a rope, went back, hitched to the one that was in 
the mud and the first pull he made the rope broke and the 
one that was doing the pulling went in head first on the 
opposite side. He then had to get the neighbors to help get 
them out. 

Robert Aitken managed the store for J. W. Wright, kept 
all the accounts. G. W. Davis looked after outside affairs. 
I first hired to Wright as night watch, to prevent fires. In 
about six months I tired of that job. He then put me in 
the store with Aitken and soon after in the flouring mill. 
I weighed in wheat, the mill then made flour to ship and 
also custom work. Fred Petersen, now of Rochester, was the 
boss miller. I exchanged flour for wheat, if requested by the 
customer. Looked after the wood yard. We bought wood 
for $1.00 per cord, 4-foot wood. In time business began to 
get slack. Wright then informed me that he must reduce the 
force, would retain me, but I would have to make myself 
generally useful. I didn't exactly comprehend what that meant, 
but soon found out. There was some hay to be hauled, and 
I was ordered to help, which I did like a man. All went 
smooth for quite a while. The plank road was then a toil 
road and had to be kept in repair, so one morning, I was 
ordered to take a load of plank down about half way to 
Logansport, and with two yoke of oxen 1 started with a load 


of two-inch green oak plank. As the day was warm, and 
before I got quite to the place, the oxen commenced to loll. I 
I halted to rest them, and sat down in the shade at the side 
of the road. There was a slough not far ahead and the oxen 
started to get a drink. I called to them "whoa," but I 
might just as well have saved my wind. They pulled the 
load into the slough and stuck. If there was anybody with- 
in two miles of there, they surely heard some very uncom- 
plimentary remarks, such as would not look very well in print. 
I had_ to unload and float the plank to shore, pull the wagon 
out and load up again. By this time I was wet and mud 
all over. I then resolved that if that was what "generally 
useful" meant, I had plenty of it. When I got back, that 
evening, I unyoked the oxen, turned them to grass, went up 
to Aitken's store, and called for my time. He wanted to know 
what the trouble was. I told him if that was what "gener- 
ally useful" meant, I had a plenty. I then hired to John 
Burnet, who kept the hotel, to haul flour to Logansport. 
There was nothing else in sight just then. 

At that time game was yet plenty, deer and all other 
kinds of the smaller varities, some prairie wolves, foxes, prairie 
chickensjand ducks. I went out deer hunting a few times. 
Once I remember going out, and when coming home, near 
Fulton, saw a deer brousing in a tree top. I had a good 
gun and well loaded, but just then I took a spell of what 
the Hoosiers called the "buck ague." It is a very peculiar 
sensation, and a man becomes very nervous. I shot the gun 
off, frightened the deer and he went off' through the brush. 
I suppose he thought he had better get away from there 
or he might get hurt. Those times there were lots of fever 
and ague. Folks in the morning would get out in the sun 
see if their finger nails were turning blue. That was a good 
sign that they were fixed for that day. 

In those days the people seemed to enjoy themselves 
much better than now. They all belonged to the same class 
in society and were more sociable than now. We had a 
dance about once a week in winter time. They did not cost 
much, but we had lots of fun. We had one on the night 
of the 3d of July, when there were fifty couples present. 
Quite a number came down from Rochester, and if I re- 
member correctly, the music was furnished by Joe Willard, 
Dell Ward, Al Ward, Brad Brouillette, aided by others. The 
dance commenced before sunset in the evening and continued 
until after sunrise next morning. Everything went off pleas- 
antly and we had a jolly good time. In the spring of 1859, 
I commenced to work with my Brother Will, at the carpen- 
ters' trade and made my home at his house, continuing with 


him until I enlisted. At the time I enlisted I was helping 
E. J. Delp build a house in Cass county. We had the build- 
ing up and partly enclosed for Henry Krider, so on Satur- 
day evening, on the way home, we talked about the war 
and concluded we would enlist. I had been excusing myself, 
thinking the war would not last long, but the more I thought 
about it the more I thought it my duty to go. Delp was of 
the same opinion, so we made an arrangement with my 
brother and Jacob Smith to finish the house. In company with 
J. S. Louderback, Mason Jaqua and several others, came to 
Rochester and enlisted under Ephriam N. Banks, in Co. I, 
oth Regt. Indiana Cavalry Vols., ninetieth regiment in num- 
bers in the state, on August 11, 1862. The war then began to 
look serious and we being able-bodied men thought it our 
duty to help. We left Rochester in a two-horse wagon and 
went to Plymouth, from there by rail to South Bend. Here 
we passed the 87th Regt. Went on to Indianapolis and in a 
few days they came also, and were sent right on to Ken- 
tucky. My regiment remained at Indianapolis until late in 
the fall. I helped to build the barracks at Camp Carrington, 
for which 1 was paid 26 cents per day. During this time 
we were mustered into the U. S.. service and were mounted. 
When our regiment was stationed down along the Ohio river, 
Co. I, my company, at Rising Sun, early in the spring of 
1863, we were sent to Louisville, Ky., and from thence to 
Glasgow, Ky., where we joined the balance of the regiment. 
Were kept busy scouting in the direction of the Cumber- 
land river, and in our first skirmish at Marrowbone, Ky., 
lost our first man killed, Henry Heckathorn, of Co. I, shot 
through the head and died instantly. In April we crossed 
over the Cumberland river and drove the rebels back, then 
returned and burned the town of Celina. Returned to Glasgow. 
From then until the 22d of June, 1863, we had heavy scout- 
ing and skirmishing, capturing many prisoners and drove 
the rebels beyond the river. Leaving on the 4th of July, we 
started in pursuit of the rebel general, John Morgan, who was 
then reported to have crossed the Cumberland mountains. 
Our regiment was then in command of Lieut. Col. Thomas H. 
Butler. On reaching Louisville our command was placed on 
steamers and transported up the Ohio river to Portsmouth and 
on the night of the 18th of July, we were just six miles from 
Morgan's forces. On the 19th we headed him off, when he 
was attempting to cross the river at Buffington Island. Their 
guards were stationed in a corn field and captured our ad- 
vance and two pieces of artillery and some prisoners but we 
pressed in on them and recaptured the artillery. Drove them 
from the river and adjacent hills, killing many and captur- 


ing many prisoners, also five pieces of artillery. Morgan, with 
part of his force, escaped them, but was captured later. We 
then returned to Louisville, reaching there on the 27th day 
of July, 1863. We then marched to Bardstown and to Lebanon 
and reached Glasgow, Ky., on the 9th day of August, '63, and 
on the 18th our regiment started for East Tennessee, crossed 
the Cumberland mountains and entered Knoxville, with Gen. 
Burnsides' army, on the first of Sept., 1863, being the first 
Federal troops to enter that city. Soon after this, our regiment 
joined the brigade. Our duties were from Knoxville up to 
the Virginia line, back and forth, skirmishing and scouting 
almost continually. 

I will now give dates and places where the principal 
fighting was done. The regiment joined the brigade on the 
19th of Sept. Had skirmish at Bristol on the 20th, at Jones- 
borough on the 22d, at Blountville, where we were engaged 
for two hours, when Col. T. H. Butler, at the head of the 5th 
Cav., charged the town, captured some prisoners and one piece 
of artillery. Next at Henderson's Mills, Oct. 11th, where we 
met quite a body of Rebels retreating from Gen. Burnsides, 
where the 5th Ind. Cav. alone engaged them without help. It 
was compelled to fall back, many being killed and captured. 
Finally the regiment cut its way back to the brigade, then 
moved toward Blountville and on Oct. 14th, skirmished all 

During the time Longstreet had Gen. Burnside surrendered 
at Knoxville, our brigade was outside of tne ring and cut 
loose from everything, so that when Longstreet let go at 
Knoxville, he endeavored to take us in and came very near 
doing it. Near Maynardville, on the 30th of Oct. and first of 
Nov., and on the 2d day of Nov., '63, came very near tak- 
ing us in. Had it not been that we were reinforced by some 
six months' troops from Tazewell they would have driven us in- 
to Clinch river. In this fight we lost a number of horses and 
several men captured, and several wounded. Lieut. John 
O'Neall, and Lewis Graeber, of Fulton county. I was next 
man to Graeber when he was hit by a spent ball. 

Our next fight was at Beans Station, on the 14th of Dec, 
'63. Here is where E. J. Delp was shot in the shoulder, and 
was ever after disabled for duty. The ball could not be lo- 
cated, and many years after being discharged, and at home, 
the ball worked its way out. I think Mr. John Delp, his eldest 
son, can show you the ball. 

We had a skirmish at Rutledge, and on the 23d of Dec, '63, 
marched to Mossycreek, where we were on the 1st of Jan., 1864, 
the cold New Year's. On that day I went out five miles for for- 
age and something to eat for the mess. Got back to camp about 


two o'clock p. ra. There was no time lost in getting the chick- 
ens ready for the camp kettle and at the proper time dumplings 
were added, and don't you forget it, that was just fine. We were 
lying in the woods in little fly tents, sleeping on the frozen 
grouud. Soon after, we began retreating toward Knoxville, the 
weather was bad, rain and snow, and in the last two days' and 
nights' march, my horse only got two feeds. The last night he 
gnawed the bark off the tree to which he was tied, from the 
ground as high as he could reach. I sympathized with him, but 
that did not reach the case. Reached Knoxville on Jan. 19th, 
'64, aud on the 24th the horses of our regiment were turned over 
to the 14th Illinois Calvalry. We made one scout up the river on 
foot. Were then ordered to Cumberland Gap, and there I frost- 
ed the flesh of my thighs, sleeping on the frozen ground, but that 
was nothing, I was a soldier. We then marched back to Mt. 
Sterling, Ky., arriving there Feb. 26. From that place I got a 
furlough home. After returning, went to Paris, Ky., and from 
there to Nicholasville, Ky., and about the first of May remount- 
ed, and started to Georgia. On the trail across Cumberland 
mountains, in one day, I counted seventy-five dead mules and 
horses. I thought the U. S. was having a heavy expense. We 
arrived at Tunnel Hill, Ga., on the 12th, and on the 13th joined 
the command of Gen. Stoneman and started for Atlanta. I was 
in all the fighting and skirmishing along the line. I was at 
Kennesaw, on the right flank, during that battle, and that was 
the heaviest cannonading that I heard during my service. Was 
with Stoneman on a raid to the rear of Resaca. There was one 
time that I came pretty near being shot. We had dismounted, 
gone forward into the woods and had taken trees for shelter. I 
had just stuck my head out when the Jonny shot. The ball hit 
the tree hard enough to stop it, but threw the bark into my face. 
Many other times might have been as close but I did not know 
it. In a few minutes they commenced to shell the woods. We 
then broke for our horses, and as I was quite a sprinter, soon out- 
ran Louderback. When we got to the horses, John McKitrick 
was holding Louderback's horse and mine. I mounted my horse 
and took the strap of Louderback's horse and told McKitrick to 
pull out, they were coming. I waited for Louderback until the 
Jonnies came in sight, when I thought he had been captured and 
I lit out for tall timber. Our command fell back two or three 
miles and halted. Louderback had bidden in the bushes and 
about ten o'clock that night he reported to the regiment. On the 
27th of July we started on the Stoneman raid to Macon. Thirty- 
four from my company, of the best mounted men, went on the 
raid and this very day a commission came to the regiment for 
me as 2d Leiut. On the raid I was captured and during my ab- 
sence the officers were changed. E. J. Delp resigned and J. S. 


Louderback promoted to captain. I was promoted to 1st Lieut, 
and M. Jaqua, 2d Lieut. He mustered in, covering my term as 
2d Lieut. 

Hon. Benj. Harrison fathered the bill in Congress, that cov- 
ered all such cases, and my record was amended and I was paid 
in full several years after coming home. 

Macon is ninety miles south of Atlanta. We went out on 
the left and as I understood, McCook was coming on the right 
and they to form a junction at Macon. We went to Macon, tore 
up the R. R., but finding that the river could not be crossed, and 
McCook had not shown up, Stoneman piled all of the traps we 
had with us and set fire to them, then started back. When near 
Hillborough, we met a large body of Wheeler's calvalry, under 
the command of Gen. Iverson. When we first saw them the ar- 
rangement was to cut through, but that was changed and the 
5th Ind. Cav. was to hold the front and Stoneman permitted all 
the balance of the command to make their escape. Gen. Stone- 
man remained with us however. We held them until about two 
o'clock in the afternoon. That was one time that my feet rattled 
in the stirrups. We were in a pine forrcst and they shelling us. 
The shells would cut off small pine trees and drop them in all di- 
rections. Gen. Stoneman's horse was killed. We fell back a 
(short distance to an open field, where the white flag was raised. 
That looked sad to us, but there was no other way out of it. We 
were then prisoners of war. They marched us one day on foot, 
camped one night and the next morning they took part of our 
clothes and other valuables. That was a graft. When we got to 
the prison at Andersonville, Henri Wirz ordered a search. On 
account of having been on a raid we were expected to have gob- 
bled up everything in sight. In this he was mistaken. We 
were formed into a hollow square and stripped off our clothes, 
and allowed them to be searched. I had 55 cents script, which I 
concealed in the waistband of my pants, which they failed to 
find. Captain Henri Werz was in charge of the interior of the 
prison and General Winder was in command of the post. After 
the war, Werz was tried for murder, convicted and hung, and 
why all of his superiors went Scott free, I fail to understand. 
The stockade was made of hewed timber set in the ground about 
five feet, and fifteen or sixteen feet above the ground with sen- 
tinel boxes on the outside and high enough to give the guard a 
chance to do his shooting over the top and far enough apart to 
insure good service. On the inside, sixteen or eighteen feet from 
there, was the deadline, made of forks in ground three feet high, 
with poles stretched on and every man that got on that space 
was shot and there were a number of them, especially at the 
branch, where the boys would crawl too far under in order to get 
water. There were two gates on the west side of the prison. One 


on each side of the branch. Through the north gate everything 
was brought in, and at the south gate the dead or sick that were 
taken to the hospital were passed out. The death rate, during 
the month of August, ran as high as 127 in one day. About ten 
o'clock every day they had the "sick call," at which time the 
sick were helped to south gate to be treated and the dead taken 
out and hauled away by wagon loads, a trench having been pre- 
pared the day before, in which they were laid side by side, covered 
with sand. On the dead a tag was fastened, on which was 
written, by their comrades, the name, state, regiment and com- 
pany to which they belonged, so that there was a record kept, 
that they might he identified. How strictly this was carried out 
I do not know. There was a battery at each corner, elevated so 
they could shell the prison in case of a move to break out. Just 
before we went in, the prisoners, among themselves, had become 
very unruly. They would steal, and in a few cases had committed 
murder, so that there was a raid on the guilty parties. They 
were captured, tried, convicted and by the consent of the prison, 
six of them hung on the scaffold. After this there was a police 
force organized and operated by the prisoners. At that time 
there were about 32,000 in prison. To confine that many in a 
place like that, without any restriction, and they will become 
very unruly. Up to this time and after August 2d, the time I 
went in, some of the water had been taken from wells, but the 
anxiety to get out of there was so great, that digging wells made 
a good blind, for the prisoners began to tunnel out and the wells 
had to be abandoned. The water for all purposes had to come 
from the branch, and to make it worse, a short distance above the 
prison, the rebles had their cook houses and quarters, so by the 
time the water reached us, it was very filthy. This branch was 
only five or six inches deep. The first few rods inside the dead- 
line, we had to get water to drink, wash and bathe, and no soap 
to do it with. The balance of the way down through the prison 
there was a sluice-way of plank about six feet wide, through 
which all the filth from above and also of the entire prison, 32,000 
men was conducted through a boggy slough which could not be 
occupied. Just think of it. In the month of August— that was 
something awful. The inclosure at first contained thirteen acres, 
but just before I got there it had been enlarged so that it now 
contained about twenty acres, including the slough. When we 
were marched in, I supposed they would show us where to 
camp, but nothing of the kind. No place was shown us. We 
walked around that afternoon, looking for some place to squat 
but found none, so the first night we slept on the ground in one 
of the narrow streets, no supper and no breakfast. We finally 
found a place where a stump had been taken out. We scratched 
around and leveled off a place where six of us could lie, and to 


shield us from the hot sun in day time and heavy dew at night, 
stuck sticks in the ground, and with what few pieces of blankets 
and oil cloths, made a shelter. That forenoon I spent the 55 
cents I had smuggled in for some corn bread which we could buy 
with green backs. I divided with my five mates. That after- 
noon we drew our first rations, a piece of corn bread, baked beans 
full of black bugs and a small piece of bacon, which soon after 
was discontinued. The rations were not sufficient to sustain life 
any length of time, and with no vegetables to counteract disease 
which gradually wore our lives away. There was no time, day 
or night, but what groans of the sick and dying could be heard. 
While in there I once met John F. Calvert, brother of Mrs. J. N. 
Orr. The poor boy was wonderfuly discouraged and I have 
learned died there. Some time during the month of August, 
there was a very heavy rain, at which time there was what 
has been termed a "Providential spring" broke out near a sump 
inside the dead line. The water was brought inside and con- 
ducted down the bill a short distance into a barrel. That water, 
to us poor fellows, was a Godsend, and to peserve order was con- 
trolled by the police of our own men, so that we fell in line and 
took our turns to water. Day and night there was a continual 
length of men in line. I have learned from those visiting the 
place since, that the spring is still running. One night, when 
the guards passed the word around that all was well, one added 
in a low voice, "Atlanta has gone to Hell." Then there was a 
buzz in camp, for we expected Sherman would soon liberate us. 
Soon after that they divided us and sent elsewhere the majority 
of the prisoners. I got out with the squad that finally reached 
Florence, South Carolina, a prison similar to the one I had just 
left, but were halted at Charleston, S. C. I got out of Ander- 
sonville some time in September, '64. On the way I was permit- 
ted to slip down out of the box car, where a station had been burn- 
ed, and picked up a railroad spike and a sheet of tin, with which 
I made a pan, which came handy after 1 got to Florence prison, 
for there we got uncooked rations. 

While at Charleston we were guarded on the race track. To 
supply us with water, they undertook to haul it in hogsheads, 
but they could not keep up the supply, so I helped to dig a well 
with half of a canteen and a case-knife. We were near the At- 
lantic coast and at the depth of five feet got plenty of water. 
While at Charleston our treatment was a little better, and by the 
Sisters of Charity were given light articles of clothing, a small 
portion of tobacco and some food, but that was soon stopped by 
the rebel officers. I helped carry out to the hospital one of my 
mess, James C. Reed, a brother of J. V. Reed, of Fulton. He 
died there. During the time I was there, our forces on Morris 
Island, with Swamp Angel Battery, was bombarding Charleston 


and at night we could hear the huge shells coming, drop into the 
town and explode. We remained here about a month, then tak- 
en to Florence where they had a stockade for us. There were 
about 10,000 taken there. We arrived the first of October. The 
weather was cold so we had to dig in the ground for shelter and 
with brush, etc., we could get from the slough we covered the 
cave over with earth, left a hole in one end to crawl in and out. 
Under guard, a few at a time were allowed to go outside and get 
pine boughs to put in the bottom for a bed. John 8. Londerback, 
John McKitrick and myself, bunked together. When out one 
day, I smuggled in past the guards, under my clothes, an old 
brush scythe which I broke in two in the middle, keeping the 
butt end myself, with which to split our rations of wood into 
fine bits and dried it in the sun to use under the pan I had made 
to cook our mush in. Our rations were one and one-half pint 
of corn meal, a piece of wood the size of a man's arm, for a day in 
winter time. Think of it, part the time a little salt, a small piece 
of meat. The meat was soon cut out entirely and for about four 
months we had neither meat or grease of any kind. I got on the 
police force of our own men to help regulate the boys inside, for 
which we got a small extra ration. This we divided, ate one- 
half in the forenoon, the other half in the afternoon. I could eat 
everything in sight and fill up on water. Up to this time, the 
men who were captured when I was, had stood it pretty well, 
but then commenced to fail. Lieut. Barrett was in command 
aad was equally tyranical as Henri Wirz had been at Anderson- 
ville. The most prevalent disease was scurvy and gangrene. 
Men's gums would swell up, teeth loosen and fall out, and their 
toes would rot off. In this prison is where John W. January 
amputated his 'own feet, lived through it and got home. John 
S. Louderback took sick and became deranged, so that I took 
him to the hospital, fixed up in one oorner of the stockade. John 
McKitrick took sick and was flat on his back when we were 
ordered to vacate the camp. 1 did not like to go out and leave 
him and Louderback, but they said: "If you are able to go, pull 
out and we will follow when we can," which they did and got 
home before I did. 

From there I went to Wilmington, N. C, where the rebels 
halted us for the night. It was cold and we had to lie down in the 
sand. Here we changed railroads and to shield myself from the 
cold wind, I scraped a hole in the sand, and with old rags I had 
fixed myself a nest. I had not been there long when a poor, sickly, 
fellow came along and asked to crawl in with me; through sym- 
pathy I consented. All went well until 1 awoke next morning 
to find my bed-fellow gone and with him all the provision I had. 
Well I thought, "go it, you little ungrateful cuss, you won't live 
long anyway." 


The Rebels took us to Goldsboro where they held us a few 
days. By that time I was about down sick and began to think 
if it lasted much longer I would surely go down. During that 
time Wilmington was taken by our forces and the rebels pre- 
pared to parole us, which they did in a few days. I touched the 
pen while a clerk made a "saw (X) buck." I had to be helped to 
the train. When we got to our lines I was about played out, 
and when I passed through the line the physician put the back 
of his hand to my cheek and told me to go and sit down, which I 
did, and shed tears for joy to think that I was once more in God's 
country, and under the protection of the Old Flag. I was taken 
to a school house, where they gave us soup, coffee and a little 
whiskey. Next day were taken to Wilmington. They were not 
in shape to handle a batch of fellows, in the condition we were. 
They used a large dwelling as a hospital, the first and only one I 
was in during my term of service, and, in a room about sixteen 
feet square, twenty-five of us had to lie on the hard floor with 
nothing for our bed but the old lousy rags that we had on. 
I have heard it said that there was no need of a man being lousy, 
if he had any ambition. Now just think a moment. Confine a 
man in an open field without shelter, in company with 32,000 
others, without any change of clothing, no soap nor hot water, 
and lice crawling around in the sand, away from friends or home, 
discouraged and sick, and not enough to eat, and that of an in- 
ferior quality, without a ray of hope, looking forward to death 
which was then st ring him in the face, will not ambition fade 
away? Just as long as I was able, I examined my clothes every 
day, and with my thumb-nails killed everything in sight and in 
a measure kept the vermin subdued, but when I got sick, they 
got the better of me. Thank God, when I got into our own lines, 
I fought them to a finish and came out victorious. 

We remained some ten days, got medicine and soup. One 
night the second man from me died, but no one knew it until 
morning. I looked out on the porch and saw five others stretch- 
ed out. One morning the physician came in our room and told 
us that a vessel was going to Annapolis and for all those that 
were able to travel, there would be an opportunity. I gave him 
my name, and in order to get to the boat it took all the nerve I 
could muster. When I got in the vessel, I laid down, and in this 
condition made the trip. At Annapolis they were prepared to 
care for us. The first thing, they took us to the bath house to 
clean up, and gave us new clothing. God knows we needed 
them. Next, we got a cake of soap, a piece of tobacco and a fine- 
tooth comb, vegetable soup, coffee, medicine and everything else 
they thought we needed. We were in a guarded camp, in which 
there was a sutler. Here I drew $52.00 ration money. I drank 
pop and ate a little of everything that tasted good. 1 have 


wondered many times since, that I did not kill myself eating, 
for many that were parolled never got home. 

After staying there a short time, I was sent to Columbus, 
Ohio, and from there furloughed home. I used beer whenever I 
could get it, so that I got a bay window on me like a 'Squire. In 
April, 1865, President Lincoln was assassinated, and on my way 
back to the regiment saw his body in the State House, at Colum- 
bus, Ohio. I got to my regiment on the 11th day of May, '65, and 
was mustered as First Lieutenant, but could not muster as Sec- 
ond Lieutenant, Jaqua having mustered and covered the time 
I was in prison. My record was corrtcted later and I was paid 
in full. 

I was mustered out June 27, 1865, at Pulaski, Tennessee, 
having served nearly three years and was in prison pens nearly 
seven months. After coming home, I again went to my 
brother William's and made that my home. He then lived 
rive miles south and one mile west of Rochester, on Mud 
Creek. During the time of the war, there was very little im- 
proving done in the country. Mud Creek, in many places, was 
nothing but a boggy slough, in the spring of the year, near 
our place. We could float around in boats and spear fish as 
they were going from the lake to Tippecanoe river. Soon after 
this, the creek was ditched, brush cleared out and has become 
a fine farming country, being very productive and the land 
quite valuable. I then joined in with my brother and worked 
at carpentering. We took jobs and worked in summer time, 
and in winter feasted on sauer-kraut and sausage, sat by the 
fire and smoked our pipes. I then kept a horse of my own 
and went when I pleased and came home any time. Not long 
after coming home from the service, I was afflicted with 
malarial fever and ague, a malarial poisoning, as I believed then 
and do now, that it was contracted while in prison, and later, 
rheumatism and a severe spell of sore eyes, in which I came 
very near losing the sight of my left eye, and it has been of 
no practical use to me since, produced, as I believe, by the 
same cause. 

In order to have something to look after, in winter time, 
I dealt some in young cattle. In summer they ran at large. 
Pasture was good outside, which made it reasonably profitable. 
Many of the buildings I helped to erect are still in use, some 
of th&rn were not very fancy, but have worn well. I made up 
my mind to change my manner of living and have a home 
of my own, and on the 31st of December, 1868, was united in 
marriage with Mary J. Wakefield, and to this union were born 
three children, Archie B., Millie E. and Dot H., who are all 
living and in reasonably good health. After supplying my- 
self with implements to farm with, I thought of some things 


necessary in the house, so in order to get a supply of feath- 
ers, thought I would get some geese. All went well until after 
corn planting, when we went visiting for a few days, during 
which time it rained nearly all the time. Corn was just com- 
ing through the ground. The geese had got into the field and 
pulled up half the corn and I had it to replant. Just then I 
concluded the other fellow might produce the feathers and I 
would buy what I needed. That was the wet season, 1869. 
Crops were light, but I helped build a barn for one of my 
neighbors. That helped me get through the first winter, but 
I was bound not to give it up, and for nineteen years I con- 
tinued to till the soil and by industry and economy made a 
good living. During this time we met all the trials incident 
to human life, and today remain a happy family, as death 
has not darkened our door, for which we are very thankful. 

In 1880 I took an active part in the building of the 
Antioch U. B. church and in organizing a society at that 
place. During all of this time we had lived in a log cabin, 
and in it we spent many happy moments. A short distance 
west of us, on the prairie where McKinney now lives, Greo. 
R. Bearss lived, and at that time was quite a sportsman 
He kept a pack of hounds to hunt foxes. They were better 
than a brass band to that community. They would frequent- 
ly bring one up into the timber and circle around him for a 
half day. That was music in the full sense of the term. 
There were fox dens near my place, where they raised their 
young and fed them on my chickens. I helped dig up sev- 
eral dens, where we killed several of their young. One day 
my dog caught a big old fellow, got him down and held him 
until I appeared on the scene and shot him with my boot- 

In the spring, I came to the conclusion that I must either 
put up new buildings or move out, so I disposed of my per- 
sonal property, came to Rochester, bought a home next door 
to where I now live, moved in, then there had to be some- 
thing done to get a living. I then worked as a grocery clerk 
in various groceries, until I had served about thirteen years. 
I then joined in with my son Archie B., and operated a bill- 
posting business for about three years, when I conceived the 
idea of making the race for County Treasurer. Fulton county 
being very close, politically, and after a vigorous campaign, 
was elected as County Treasurer on the Republican ticket, for a 
term of two years. After giving a bond of $200,000, personal se- 
curity, my term of office commencing January first, 1904, with 
almost a depleted treasury, ($338.13,) with which to meet the 
needs of the county, such expenses as ditches, sewers, bridges, 
paving, and the county's general expenses, which fund was soon 


exhausted and I was forced to refuse to pay warrants on account 
of lack of funds, as their had been a vast amount of drains, and 
large ones at that, construced. There would have to be a vast 
sum of money to pay for their construction, and then there came 
the cost of bridges across the drains, which had to be constructed 
and paid for, therefore the county was forced to borrow money, 
and after loans were negotiated to the extent of $73,000, I was 
placed in a position to pay all warrants and get matters in such a 
shape as to make each fund care for its own class. It required a 
great deal of skill and book work that necessitated efficient help, 
which I had in the persons of Archie B., my son, and Miss Jetta 
Alexander. Right here I desire to say that for the manner in 
which the office was conducted, the manner in which the ac- 
counts were kept, are ascribed to the efficiency of my son Archie 
He proved to be efficient, truthful and honest. To him I shall 
ever feel grateful, and it gives me pleasure that I can say this. 
In fact there had to be so many seperate accounts kept that there 
were added to the already numerous books, several new sets of 
books. The work had so increased in the office, such as all the 
ditches, sewers, pavings, in addition to collection of the various 
taxes, made the work burdensome, so it became necessary to add 
to the office equipments. I purchased a Burroughs adding 
machine, on my own account, which cost $375.00, afterward pur- 
chased by the county, as it was such a saving of time and worry. 
One can imagine the volume of work there is connected with the 
office when there were over 30,000 individual accounts to be 
looked after. I w 11 now give the sum total of the various ac 

Tax, 1904, : : : : $306,243.20 

Tax, 1905, : : : : : 288,189.47 

Sewers, 1904, : : : : : 5,378.61 

Sewers, 1905, : : : : 3,765.71 

Ditches,1904, : : : : : 85,547.60 

Ditches, 1905, : : : 69,851.71 

Bridges, 1905, : : : : : 50,079.00 

Paving, 1905, : : : : 2,726.28 

Total collections for my term of office, $811,781.58 

This is the largest amount that has ever been collected by 
any Treasurer of Fulton county in two years, this vast sum of 
money collected and accounted for to a penny. The responsibil- 
ity of this volume of work cost a great deal of care and anxiety, 
and upon my retirement from the office, Jan. 1st, 1906, there was 
a cash balance of $92,410.08, against $18,912.67 Jan. 1, 1904, when 
I went in the office. 

My efficiency as a public official stands of record, therefore 
the public can judge my official career after I am dead and for 

I can truthfully sing a 



We're growing old; why should we grieve 
To know our Journeys nearly o'er ? 

With his glad coming we shall leave 
Earth for a fairer shore. 

Lifers had its seedtime and its sheaves, 
Its work was welcomed, now "'tis done; 

The roses blossomed and their leaves 
Have fallen one by one. 

We tilled with joy the tender corn, 

And gladly plucked the ripened ears; 

When to his '■'■harvest home' 1 '' we're borne 
Shall there be joy or tears ? 

With hope we toiled through life's glad fune, 
Now the red sun fades in the west; 

Night's fairest stars will shine full soon 
And bring us perfect rest. 

The joys we knew in seedtime hours 

Come back again with harvest sheaves; 

The perfume of sweet summer flowers 
Clings to the autumn leaves. 

Though bound to earth by dearest ties, 
We wait the bliss beyond the tomb; 

The earlier blossom drops and dies 
Amid fresh opening bloom. 

We shall be welcomed at the door 

By those we knew in life's bright noon. 

We go to greet those gone before, 
Our loved shall follow soon. 

And one by one to peace above 

Shall come souls worn and tempest driven, 
As link by link earth's chain of love 

The angels draw to Heaven. 



1 ' Underground Railroad," on Which the Author 
Was Chief Conductor. 


EDITOR'S NOTE: The following story is one from the 
pen of one of Rochester 's pioneer newspaper men, the author, in 
company with the late Edward B. Chinn, having purchased the 
Rochester Chronicle from the previous ptiblisher, Mr. Corydon E. 
Fuller, in the latter part of 1864. Those were strenuous days 
in Rochester — when war was rife, and sympathizers with oppos- 
ing armies, hot-headed and rampant, were ready for encounter at 
any moment. It took courage for an editor to write the convic- 
tions of his heart, and in order to show the children of this age 
that our fellow tow?isman, whose portrait adorns this Page, was 
as patriotic in the hours of trial as he is known to be at this 
day, his Salutatory, from the Rochester Chronicle, Thursday, Dec. 
29, 1 864, is herewith reproduced, viz : 


It will be seen from this issue of the Chronicle, and from the remarks of 
our predecessor in the last issue, that Corydon E. Fuller, the zealous and 
ardent advocate of Liberty, of Union and of Freedom for 7iearly four years, 
during which time the varied circumstances of ivar and bitter party faction at 
home as well as abroad tended to excite the people, maintained well, and gained 
the confidence and esteem of the true, the noble, and generous hearted, of this 
and surrounding counties, is connected with this paper no longer. New and, 
inexperienced hands assume the responsibility ; but. relying on the known con- 
fidence of the people, and their spirit to forgive all trivial faults— remaining 
true to the Government they love, they shall cheerfully ask. and expect as freely 
to receive the patronage of the former supporters of the Chronicle, and together 
with them and those in sympathy with the cause they advocate, to daily increase 
its list of subscribers. 

W^hile they then ask these favors of the kind andliberal. they would be false 
to themselves and false to those from whom they expect to receive, as well as 


to their Government, if they did not earnestly and thoroughly advocate unceas- 
ing and unremitting war, until an unconditional surrender is obtained, and 
the rebellion crushed forever. If they did not cherish, protect and help, when- 
ever opportunity presents, the soldiery, whose very sinews, nerves and life are 
taxed today to their fullest extent, and upon those strong arms and brave hearts 
our success, our property and our all, depends. 

But while they advocate the cause of the Union and the principles of the 
Union party—bitterly condemning that institution of human bondaqe— 
"Tliat round the vassal's manhood twines 
'Till the spirit wastes within him, 
Like the Ciba choked with vine." 
they will ever fail, if within their power to enter into any personal controversy 
with any person or local paper, as it can never result in any good. 

To make a local paper interesting, the publishers asks the patrons and all 
others who wish, to gather items of news and interest in their respective locali- 
ties, and send them immediately to this offlce. They will be gladly received 

and published. 

Beginning as they do in the midst of the Holidays, when all is life and 
gayety. and at the commencement of a new year, with dispatches from every 
quarter laden with news of victory, may they not hope and pray for all. a 
glorious future, and before the year is ended, that the banner of glory and 
beauty may float once again in peace over a united Republic. 

"IN/TR- EDITOR: In giving my reminiscences of this state, 
-L -L I will only write of that period between 1838 and fall 
of 1856, when I left for that grand country whose 
history can only be written in hyperbole and whose epilogue has 
not yet been pronounced, Kansas. 

In the fall of 1838 our family, with one horse and one ox and 
wrgon, landed at the log cabin of Jacob Myers, the father of our 
Jonas, two miles south of Gilead, in Miami county, Indiana. 
That winter the families of Saygers, Myers and Essick, twenty- 
one in number, all huddled in a one-room log cabin, but the men 
soon got to work and erected another log cabin with a passage- 
way between, so we could stretch out a little until spring, and as 
soon as the weather would permit, the men struck out and built 
log cabins on their own claims. They made their own clapboards 
for rooting, hewed their puncheons for the flooring. For the 
frames for the doors and windows they used wooden pegs, there 
were no nails. 

Let me here disgress a little. Indiana was then a beautiful 
state. It is said that when the angel of light first beheld this 
earth she was so delighted with it, that she stooped down and 
kissed it, and from the dimple of the impress sprang the State of 
Indiana, and she became the real mecca of the Indians. Hence 
received her name. 

Let us look at her as I have seen her, as well as other old 
settlers now living. In 1838 the Pottawattomies were removed 
from their beloved home, but the Miamis, who were friendly 
with them, were not removed until years afterwards and some of 


the Pottawattomies returned and lived with the Miamis, so you 
see we still have Indians in what is known as the Eel River 
Country. This was a dense timbered country. It had neither 
little streams or rivers, but run water the whole year round. All 
her lakes, rivers and small streams were alive with and filled 
with fish. The woods were alive with bear, wolves, deer, an- 
telope, gazelles, turkeys, squirrels, beaver, otter and nearly every 
fur animal. You could stand on the banks of the Tippecanoe, 
Eel or Wabash rivers and see the poplar, walnut, ash, sugar, 
beech, sycamore, the monarchs of the forest, some bending over 
the water. Could see the deer comedown to the stream to drink. 
In the near distance you could see the green sward, the smoking 
tepee of the Indians. If you visited their camp you found the 
tepee covered with skins, robes of fur on the floor, and clothes of 
fur to keep them warm. In this land of his, before he was dis- 
turbed by white men, he was happy and independent. He had 
all he wanted to eat and wear. Now he is gone with the tim- 
bered wood lands. Fine bridges, beautiful collonades, magnifi- 
cent palaces, towns and farms take their places, but nature 
always has and always will excel art in grandeur. Don't you 
wish you had lived then? 

In 1845 my father moved from his little tanyard to Gilead, 
and we no longer had to walk one and one-half miles to school, 
wearing tow breeches which mother had woven from the flax 
we raised. No longer had we to drive the deer and wild turkey 
from the wheat field, no longer to club droves of squirrels from 
our corn fields. My father was the first Abolitionist in Miami 
county. He erected a very large building for his tanyard, with 
loug ells to it for stable, straw and tanbark. Secreted in the 
straw were the runaway negroes, for he kept one of the stations 
on what was known as the "underground railroad." It was at 
a time when the fugitive slave law was in its full and severest 
operation. George W. Julian and his Quaker friends, of the 
old burnt district, was at the head of the route. Petit had a 
station at Wabash, Father at Gilead, and Mr. Sippy at Akron. 
There was a trail from Gilead to Akron through the woods, and 
we would start about eleven o'clock at night with the negroes, 
land them at Sippy 's and return before morning. There was 
another "underground" route traversed by the horse thieves, and 
at each station they had large stables dug under ground, a log 
stable at the entrance, into which the horses were first taken, 
floor cleaned off and then taken down the passage to the lower 

In those glorious days of this early people, at every crossroad 
there was a log school house or church, all classes seemed to be 
worshipers. They had plenty of whiskey, made ten years old in 


ten days, brewed with dog-leg tobacco, apple cores, copperas and 
other tilth, called forty-rod whiskey. They had horse racing, dog 
and men fights. In every home and every school house there 
was a bundle of hickory rods for immediate use. They all quoted 
that infamous doctrine of "Spare the rod and spoil the child," 
and every horse thief and sneak, when caught, would justify by 
quoting "Whosoever provideth not for his own family is worse 
than an infidel," and the pulpit pounder, when contributions 
were small, would indignantly exclaim, "The laborer is worthy 
of his hire," when he knew that Christ meant the manual laborer 
and that the gospel was to be given without money and without 
price. The fathers of that day wo aid quote to their wives the 
Pauline doctrine "Keep silent, obey your husband, learn from 
them, man was born of God, hence glorified, you were born of 
man," and the blessed, meek mother would obey, never thinking 
that those teachings of Paul had enslaved her sex for more than 
1800 years. 

The men of those days amused themselves grubbing, rolling 
logs, mowing hay in the bogs, wearing tow breeches and some- 
times the boys wore lincey-woolsey made from their mother's 
petticoats. They would break colts and oxen to work, plow 
amid the stumps and when a root would strike their shanks 
would use earnest language, haul half loads through mud holes 
and over corduroy bridges. Truely these were the golden years 
of youth. No wonder, when they left home, they never got 

The mothers of those days were slaves. They helped in the 
shops, and on the farms. They would hackle the flax, weave it 
and also weave the wool, scrub and do all the cooking in open 
fire places, attend to the children night and day. I don't know 
how they got any sleep in the twenty-four hours. They were 
splendid physicians. When a child was suffering from disease, 
and the father became frightened and sent for the doctor, some of 
them, after the doctor had left, would throw his nostrums out of 
the window, administer her teas to the child and save its life. 
Some would give the medicine as prescribed by the doctor and 
the child would die. Take all the practitioners in the medical 
schools of Luxor, one hundred thousand years before the birth 
of Christ, down through all the schools of iEsculapius to the 
present time, and you will not find one who excelled our mothers 
in therapeutics, even if they did make us take nanny-berry tea. 

I believe that the mothers of Indiana alone saved more lives 
than all the doctors since Ezra wrote the old testament. The 
girls also helped at outdoor work and the mother in her house- 
hold duties. They would hire out and spin the flax and wool, 
and when they would turn the wheel and run back on the floor 


to twist the yarn, they would sing like birds. When they went 
to church they would carry their shoes and stockings until they 
got to the church, then put them on. Some of these girls broke 
away from the teachings of the cranky old bachelor Paul, and 
contended that the part of his writing referring to women was 
not inspired and asserted their will force. Fifteen hundred of 
them, in the United States, have written their names on the 
pages of history. I know one lovely girl who, by her will force, 
climbed the ladder of fame, and I expect, when she was at the 
top in the lime-light (if she thought of me at all) looked down 
and said to hereslf, — "Poor Luther is at the bottom still, although 
he had equal chances with me, if not better, because he was not 
hampered by the prejudice of sex." 

I will not write of the terrible struggle for freedom's cause 
between the years 1856 and 1865, when I returned to this country, 
because no Kansan ever was known to blow his own horn. 
Modesty is a part of their nature. I will only say that while in 
Kansas 1 contracted a marriage with as smart and pretty little 
girl as ever lived, whose bright intelligence always overshadowed 
me, Ellen Rowley. After reading some of the old Settlers' com- 
munications, it seems incredible to believe there was a time when 
Fulton county did not exist. Her history is written in capitals. 
It is punctuated with exclamation points, the common place 
and prosaic are not defined in its lexicon. What a shame it is 
that a nation that erects costly monuments to her heroes, does 
not place a statue in the rotunda at Washington, and also erect 
a centotaph, compared with which all the monuments of earth 
will look common place, to the memory of the every-day, com- 
mon early mothers of this country. 

They say that it takes three things to make great men and 
women, the force of heredity, the force of enviroment and the 
force of will. I do not know whether this is true or not. I 
think that habit makes the man or woman; that is, you must not 
follow habit, but make it follow you. Resolve to do a thing and 
do it. Out of the material of which I have spoken came the 
heroes who saved our union. Comforts and palaces never breed 
great men and women, it is the humble home. The days of our 
youth are gone, and we have learned that on earth there is but 
little joy between the two great dawns. 


Memory Cherishes Friends Who Have Crossed 
The Silvery Strand. 


ON THE SIXTEENTH DAY OF THE shortest month of 
the year, 1830, while the chilling winds were whistling 
around the old stick chimney and rattling the bare, 
brown branches of the trees against the icy windows of the prim- 
itive log cabin in the forest, in the state of Ohio, the writer of 
this short sketch was born. 

The country was heavily timbered with hickory, walnut, 
oak, ash, elm and other varities. The walnut timber burned, 
would today sell for more than the farm. The soil was rich, 
black sandy loam, subsoil of clay. When once cleared, was very 
productive. A small stream of water ran through the farm. 
No damage from overflow, but always furnished water for stock. 
Sometimes, in the spring, fish would work their way up from 
Sandusky bay, when the boys would have good times trying to 
catch them. After years of labor the land was cleared and 
brought under cultivation, the log house replaced with frame, 
with conveniences which then was thought to be commodious, 
but now would not be so considered. My father's family con- 
sisted of eleven children, six boys, five girls. Educational privi- 
leges were very meagre. No need of truant officer to compel 
children to attend school. We were always glad to have the 
opportunity to go to school, for then there was public money for 
only three months in the year. When we had more than that, 
schooling was paid for by subscription. A well qualified lady 
teacher would get 75 cents to $1.50 per week, and board around 
with the pupils. Many of the children walked two and three 
miles to school, part the way through the forest. 



While yet a youth, a stage was run along the road where we 
lived, and my father's place was where the stage driver would 
change horses. I recall the fact of seeing, passing along this 
road, a wagon on which a log cabin was built, covered with 
boards, and inside the house was a barrel of cider and a man 
ready to give a drink to those they met. Outside, the log house 
was covered with coon skins. The propelling power was three 
yoke of oxen. That was in 1840, and well known by all old 
citizens as the Harrison campaign. No railroad, telegraph or 
'phones had been thought of at that time. A few years later the 
Mad River railroad was built from Portland (now Sandusky 
City) to Cincinnati, cross ties and wooden rails, with iron very 
little larger than wagon tire. No infrequent thing for the iron to 
losen at the end and turn up through the car. In 1846 the road- 
bed was changed and I was emp'oyed to hew timber for some 
culverts. In making the change T-rails were substituted for the 
flat rail. In the year 1847 the first telegraph was erected in 
Northern Ohio. I also helped to erect poles and wire for fourteen 

After improving all the school privileges, commencing in 
the log school house, with slab seats, punchen floor, and six-foot 
fire place, to a few years later, the frame building erected on one 
corner of my father's farm, where we had four months' school, 
with teachers graduated from Oberlin College, whose wages were 
$16.00 for twenty-six days, and was considered good for that 
time. 1849 was my last school attendance, 1851 was employed to 
teach school for three months at $13.00 for twenty-six days, and 
board. The building was a log, with shake roof, held on by 
weight-poles. Large fire place, for stoves or furnaces were not 
yet made for such purposes. The house was located on a creek 
which ran through marsh land into Sandusky Bay. In this 
marsh was the home of thousands of muskrats, and on nice 
warm days when the marsh was frozen, all my large pupils 
boys and girls, would be out spearing rats. Therefore, when 
they came to school again, it was in evidence we need spend no 
money for perfume. In turning back to my boyhood, will say 
in connection with poor school privileges, that Sunday schools 
and church services were held in the log school house or private 
dwellings. My father's house was frequently used for church 
and a home for the circuit preacher. Also Mr. Bailey's house 
was a welcome place for the preacher and other friends. Mr. 
Bailey, being of English birth, was liberal and hospitable in pro- 
viding comforts for the preacher and his beast, in doing so he 
built an addition to his shed. On the day the shed was raised 
on questioning him as to what use the addition would be he 
always gave the ready reply, in true English, that 'twas "a hell 
for the preacher's 'orse." 


It was during my second school that I formed the acquaint- 
ance of the lady who afterwards become my wife. Dec. 29, 1853, 
we were married, and at once commenced housekeeping in a log 
house in a sparsely settled neighborhood, earning money to buy 
our first cook stove by teaching writing class. Cupboard I made 
from dry goods boxes. Our furniture was all hauled in one 
wagon-box load. And yet we got along, as we had some wheat 
and plenty of corn. About three years from the time of com- 
mencing in this way, my father and mother moved from the old 
home farm, when we moved there, renting for two years, then 
buying the farm, continuing with fair success. Was seven times 
elected township clerk, and twice township assessor. I also be- 
longed to the National Guards when the regiment was called out 
for service. I responded with others. The second day, while in 
camp at Fremont, Ohio, Colonel Hains learned that I was assess- 
or for our township. Said we must have taxes, and as I had 
worked two days before the call, that I would have to go home. 
Being then subject to orders, I went home, and the boys of my 
company and regiment went to Arlington Heights, near Wash- 
ington, D. 0., and returned in one hundred and twenty days, 
one dying from my company in that time. When I failed to get 
to go, I then hired a man that did go, paying him myself. My 
grandfather served in Revolutionary war, two brothers in the 
civil war. 

I will never forget the funeral of General James B. Mc- 
Pherson, who was killed somewhere south, and brought to 
Clyde, Ohio, the home of his birth, for burial. It was a hot, dry, 
dusty time, and thousands of soldiers in attendance at the burial. 

Having an opportunity to sell the farm for what was then 
thought a big price, we did sell, and in March, 1870, moved to 
Rochester, to find a town whose streets had a plenteous growth 
of dog fennel, cows, horses and hogs roamed at will. The only 
brick buildings were the old court house and the store room of 
Jesse Shields, now occupied by the Indiana Bank and Trust 
Company. Among the dealers then was Fred Fromm, V. Zim- 
merman, Gould Brothers, Richter, Feder & Silberberg, J. Daw- 
son, Lyon & Kendrick, Wile, Allman Brothers, F. B. Ernsperger 
and many others. On coming here I formed a partneship with 
F. B. Ernsperger and sold goods for ten years. The Baptist 
people owned and held services in the rooms now occupied by 
Zimmerman's undertaking and furniture store. The M. E. 
people owned the room where C. Hoover has his furniture and 
undertaking business. The I. O. O. F. owned where the M. E. 
church now stands. Presbyterians occupied same lot as now. 

There was a large flouring mill located on North Main 
street, owned by Mr. Stock, and farther south near the old race, 


William Wallace had a flouring mill, but misfortune soon came 
to the latter by being consumed by tire. Later the big mill, at 
north end, was burned. I think, at the time, was owned by 
Leiter & Hickman. Among the prominent citizens then living 
here, that have passed away, are: Alvin Robbing and wife; 
William Sturgeon and wife; A. K. Plank and wife; D. W. Lyon 
and wife; B. S. Lyon and wife; C. F. Harter and wife; C. J. 
Stradley; Newt. Rannells and wife; Dr. V. Gould and wife; Dr. 
A. H. Robbins; Clark Hickman and wife; Wm. Wallace and 
wife; David Barb and wife; Jesse Shields and wife, and many 
others that I do not just now call to mind. 

The names of the pastors who have served the M. E. Church 
congregations: T. C. Stringer, 1869 to 1871; P. S. Cook, 1871 to 
1872; Clark Skinner, 1872 to 1874; R. D. Utter, 1874 to 1875; 
J. A. Clearwaters, 1875 to 1877; F. M. Rule, 1877 to 1880; R. D. 
Utter, 1880 to 1883; J. C. Reed 1883 to 1886; J. H. Wilson, 1886 to 
1890; H. A. Tucker, 1890 to 1892; A. T. Briggs, 1892 to 1894; C. A. 
Brook, 1894 to 1897; L. C. Buckels, 1897 to 1900; VV. F. Switzer, 
1900 to 1907; J. G. Campbell, present pastor. 

Thirty-five or forty years ago, the prevailing amusements 
indulged in at evening socials, were songs speeches, charades and 
social chat. No cards. I remember, at a wedding anniversary, 
the bride was presented with a tin sunbennet, made for the occa- 
sion which created much merriment. The couple are living in 
Rochester yet, and I can't say whether the bonnet is worn out or 

On Dec. 29, 1873, occurred at the home of the writer, our 
twentieth wedding anniversary, and to show the change in the 
neighbors, then and now, will give the names of the persons 

Mr. and Mrs. Clark Skinner, Mr. and Mrs. R. P. Smith, 
" " " John Taylor, " " " Enoch Sturgeon, 

" " " E. E. Cowgiil, « " " A. C. Elliott, 

" » " Isaiah Conner, " " " T. M. Bitters, 

" " " H. B. Boswell, " " " C. Ernsperger, 

" " " C. C. Wolf, " " " J. W. Elam, 

,, " " Eli Russell, " " " Wm. Ashton, 

" " " C. Hector, " " " A. V. House, 

» » " F. B. Ernsperger, " " " Johu W. Davis, 
Dr. " " William Hill, " " " J. M. Reiter, 

Mr. » » E. P. Copeland, " " " N. L. Lord, 
" " " Samuel Heffley, " " " M. L. Essick, 
" " " F. K. Kendrick, " " " H. S. Drake, 
" " " Samuel Keely, " " " E. Kirtland, 

" " " Thos. Newhouse, " " " Levi Mercer, 
" " " J. Q. Neal, Mr. W. J. Williams, 

" " " K. G. Shryocb, " Chas. H. Berry, 
" " A. J. Davidson, " H. B. Ernsperger, 

In all, 69 present as guests, 47 of whom are now dead. 


In closing this rambling sketch, from 1830 to 1909, will say 

Many days of my youth I cannot recall, 
They are gone like a shadow at eve, 

But the friends of my yonth, I remember them all, 
In memory yet they live. 

The long, long ago, it seems like a dream, 

When I lived in my boyhood home, 
When I used to play by the bright little stream, 

Or throtigh the old wood used to roam.. 

The friends of my youth are nearly all gone 

And J am left almost alone, 
Old age o'er me is fast creeping on. 

And soon my work will be done. 

When life and its labors are over and past, 

And my days on earth are all o'er, 
I want to ready, and then at last 

I shall meet with my friends gone before. 

*/••••-. i-'-V- 

K m 

■- ■^jR* 




Recollections of Rochester's Prosperity in Early 
Commercial Industries. 


'■'■There is something wondrous in it, 
The gleams of days gone by, 
Dear sights and sounds that are to me 
The very moons of memory, 
And stir my heart's blood far below 
lis short-lived waves of joy and woe.'''' 

v | 'I ME, IN ROCHESTER and Fulton county, begins, with 

-^ me, in the year 1837, when I was three years of age. In 

that year, my mother, stepfather, VVm. Metz, and an 

older brother, James O. Mitchell, a baby half-sister, and myself, 

came to Rochester from Carroll county, Ind. 

The new county seat, at that time, contained between three 
and four hundred inhabitants. It had the distinction, then as 
now, of being one of the many beautiful town sites of Northern 
Indiana. In addition, it had flattering prospects of becoming a 
manufacturing center of some importance. After the removal of 
the last of the Indians from this locality in 1838, the government 
abandoned the grist mill at the outlet of the lake. This left the 
field clear for profitable investment in the building of another 
grist mill, which was taken advantage of by Alexander Cham- 
beriain and his son-in-law, Anthony F. Smith, brother of Hon. 
Milo R. Smith of this city. A survey and estimate of the aver- 
age flow of water from the lake, by the way of the outlet, showed 
that there could be ample water power developed to meet the re- 
quirements of the grist mill and other machinery, if a dam were 
placed across the outlet, on what is now Fourth street. The 
same fill, or levee, is now used as a public highway between 


East Rochester and Rochester. The grist mill was built at the 
east end of Third street, one and one-half squares east of Main 
street. This improvement was followed with a furniture factory, 
owned and managed by Jacob Kitt, husband of Mrs. Anna Kitt, 
so long and favorably known by the middle-aged and older resi- 
dents of this city, who now lives at Goodland, near her son Alvin 
Kitt and daughter, Mrs. Matilda Downing, the elder daughter, 
Mrs. Lyda Pugh and husband reside here. This factory was lo- 
cated below the hill west of the Michigan road, between the creek 
and where Mrs. Anna Metzler now lives, north of the Erie R. R. 
tracks. This location was selected as the one most available 
for using the water supply for the machinery, after it had done 
service at the mill above, the same passing from mill to factory 
down a race constructed for that purpose, on the south side of 
the creek. Here were manufactured chairs, bedsteads, cupboards, 
bureaus, coffins and any and all articles that might be needed 
by the new comer, the newly wed, or to bury the dead. 

It had been discovered, by this time, that the marsh or bog 
lands in this vicinity, contained deposits of iron ore. Iron, at 
that time was very expensive, compared to present prices, the 
supply reaching the various points where needed in Northern In- 
diana, by the lakes and Wabash and Erie canal, then by wagon 
to places where necessity demanded. 

Messrs. James Moore and Butler, after giving the subject 
due consideration, built a forge, or factory, for the purpose of 
making wrought iron from bog ore. The factory was located 
iust west of where B. O. Johnson lives. This site was selected in 
order to get the necessary fall from the dam as the surplus water 
from, the pond, or reservoir above, was to furnish the power, con- 
veyed to the forge by a race constructed on the north side of the 
creek. Men were put to work to locate ore deposits and build 
roads over the soft marsh lands to them, others to digging the ore 
and some to hauling it to the factory, usually with oxen and 
wagons. Contracts were let for cutting cord wood and burning 
charcoal, while others were engaged in hauling coal to the forge. 
Those with the number required at the factory to keep the 
wheels moving, presented a busy scene that would put life into 
the quiet conditions that prevail here at present, if they could 
be duplicated. The large mass of molten ore was drawn from 
the ovens and placed on an iron table or anvil, where they 
were given proper shape and finish for the markets, by the skill- 
ful handling of experts, aided by the steady strokes of a hammer, 
weighing five hundred pounds, attached to a handle or beam, 
twelve inches square and twelve feet long, which descended at the 
rate of about four strokes per minute, with sufficient force to be 
heard from six to eight miles, on clear, still mornings. The iron 


produced here was wrought billets, weighing 200 lbs. each. The 
mill, not being equipped with machinery for the manufacture of 
bar iron, was compelled to ship and sell its product in unfinished 
condition. These industries gave Rochester promise of a bright 
future, from a business view, that attracted the attention of per- 
sons seeking locations for investment in lands, town lots and 
business enterprises. This was before steam was counted as a 
factor in its application to the varied industries for which it is 
now used, hence the location of a sight with sufficient water in 
volume, with a fall that made its use practical, was considered 
valuable, and was supposed to govern the location of all manu- 
facturing industries that required power to move its machinery. 
By reference to the location of water power, as developed, it can 
be readily understood why all business, including stores and 
shops, crowded to what is now North Main street. 

In 1844 Messrs. Clark and Blair brought quite a large stock 
of general merchandise from Michigan City, Ind., and occupied 
a room where Mrs. Anna Metzler now lives, north of the Erie 
rail road. Later they built on the corner of Main and Third 
streets, west side. About this same time Messrs. Rannells and 
Maxwell built on the corner of Main street and Fourth where 
Hazlett Bros, are located, and put in a heavy stock of merchan- 
dise. This was as far south as business was pushed for 
several years. Finally Frederick Ault, father of our Jud, ventur- 
ed one square farther, to the corner of Main and Fifth streets. 
This was regarded as a wild venture and many of the wise fel- 
lows predicted failure. 

It came to pass in the course of time, that death cast a shad- 
ow over the home of James Moore, business manager at the head 
of the iron industry, and left his young and beautiful wife, Lu- 
cretia Butler Moore, a widow. Deprived of his counsel, energy 
and ability to direct the enterprise that promised success to his 
earlier dream, the business perished. 

Fire, sickness and general depression in business, brought 
disappointment and discouragement to the head of the furniture 
factory, and it went as it came, in company with the iron indus- 

In the late fall of 1843, my parents, having disposed of their 
property, (house and lot) in town, moved into a log cabin, situ- 
ated on the land where Reuben Darr now lives, two and one-half 
miles east, then in heavy timbered lands, and arranged to board 
some of the men who were cutting cord wood and some who 
were burning charcoal for the iron mill. I remember that Mr. 
Town and son were two of the colliers. This, the winter of 1843- 
1844, is remembered as the longest and most severe in Indiana, 
snow falling early, to a great depth and remaining until late in 


April. Feed of all kinds was exhausted. Many of the stock 
perished, those surviving were kept a^ive by the owners cut- 
ting green timber, such as lin, beech and other soft varieties, 
so that horses, cattle and sheep might eat the young twigs and 
buds. Later, we moved farther east, iuto a large story and one- 
half hewed log house. The logs were all of nice yellow poplar, 
of uniform size, and dimensions sufficient to bring a handsome 
sum, if they were in merchantable shape at present prices. We 
remained in what is now known as the McKinley neighborhood 
for five years. Our nearest neighbors were Stephen Davidson, 
one mile southwest, and Abuer Barrett, Sr., one and one-half 
miles northeast, with heavy timbered lands intervening and all 

It was here that two sprightly boys spent five years of happy 
life, five years of sunshine. The woods and all they contained 
were ours, with its wealth of nuts, wild fruits and rich foliage. 
After the tasks were done, old Chippewa, with its swimming 
holes were not forsaken. Squirrels, quail, pheasants and an oc- 
casional turkey, lent excitment to vary the monotony, I having 
killed every kind of game that ran wild in the woods, from a 
weasel to a deer, before I was fourteen, but claim no honor for 
killing the deer, (only one) as it was pursued so closely by the 
dogs that it had neither time or chance to evade me, when the 
fatal shot was fired that ended the chase. 

Of the two boys, all that the youngest lacked of the nobler 
qualities, worthy of emulation, the older possessed in a marked 
degree— industrious, truthful in all things, unselfish, having an 
abhorance for profanity, kind to a fault, manly and handsome. 
Was my companion, my guide, my brother James, from my 
earliest recollection, until the month of March, 1852. As the long 
train of wagons filed in line and moved out for the long journey 
to the land of gold, in the distant west, we walked side by side, 
beyond the home of our boyhood, until the time for the final 
goodby was spoken. Days passed, the anxiously looked for 
letters reached us, bearing the news of a pleasant and successful 
trip, as far west as the frontier settlements, after which a long 
silence intervened. One bright summer day, a message, with 
sable border, was received and opened with trembling hands. 
Its burden of news pierced our hearts. The shadow that follow- 
ed the sad news this letter contained, has remained and deepen- 
ed as experience to added years teaches us the magnitude of our 

The first work I ever performed for wages was for James Mc- 
Quern, father of Mrs. Abel Bowers and Mrs. Wm. Zellar, of this 
city. The pay was to be five dollars for one month's work. I 


drove two yoke of oxen to turn the first furrow where John Kib- 
ler lives, east of the lake. I was exercised quite a bit, during the 
month to know of what disposition I should make of my money, 
when received. This was my first experience in grappling with 
finances, but like many other problems of life, I found it easy 
when the time came to act. The next opportunity offered, 
whereby I saw a chance to add to my knowledge of experience, 
and further gratify the desire to swell the treasury, was when I 
was offered one dollar and fifty cents per week to herd one hun- 
dred head of big three-year-old cattle, the property of Leander 
Chamberlain and Gilbert Bozarth. Chamberlain lived, at that 
time, on what is known as the Haimbaugh farm, five miles 
northeast. At this time, I was quite small, not as large as Jud 
Aultisnow. 1 was furnished with a good pony. My instruc- 
tions were to keep the cattle south of the river, east of the Mich- 
igan road, west of the Rochester and Talma road and north of 
the roadrunning east from town. While this scope of country is 
now mostly in a state of cultivation, containing many neat and 
comfortable homes, at that time there were only three houses, 
one on farm where Isaac Good now lives, (vacant) one on farm 
where Mrs. Cora Vandergift now lives (vacant) and one where 
Ed. Fults Jives. 

This left a large open space containing several hundred acres, 
interspersed with marsh and open timbered lands with but few 
under brush, ideal conditions for stock grazing, and as a place 
where a boy could have full and untrammeled sway to gratify 
his love for active, exciting exercise and the love of the beautiful 
in nature, for as I remember, every square rod of the upland was 
a flower garden, while the sloughs and ponds had their charms 
of various kinds, including the wood duck, mallard and crane — 
last, but by no means least, was the south bank of the river, 
with its bluffy banks, possessing changes in scenery equaled by 
but few of the beautiful spots of Northern Indiana, and surpass- 
ed by none, as is evidenced by the numbers who seek its delights 
each recurring season. These cattle were composed of various 
lots bought at different places during the winter, and had not 
formed attachment for their new associates, a habit that is only 
formed by the mingling of each new arrival with the common 
herd. On this account, when they were driven to the feeding 
ground, each squad was disposed to go its own way, ■ nd wander 
from rather than with the others. This, at first, required con- 
stant watching and much riding, an exercise that was always to 
my taste. I soon got so I could ride like an Indian, and yell like 
a girl of the present, while "rooting" for a basket or base ball 
game. I know this is putting it a little strong, but the echoes of 
those yells prompted one of the owners of the herd to write me, 


more than half century after, from Kansas, referring to the in- 
cident, and asking that I answer, giving all the news that might 
be of interest from the old town, and have done so to the best of 
my ability. 

The winter of 1848 was spent with my uncle, Asa Bozarth, 
father of Jap Bozarth, of this city, going with him in the spring 
of '49, to live on a farm he had purchased, just south of where 
Fulton is now situated, known now as the Mathews farm. This 
is the place referred to by W. A. Ward, as being the rendezvous 
of a desperate gang of outlaws, (of course previous to our going) 
but of late it had been, and was yet the place where the stage 
company kept relays of horses, to take the place of the ones as 
they came in from the north or south as the case might be. From 
Logansport to Uncle's was one division. From Uncle's to Roch- 
ester another, the entire iun from Indianapolis to South Bend 
was divided into divisions of from ten to fifteen miles, one driver 
and four horses for each station. As one came in at the end of 
his run, he found the next man ready, with horses harnessed, 
standing in waiting. With the loosening of eight traces and as 
many buckles, and the fastening of as many more, with fresh 
horses and driver seated, whip and reins in hand, a blast from 
the bugle, started the trained horses on the run, for the end of 
the division. 

Uncle's family consisted, at the time, of himself, wife, four 
children, Miss Mary Harold and the boy from Chippewa. Many 
pleasant memories are associated with the days spent there, the 
kindness shown bordered close to indulgence. Miss Harold was 
a natural tease and usually selected me for her victim. Her 
cheerful disposition and red cheeks, the envy of the less favored 
of her sex, were an irresistible temptation to Joseph Williams, 
now of Kewanna, Ind., where they live, husband and wife, in ease 
and comfort, honored citizens by all who know them best. 
Uncle and Aunt have long since passed from the busy cares of 
this life. Of them we can say ought more fitting than these 
lines from Lowell: 

"While lips must fade and roses wither, 

And all sweet times be o'er; 
They only smile, and answering "Thither/" 

Stay with us no more; 
And yet, of times, a look, a smile 

Forgotten in cares a while, 
Years after, from the dark will start, 

And flash across the trembling heart." 

The farm was sold to Judge John Wright, in the fall of '49, 
and the family returned to Rochester. I went to school during 


the winter, worked on the farm the following summer, just west 
of town, known as the Montgomery farm, Uncle having bought 
the land, with no improvements on it. In 1851 I was employed 
by James Rannells, he having sold his interest in the stock 
of goods, formerly owned by Rannells Bros., successors to Ran- 
nells & Sons, and started business at the old stand, corner of 
Main and Fourth streets. In a few months he contracted typhoid 
fever, while in Cincinnati buying goods, came home sick, death 
following soon. During my stay with him I had been as one of 
the family and had the kindliest feelings for him and his young 
wife, a woman of refinement and pleasant disposition, who con- 
tracted the deadly disease while waiting on her husband and 
watching by his side day and night, from the first until the mes- 
senger called. In thirty days she was laid by his side and the 
young babe that I quieted while the mother wept, was cared for 
by its grand parents. 

Newton Rannells bought his brother's goods and transfered 
them to his room, corner of Main and Third streets, I going with 
the stock, in his employment. Remained until the summer of 
'52, when I was offered a better salary by George Clark, who had 
brought a stock of dry goods from South Bend. My acquaintance 
with people over the county was an advantage to me, as that 
aided me in getting and holding a place. In February, '53, 
Clark began to dream of fortunes awaiting him beyond the Rock- 
ies, closed out his stock of merchandise in March, arranged and 
went via New York and steamer to California, taking his wife 
and two little children with him. Before leaving, I was present- 
ed with a nice present, as Mrs. Clark said, "As a token of our 
kindly feelings and respect." With the assurance on my part 
that I appreciated their regard, not only in this act, but by the 
treatment that I had received from them while in their service 
wishing them happiness and prosperity in their new home, the 
hand shake was given and goodbyes spoken. 

During the summer, while in Gilead, Miami county, I re- 
ceived word from Mr. Clark and wife that if I wished to go to 
California and was not prepared, that they would see that a 
way was provided. I kept my own counsel, inasmuch as some 
things had transpired of (to me) an unpleasant nature during 
my stay there, I had about concluded to take advantage of their 
generous offer, when word was received that Mr. Clark had died. 


Returning to the time of the leaving of the Clarks, March 
1853, which occurred after I had passed my eighteenth year, past 
experience and observation convinced me that it would be advis- 
able to learn some useful trade. With this object in view, I con- 
tracted with Mr. John Hale, saddler and harness maker, agree- 


ing to stay two years, beginning in April. The following July, 
Hale moved to Gilead, Ind., I going with him as a part of the 
outfit, supposed to be a part more useful than ornamental. It 
was with some regret that I parted with friends and associates of 
boyhood days. This loss was compensated for in new acquaint- 
ances, formed with a class of people of more than average attain- 
ments and habits, such as were best calculated to exert good in- 
fluence over those whom were brought in contact with them. 

One of the sources of entertainment that I recall, was afford- 
ed by the old singing school, conducted by Prof. F. C. Brown. 
Among the members of the class were some whose natural mus- 
ical talent was far above the average in volume, sweetness and 
distinctness, that reverberates and charms us yet, as memory 
runs back for more than a half-century. "Old Hundred," "Au'.d 
Lang Sine," "Shall Old Friends be Forgotten?" all come back, 
while echo says "Shall they?" Fond recollection eft steals o'er 
me like a dream, of days 

" When the old paths we tread, 
Beneath the leafy branches overhead, 
While the moon, in shadows dark and light, 
Lent enchantment to tnoments of rapid flighty 

—Sacred Memories, 
This brings the sad thought also, that of that group of young peo- 
ple, as I knew them, happy, full of hope, with bright promise 
before them, across whose paths no cloud of sorrow had yet cast 
its shadow, have all passed out and beyond to the unknown, ex- 
cept five, the names of these were Miss Anna Essick, Miss Cynthia 
Miller, Miss Sarah Miller, Miss Jennie Grimes, including myself. 
Of the heads of families, Essicks, Lowes, Bakers, Millers, Rhodes, 
Grimes and others, whose acquaintance was an honor and pleas- 
ure. Of these, Mr. Isaac Lowe is the only one left. 

In the fall of 1854, Mr. Hale moved to Akron, Ind. Shortly 
afterward 1 arranged with him for the unexpired time, spent the 
winter at Rochester, part of the time in the school room, return- 
ing to Akron during the summer of '55. While there I formed 
the acquaintance of Bazil Clevinger and his family of three chil- 
dren, Miss Sarah, a young latly of pleasing manners, Caroline 
and William. It was soon learned that Sarah was "out on pa- 
role," having been captured by John Louderback, of Fulton, 
Ind., until such time as her father could secure a house-keeper to 
fill the place of the wife and mother, deceased, a duty performed 
by said elder daughter. After the war they settled at Valparaiso, 
Ind., became identified with the interests of that place and are 
numbered with the honored and respected citizenship. 

In the month of May, '56, 1 was employed by Anthony F. aud 
Milo R. Smith to assist in straightening up and putting a general 


stock of merchandise in shape, a recent purchase from the late N. 
R. Rannells. This led to the contract covering the entire time 
they remained in business, and with their successor, during his 
business career in Rochester. 

Referring to the question of hardship, on the part of the early- 
settlers, my observation and early experience, as far back as I 
have any knowledge, is that there are more people in Rochester 
today, pinched by hunger, cold and want, suffering for the neces- 
saries of life, with no hope of bettering their condition, than could 
be found in Fulton county during any year of which I have any 
knowledge prior to the year 1850. 

As for bears, of which we have heard mention, I never knew 
of but one being killed in this section of country. That was in 
the late '40s. This one was passing from north to south, bare- 
footed and alone, headed toward Peru, apparently not aware of 
the fact that if he ever reached that place he would get his eye- 
teeth cut, get skinned, and then some. 

Of Indians, I can only remember of standing on Main street 
near where the Erie R. R. tracks cross, at the west side of the 
road, with Brother James, as the Indians passed, single file 
stretching out on the road south as far as we could see. This was 
in 1838, and was when they were starting for the reservation in 
the southwest, beyond the Mississippi river. This is the time re- 
ferred to by Mr. Ward, so touchingiy, when he told us how re- 
luctantly he yielded to his mother's entreaties to return with her 
to the maternal roof, the home of his childhood. We know by 
experience, friend Ward, that it is with heart burning and sor- 
row that we have been compelled to stand and witness the de- 
parture, the receding, as it were, from our vision, with no power 
to check or restrain the removal of the beautiful Wanetas, Bright 
Eyes and Fluttering Poplars associated with sacred memories of 
youth. Time may heal the wound, but the scar remains. The 
joys and pleasures of youth, its sunshine and shadows, furnish 
life and hope to the young, and when guided by sincere and hon- 
est purpose, happiness to those of mature age. 

During the w r inter of '55 and '56, and summer following there 
was something like an epidemic swept over this entire com- 
munity. A strange feature of the disease was in the fact that it 
selected its victims, sparing, in all cases, the heads of families 
One after another of the younger generation was forced to yield 
to its influence. The brain was first affected, followed with heart 
troubles later. This continued until one after another was com- 
pelled to succumb. There were just two remained — two supposed 
to be immune, as it were. Wesley Shryock, Charles Shryock 
Ed Chinn, Vint O' Donald, Capt. H. C. Long and all the old as- 
sociates, had passed through the early stages of the disease and 


were on the way to recovery, when it was noticed that the last 
two began to show symptoms of an attack. About this time 
Johathan Dawson began to struggle like a fly stuck in molasses, 
or something else (to him) as sweet. The result was that he sur- 
rendered unconditionally. The last victim followed in four days, 
when the writer sent a note to Rev. Bazil Clevinger, who was a 
practitioner, an M. D. as well as Rev., informing him that his 
professional services were wanted on the following Sunday, at 
Mr. Salmon Collins', in Liberty township. At the appointed 
time he arrived, diagnosed our case, administered the remedy — 
we took the medicine — I got a wife and Miss Isabelle E. Collins 
got a lemon. Since the 21st day of September, 1856, she has an- 
swered to the name of Mrs. Isabelle E. Mitchell. 

Of persons who were here after we came, in 1837, my mother, 
who has passed her 96th annual mile-stone, Mr. W. A. Ward and 
myself remain. Messrs. George Hoover, Joseph A. Myers and 
Dee Robbins came later. 

My children, Orton S. Mitchell, Charles A. Mitchell and 
Estella Mitchell-True, my wife and 1 are citizens of Rochester. 

In a brief sketch, as here given, we are compelled to pass un- 
noticed many incidents relating to earlier days. We have only 
broken a twig and occasionally blazed a tree, along the line of 
events, just sufficient to enable the reader to follow the trail lead- 
ing to present conditions. 

To the old and new friends, — it is your words of friendship, 
given expression and force by acts of kindness and good will, that 
has taught me to know the goodness of your hearts. Let us re- 
new our friendship, so that when our work, each of his kind, in 
old age is finished, that we may leave more of sunshine than 
shadow. —Goodbye. 



A True Heart is More to be Desired than False 
Piety and Rare Riches. 


DO NOT KNOW as there is anything out of the ordinary 
-*" in my life that will interest the public so very much, as 
hundreds had about the same experiences that come to 
every one born in the pioneer days, but some incidents corre to 
me now that are a heap of interest to me and might help to pass 
away an hour or so for the readers thereof. 

Will say in the beginning, that I was born in the time when 
lickin' and learnin' went hand in hand, and the boy who did not 
get his' pantaloons dusted at least once a day, was dull indeed. 

I first saw the light of day December 18, 1845, and the event 
took place twelve miles west of Frankfort, Clinton county, Ind., 
my parents being Enoch and Henrietta Waymire. They were 
the parents of six children, I being the fourth, the oldest a girl, 
who burned to death at the age of six years. 

Our home was like those of other settlers, a log cabin; and like 
all other children we climbed a ladder to bed, slept between 
feather beds, ate bread that mother baked in the fire place, and 
crowded more real happiness into each hour, than children of the 
present time have in a day. My brother John and I were in- 
separable, and what he did I imitated, and if one was trounced 
the other was tickled with the same switch. 

How well I remember the way that old home place looked, 
with the spring branch between the house and barn, where we 
played, swam and enjoyed ourselves, frisky as untamed colts. 

Once having the privilege of a spring house, who could ever 
forget the pleasure a boy got from seeing the long rows of crocks, 
pails and pans of rich milk, with their floating islands of yellow 
cream, set in a stream of cool, running water. To slip in on a hot, 
sultry day, with a big chunk of warm bread, dip it up and down 
until it was soaked with cream, then eat until your waist band 


was so tight you felt like another bite and it must part company. 
Ah! that was a pleasure to which the town dude with his stand- 
up collar, green trousers and pickadilly shoes, will ever be a 
stranger, since the late fad of a cream separator and selling milk 
straight from the cow to the creamery has put the spring house 
out of business. 

As I hinted in the beginning, my father was handy with a 
gad, so when John and I took the partitions out of the watering 
trough, to make a toboggan slide, it is no stretch of imagination 
to say we got a dose of hickory oil that left an impression for 
days to come. Pap was a very strict man, and wanted to raise 
his children to be models of goodness, therefore, I never heard 
him use profanity in any form and he lambasted me more for 
that one thing than anything else, for as all know I would work 
off a few furbelows by way of embellishment to my speech, and 
sometimes add a frill or two yet, which comes from long practice. 

I began my education at four years of age, my first teacher a 
German who also taught English. I did not learn very much of 
him, but became an expert in throwing paper wads and doing 
other deviltry, giving him an opportunity to develop the mus- 
cles in his good right arm. 

That same year, my parents sold their home and moved three 
miles east of Perrysburg, Miami county, the transfer being made 
in wagons, four horses hitched to each of them. We mov- 
ed again into a log house and set about making a permanent 
home. The country was very wild, and game plentiful, bear, 
venison, wild turkey and rabbit seeming to await the hunter's 
rifle. I recall one Sunday morning when 1 stepped into the 
yard and found four deer browsing. I called Pap and he ran 
out, killing one, and later succeeded in bringing home the other 

Grandpap Kline, mother's father, lived with us and Pap and 
mother left us children in his care, while they went back to 
Clinton county after a supply of applebutter and other things we 
did not have in our new home. Grandpap was quite a timid 
man and very easily frightened, so it did us a world of good to 
scare the old man. One night I heard him put his head out of 
the loft window, then call to John and Will, who slept with him, 
to get up, there was a fox after the chickens, but they pretended 
not to hear him. Then he called me. I was sleeping down stairs 
in the trunnel bed. Oh how I snored, fairly shook the house, 
and he called in vain. As he was afraid to go out himself, and 
the boys were too sound asleep (?) to waken, the fox got the 
chickens. Shortly afterward I killed my first deer. 

One evening I was sent to the field to get corn for the cattle, 
and took a rifle with me. Parting a shock, I saw the ears of a 
deer not far away. I raised the gun and fired, and found I had 


made a good shot, for after a kick or two, Mr. deer shuffled off. 
The next thing was to get him home. I pulled and tugged, but 
could not budge him an inch. Knowing I would be laughed at 
and disbelieved, if I went back home and said I had killed a deer, 
I took out my jack knife and cut off an ear, and like Joshua and 
Caleb, took something back to prove the truth of my story. Pap 
hurried out, after seeing the ear and dragged the deer to the 
house. When weighed, we found it tipped the scales at one 
hundred pounds. For days I walked on air, for had I not done 
a big thing for a kid? 

One of our duties was to keep the wood box replenished. 
My sister and I carried wood about forty rods from the house. I 
had heard a good deal about the devil, how T was likely to be 
nabbed without time for argument, and had considerable fear as 
well as curiosity concerning him. One evening at dusk, we made 
our usual trip, and there in a tree, saw two big round eyes and 
heard a mournful hoot. My first thought was, that I was the 
next candidate for the place I had heard so much about, and 
Bister and I fell over each other seeing who could get into the 
door first. I told Mother "the devil is out there," but she sent 
us right back. I grew bolder, investigated, and found the 
•'Devil" was only a hoot owl. Since then I have not taken much 
stock in such stories. 

Pap prospered and after a time built a new house, a little 
south of where the old one stood. It had several rooms and un- 
like other houses in that vicinity, was plastered. When complet- 
ed we moved in I asked my brother if he thought Heaven was 
anything like that, for it was the finest house I had ever seen. 

We went to school in the winter time. One of the teachers 
was Oscar Piper, who boarded around among the patrons of the 
school. He passed for a scholar, was a reader of Tom Paine. He 
and Pap often set up at night to argue whether we were or were 
not free moral agents. Finally he became spiteful and took 
his anger out on Sister and I, in the school. After an unusually 
strong tilt with Pap, he called Sister and I up for some imagin- 
ary offense, put a cap on her head and a sunbonnet on me and 
told us to stand up before the school. I jerked the cap off her 
head and the bonnet off my own cranium, and started for home 
at a lively pace, with Piper close to my heels. We ran across 
the field as if possessed by the "old Harry," I reaching the stake 
and rider fence a little in advance of the teacher, who was puffing 
like an engine, his long hair flying in the wind. I ran in the 
house, got Pap's gun and met the schoolmaster with it cocked. 
Well I did not shoot, just put up a bluff and what I said was not 
read in the scriptures. That night he and Pap had an under- 
standing which ended by him taking a summersault out the 
door and his Sunday clothes flying out after him. 


My next teacher was Miss Jane Hill, sister of Dr. William 
Hill of this city. I got along better with her and, by the way, it 
might be well to say that she figured as a prominent party in the 
first wedding I ever attended, being a bridesmaid. 

The couple married were my cousin, Mary Ann Waymire, 
and Henry Ream, Rev. J. H. Lacy officiating, Jane Hill brides- 
maid and John Hoover best man. The wedding took place at 
our house in the presence of many people. Such a lot of cooking 
and fixing as went on for days before the wedding, but the day 
came at last, the folks began to arrive and at the time ap- 
pointed, the bridal party walked out, all in their fine toggery. 
You bet that was a sight for Nelson. Brother and I got in the 
corner and I whispered: "John, does a fellow have to go through 
all that torn foolin' to get married?" "Of course, you fool you," 
he answered. "Then," said I, "danged if I will ever get mar- 
ried." "Yes you will," he insisted, and we argued the point until 
time to eat. He proved to be a prophet, for I committeed matri- 
mony twice as all know, and if single would be on the market 

There was not much style in the days of which I write. Of 
course we were taught to have company manners, and behave a 
trifle better on these occasions, but if a boy wanted to lick his 
knife from the handle to the "pint," pour his coffee into the sau- 
cer, drink clear around the rim and smack his mouth like a pig 
drinking buttermilk, there was no particular damage done and 
he was not apt to get a lickin'. The table was long aud broad, 
not built for beauty, but to hold the "grub," for every thing was 
put on at one time, and a fellow could sit up and help himself to 
what he liked best. In place of serving the dinner in courses, 
each course only enough to smear the mouth of a katydid, the 
whole family sit down at once, the food passed and by the time 
we were ready to eat, each plate looked like it was filled with the 
leavings of a charity supper. Meal time was the hour of good 
cheer, and the way us boy stored the things away, cracked jokes 
and laughed, was conducive to good health if not to good man- 

Our house was headquarters for preachers, those traveling 
the circuit and visiting each neighborhood about once in three or 
four weeks. As my parents were very religious, and I might 
add tried to live what they believed was right, they always wel- 
comed those of their faith and gave them the best their means af- 
forded. My mother was an excellent cook, and prided herself in 
providing the most toothsome food for her family, and doubly so 
when the man of God put in an appearance, for she had learned 
that a man's appetite was not disturbed by his religion, in fact 
the more religion he had the bigger his appetite seemed to be. 


One man, Elder Lakin, came every three weeks. His home was 
in Peru. That man could eat everything in sight, then look hun- 
gry. He never failed to compliment mother on her splendid 
cooking and he also usually passed some remark about me. 

One day, at the dinner table, he looked up at my mother and 
said, as he helped himself to another piece of pie: "Sister Way- 
mire, I like to stop at your house, you are such a good cook, and 
I tell you what, your boy Nelson is going to make a mighty good 
preacher some day." It riled me some, and I answered: "Not 
by a darn sight. But if I could hug the sisters as well as you, I 
would be one now." The meal was finished in silence, for I had 
hit the bull's eye. 

Previous to this time, however, the first sermon I remember 
cf ever hearing preached, was by Rev. Sam McCarter, who was 
on Mexico circuit. He was the kind of a preacher who took a fel- 
low by the seat of the pantaloons and the hair of his head and 
held him over the firey pit until the congregation smelled smoke. 
After one of these sermons, I would be afraid to go to bed, and 
would jump into bed and pull the cover over my head. Father 
got religion in one of those meetings, and after that we had fami- 
ly prayer twice a day. Those were the days when people got the 
"power" and would run, jump, and shout until you could hear 
the converted a mile. One woman, Maria Davis, who was of ex- 
citable nature, would jump up and down and shout, was es- 
pecially pleased with Jake Rannells when he "received the bless- 
ing," for she came teetering down the middle of the meeting 
house on the tips of her toes, until she reached Jacob, brought a 
brawny hand down on his back like a sledge hammer as she 
hallooed: "Praise God, the biggest rascal in the country is on 
the Lord's side." 

Preachers were not paid much money. Rev. Samuel Wool- 
pert got the magnificent sum of $100 per year, and whatever else 
the members of the church wished to give him, in the way of 
provisions — sidemeat, ham, sausage, flour or meal. None of them 
parted their hair in the middle, or put perfume on their 'ker- 
chief to make them smell good. Times have changed, and per- 
haps it is well that they have. 

As a general thing, the early minister was an honest, earnest 
man, and was not afraid to soil his hands with hard work. So, 
when they happened around and there was extra work, they 
pitched in and made a "hand," especially at the table. 

There is another thing, connected with those early days, that 
lingers in my memory and 1 hope never to forget, and that is 
hearing my mother pray for me as she kneeled by her bed in the 
ioft. I would lay in my bed and listen as she asked a special 
blessing for her wayward boy Nelson, and although I was full of 


mischief, at other times, I never felt like laughing, for those gen- 
tle prayers were fraught with a solemn meaning to my young 
mind, although that meaning I did not understand. The years 
have passed, and I have experienced some of the misfortunes 
common to the lot of man, I have had much pleasure and not 
a little success in worldly things, but there are times, even yet, 
when I would give all I have or hope to have, to go back to that 
little bed under the clapboard roof and hear my dear old mother 
say, "God bless my boy." 

As I grew in size, I also learned a few things that still stick 
to me like a porous plaster, one of them being to learn how to 
spell. I went to all the spelling schools in Union township, and 
earned the reputation of being the best speller in the neighbor- 
hood. I knew every word in the Elementary spelling book, and 
they could not stump me, try as they would. One time, all the 
schools in the township gathered at the Weesaw church, to con- 
test for a prize, a nicely bound Webster's dictionary. Two of the 
best spellers in each school were selected, and I was one of them 
out of the Weesaw school. We were to be given but one trial at 
each word and a girl and I were finally left to face the music 
alone. We spelled everything pronounced, and when there was 
no hope of losing out, the judge said: "Give them a word out of 
the dictionary." The chosen word was Schenecdochee. The girl 
missed and I spelled it by the skin of my teeth and got the prize. 

I will now pass on to the time when the war began and I 
with my brothers enlisted, I going much against the wishes of 
my father. I belonged to the state militia two years and thought 
it nice to be a soldier. Joined Company L, 12lh Ind. Cavalry 
and staid in service until Nov. 10, 1865. 

Never will I forget the day we started to the war. Mother 
followed as far as the bend in the road, and after kissing us good- 
by, said, between sobs, as the tears ran down her cheeks: "Be 
good soldiers, and obey orders and if shot in battle, let it be with 
your faces toward the flag." That advice followed me through 
many a conflict, and helped to put courage into my heart. 

The first battle I was in was at Murfreesboro and the first 
man I saw wounded had his chin shot off. I am free to confess 
that my hair stood up stiff on my koko, and when the comrade 
by my side lost his arm, I thought things were getting pretty 
d— d hot in my vicinity. But then I was only eighteen years of 
age and felt a little squeemish. I soon got over that, and took 
to shootin' like a duck to water. 

My father wrote us letters from home each week and that 
helped us immensely, for we were always glad to hear from the 
old folks at home. Our family, Waymire and Staley, sent 
twelve soldiers to the front. Two lost their lives on southern 
battle fields and all the rest were wounded. 


I might go on and tell of the battles I was in and the many 
privations endured for my country, but what's the use, the war 
is over, the last gun fired and hope it will never again be my lot 
to see our glorious flag wave in another bloody strife. Therefore 
will only relate an incident or two that occured while I lay sick 
in Cumberland Hospital, Nashville, Tenn. 

There were many men in the hospital who had lost limbs, 
and some who would never again see the light of a northern sky. 
Consequently, the place was not as lively as a German Sunday 
school picnic, in fact it was a place of gloom most of the time. 
There were a few soldiers who could see the funny side to every 
thing, and they were ones who kept life in the poor homesick 
iads, who wanted nothing so much as to see their mothers and 
eat some of the food prepared as only a mother knows how. 

One fellow we called Jimmy, because we did not know his 
other name, had both legs off at the knees and the right arm off 
at the elbow. Even that could not dampen his spirits, and as 
soon as he could get out of bed, he fastened leather stumps on his 
legs, then with the aid of a board, came stumping into our ward 
and would go through such antics and say such comical things, 
the boys would laugh until they cried. I often said "If that dern 
fool could be happy with his legs and an arm off, I ought to be 
with mine all on." 

I was so sick my father came to see me and it was a proud 
moment when I heard Captain Thornton say I was a brave sol- 
dier and had not flinched when on the firing line. 

I was fearfully afflicted with stomach trouble, so all I was giv- 
en to eat, in the hospital, was toast and blue milk. I grew to 
dispise toast and begged for fruit. Shortly after, I was sent 
home on a furlough. When I got off the train at Peru, and start- 
ed home, my legs wabbled so from weakness that I could only 
walk a short distance, then rest. It was ten o'clock at night 
when I reached my father's door. Mother did not know me, for 
I was so poor there was but little left but bones with the skin 
drawn over them. The hospital doctor had sent a letter to Pap, 
telling him what I should and should not eat. One of the 
things to eat was toast. I kept asking for fruit, and they kept 
wanting to give me toast, so I had about concluded to go back to 
the army, when the country doctor offered me half of a peach. 
Finding that did me no injury, I went out to the orchard, filled 
my hat with apples, peaches and pears, ate as long as I could 
hold, waited, then ate some more. For three weeks I lived on 
fruit, followed my brother around the field as he plowed, eating 
as I walked. That convinced me that nature knew more about 
what I needed than the doctors who looked so wise and tried to 
stuff me on baby food. 


I went to the front a Republican and came out more firm in 
that political faith than when I went, grew stronger as I in- 
creased in age, and, I trust, in wisdom. I cast my first vote for 
Gen. U. S. Grant for president, and every ballot since then has 
been for the Grand Old Party. 

In those days I would fight at the drop of the hat, and gave 
a trouncing to a Democrat I once met in the road, who first in- 
sulted me, then wanted me to halloo "hurrah for Hell," meaning 
the Republican ticket. I said "All right; every man for his own 
country," and by that time I had him in the dust and left the 
print of my fist-on his anatomy until he looked like a spotted 
pup. His name was Eugene Benedict and, if living, 1 warrant 
he feels sore in spots to this day. Those were hot times and I 
had my share of the fun both going and coming. 

I was twenty-four years of age when I married Mary Ann 
Stubbs, a Fulton county girl, and we lived together sixteen years 
on the old home place, and then moved to Liberty township, 
Fulton county, where she died. Later, Miss Mary Ann Burns 
became my wife, and for the first two years lived on the John 
Gottschalk place, in Rochester township. One day my wife said 
she would buy ten acres of ground if I would put up a house and 
in this way have our own home. I agreed. We put up a house, 
built a barn, put in a well, and about Christmas time moved in. 
That year we cut eighty cords of wood and fence posts, planted a 
good orchard, had a garden and numerous other things. In this 
she helped me, working faithfully by my side. 

The greatest surprise of my life came while I was working on 
the John McKinney farm. I had heard that my uncle, John 
Kline, of Kentucky, my mother's brother, had become a wealthy 
man, but never thought about his money doing me any good. 
When my cousin, Harrison Kline, came out to the McKinney 
farm and told me that I was one of my uncle's heirs, I did not 
say much but kept up a devil of a thinking and felt good all over. 
I only about half believed that anything so good could come to 
me, and concluded to keep mum and wait. When the estate was 
finally settled, my share was a little over eight thousand dollars, 
but it did not give me the big head, for money or no money, I 
was still "Old Dad Waymire," plain and homespun, like my 
daddy before me, yet honest with my fellow man. 

I did not buy diamonds, or finery for my wife, or fool money 
away, but I did buy a comfortable home and a good buggy, and 
try to take a little pleasure and do a little good as we pass along 
toward the sunset of our journey, which can't be so many years 
to come. I have been a hard worker, so has my faithful com- 
panion, and we hope to spend our remaining days in peace with 
the world and all mankind. 



Quaint, Curious, Romantic, Humorous and Truth- 
ful Recitation of Historic Incidents. 


I FIRST SAW ROCHESTER in October, 1868— forty years 
ago. It was a very commonplace village at that time, sort 
of rural abode, to judge from the horses, cattle and hogs 
running at large. The old court house and the building now oc- 
cupied by the Bank of Indiana were the only structures of brick, 
and as you passed eastward from Main street, on the south side 
of the public square, an open held, with the old corn rows still 
showing, faced you from the south. 

Fulton county's first railroad was then building southward 
from Michigan City, and completed to Argos, the remaining 
twelve miles to Rochester being covered by stage. April 6, 1869, 
when I took up residence on the east shore of Lake Manitou, the 
railroad was completed into Rochester, and the remaining por- 
tion to Peru finished by July 4th. 

The rainfall in that summer of 1869 was so excessive that it 
has ever since been referred to as "the wet season," and the com 
crop was so poor that a neighbor offered me $1.00 a bushel for all 
I could spare, and I let him have twelve bushels as soon as it 
was husked. On October 6th, we had eight inches of snow, 
followed by a severe freeze that caught potatoes in the ground 
and apples on the trees. 

I do not remember of that first year being especially noted 
for catching fish but I vow it was great for catching ague. I 
caught the "second-day" ague and "third-day" ague and the two 
seemed to join hands and circle around, while I sweat and dreamt 
in the all-night ague. But, thank God, those days of "shakes" 
live only in memory, for we have better drainage and better 
drinking water, and we know better how to administer first aid 
in malarial attacks. 


Had you asked local residents of forty years ago, as I did, 
about Lake Manitou, they would have promptly told you, as 
they did me, that the Indians believed that a hideous and dan- 
gerous monster existed in the lake, and they therefore named it 
Manitou, "because Manitou in Indian means Devil." This defini- 
tion of Manitou scarcely agrees with accepted authorities. Careful 
historians, who have made a close study of native religions, tell 
us that Indians endowed their Great Spirit or Manitou with hu- 
man-like passions of wrath and hate, as well as love and kindness. 
In the pleasant sunshine, gentle breezes and rippling waters the 
Indian sees the smiles of his Manitou; in the jagged lightning, 
bellowing thunder and howling tempest, his fierce anger. But 
there are no separate individualities in the differing cases. It 
is merely the one and same Manitou, in differing moods. 

Accepted lexicographers define Manitou "spirit good or 
evil," and sanction two methods of spelling, based on differing 
customs in differnt parts of the country. Manitou, as exisiting 
in Manitou Springs, Colorado, and Mauito as indicated in Mani- 
towoc, Wisconsin. 

Fifty years and more ago "enlightened" white folks general- 
ly believed in a "personal devil" and a "literal hell." In other 
words they believed in two gods — one a good god and the other a 
bad god. The latter they called Devil, and they spelled it with 
a little d to show their contempt. This general belief among 
"enlightened pale faces" no dcubt led many of our first settlers 
to believe that Manitou, in Indian, "means Devil," but, how- 
ever this may be, it is certain that many residents of forty years 
ago belived in a lake monster of hideous mien and possibly dan- 
gerous disposition. 


One of the legends of that day says a fisherman was out in 
his canoe, busily taking in bluegills and croppies from the deep 
water east of Big island, when, happening to look on the other 
side of the stern of the boat he saw what at first appeared to be a 
log about a foot in diameter, but proved, on closer inspection, to 
be a snake-like monster w 7 ith fish-like tail that wagged gently in 
the water, after the manner of a dog anticipating a bone. Turn- 
ing toward the bow the fisherman was horrified to see that the 
monster's head was reared aloft and that it was gazing into the 
boat with eyes as big as saucers and red as blood. As a matter of 
course the fisherman thought the Devil was after him sure, for 
he had no doubt told many stories about big fish that "got 
away," but after striking the water savagely a couple of times 
with its tail, the monster sank out of sight. Legend fails to state 
why the monster gazed into the boat, but it was probably look- 
ing to see if any bait worth while remained, and when it found 
the bottle empty it showed its displeasure by lashing the water. 



The Devil of that day does not appear to hive confined his 
operations entirely to the water, for on one occasion he is known 
to have interviewed an early settler who resided not far from the 
lake shore. This settler is no myth, and for obvious reason we 
will call him James Daw. James, legends tells us, was return- 
ing home late one night, when he was confronted in the road by 
an apparition that exclaimed, interrogatively, "James Daw?" 
Being a little "blear-eyed" at the time, Daw did not at first 
glimpse take in the outlines of his interviewer, ana therefore 
promptly responded: "Thash me, but who in helsh you, and 
whasher want?" "I'm the Devil, and I want you," bellowed 
the apparition. This reply sobered Daw instantly and he beheld 
a man-like monster twelve feet tall and broad in proportion; 
with horns about seven feet long; mouth and teeth like a lion, 
though vastly larger, and blazing eyes bigger than the largest 
tulpehoken apples. Dropping on his knees Daw wailed in abject 
fright: "Oh good Mr. Devil, why should you want me? 1 have 
never spoken ill of you in my life, and never worked against 
your interests." "Never worked against my interests?" roared the 
Devil, and he shook his horns and rattled his chains in wild fury. 
"Haven't you been getting drunk? Haven't you been quarreling 
with your friends? Haven't you been staying out late at night 
and neglecting your business? And aren't the preachers putting 
the blame on me and ruining my influence in the community?" 
"Oh, yes; I have done just as you say," pleaded Daw, "but I 
didn't know you wouldn't like it, and I solemnly swear that if 
you will give me another chance I will never again get drunk, 
never again fight or quarrel; and never again stay out at night." 
This appeared to strike the Devil as a fair proposition, and he 
permitted his cowering victim to depart to his home. 

Whether the Devil ever interviewed other of the first set- 
tlers, I am not advised, but the legend tends to show that he was 
never so black as the preachers used to paint him, and that he 
assisted in bettering the morals of the early residents. 


When I first asked the depth of Manitou, I was promptly in- 
formed that it is unfathomable with any ordinary appliances. 
This alleged unfathomabilily was generally talked of and gener- 
ally believed until in 1875, when State Geologist E. T. Cox came 
with proper appliances and made a very thorough sounding. I 
have that report before me as I write, and find 31 soundings re- 
corded, the deepest being 42 feet. 


On or about the year 1854 an east shore resident named 
Newell, went out in his canoe in hopes that he might be able to 


spear one or more big fish, then quite plenty, and that could be 
seen "sunning" themselves in shallow water on clear days. 
Passing quietly along near what is now known as "Blind island" 
he observed in a "riled" place in the water what at first appear- 
ed to be a log several feet long, but a slight movement told him it 
was a large fish. Laying down his paddle quickly and quietly, he 
seized his spear and plunged it into the back of the fish near the 
head. Away went the fish toward Big island, with the spear 
handle standing aloft until deep water was reached, when it en- 
tirely disappeared. Noting the direction taken, Newell followed 
the fish, and when he reached the point where the spear handle 
had disappeared he again saw it bobbing above the water near 
Big island. By the time he arrived near it, the fish was exhaust- 
ed and he succeeded in pushing it ashore where it soon died. Re- 
turning home he obtained a team and assistance and hauled the 
fish to Rochester, where it was pronounced a spoonbill cat, and 
found to weigh over 200 pounds, some say 250. The capture of 
this fish, was so well authenticated that it received mention in 
Monteith's School Geography, a text book used to some extent 
sixty years ago. 

About thirty years ago Andrew Edwards and a companion 
were "running" a gill net on the flats east of Big island and dis- 
covered a large fish pushing against the net in an effort to get 
into deep water. Taking up one end of the net, they drew it 
around in a circle and succeeded in so enwrapping the fish that 
they were able to seize and lift it into the boat. On being taken 
to Rochester it was found to weigh 110 pounds, as I remember it, 
and like Newell's catch, was pronounced a spoonbill cat. These 
two, so far as I know or have heard, are the only "spoonbill" 
ever taken from Lake Maniiou. 

Large pike were plentiful in the lake forty years ago, but 
the pike is a fool fish and its foolishness has lead to its extermin- 
ation. During the spring freshets the pike used to swarm up the 
inlets and establish themselves in overflow ponds or pools at the 
sides of the stream and thus fell easy prey to clubs and spears 
when the water receded. I remember seeing one pike taken in 
this way by Milton Moore, that weighed sixteen pounds, and I 
captured one myself that weighed nearly nine pounds. But in 
addition to swarming up stream in the spring time, the pike is 
stongly disposed to go down stream in the fall, and as there is no 
means of getting back into the lake over the dam, Maniton pike 
are now but a memory. 

Buffalo used to be the principal fish of the lake, and tradition 
tells us that when the butfalos were "running," the first settlers 
were sometimes able to spear all the boat would carry. Samuel 
Shields once exhibited one in his butcher shop, that was said to 


weigh sixty-five pounds before it was dressed, and only four 
years ago Scott Garr, of Huntington, struck one with an oar and 
captured it, that weighed forty-five pounds. But the buffalo is 
strong and unpalatable and none, so far as I have heard, were 
ever taken with hook and line. 

Black bass are the game fish of Lake Manitou, and the fish 
that all anglers delight in capturing. To see a string of black 
bass weighing two or three pounds each is quite common and a 
specimen weighing five or six pounds is frequently caught, but 
somehow or other, the big ones all "get away." Sometimes they 
"spit out the bait" just before the angler gives the come-along 
jerk, and sometimes they run into the dock and break the line. 
Exactly how large the bass Mat get away really are I am unable 
to say, nor can I say certainly how many have gotten away in 
the last forty years, but I dare say if they were laid end to end 
they would reach from Kokomo to Kalamazoo, and with a side 
line reaching out to Kankakee. For many years I have been 
mystified about how the angler could tell the weight of each big 
bass that got away, but it is indisputable that each bass in Man- 
itou carries its scales with it, and 1 presume the angler took a 
look at the scales before it got away. 


When Lake Manitou first began to attract tourists or sum- 
mer resorters, especial efforts were made to attract the better 
class to the East Side, and several able lecturers and sermonizers 
discoursed there Sunday afternoons, Elder J. F. Wagoner being 
among the number. Mariah B. Woodworth was just then be- 
ginning to attract notice as an evangelist, and no suprise was 
manifest when announcement was made that the Woodworths' 
gospel tent would be set up and services be held in what was 
then known as Talley's grove. One of the circulars used by the 
Woodworths, at that time, represented Mariah B. as a "trance 
evangelist," Philo H., her husband, as an "exhorting evangel- 
ist" and someone else as a "singing evangelist." 

Mrs. Woodworth had but little book learning, but she pos- 
sessed native intelligence, commanded an easy and fluent use 
of appropriate words, and displayed a wonderfully pleasing and 
impressive manner. Her appeal was to intelligence instead of 
ignorance, and her plea a love of God rather than fear of the 
devil. No apparent conversions were made in that series of ser- 
mons, but that was probably because the people east of the lake 
were already religious, and rather few attended from elsewhere. 

But Lake Manitou attracted the Woodworths and they ac- 
cordingly bought the grove known as Manitou Park and erected 
a commodious building for a home and resting place. A year or 
two after the honae was completed, they and several assistants 


met there for a few days' rehearsal, preparatory to starting on a 
summer tour with their gospel tent. Having some business with 
Mr. Woodworth, J called one evening, was informed by one of 
the girls that he and his wife were out on the lake but would 
soon be in, and was invited to a seat on the veranda. After dis- 
cussing general topics for a few minutes the girl asked: "Did 
you ever see anyone in a trance, Mr. Sibert?" "No," I replied, 
but I have a great curiosity to do so." "Follow me then and 
your curiosity shall be gratified." 

Now, I was fully satisfied at that time, as I am now, that 
excessive religious excitement will sometimes throw one into a 
trance in which the muscles become rigid and the mind .is entire- 
ly oblivious to earthly affairs, but I suspected that the Wood- 
worths were practicing fraud on the community and I determin- 
ed to use heroic measues to expose it if opportunity ever offered. 
Following my guide into the hall, I saw a slight built little wo- 
man of about twenty, standing at the foot of the stairs with eyes 
closed and one arm raised with extended finger pointing heaven- 
ward. It was explained to me that just after dinner they had 
rehearsed their usual program of singing, praying and exhorting, 
during which the little woman went into a trance and had been 
laid on a bed in one of the chambers. Later she had recovered 
the use of her muscles sufficiently to come down stairs, after the 
manner of a sleepwalker, and had been standing in the position 
I found her for about twenty minutes. She was breathing light- 
ly through her nose, her lips being closed and her heart beats 
even. There was still considerable rigidily in the muscles of her 
arms, but her temperature, so far as I was able to judge, was 
about normal. Somehow or other I became convinced that the 
little woman was not shamming, and my guide, after telling me 
her name was Emma Posther, said, "And now if you will come 
out in the dining room I will show you another trance subject." 
Following her I found a middle-aged woman, whom we will 
call Mrs. Jones. She was seated at the supper table with her 
right arm extended as if in the act of reaching for something, 
and it was explained that she had said grace and was reaching 
for a cup of taa when she went off into her trance. A careful ex- 
amination showed that the muscles of her arms were entirely 
rigid, and a few sly pinches I gave her indicated that she was 
insensible to pain but I thought I saw a muscle movement of the 
face that indicated a sham trance and happening to remember a 
trick I played when a boy at school, I determined to try if it 
would not wake her up. In the trick [ speak of I had set a pin 
for the schoolmaster and unintentionally caught one of the big 
girls. It would be impossible for me to adequately describe the 
surprise on that girl's face or the alacrity with which she arose 


from that seat, but 1 am sure that if it could be faithfully repro- 
duced it would make a decided hit in a moving picture show. 

Happening to have a pin in the lapel of my coat, and no one 
else being present just then, I applied a good and proper test, but 
Mrs. Jones never batted an eye or moved a muscle, and continu- 
ed holding out her hand as though she meant to have that cup of 
tea if it took all summer. I was then pretty well satisfied that 
there was no shamming in either case, but stepped to the hall 
door where I could watch both, in order to see how long they 
would hold their arms extended. 


And just then there came to my ears, from apparently way 
out on the lake, the words of one of tbe revival songs I had heard 
in the Wood worth gospel tent. Every word and inflection was 
clearly, distinctly and perfectly enunciated, and I thought then 
and think now that I never heard sweeter human melody. Step- 
ping quickly out onto the veranda to learn whence it came, was 
amazed to hear the voice behind me in the hall. Turning back I 
discovered that Emma's lips were slightly parted and that she 
was singing in her throat after the manner of a ventriloquist. 
But the song was very commonplace from that point of hearing, 
consequently hastened back to my former place at the rear end of 
the hall. And there I could hear it again in all its splendid 
sweetness. You may talk of your Heavenly choirs and Heaven- 
ly harmonies, but I do not believe that Heaven above or earth 
beneath ever will or ever can produce sweeter music than came 
from the throat of that littie trance subject in the Woodworth 
home that night. 

Shortly after the song had ceased, Mr. and Mrs. Woodworth 
came in, and after discussing the business that brought me, I 
was about to depart, when Mrs. Woodworth said: "Mr. Sibert 
I see that Mrs. Jones is coming out of her trance and if you will 
stay a while we will question her about what she has seen." 
This struck me as probably worth while, and I stayed. In about 
fifteen minutes Mrs. Jones regained her speech, and in answer 
to repealed urging, broke out with "Oh the people, the people! 
in that darkness of sin, in that horrid hell of torment." "Now 
I did not care to hear about that awful darkness of sin, for too 
many of our religious teachers seem to think that the only light 
in a community is what emanates from an imaginary halo 
around their own heads. Neither did I care to have her describe 
that horrid hell of torment, for I had heard it described so often 
and minutely, when I was a boy, that I had been forced to be- 
lieve that there is no such hell, else that the love, justice and 
mercy of God is a myth. But I was curious to know just where 
Mrs. Jones would locate her alleged horrid hell, and accordingly 


butted in with the question; "Where does that hell seem to be 
located?" Now, I confess to a slight fear that she might be ab- 
surd enough to say that hell is in Rochester, but when she re- 
plied that it "Seemed to be quite a distance away," I concluded 
she thought it must be in Peru, or some other point on the Wa- 
bash where they are said to raise it on the slightest provocation. 


Mrs. Woodworth was possessed of strong magnetic power, 
and it appears that at the height of her success in curing sin- 
sick souls, she was acquiring renown as a healer of physical ills. 
But it seems as she went onward and upward, her husband went 
downward and backward. Mrs. Woodworth excused these dere- 
lictions of duty by saying that his mind was affected from severe 
injury received years before, and she strongly refused, for a long 
time, to seek a divorce, as she was urged. Mr. Woodworth once 
told me that he had received severe injury to his head during ser- 
vice in the Civil war, but another and apparently reliable state- 
ment is to the effect that he had suffered from a fall of rock 
while mining coal. However tnis may be, it was certain that 
his escapades became so open and frequent and his abuse so con- 
tinous and unbearable that his wife felt forced to institute di- 
vorce proceedings in the circuit court at Rochester. She stipu- 
lated, however, that only "Bible causes" should be assigned and 
no abuse or failure to provide be charged. The evidence showed 
such vile and disgusting orgies in Columbus, Louisville and else- 
where that the judge, in consideration for several bald headed 
gentlemen on the front seats, shut off further testimony and 
granted the divorce. 


In arranging a settlement of property, Mrs. Woodworth tried 
to provide monthly payments that would insure her husband 
against possible want, notwithstanding all they possessed had 
come of her preaching, but the old gentleman became so wild in 
his threats that her friends assisted her in raising $1,500— $700 
cash and $800 in secured notes — and this he accepted with a 
pledge that he would do her no harm in future. No sooner how- 
ever, had he received this money than he wrote an alleged his- 
tory of his life, in which he attacked by inuendo the character of 
his wife, as well as the girls assisting her. It was certainly as 
coarse, ignorant and unmanly a screed as I ever read, but he 
went to St. Louis, got some unprincipled printer to put it in pam- 
phlet form for him, and tried to hawk it on the streets. But this 
attempt at street lecturing and sale of the history of his life was 
a flat failure, for the police warned him to leave St. Louis in 
twenty-four hours or go to jail, and back he came to Rochester, 
complaining that Mrs. Woodworth's friends were persecuting 


A couple of weeks later, through the connivance of a third 
person, he married a Rochester girl, but very shortly after the 
marriage, while the new wife was away on a visit, he packed his 
household effects and left for parts unknown. Few months later, 
I learned that the police of Cleveland, Ohio, had found him dead 
of privation in a bare back room, in the lowest quarter of the 
city. He had squandered his $1,500 inside of a year and been 
sustaining himself during the past few weeks by carrying coal 
around on his back and selling a cent's worth or more to any 
who would buy. When I saw Philo H. Wood worth last, I 
thought him the most striking example of moral degeneracy I 
had ever known, but in the light of more recent information I 
am satisfied that he was the victim of growing insanity and that 
it would have been a mercy to have confined him in an insane 

A couple of years after the divorce I paw Mariah B. Wood- 
worth when she came here to transfer her lake property to Col- 
umbus Mills, but she seemed quite broken in health and spirit, 
and as she seems to have dropped entirely out of the evangelistic 
field, I am unable to say if she be alive or dead. If dead, I would 
write her epitaph, "A Sincere and Honest Woman," if alive, I 
send it in greeting from one who learned to respect her and be- 
lieve in her honor. 


Events of the Long Ago Made Fresh to Memory 
by Telling of Fun and Facts. 


WAS THE OLDEST of eleven children, seven girls and 
four boys, two boys and four girls having passed to the 
beyond. I was born in Washington county, Pa., Feb. 
20 1829, and came to Miami county with my parents April, 1839, 
stopping with my uncle who afterward moved to Gilead. Father 
purchased fifteen or twenty acres of Uncle, who had removed the 
grubs, cut down the small saplings and girdled the trees, after 
which we went into the ground with a jumping plow between 
the stumps. At corn planting time, we frequently had to carry 
soil quite a distance to cover the grain. Corn planted, then came 
the fight with squirrels and birds. There was a space not mo- 
lested with anything but weeds, until the corn began to ear, then 
coons, gray and black squirrels began to bother it, and later the 
deer got in their work also. 

The country was full of wild game, such as wolf, deer, tur- 
keys, coon, wild cat, fox, rabbit, skunk, opossum, porcupine, 
mink, otter and occasionally a biack bear. 

Once Father was riding horseback and noticed a number of 
hogs and among them a black one, which seemed to move very 
peculiarly. He came a little closer and found it was a black 
bear. He called a dog which chased the bear up a tree. Secur- 
ing a club, Father climbed the tree and struck the bear on the 
head, and when it fell to the ground, the dog killed it. 

A man whose name was Close, was employed to kill squir- 
rels on our place, and it was no uncommon thing for him to kill 
seventy-five in one day, but even then the number did not seem 
diminished. On the farm we rented of Uncle, was a double log 
house and into it during the summer, moved Samuel Essick, 



Peter Saygers and their families, making a company of twenty- 
one or two people in the cabin who gathered nightly around the 
tire place, for there were no stoves. 

There were not many ways a boy could earn money to spend 
on himself, but digging gingseng, on days not otherwise employ- 
ed, was one of them. I was fond of hunting, and many a night 
arose at one or two o'clock and went hunting, and sometimes 
went early in the evening and made a night of it. If I happen- 
ed to kill a skunk, the jig was up for that night. 

In 1846 I engaged to learn the carpenters' trade with Mr. 
Garber. The third week, on Thursday, he was taken sick, then 
I also became sick, and a little latter he died. I was next em- 
ployed by a farmer whose name w y as Yohe, six miles east of 
Rochester, near Feece's well. Again I had an opportunity to 
learn the carpenters' trade, this time with William Culver, to 
begin work March 13, 1848. After working a month, my employ- 
er said he would give me one hundred dollars per year and board. 
It took me three years to do that work, having the ague every 
summer, and by fall there would not be enough well people to 
care for the sick. Mr. Culver said that if I would continue in 
his employ, he would board me, furnish the tools and give me 
two-fifths of what we made. Thinking this a fair proposition, I 
remained with him until the summer of 1853, then went with 
Randall Wells to Northern Iowa, and put up a saw mill for Leon- 
ard Cutler, of LaPorte, on a claim he had taken the previous 
summer. The settlers had agreed among themselves, that each 
could claim 160 acres of timber land and 160 of prairie land. Cut- 
ler took out a claim for each of us, offering to make all necessary 
improvements, if we would agree to stay until the land came 
into market, sell out and give us half. But I said "No, I am go- 
ing back to Rochester." Seven years later I returned to Iowa, 
and found the country looked older than Indiana, excepting the 

We finished the sawmill and sawed a few logs to show Cut- 
ler that the mill was all right, then he settled with us, paying us 
in gold. He also gave Wells, the boss, as a present, $15.00 in gold 
and $10.00 in the same precious coin to me. Coming home, I 
stopped enroute in Chicago, and purchased some tools, the first I 
had ever owned. Among them was a boring machine, the first 
of the kind in Rochester. With the remainder of my savings, I 
made a payment on a lot I had purchased (where Mrs. Matilda 
Osgood lives) and erected a shop thereon. Next summer I went 
to work with Isaac Good. When I came to Rochester, there was 
an old mill standing about where the dam is now, which had 
been built for the Indians. Some of the burrs and stones they 
had used in cracking corn, were still lying on the bank of the 


creek. As other writers have said, the business houses were all 
north of Fourth street, and first work I done was on a building 
where the Academy of Music stands, for Fredrick Ault, father of 
the noted Jud Ault, (a prominent soldier of the 29th Ind. Inft.). 
We then built the Odd Fellows' Hall, on the corner of Jefferson 
and Seventh streets, where Grace M. E. church now stands. The 
balance of the season we worked in the country, putting up 
barns, then went over to Miami county, where we built a bam 
for Moyer, a nurseryman, near Gilead. He was well known in 
this part of the state, as about nine out of every ten orchards had 
been started from trees grown in his nursery. 

When the Reese tragedy occurred, refered to by Win. A. 
Ward, I was working south of town, but was perfectly familiar 
with the details of the case. As I remember, a stage driver, 
whose name was Washburn, and Mrs. Reese were supposed to 
have murdered Reese, the husband. They were both sent to jail. 
I was in the cemetery when the body of Reese was exhumed, 
and the stomach examined. Death resulted from posion, as al- 
ready stated. 

I was also in the court house when Jack Clemans, was tried 
for murdering his uncle, and heard him confess to the crime. 
Will say, in passing, that in 1894 my wife was visiting her sister 
in Missouri. One day a man came to the door selling vegetables, 
and wife thought his face looked familiar. She mustered up 
courage to ask if his name was not Clemans, and he acknowledg- 
ed that it was. That his mother's name was Carpenter, and his 
full name was Jackson Carpenter Clemans. He was known as 
Carpenter, in Missouri. He died about five years ago. 

One of the most comical events of those early days was 
when Sheriff Benj. Wilson was locked up in jail. The only pris- 
oner in the lockup, was a horse thief, whose name was Eno, who 
was noted for his shrewdness, but was a jolly kind of a chap 
after all. During harvest, the prisoner was used to cradle the 
wheat, the sheriff close behind doing the binding, and it can be 
seen from this that the officer had not a little confidence in 
the docile nature of the horse thief or else in his own ability to 
catch the man, should he try to run away. 

The jail was built of timber about ten or twelve inches 
square, halved at the ends so the logs would fit close together. 
The floor was made of the same material. The walls were built 
up ten feet, and another floor laid. In the middle of that floor 
was a hole, through which to drop the prisoner, an outside stair- 
way leading to the upper floor. On the day of which I write, 
Sunday, Sheriff Wilson had company with him in the jail. Mr. 
Clayton, his two daughters, Marion and Elizabeth, Josephine 
Shyrock and one or two other little girls, of eight or ten years of 


age. A ladder was put down the hole, and the sheriff told Eno 
to come up and get his dinner. He did so and the little girls 
went down the ladder to explore the prison, and the sheriff was 
looking down, teasing theru. Seeing his opportunity, the wiley 
horse thief sprang to the door, opened it, turned the key which 
was on the outside, and was off, the sheriff and his guests secure- 
ly locked within, for the jailbird had flown taking the key along. 
Sheriff Wilson and the others called with lusty voice for help, 
the frightened children set up a howl, but to no purpose. The 
jail stood a little east and south of trie present county bastile, and 
surrounded by brush. No one lived near, so it was some time be- 
fore it was discovered that the sheriff and his friends were jailed. 
It was necessary to pry the door open with a crowbar, which 
was procured at the saw mill, and it was toward evening before 
the prisoners were set free. By that time, Eno was miles away 
although he had a chain to his leg. He sought a man, whom he 
thought was his friend, to help him remove the chain, which he 
did, then turned traitor, and gave information that led to rearrest 
and conviction of Eno. 

In reading of Orange Welton in the story written by J. Daw- 
son, in the Republican, reminded me of an occurence in which 
Welton, Issac Good and myself played the leading parts. We 
went down to the Newt Rannelis' grocery store, one evening 
which was headquarters for the fellows. At a seasonable hour 
we started home, passing the Rannelis home. In front of the 
house stood ten or more barrels of apples. One of the boys said: 
"Wish we nad a barrel of those apples," I laughed and said: 
"Put a barrel on my shoulder, and I will take it to the shop." 
No sooner said than up went the barrel, and I trudged along 
with them to the shop, where I emptied the apples on the floor 
and covered them with shavings. The barrel was then reheaded 
and placed where we found it. Few days afterward Rannelis set 
the boys to putting the barrels in the cellar. One barrel was re- 
ported empty. Newt said he thought it a pretty smooth job of 

After a while business began to move a little farther south on 
Main street, and Jesse Shields started a store where the Indiana 
Bank and Trust Company is now located, and also kept the 
postoftice. Dr. Alfred H. Robbins had his office where Hartung's 
tailoring shop is, and across the alley south, where Kai Gee holds 
forth, a three-cornered si^n informed passers that "Oysters, Pigs' 
Feet and Sardines" could be had within, and the proprietor could 
have added that he also had booze for the thirsty. At night a 
light was placed in the muslin sign, that it might attract atten- 
tion to the good things to be haa at that establishment. One 
night Isaac Good and myself went to the postoftice, and after get- 


ting my mail and transacting other business, I started home leav- 
ing Isaac engrossed in a game of checkers. In a short time he 
followed, and in passing the afore-mentioned sign, he deftly lifted 
it off its hook and overtook me at what is now known as Fieser's 
corner. He handed the sign to me and said "run," then he 
stepped into the building standing there. I made the dust fly as 
I ran north to the lot where I now live, which lot, and those sur- 
rounding it, was covered with hazel brush, so that I could hide 
the sign. The owner being too close to my heels, I crossed the 
street and threw it in the bushes, back of where the North End 
bakery stands. I succeeded in getting away from the fellow, 
who went south to the corner where Good had handed me the 
sign. Seeing Isaac, he accused him of taking his sign, but the 
accused put on a bold front and pretended to be very angry that 
he should be accused of anything so little as stealing a sign, 
threatening to make his accuser prove the statement, and was 
met with this answer: "Well, if you did not take it, your part- 
ner did." To make the story short, will say that I was arrested 
and found guilty, by a jury of twelve men, and fined one cent and 
costs. The Judge wanted to know what I was going to do about 
it, and I answered: "I guess I will have to go to jail and lie it 
out." I don't remember who went on my bond, but think it 
was Isaac Good. The prosecuting attorney proposed to give me 
his part of the costs and gave me a receipt in full. I next went 
through the form of borrowing money of William Wallace, and 
Clerk Hoover afterward frequently referred to the debt, hinting 
that I ought to remit, but I was always "just broke." I remem- 
ber that William Spencer was sheriff, and he was paid his share 
of the costs. It would take too long to tell where all the costs 
went, but suffice it to say that Isaac Good paid the bills, although 
I got the credit of stealing the sign. 

July 4th, 1850 or 1851, I don't exactly remember which date, 
was marked by an occurence that will bear telling in my story. 
Part of the celebration of Independence Day took place north of 
where Haslett Brothers' packing house now stands. An old cast 
iron cannon was being fired in the evening, and a young man 
whose name was Perry, lost both hands while he was ramming 
in a charge, owing to premature explosion, as they had to be am- 
putated at the wrists. At that time John Onstott, Orton Mitch- 
ell, brother of Asa Mitchell, and myself were working for Wm. 
Culver. After dark, while the doctors were attending the wound- 
ed man, Culver came to my house and said: "Boys, if you will 
help me we will put that cannon where it will never shoot off 
any more hands." He was right, for since that night it has never 
been fired, and as 1 am the last of the boys who helped to dispose 
of it, I will now tell where it can be found. The cannon is about 


twelve or fifteen feet under ground, below the bridge crossing the 
creek on the Warsaw road. 

Perhaps there are but few persons in Rochester who know 
that I ever ran a saw-mill in this city. Anthony F. Smith, a 
brother of Milo R. Smith, owned a saw-mill about half way be- 
tween the Erie elevator and the creek bridge on the Warsaw 
road. Later he wanted to convert the mill into a corn and buck- 
wheat grinding mill and needed some one to saw up the logs re- 
maining in the yard. Culver and Smith were very good friends, 
and he was asked to saw the logs, but did not care for the job 
but said he believed he could "show Jonas a little how to do the 
work, as he has done every task I set for him, except to weed 
the garden, then he not only pulled up the weeds but everything 

1 was put to work, and it would take too long to describe the 
mill, and how I had to get those logs inside. Will only say the 
mill was the old-fashioned kind with an up and down saw, and 
the logs were run in by hand, and turned with a cant hook. I 
staid by the job until it was completed. 

Early in the spring there came a big freshet, which took out 
the dam at Millark also the dam at Mt. Zion, and it looked like 
the dam at this place would also go out. Smith came to the mill 
and said I had better fasten the saw and open the waste gate to 
the forebay so as to waste all the water. We did this to save the 
dam. When the water began to go down, I closed down the 
waste gate to the forebay, let it fill up, then loosened the saw 
and turned the water on, but the wheels would not work. We 
then closed the forebay, opened the waste gate, let the water 
out and I went down to the forebay and found both wheels 
clogged with fish. Had there been a fish trap at the waste gate 
I could have caught several barrels of fish. 

The 87th Indiana Infantry recruited July and August, 1862, 
A. K. Plank recruiting officer of Company F. We went into 
camp August 18, 1862, at South Bend, and left August 27th, ar- 
riving the same day at Indianapolis. I mustered into the State 
service Aug. 31, 1862, and Sept. 1, left for Louisville, Ky. We 
marched from Louisville in pursuit of Gen. Bragg, Oct. 1, 1862. 
We skirmished at Chapel Hill with Bragg's rear guard and on 
the 8th of October fought in the battle of Perryville. Skirmished 
with VanDorn's rebel cavalry March 5, 1863. I fought at Perry- 
ville, Chickamauga, Peach Tree Creek, Tullahoma, Jonesboro, 
Atlanta, Resaca, Ringgold, Smithville, Fayetteville and a num- 
ber of small engagements. 

I was with my company, Saturday and Sunday, 19th and 
20th, Sept. 1863, at Chickamauga. On Sunday afternoon, after 
charging and being charged on, we reformed on the left of a Ken- 


tucky regiment. I said to Capt. Long, "It don't look worth 
while for Company F. to do anything." But he said we would 
take our place with Company F, then consisting of Long, Clay, 
Rheimenschneider and myself. Clay was finally wounded and 
Cap told me to take him to the rear. We had gone but a short 
way when Clay fainted and I thought he was going to die. I 
pulled his knapsack up under his head, to make him as comfort- 
able as possible. Instead of dying, he laid on his back and pray- 
ed and I made up my mind that he was better than a half dozen 
dead men. When he was through praying, I opened rry knap- 
sack and pulled out a towel and bandaged his leg as good as I 
could. The Jonnies were crowding us back, so we had to move. 
By this time he regained consciousness, but could not use his leg. 
I informed Captain Long that I could carry Clay no farther, so 
Rheimenschneider assisted me and we carried him to where we 
thought him safe while I looked for a hospital. Finding one, 
we went back after our wounded comrade, but he was gone. 
Some one had already taken him to the hospital. I did not find 
my regiment until the next day at Rossville. Tuesday morning 
we went to Chattanooga and remained until the Mission Ridge 
fight. A few days before the fight I got my haud mashed and 
was excused from handling my gun. I could see our men climb- 
ing Mission Ridge, and Hooker's men fighting above the clouds. 
This was the first and last time the regiment left me. I saw 
some things that I don't care about passing through again. 
When we left Chattanooga, we went to Ringgold, Georgia. We 
left there May 7 and were under fire till the battle of Jones- 
boro. We found the Jonnies in less than two hours and they 
had fought and skirmished every day till the battle of Jones- 
boro, including the siege of Atlanta. We landed near Savan- 
nah in December in time to take our Christmas dinner. We 
left there in January and came up the river to Sister's Ferry and 
crossed the river into South Carolina on Feb. 5th. We returned 
to Washington City and got our discharge. We then went to 
Indianapolis and drew our pay. I said "How about me going 
home?" Found I could come after signing some papers. I took 
the train for Peru, arrived there at midnight, started to Roches- 
ter on foot and got my breakfast this side of Mexico. 1 stopped 
at Mr. McMahan's for a drink of water and got my dinner. Poke 
McMahan brought me to Rochester. We came down Main street 
opposite to my house and then west through the alley. I went 
in the back door and was within five feet of my wife before she 
recognized me. That was one time in my life when I was glad 
to get home. I had been away two years and ten months. 

At that time David Martin and David Carr owned a planing 
mill and Carr wanted to dispose of his interest. Some money 


was coming to me and I borrowed $300.00 of Sidney Keith and 
bought him out. Had only worked a day or two until I began 
to cut my fingers, but received no further injury until losing my 

Before forgetting it will relate a little circumstance happening 
to me about two or three years after I came home from the 
army. My shop was on the Akron road. Desiring to start the 
mill at an early hour, I arose before day li^ht, in order to 
put a fire under the boiler. On the walk, in front of where 
the Fair Store now stands, lay a letter directed to the initials of a 
certain man's name. He was one of those fellows who wore good 
clothes, smoked cigars but a stranger to work. I though I would 
open the letter and if of no consequence, would destroy it and say 
nothing. It referred to a box of shoes which Mr. Elihu Long 
had lost some time prior to the writing of the letter. I was satis- 
fied that I knew the man and thought I would give the letter to 
Capt. H. C. Long, but he was out of town. I then found Capt. 
Truslow and told him I had a letter which might help find the 
fellows who were causing so much trouble, and if he'd promise 
to not inform on me, would let him have it. He agreed and 1 
presented the letter. About ten days afterward, I met him and 
asked if they had any news of that box of shoes, and he said they 
were satisfied. They sent for a detective, and seven families sud- 
denly left Rochester, and as far as I know, none of them have 
returned since. No doubt but there are several partips in Roch- 
ester who remember the circumstance. There had been some 
breaking into stores, previous to this time, and Truslow told me 
a secret police service had been organized and wanted me to join. 
He showed me the list of names, and I told him: "As long as 
you have fellows like those on the service you will never find out 
who is breaking into the stores." 

I have been married three times. My first wife was Marion 
Clayton. We were married April 5, 1851. My second marriage 
was with Annie E. Stradley, April 8, 1855, and the third time 
with E'izabeth H. Clayton, March 17, 1867, the first and third 
ladies being sisters. 

The first time I was married, I gave my last penny to a 
Presbyterian minister. We rented two room at $2.50 per month. 
I had an old cook stove and my wife had a bed. We ate off a 
box and used it for a cupboard and also sat on boxes. Later, at a 
sale, 1 bought three or four chairs and a bedstead of Dr. Charies 
Brackett. I paid him in work. The first and only piece of new 
furniture my first wife owned, was a table made by Enos Ro:-e. 
We had no carpet, but Iwas never happier in my life. Think I 
have always enjoyed life as well as anybody, and always looked 
on the bright side. While in the army was thinking of the time 
when I could go home. 


I wish to show the sentiment of some of the northern people 
while the boys were facing foes in the south, and will append 
from history some of the sayings, resolutions, etc., offered in the 
several counties mentioned, not for the purpose of keeping old 
wounds from healing, but that the rising generation may know 
the truth — that we had enemies at home as well as on the battle 


A convention on June 25th, 1864, resolved: "That we are op- 
posed to the prosecution of the present war for the subjugation of 
States," and "We are satisfied that its further prosecution for 
such purpose will prove the utter destruction of civil liberty in 


A meeting held in Dec. 1862, in a very amusing recitation of 
imaginary evils inflicted on the West by New England, declared 
"that had it not been for the fanaticism and speculation of New 
England our generation would not have witnessed the ghastly 
spectre of disunion, and were it not for the same cause, still po- 
tent for evil, these difficulties could be adjusted." No blame is 
attached to the south. 


A meeting of Jan. 24,1863, resolved against the prosecution of 
the war and against emancipation. 


A convention of June, 1863, resolved "that we are opposed to 
the war under any and all circumstances, and that we are oppos- 
ed to further continuance of this unholy and unnatural strife." 

Early in April 1861, about the time the rebels attacked Fort 
Sumpter, a gentleman made a speech at Greencastle. He said: 
"I say to you, my constituents, that as your representative, I 
will never vote one dollar, or one man or gun to the administra- 
tion of Abraham Lincoln, to make war on the south." There is 
evidence that he freely promised 100,000 men to the south and 
negotiated for 20,000 muskets with which it is supposed "Sons of 
Liberty" were to be armed. In 1861 another man said: "If this 
war interferes with the status of slavery I am opposed to it and 
will not give a dollar to carry it on." A year afterwards he said: 
"President Lincoln is a traitor, robber or fool." 

I have given you a few items of resolutions passed and could 
give more. You ask me who those persons were? They were 
such fellows as dug up the body of P'rank Hamlet, a man of the 
29th Indiana. He died down south, was shipped home in a rough 
box for burial. He was taken up, the lid pried off the box and 
left. Some of his friends buried him the next day. 

John Mowe, a man of my company, was discharged Dec. 


1862, and sent home. He was then sent to Newcastle township 
to enroll the men to see how many were liable to draft. They 
took the books away from him and said they would not be en- 
rolled. Some one telegraphed to Governor Morton. He sent a 
company of soldiers up from Logansport. They stopped at the 
court house and loaded their muskets. But a friend of the ene- 
my had informed the Newcastle people that the soldiers were 
coming and when they got there they found a table spread with 
everything good to eat. After dinner they started for Logans- 
port. Just below Fulton they pulled down the rebel flag and run 
up "Oid Glory" and with a lot of young ladies they rallied 
around the flag. I have not expected to make any friends, but I 
want the young boys and girls to know that the enemy was not 
always in front of us. There was a secret organization in Indi- 
ana known as the Sons of Liberty, or Knights of the Golden Cir- 
cle. They had pass words and secret signs by which they iden- 
tified each other, either day or night. They were organized in 
companies and regiments, and had their generals and captains. 
They encouraged desertion, secreted deserters and did everything 
they could to embarrass the government. 

I was initiated into Rochester Lodge No. 47, I. O. O. F. on 
the night of Jan. 11, 1851, and was taken into the Encampment 
on the 6th day of March, 1854, and have continued my member- 
ship in those organizations up to the present time. Next to 
Brother Isaac Good, am now the oldest member of the lodge at 
this place. 

This history was completed on my eightieth birthday anni- 



On a Journey From Pennsylvania to Indiana in 
Times of the Early Pioneer. 


~T yT^HEN A PERSON is asked to write a story of his life, 
"" he usually begins back as far as he can remember^ 

or farther if possible. Since I have been asked to 
tell something about myself, my thoughts have reverted to inci- 
dents and moments of my childhood; especially to a number of 
very old, yellow, time-worn documents that give me a fair idea of 
my ancestry. One of the documents, stamped with the arms of 
the Grand-duchy of Hesseu, Germany, and also with the tax 
stamp, six kreuzer, I read record of my father's birth as follows: 
"An item from the records of the church in Schaafheim. On the 
year of Christ, 1794, the 18th day of January, there was born to 
citizen Johann Conrad Persehbaeher and his wife, Anna Maria 
(born Stelz), a son, and the 18th of the same month was baptized 
and received the name Johu George." 

Another document tells how, in the year 1825, April 23d, my 
father, John George Terschbacher, and my mother, Dorothea 
Kreher, signed a marriage contract. Next is found the birth re- 
cord of my three older brothers, and then a very important docu- 
ment, the passport from Schaafheim to America. About May 7, 
1833, my parents left Schaafheim and May 13th they embarked 
from Bremen, Germany, on the sailing vessel "Columbus." After 
a tedious voyage of fifty days, they landed at Baltimore, July 2d. 
Having passed inspection, the emigrant agent asked my father 
where he was going. Father had no definite plan except he want- 
ed to go to the country. The agent then asked him how much 
money he had and when Father showed him, he said: "That will 
take you just forty miles from Baltimore." 

Father took passage on a frieght wagon going west, along the 



old Batiraorc pike. When the fortieth mile stone was reached 
the negro driver told father his journey was ended. There was 
no house or shelter of any kind, so the driver had some pity on 
them and took them to a clump of apple trees on a dilapidated 
farm, a little farther ou. Here, with their belongings, they were 
dumped from the wagon. A search was made for shelter and 
after going to the top of a hill, father discovered some farm 
buildings at a little distance. Going to the house, he found a 
kind Pennsylvania German family. Telling them his trouble 
they offered him an abandoned log cabin. With the little world- 
ly goods they had, and the help of the good Christian people, 
they situated themselves in this place. Here, four days later, I 
was born. 

For two years they lived in Maryland then moved to York 
couuty, Pennsylvania. Here they bought a small, ruu down 
farm and improved it to such an extent that after four years they 
sold it for 1600, having paid nothing on it up to that time, but 
the interest. 

Preparations were now made to move to Indiana. From a 
year before we left Pennsylvania, I can remember everything 
quite well. In Pennsylvania I went to school just one day and 
learned one English word, "yes.". 

Loading our household goods upon one wagon, we started, in 
company with the King family, for Indiana. By this time, 
there were two more children in our family. Only our mother 
and the babies rode on the wagon, and that only part of the time. 
Although I was net quite six years of age, I walked every step of 
the way from York county, Penn., to Indiana. We traveled at 
the rate of twenty-five miles a day. The first interesting thing 
on the trip, I think, was crossing the Allegheny mountains. 
Where we crossed, it was about seven miles from the foot to the 
top. Although the road was an excellent pike, it was too 
steep to go directly up, but angled back and forth, or zigzagged. 

My friend, Nicholas King, and I took the opportunity to 
save a few steps and went through the woods straight to the top, 
or as near as possible. On the other side, the road went down 
the same way. Near the top was a fine spring, and a watering 
trough so arranged that horses could easily drink without being 
unchecked. Here the first sugar trees were pointed out to us, 
but we had no idea how sugar could be obtained or made from 

The next important place I remember, was Wheeling, where 
we crossed the Ohio river on a ferry boat propelled by horsepow- 
er. A cable was stretched from bank to bank and hitched 
around a windlass turned by a horse. 

After crossing the Ohio river, nothing of note transpired 


until we arrived at Dayton, Ohio. There we stopped to feed, 
near the only bridge across the Big Miami river, in front of a 
bakery. Here I saw the first colored person, an old "mammy." 
My brother Jacob, a mere baby at the time, was crying bitterly. 
The old mammy came out and called to him: "Here, poor baby, 
take this sweet cake with a hole in it." He took it and stopped 
wailing at once. I have always had a kind feeling toward black 
mammies ever since. 

Nothing more of note happened until we arrived at Hagers- 
town, Wayne county, Indiana, May 28, 1839, after a journey of 
twenty-eight days. The day after arriving there, an animal show 
was given, and I saw elephants, rhinoceros and other animals for 
the first time. By that time father's purse was reduced to 117.50 
and we began to look around for a place to move into. Finally 
found an old dilapidated cabin which the good old man who 
owned it said we could have. On June 2d we moved into it. 
There was a patch of ground attached in which we were allowed 
to plant potatoes, father paying 50 cents for a half-bushel of seed 
potatoes. A cow was needed, as milk was necessary foi the 
children. Father found one and paid $17.00 for the same, which 
emptied his purse. Harvest time now arrived and father and 
mother being good reapers, got work in the field. Father got 
fifty cents and mother forty cents a day, and my oldest brother 
six dollars per month for grinding tan bark in a tan yard. With 
the help of good neighbors we got along pretty well, by all pull- 
ing together for good. Then came the exciting time of 1840. 
About all I remember of it is the hurrahing for "Tippecanoe and 
Tyler too." 

About that time father bought a two-year old colt for $25.00 
With it and the old Pennsylvania horse, he commenced farming 
on a small scale. Later he got another horse and advanced by 
slow degrees until 1844, which was the campaign of Polk and 
Clay, which I remember well. They had what they called "fan- 
dangoes," and "rallies." There was one at Hagerstown and Gov. 
James Whitcomb was to speak. I was anxious to see a Govern- 
or, as I thought he would be an extraordinary personage, but 
to my great surprise he was just a man like other men, although 
said to be very intelligent. 

By that time father had acquired a little money and began 
to look about for a permanent home. He heard of what was then 
called Tippecanoe country, so he came to Fulton county late in 
the fall of 1844. He looked arround for a time and bought 
eighty acres north of Tippecanoe river, in Newcastle township 
half a mile west of where the Lutheran church now stands. It 
was a dense forest, covered with tall timber of beach, walnut, 
oak, ash and other varieties. One-half acre was cleared and had 


a brush fence around it. In 1845, about the middle of October, 
we started for our new home. We were five days on the trip, 
passing through Munceytown, (Muncie) Jonesboro, Marion, 
through Indian reservation, which was then a thick forest, the 
road almost impassable, and arrived at Peru. That was the last 
pay day for the Indians, for their lands. Broadway, from the old 
bridge to Main street, was full of drunken Indians, both bucks 
and squaws. 

The next day, being Saturday, we arrived in Rochester about 
dark. We were unable to find a place to stay on account of our 
stock, which consisted of five horses, four cows and six sheep, so 
we started north. Father being over the route before, remember- 
ed that there was a house just north of the river, then called the 
old Polk place, now owned by Wm. H. Deniston. No one lived 
there, but seeing a light still farther north, we went on and came 
to what is now known as the Scott farm. Wm. T. Polk lived 
there then. Here again they refused to keep us, but on explain- 
ing the situation, and expecting to become neighbors, he kindly 
let us stay and we became close friends. It was about nine 
o'clock by that time, and having had nothing to eat since noon, 
it is easy to imagine we were a hungry set. After supper we 
went to bed, or rather laid down to rest. 

The next morning, being Sunday, about four o'clock, father 
and I started up the river to the farm of James Richter, across 
the road from my home farm, to ask them to prepare breakfast 
for the family and teamster. At about nine o'clock they arrived 
and all had breakfast. We were very anxious to land at our own 
place, so father, my older brothers and I started out. It was a 
mile and one-half, mostly through the woods. When found, it 
was as described before. We were well pleased for it was the 
first foot of real estate we ever owned. The next day we looked 
for a house, and found a log cabin just west of our land and 
moved in the same day. After procuring some feed for the stock 
for the winter, we began the building of a house on our land 
and employed a number of men for that purpose at 50c. a day. 
The house was of hewed logs, 20x24 feet, one and one-half story, 
with clap-board roof nailed on, something quite new in those 
days. We had three rooms, two down and one up stairs. For a 
number of years that was the best house in the neighborhood. 
We moved into it some time in Febuary, 1846. 

After preparing the ground for spring crops, garden and or- 
chard, we rented some fields a few miles south of us, where there 
was cleared land. By this time our money was again all used 
and we went to hunting gingseng which brought 28 cts. a pound. 
The same now brings about $6.00 a pound. In this way we 
were able to procure some groceries and much needed clothing. 


Our crops did fairly well, but one crop never failed for seven 
years, that was fever and ague. At times we were all down 
but mother. 

Wild game was plentiful, consisting of deer, turkeys, squirrels 
and other animals. 1 have seen from two to tbree deer in a 
drove, but as there were no hunters in our family, they were of 
little use to us. 

There were no laid out roads east of the Michigan road. If 
we wanted to go in any direction we blazed a road, cut the brush 
and bumped over stumps as best we could. With ail these pri- 
vations, people enjoyed themselves as much as they do now. 

Here it may be of interest to mention schools and schooling in 
early days. Although school districts had been laid out, there 
were no school funds and all teachers were supported by subscrip- 
tions. Our father's purse being badly depleted, he was unable to 
send us to school. However, I wanted an education and began 
to plan how to raise the required amount. I had a fine fur hat, 
which I had received as a gift some time before leaving Wayne 
county, and for which I had no use in the woods. As the teach- 
er, David Shore, in our community, was runuing for sheriff, I 
thought he might be able to use the hat in his campaign, so I of- 
fered the hat to him for $2.50, the same to be taken out in in- 
tructious. I received thirty days' schooling for this. 

As Brother Jonathan Dawson mentioned the spelling schools 
in his story, those days are vividly brought back to my memory 
which were about the happiest days of my life. Whenever a 
spelling school was held, the young and sometimes the older peo- 
ple, would go for four and five miles to these great spelling 
matches, as they were about the only social events. The rooms 
were lighted by common tallow candles, fastened to the walls 
with the blade of a pocket knife. Although the buildings were 
crowded, the best of order prevailed. 

With the education I received in return for the fur hat, I ad- 
vanced to the rank of a county school teacher and taught four 
terms with marked success, as my pupils still inform me. Al- 
though I was urged to continue in the capacity of a teacher, and 
a number of schools were offered to me, I was aware that my 
pedagogy was no longer up-to-date, and I went to farming and 
stock raising. For thirty years I engaged in stock buying and 
shipping and then for four years I was engaged in the mercantile 
and grain business in Tiosa. 

As others have given a description of Rochester in the early 
days, I shall not attempt anything in that "line, except to men- 
tion James Moore's forge, or iron works. When we hear so much 
about the new steel city of Gary, and its steel mills, it may be of 
interest to many, especially the younger people, to know that a 

H O M E FOLKS 109 

little over 50 years ago there was a flourishing iron miil at Roch- 
ester, employing from forty to a, hundred men. The first piant 
was located just north of town, on the west side of the Michigan 
road, and afterward abandoned for a more extensive plant on the 
Tippecanoe river. The oid plant was converted into a woolen mill 
for carding, spinning, manufacturing and fulling woolen goods. 

The new piant was locate 1 on the north bank of the river, 
just east of the Michigau road, and part of the old dam, from 
which the power for the forge was procured, may still be seen. 
The ore was procured from the marshes in the neighborhood and 
was called "bog ore." The fuel was charcoal procured from the 
woods in the neighborhood of our farm. 

With all the poverty and hardships of the pioneer days, the 
people had time for religion and although there were not as 
many churches to the number of people as today, the people, as 
a rule, were deeply sincere in regard to religious life. 

We had occasional services conducted by Baptist and Metho- 
dist ministers but no organizations. The first church organiza- 
tion in that part of the county, was Saint Paul's Lutheran 
church, organized 1849, with five charter members. In the 
spring of 1852, five others and myself were confirmed in that 
church, and I have since been a member of that congregation. 

Now as my story is getting somewhat lengthy, I shall close 
with a good word for the Hoosier state. 

I have traveled through and over twenty-seven of the north- 
ern states of the union, and in late years especially in the north- 
western states. I have seen beautiful scenery, fertile fields, large 
and flourishing cities, and found the United States a beautiful 
and grand country indeed. I have traveled most extensively in 
Indiana, and although some people have done very well by mov- 
ing out and casting their lot elsewhere, it is my sincere convic- 
tion that whoever cannot make a living in Indiana need not try 

\| ^ tig 

c}? r^ D^ 



When Old Men Were Little Boys Some Funny- 
Pranks Were Practiced. 


I WAS BORN ON THE 8th day of March, 1849, at eight 
o'clock, so says the family bible, in Richland township, 
on the farm now owned by the Joseph Zinks heirs, one 
mile south of the Richland Center church, in a log cabin. My 
father, David Mow, sold the farm to Mr. Shearer, he selling it to 
Joseph Zinks. 

Ten children were born in my father's family, three boys and 
seven girls, three of the girls being triplets, and all the children 
are now living — father and mother having passed on to the great 
beyond. I remember when the triplets were born father said to 
us boys, "Now we will have to work harder." I answered, "My 
God, father, don't us boys get no rest? We can't help it because 
the children come by litters." Father cuffed my ears, if I was a 
large boy, for speaking the truth so abruptly. But it was not 
long till things were still worse. There would be from ten to 
twenty people come afoot and with teams, every Sunday, to 
see those three babies. We thought that hard luck. However, 
we grew to like the babies too. Now it did look a little hard to 
see mother with four babies that couldn't walk, as Schuyler was 
born before the girls could walk. Henry was oldest and I was 
the next, and father said I was the biggest devil of the whole lot. 

I remember the first school house built in Richland town- 
ship, in Whippoorwill district. It was built in 1854. Father gave 
the log house to the district, and Moore Ralston hauled it to the 
place where it was raised, one-half mile east of where the present 
building stands. The writing desk was put around the side of 
the house, holes bored into the wall and rough boards nailed on. 
The seats were made of slabs sawed by Young Ralston, with an 
up-and-down saw. Ralston gave the slabs to the district and 
Timothy Wood ruff put the legs in. 



John Rhinesmith taught in the old log school house. I was 
a bad boy and he punished me by making me sit between two 
girls, but that was fun for me, for one of the girls was awfully 
bashful. There were neither backs nor ends to the seats, so when 
the teacher was not looking, I would slip up close to the bashful 
one. She would slip away and I after her. She kept her eyes on 
me and edged along until she went off the bench on the floor 
"ker-plunk." She screamed, "School master, make Enoch Mow 
stop." The teacher asked: "Enoch, what are you doing?" I an- 
swered "Nothing." "He lies," she cried, and of course I did. 
The master gave me a licking, but of course that went in those 

When I was eight years of age, father allowed Henry and I to 
go coon hunting with him and Uncle Armstrong. A man whose 
name was Carter went along. He would climb the tree and 
shake the coons off", when one was treed. The dogs treed one 
and Carter climbed the tree to shake the coon off, but it crawled 
out on a limb which split off, and Carter hallooed, "My God, 
Dave, clear away the dogs for I'm coming." I will never forget 
it, and Carter won't either, as he was badly bruised and scratch- 
ed coming down through the branches. 

When Hank was ten years of age and I was eight, we drove 
a breaking team for father. The boys of this age would think it 
fun to see seven yoke of oxen hitched to a big plow, plowing up 
grubs six to eight feet high. Once when father was staking out 
new land, a large black snake wound around his leg. He took 
his pocket knife and killed it. Now, there was one ox in the 
team that was lazy. Father said to Henry, "Go get that snake 
I killed and hang it on old Dick's bow. Henry got a stick and 
did as he was told. No sooner was the snake placed on the bow, 
than old Dick bawled, snorted and away went the seven yoke of 
cattle. They ran across the clearing till the plow caught on a 
tree and broke the beam out, then us boys got a rest, and rest 
was fun for boys. I was with father once when he had fifteen 
yoke of oxen hitched to one wagon, going south of Rochester to 
break. He had two plows on the wagon. I was along to carry 
water for the four men, and run chores. We stopped in front of 
Charley Baker's place. It was on the west side of the street, 
about forty rods south of the railroad, where the Leiter elevator 
now stands. Uncle Dell Ward kept a livery stable still south, 
on the east side of the street. Father and Baker made a bet, to 
the effect that I could not turn those fifteen yoke of cattle around 
and drive them back where they stood without upsetting the 
wagon. I took the whip and turned the cattle around and drove 
them back with their heads south. Father won the bet, and the 
stakes were two gallons of whiskey. Of course I didn't get any of 


the whiskey for father didn't allow us to drink, but I sneaked a 
little next day, while carrying water. 

Father owned a two-year-old colt. He bought, a mate to it, 
from George McGuire. They were a nice, well-mated team. On 
Sunday, Henry and I thought we would have some fun, so got 
the colts in the barn and tied their tails together and then turned 
them out. Well, you never saw such kicking, snorting and 
sqeaiing. We were badly scared and Henry ran for father, while 
I "hiked" behind a straw pile. Father came and caught one of 
the colts by the head and yelled for Henry to bring the halters. 
They got the halter on one and made Hank hold it until he 
got the halter on the other one, then pulled them together and 
tied their heads. They would still stand apart and pull, until 
father had to cut the hair from their tails to get them separated. 
When he got that done, he said to Henry: "Where is Enoch?" 
"I don't know," answered Hank, and then father called and you 
bet I went to him for us boys didn't hang back when father said 
"come." "He asked, "Heury, what had I ought to do with yuu 
buys?" "Whip us of course," replied my brother. Then he turn- 
ed to me. "Enoch, what do \ou think 1 should do to you?" I 
replied: "Father, we did it for fun, we won't do it any more. 
Didn't you tie the stove pipe to Moore Ralston's horse's tail for 
fun?" Father laughed at that and let us go. There are other 
funny things I might speak of but will pass them. 

When J was twelve years of age, I commenced to drive a 
horse-power machine for my father. We were once threshing at 
Uncle Adam Mow's and 1 was driving the horse power, when 
father came to the machine and told me that he had enlisted to 
go into the army. He went when Company F, of the 87th regi- 
ment, left Rochester. While he wan in the army, mother would 
send me twice each week for the mail. I will never forget An- 
thony Smith, a brother of Miio R. Smith, for he would always 
watch for me and give me ii\e or ten cents to spend while wait- 
ing for the mail, and you bet I w as pretty sure to let him find me. 
When Company F left Rochester, my father took two comforters 
with him instead of the customary blankets carried by soldiers. 
He sent them home from Indianapolis and they got lost for a 
time, but one night I was in after the mail and it did not get in 
until after midnight. The mail was carried then by stage, or 
hack. This night Mr. Charles Stradley said to me: "Those com- 
forters have arrived, can you lake them home." "Yes," I answer- 
ed. He wauted me to carry them rolled up, but I said "No, I 
will unroll them and spread them over the horse." Now, at that 
time, I forded the river sometimes, and sometimes went by the 
bridge. When I got those comforts on the horse over the saddle, 
my feet would not touch the stirrups. I was so sleepy 1 almost 


fell off the horse. When I got beiow where the Ananias Baker 
farm now is, (the farm known as the Dillon farm was then all in 
woods, a by road ran to what we called Blue Grass ford) I made 
up my mind that before I crossed the river, I would take a nap. 
I got off" the horse and tied him to a bush, going about ten feet 
away, under a plum bush covered with grape vines, I spread one 
comforter on the ground and the other over me and went to 
sleep. In the morning I was not at home and mother was fright- 
ened and sent Henry after me, telling him to go by the ford and 
if he did not find or hear of me, to come back by the bridge. He 
rorfe one of the older horses. When he got to the river and rode 
across, the horse I rode whinnied and Henry saw me, or the 
bunch covered by the comforters. He pulled them off' and kick- 
ed me to waken me. I bounced up and we had a fJght under the 
bush; yes sir, 1 licked him, and it was the first time that I ever 
did. I would not lay there now for any money, but then I was a 
tough lad and feared nothing. 

I shall never forget the way they used to hold meeting, I 
mean in the old log school house, regular shouting meetings. 
Everybody was good iu those days, and church was held when it 
was so cold the only way to keep warm was to shout. Did I 
shout? Yes sir! Brother Henry froze his ears so badly one night, 
you could whittle them like sticks and his Hanner Ann he had 
with him to church, froze her feet with two pair of socks over 
her shoes. 

Now, in reading Dr. Hill's write up, I remember the man 
who made the charge with him, this side of the river. Dr. Hill 
did not teil who the man was who came after him to go and see 
Young Ralston. It was Ike O'Blenis and the "road agents" were 
"laying" for my father. At that time, father was United States 
Marshal under Governor Morton, who had sent a company of 
soldiers into Newcastle township and the rebel sympathizers 
were fearfully mad at my father. They had taken the enrolling 
papers from the enrolling officers, but after the soldiers arrived, 
there was no more trouble. Ike O'Blennis went to Ben Wilson 
and told him who the men were that caught him. He said to 
Wilson that they were looking for Uncle Dave Mow, and if he 
told they would kili him. I also remember one time, after the 
war was over, .father cried a sale for John Herbic, of Richland 
township, and eight kegs of powder were sold. Father wondered 
about that and thought it looked queer. Three months after the 
sale, Mitchell Hendricks was working for father and at dinner 
said: "Dave, did you know what the powder sold at Herbic's 
sale was bought for?" Father acknowledged that he did not and 
Hendricks said: "To biow up your house, to get you." Father 
asked: "How do you know?" Hendricks replied, "David, I was 


with the crowd, and when we got to the corner we stopped to 
talk the matter over. I said "Gentleman, I can go no further. 
Dave has alwajs been good to me and if you don't stop, 1 will 
notify him. I don't think it right to kill his family to get him." 
The corner referred to, is where Frank Zink keeps store. The 
farm is the one Thomas Adamson bought of my father. Father 
was awfully mad when Hendricks told him about it. Hendricks 
gave him all the names. John Herbic was the captain, and I 
could give all the names but will not do so as it is a long time 
since it happened. 

Father once sent me to Chris Campbell's to see how every- 
thing was going, and there was a meeting at the Stevens school 
house. Campbell took me to the meeting, but he was told he 
had no business there and did not want to let him in. But Uncle 
Chris Campbell was not to be gotten rid of that easy. Uncle 
Sam Rearrick was there, so was Stephen Rearrick. Those three 
men were all that were there but what belonged to the "Knights," 
as they called themselves. Dr. Robbins came and made a speech. 
I will never forget what he said: "Gentlemen, I have come to 
talk sense to you. Don't you know there are a hundred 
and three men in Newcastle township, and if that is not 
enough, they will have a thousand more and come and hunt you 
like rabbits out of the bush." When he said this, the lights 
were knocked out, and I don't know to this day how Chris 
Campbell got me out of the house. He must have knocked five 
or six down, but I got away with the word and when the sol- 
diers got there all was right. Those were hot times and I might 
relate many more things, but it is best to forget the bad and 
think only of the good. 

One time, long ago, father gave us boys every other Saturday 
to come to town, or go fishing or hunting in the afternoon. On 
the particular Saturday to wliich I allude, Monroe O'Blenis and 
I went hunting. We were in the river bottom below the old 
Clark farm. I heard a pheasant drum and said to Monroe "keep 
still and we will slip up on him and get him." We had not 
gone far until we saw two horses hitched to a tree. Now there 
had been some horses stolen, and thought those might be the 
ones. We kept quiet and a man came out to them. He had an 
arm load of corn to feed the horses. I raised up and told him 
not to move, and I had the gun on him before he could think. I 
sent Monroe for Sheriff Ben Wilson. Wilson took a horse, and 
with the boy on behind him, came to my rescue. I was scared 
until I scarcely knew what I was doing. Mr. Wilson said: 
"Enoch, 'you have done a good job." Then I thought I was a 
hero, you bet. Wilson tied the man's arms behind him and took 
him to Rochester. They proved to be the stolen horses and Uncle 


Dell Ward had been after them. I do not remember what be- 
came of the man, but perhaps Uncle Dell does. 

In 1868 I was joined in marriage with Mary F. Barnett, on 
what is now called the Chas. Sisson farm, and on the first of 
March 1869, moved on the Holman farm. It was an exceedingly 
wet season, although it was so dry in the ear y part that we had 
to put on a new plow-point every day to plow fallow ground. 
No plow-points could be had for the Hackley plow this side of 
Peru. My father came to my house on Sunday and wanted me 
to go to Peru to get a load of points and land sides. I hitched 
one of his horses with mine and took ten bushels of wheat and 
drove to father Barnett's on Sunday evening, so I could get back 
on Monday. William Barnett went with me and we drove that 
Sunday night until a storm compelled us to stop at the home of 
Farmer Hatch near Five Corners. Just got the team stabled and 
the wheat carried in, when it began to rain and I have never 
seen anything like it since. It poured until morning. Went on 
to Peru, sold my wheat, got my load and started home. When I 
got to Dan Bearss' place, this side of Peru, Mr. Bearss had me 
drive into the shed, and asked me to stay all night, but I started 
home at two o'clock and it rained all the way. The culverts 
were all out and the horses would sometimes fall in to their 
breasts. Thought I would never get to Rochester. Uncle Dell 
Ward was watching for me. Father had come to Rochester to 
ask him to be on the look out for me and tell me not to under- 
take to cross the river bridge. The water was around this side of 
the abutment. I drove down this side of the river to father 
Barnett's. The water was within 100 feet of the house and Wed- 
nesday morning father came over to Barnett's in a boat. He 
said I should get the harness and put them in the boat and he 
would row them and my wife across the river, leaving the wagon 
and points at Barnett's. Then 1 was to ride the team opposite 
our house and he was to come back with the boat, and help me 
swim the horses across. He ran the boat over the prairies where 
the water was still, easily. I rode the horses to the point agreed 
upon and waited, then, becoming impatient, forced the team 
into the river and swam them across. The drift wood floating 
down stream almost got the better of me. I would not do that 
now. The water was around the north side of the bridge on the 
Michigan road until fall. 

My father died on the first day of October, 1869, and was 
buried on the 3d. He had a sale contracted for C. A. Lawson on 
the 7th of Oct., '69, and mother and uncle Adam Mow said I must 
go and cry the sale. I did, and have done lots of sale work since. 
I worked with Benjamin Wilson till he died, and then with 
uncle Billy Tribbett till he died. The year my wife died I cried 


a sale every day for six weeks except Sunday. I ran a threshing 
machine for sixteen years — the old horse power kind. 

I remember the year of '76, when Tilden ran for President, I 
threshed 1050 bushels for Wm. Davidson, next day after election, 
and same year hulled 150 bushels of clover seed for Davidson. It 
was in my horse-power machine that Fredeus Wilson had his leg 
ground off. It occurred at Runion Armstrong's place, years ago. 
One year later, my leg was broken in three places, the accident 
occurring on the Michigan road, north of the John Taylor place. 
My first son died July 25th '69; my second on March 25th, 1884; 
my wife Jan. 25th 1888; my last daughter on Feb. 25th 1888 Only 
those who have passed through similar experiences know how to 
sympathize with me. I have raised three orphan children who 
always speak a good word for Enoch*. I also took a baby boy of 
Frank Armstrong's, when he was but ten days of age. I kept 
him until wife died, then found him a good home with May 

On the first day of May, 1892, 1 married my present wife, Etta 
Toby, and have one son, Elden, who was born on the 20th day of 
December, 1894, and we are all in good health now. I joined the 
Odd Fellows' lodge at Richland Center in 1871. I was taken in 
under the old work, called the fifth degree work, taking all five 
degrees the same night. I passed the chairs and was elected 
District Deputy Grand Master. In five years I never missed but 
two lodge nights. That was when I had my leg broken. I went 
to lodge on crutches and Brother Harrison Walker and Brother 
J. L. Martindale helped me up the stairs. I was installed Nobie 
Grand that night. I moved to Aubbeenaubbee township, rode 
eight miles every Saturday night to lodge, never missing a meet- 
ing night in eight years. I then took a card and Dr. B. F. Over- 
myer and myself got a lodge instituted at Leiter's Ford, Dr. 
Overmyer being installed Noble Grand and myself Vice Grand. 
Served one term and turned it over to the third members. I was 
elected District Deputy of Leiter's Ford and served that lodge till 
my wife died. 

I am still in the autioneering business, better than ever, as 
much life as a young man, and any one wanting my services can 
call phone 368 or leave word at Kline Shore's grocery. Good day. 




Tender Passion in Contrast with "Last Lickin' " 
Administered by Mother. 


T^TAVING GREATLY ENJOYED the old settlers' stories, 

-' "- decided to write a brief history of my life. However, 

1 shall not be able to go so far back in history as some 
of my older associates, Troutman and others, on account of my 
age. These stories furnish a means for the public to determine 
as to how we have improved the opportunities, which surrounded 
us in early life. Among the writers, so far, we find but one 
born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he being a man of consid- 
erable wealth, and yet fails to mention where or when he ever 
performed one day's labor. The question arises as to how he had 
f/ccumulated so much property. However, he throws some light 
on the subject by pleading guilty to taking one calf and a turkey 
from his neighbors. Notwithstanding all of this, he has made a 
good 'squire. In this article I shall attempt a summary of the 
leading events of my life, from childhood to the present time. 

I was born in North Carolina, Nov. 25, 1846, and although 
the family left there before I was four years of age, I can remem- 
ber a great many things that happened while living there, one of 
them is seeing mother spin the thread and weave the cloth 
from which all our clothing was made. There were seven child- 
ren of whom I was next to the youngest. Speaking of the young- 
est reminds me of an incident which occured between him and me. 
We were playing in father's shop, (father being a carpenter) . My 
brother had a very bushy head of hair and I conceived the idea 
that it would be a good joke to set fire to it, so I took a handful 
of shavings, lit them at the fire place and held them to the back 
of his head. He screamed out and about that time father had 
me by the back of the neck with one hand, and in the other was 


a piece of a barrel stave. When the exercises closed, it was 
hard to tell which was blistered the most, brother or I, but on 
different parts of the anatomy. I also recall the first pair of 
pantaloons made for me. Up to that time I wore dresses, or I 
should say a dress, as we only had one and that made as short as 
possible, and when we outgrew that, it was passed on down 
the line to the next youngest. I moved up to where T was enti- 
tled to pants. They were the "barn door" variety, with shirt and 
suspenders made from the same material. 

We left North Carolina in the fall of 1850, moving through in 
wagons, one one-horse and one two-horse wagon, father, mother 
and seven children. A number of amusing incidents occurred 
along the way. My sister and I were walking along, one day, 
hanging quite a distance behind. We were running to catch up 
with the wagons, but just before reaching them we came to a 
ditch which crossed the road. I fell in, and when they got me 
out, mother had to strip me and take my clothes to a pond of 
water to wash them. She then pinned them to the wagon cover 
to dry and set me in the feed box where I had to stay. I don't 
recollect how long we were on the road, but I remember the 
night we drove up to uncle's, about two miles west of Greens- 
boro, late in the evening, and he actually seemed glad to see us. 
Remained there a few days, then moved into a two-room house 
in the woods, with a small garden spot, where we remained for 
some time, father working at his trade, earning small wages and 
providing for a family of ten. Another brother was born after 
coming to this state and none of the children old enough to earn 

Each fall there were ten pairs of boots and shoes to be made. 
When the time to make them came, father would take the 
measure of our feet by cutting a stick the length of the foot, and 
took the ten sticks with him when he went to town to place the 
order. Things were different then from what they are now, as 
we could now get excursion rates on ten pairs. School privileges, 
in those days, were limited. In fact, the older ones had to remain 
at home to assist in providing for the rest of us. It was very 
fashionable for the girls to wear hoops, the larger the better. 1 
remember my sisters who went to school would sew tucks in 
their skirts and run grapevines through, making the skirts as 
large as desired. In our school we sal on benches, and it required 
a peculiar movement on the part of the girls, to sit down just 
right, which I will not undertake to describe, but which I feel 
certain could not be accomplished by the belles of today without 
serious consequences. 

There are two more incidents I wish to relate in regard to 
my boyhood days, one being my last whipping, the other my 


first experience in making love to a girl. These subjects have 
been entirely overlooked by the other writers, although 1 am sure 
each have had interesting experiences. Mother administered my 
last whipping, and she must have made up her mind that it 
would be the last, and made it severe enough to linger in my 
memory many moons. Brother and I often got to scuffling and 
he being the youngest, he had to have the last lick. One even- 
ing, while we were preparing for bed, I made up my mind to 
get even with him. I hurried and jumped in bed, and as he 
crawled over me, I raised him one that sent him against the 
wall. His screams soon brought mother to the scene, slipper in 
hand, took us out of bed, one at a time, and when she finished 
the job, we were so stinging hot there was no need of bed covers 
to keep warm. 

I was about thirteen years of age when I fell in love with a 
girl at first sight. Living a short distance from our house was 
the Black family, having a son, Maynard, and a step-daugh- 
ter, Elvira Stow. Well, Elvira smiled on me and I smiled on 
Elvira, and each kept it up until it began to ripen into some- 
thing. I found out through Maynard that I could walk home 
with her from church, so the next Sunday night I made the 
break. It was customary for the boys to line up outside the 
church door and watch for the girl of their choice to appear, then 
step up and ask if it is agreeable to walk home with her. If she 
said no, we were "sacked." On this occasion, I took my place 
close to the door, but when Elvira appeared, I became paralyzed 
and could neither move or speak. She passed on and soon as I 
could move, I ran on ahead of her and got behind a locus tree and 
when she came along I stepped out and walked a long distance 
by her side before either spoke a word, then she said, "It's a 
pleasant evening," and I answered in a timorous voice, "Yes," 
then after a long interval, "I guess it is." And of course it was. 
Nothing more was said till we reached her home. I was anx- 
ious to keep the affair from my folks, but every one of them, in- 
cluding an uncle visiting us, passed me on the road. I have al- 
ways considered this an unfortunate incident in my career as it 
instilled in my mind, a fear of the fair sex I have not yet over- 
come. No doubt but the reader will say, "wasn't he a greenth?" 
In reply will say, ask John Troutman to tell you the experience 
he once told me. 

I will now pass on to the time I enlisted in the army, which 
did not occur until October 1863, owing to my age. My chum, 
George Macy, and I pledged each other when one went the other 
would go also. Under eighteen years of age, it was necessary to 
get parental consent and I was less than seventeen and George 
but little older. So we planned to run away, and on the last day 


of September, 1863, about seven o'clock in the evening, we struck 
out. Walked ten miles to what is now the Soldier's Orphan's 
Home, three miles south of Knightstown. Having worked 
there at one time, we calculated to remain over night, then go to 
Knightstown, take a train for Indianapolis the next morning 
and enlist. About one o'clock, George's father came after us, so 
we crawled out, walked down the road where his rig was in 
waiting, (consisting of one saddle horse) and he being the com- 
manding officer, rode the horse, George and I formed two abreast 
and marched back home, reaching there at daybreak. The next 
thing was an interview with father, which ended by me agreeing 
to stay at home until I was old enough to go. The next day 
George and I took our axes and dinners and went two miles to 
cut wood. We chopped a little wood and planned the rest of the 
day. Returned home at night and struck out again. Walked to 
Knightstown, and a short distance from the town, crawled in a 
hay stack, making sure nothing but blood hounds would find us. 
It soon began to rain, so we changed our hiding place by going 
on to town and finding shelter in a haymow. Next morning 
we encountered another difficulty in getting transportation to In- 
dianapolis, it being the time the government was shipping troops 
from the east to the western army, stopping trains only at water 
tanks, so we had to walk to the next station and get on a train 
loaded with soldiers. It was too late to find the recruiting officer, 
so the first night was spent in a box car. Next morning we found 
the officer and told him we wanted to enlist. His first question 
was, "How old are you?" and we both answered "Eighteen." 
He then directed his remarks to me, being the smallest. He said: 
"I am going to take you down in the city and swear you, then 
write to your parents, and if you have lied, I'll put you where 
you will not bother any other recruiting officer." His bluff 
worked all right, and I spoke right up and said: "I'll not swear 
but father sent me." He said: "Will you sign your father's 
name to an article to that effect?" I said I would, and he wrote 
some kind of a lengthy article which I did not read but signed 
father's name to it. 

We were taken to headquarters, examined, sworn in, drew 
our uniforms and became members of the 4th Ind. Battery, 
Light Artillery. We were placed in the soldiers' home to await 
orders to go south, which came as soon as a sufficient number 
could be secured. While in camp there was an order that those 
volunteering to do guard duty in the forenoon could get a pass out 
in the afternoon. One morning I reported for duty, was given a 
gun and assigned to take a prisoner down to headquarters to be 
tried for desertion, a very serious charge. I marched him down 
all right and he was taken up stairs, in a building used for that 


purpose. I was directed to remain outside and guard the door. 
Remained there for a while until it got a little monotonous, so 1 
set the gun in a corner and went down to the foot of the stairs. 
Had not enjoyed the sights long, until my attention was called 
by an officer at the head of the stairs, who held my gun and 
wanted to know if I could tell to whom the gun belonged. My 
answer was, "Yes sir, the gun belongs to me; I am on guard." 
"You will please step this way," he said. I obeyed. He in- 
quired if I understood my duty, and I tried to convince him that 
I really did. He opened the door and called an officer, handed 
him my gun and directed him to take me to the guard house. At 
this point I was ready to quit my job and not charge anything 
for past services, but realizing it was useless to make such a 
proposition, I began to beg and finally won out. My gun was 
returned to me and after the trial, I conducted my prisoner back 
to the guard house. 

A short time after, I again reported for duty with the bal- 
ance of the squad. Marched to the guard house and lined up in 
front, and the one next the door took the first prisoner out and 
so on until it came my turn. My man was a large, husky artil- 
leryman. He stopped and looking down at me said: "Bub, can 
you run?" "Not much," I answered. He said "All right, I'll 
have some fun with you." Supposing he was joking, I paid but 
little attention to it. He was ordered to saw wood, I to stand 
guard over him. He worked a short time, then said he must 
have a drink, so I went around the barracks to the pump to get 
his drink and had started back when he suddenly whirled and 
ran. It was such a surprise that he had made quite a start, but 
my previous experience flashed across my mind, so grabbed my 
gun (which was little better than a club, having neither lock or 
bayonet) and started after him. He ran across the guard line, I 
following. The excitement aroused the entire camp, all yelling 
for the little one. About one hundred rods from where we start- 
ed, I got close enough to punch him in the back with the gun. 
As I raised the gun to strike, he turned and said: "Hold on, you 
are a liar! you can run." I marched him back. When we got 
where the crowd was, he offered to bet five dollars I could outrun 
anything in camp. He returned to the wood pile with a ball and 
chain on his leg. 

We were ordered south, our destination being Chattanooga, 
Tenn., which was occupied by the Union Army, the rebels hold- 
ing Lookout Mountain and Mission Ridge. We went within 
thirty miles of Chattanooga by rail and could go no farther, as 
the bridge at Whiteside was burned, so we had to march that 
distance. I can truthfully say that it was my hardest march- 
ing during the war. We were not hardened to marching, besides 


it was on the railroad, walking the ties. I will describe the knap- 
sack I had. Old soldiers will easily understand it. In mine was 
one blanket, pup-tent, gum blanket, overcoat, two suits of under- 
wear, extra pair of pants, and numerous other things. We pre- 
sented a rather amusing spectacle to old soldiers. As we passed 
the other camps, they called us the Bureau Regiment. Many 
dropped out that day. I laid down within a quarter of a mile of 
our camp. Went into camp at Mockeson Point, just across the 
river from Chattanooga, where our real soldiering commenced. 
We were placed at once on quarter rations and often less. Will 
tell the reader an idea of what we received at one time. Drew 
rations one evening for three days. I proposed to the boys that 
we would have one square meal, so we ate every particle at sup- 
per. Four of us bunked together. Next day we began to get 
pretty hungry, so we started out along the road leading towards 
the town. It was a road over which the supplies were hauled 
and occasionally, a grain of corn could be found, but not enough 
to do much good. Finally we came to a place where butchering 
of cattle had been done and several heads were left. These were 
collected. It had been some time since they were killed and the 
meat somewhat tainted, but we built a fire and got enough off 
the bones to satisfy our appetites. It was not very tempting as 
we had neither salt or bread. This was the first day and nothing 
more coming in the way of rations for two days. Next day I 
went to a place where there was a rail pen of corn. A guard was 
watching it. I waited until almost night to get an opportunity 
to steal four ears of corn. That lasted until we drew rations 

Remained there until after the battle of Lookout Mountain 
and Mission Ridge, then moved across the river into Chattanoo- 
ga where the conditions were the same. Have often heard the 
remark made by persons that they would rather starve than 
steal and that convinces me that they were not in Chattanooga 
during the winter of '63-'64, for there every man took his haver- 
sack with him wherever he went, to keep his bunk mate from 
stealing it. A squad of our company was sent to Nashville, dur- 
ing this time, and when they came back, each had a full haver- 
sack and every one lost them the first night. I took one that 
contained fifty-three crackers. This was in '63. At the close of 
the war, we were at Indianapolis waiting to be discharged. I 
saw the fellow from whom I had taken the crackers, sitting in 
front of his barracks alone, and knowing we were soon to part, I 
went over, sat down beside him and laying my hand on his knee 
said: "John, do you remember having your haversack stolen 
while in Chattanooga?" He looked up and answered: "Yes and 
if I knew who the fellow was, I'd mop up the ground with him." 


I said, "It would be serving him right, and if I ever hear who it 
was, I will tell you." I then changed the subject. He has never 
found out and never will as long as he feels that way about it. 

I could occupy all the space writing of incidents in and about 
Chattanooga, but one more incident will suffice. A mule driver 
camped near my shanty. I noticed he would feed late at night, 
supposing everybody to be asleep. He would then come to his 
six mules, pour in the feed and leave. As soon as he was safely in 
his tent, I would step in behind the mules and take the corn. I 
kept this up for some time and was getting along better than the 
mules. One day a comrade asked me how I was living, said he 
was almost starved. I told him, and that same night I was just 
starting in to get the corn, when I noticed some one stepping 
in from the opposite side. He had just began to gather the corn 
when the driver threw a club, and from the way the fellow groan- 
ed I thought he was about killed, and the language used would 
not look well in print. He accused the fellow of almost starving 
his mules. I congratulated myself and turned in for the night. 
Our winter was spent in this manner, and I can truthfully say 
more than half I had to eat, was corn taken from the mules. 

Some time in February, forty of us were transferred to the 
19th Ind. Battery. We were sent by raii to Ringgold, Ga., where 
the 19th was in camp. When we arrived, we were lined up for 
roll call. While yet in line, members of the 19th came to take a 
look at the new members. Looking over the crowd, I caught the 
eye of one of the boys and at this he smiled and turned away. 
This occurred at different times, until one day we met and he 
said: "Are you sure you are going by your right name?" I as- 
sured him that I was, and he asked, "Are you sure you are not a 
girl?" watching me closely. Finally he said I was the picture 
of a girl he knew back home. After that the boys called me 

Remained there but a short time until we began preparations 
for the Atlanta campaign, which lasted four months, during 
which there was but little time we were not under fire and with- 
in range of the enemy's bullets. Our battery participated in the 
battles of Resaca, Kenesaw Mountain, Peach Tree Creek, Siege of 
Atlanta and numerous small engagements. In fact it was a fight 
from start to finish. Johnson's army had been driven steadily 
back, though contesting every foot of ground, to the front of 
Atlanta, when the south became dissatisfied with the manage- 
ment of the army and on the 22d of July he was superseded by 
General Hood, who ordered a general charge all along the line, 
resulting in heavy loss on both sides. On this occasion I had one 
horse killed and another wounded. On the 231, the rebels had re- 
treated from their breast works and had fallen back into the city. 


When the siege of Atlanta commenced, and while we were ex- 
pecting to get possession of the city at any time, we held out 
until late in September then captured them by a flank move- 
ment. Before this, there was an order issued, that all not able to 
make forced march were to bt sent back to the hospital. Three 
were ordered back, but having a horror of hospitals, I slipped off 
and remained in hiding until after the two were gone, and when 
the battery started after dark, I climbed on a caisson to ride, not 
being able to walk. The captain seeing me, ordered me off. I 
was too weak to walk, and for support wrapped the hair of the 
tail of Sergeant Conklin's horse around my hands and marched 
in that manner during the night. The next morning we cut the 
only remaining railroad leading to the city, and after one of the 
worst hand to hand battles it was ever my lot to witness. This 
caused the rebels to evacuate the city. We then returned and 
occupied the city, where we remained resting and getting ready 
for the next move, and on the morning of November 17, started 
Sherman's march to the sea. This campaign might be described, 
compared with others, as one continual round of pleasure. The 
weather was fine and we passed through a rich country, with 
orders to "take nothing we could not use." No fighting, except 
a little skirmish now and then, until we reached Savannah on 
20th of December, staid there until January, then started on the 
campaign through the Carolinas. On this march, we had one 
short but lively battle, that of Bentonville, in which we lost all 
but one gun. I lost both horses and the gun on which I was 
driver. However, we recaptured one of the guns, marched on to 
Goldsboro, and went into camp. Received the news of Lee's 
surrender, followed by that of Johnson's which meant home for 
me. I will not undertake to describe the joy this news created, 
but which soon turned to deepest sorrow, on the receipt of the 
word of the death of President Lincoln. Notwithstanding this 
great sorrow, preparations went right on towards sending the 
soldiers home. 

Our company went by boat from Morehead City, N. C, to 
Alexandria, Va., four days at sea. After landing at Alexandria, 
we were marched across the river into Washington, D. C. Were 
it possible, I would like to paint a picture of our company at this 
time, as we had just closed one of the hardest campaigns, in point 
of hardships, that we had ever experienced, the one through the 
Carolina swamps, having had no chance to draw clothing, and 
being almost destitute in that respect, a description of myself 
would be a fair representative for the balance of the company. 
My wearing apparel consisted of hat, shirt and pants, — no shoes. 
As we marched through the streets the sidewalks were lined with 
God's people, with buckets of water and tin cups, giving to those 


who wanted a drink. We were marched through the city to the 
north, to await orders to go home. Ours finally came. We were 
marched back to the B. & O. depot, where the yards were rilled 
with trains. Someone reported that we were to take a passenger 
train that stood on the siding, so we made a rush for it and soon 
had it well filled, but had not enjoyed it long until ordered out 
and directed to a train of cattle cars. Had to either stand or sit 
on the floor of the car, but there was but little complaining, for 
we were going home to see mother. Went to Parkersburg, Va., 
and there took boat down the Ohio river to Lawrenceburg, Ind., 
and on to Indianapolis, and was discharged. Thus ended my 
soldier life. 

The first winter after my return home, I attended school, but 
found that I had forgotten most of what little I did know, and 
that my school mates had advanced so far that I received but 
little benefit. At the close of school, 1866, I hired to learn the 
blacksmith trade, for which I was to receive forty dollars for the 
first year, and board myself. The second year 1 was to receive 
sixty dollars and so on. In Dec, 1868, I was married to Julia E. 
Wilson who only lived eleven months, leaving me with a baby 
girl, now the wife of Adam Weick, of Columbia City, Ind. I then 
sold out my business, came to Akron to visit a sister, and while 
at that place there was a company being made up to go to Kansas. 
This was in February, 1869, and on the first day of March the 
following named started: Ely Strong, Wm. Strong, Avery 
Strong, Elmore Shelt, Eldridge Shelt, Alex Curtis, Abijah Adam- 
son, George Onstott, Wm. Nichols, Sam Swick and myself. All 
went as far as Humbolt, where the land office was located. Not 
finding things to suit, all turned back except four of us. We con- 
tinued our journey to Chetopa, having walked one hundred and 
twenty-five miles. I landed there with exactly five dollars left, 
and the best I could do in the way of board was five dollars per 
week. I soon found a job at my trade, went to work, but took 
the ague, the first experience I had ever had. I would work one 
day and shake the next. Lost my job, not being strong enough 
to do the work, so I went to the country and worked for my 
board. Went into town one day and was offered a job to go down 
in Indian Territory to work for a firm who had a saw mill leased, 
who had to keep a blacksmith to do their work. I accepted the 
place, although it was not the most desirable. I was to take the 
place of a man who had been murdered by the Indians. From 
Chetopa to where the mill was located was sixty miles. I got 
ready and on the 5th day of November I left Chetopa. I had just 
five cents left when I started. I rode forty miles with a man 
driving an ox team. Took us two days to reach Grand River. 
That was as far as he was to go, so he took me across the river 


and left me twenty miles from the mill. You may be able to 
imagine my feelings on this occasion, but I hardly think so. I 
was alone, nothing to eat and no one to speak to. There were In- 
dian huts in sight, but I could not understand their language, 
neither could they understand me. I was getting pretty blue, 
but after waiting, what seemed to me an age, I saw a white man 
coming, driving two mules to the running gears of a wagon, going 
to the mill, so I got to ride with him, arriving some time after 
dark. I worked five months, doing the company's blacksmith- 
ing and hauling logs. 

Returned to Kansas and, with what money I had saved, 
bought two yoke of oxen and went to farming. Planted a crop 
which came up and looked fine until the hot winds came. Every- 
thing dried up and died out with my enthusiasm for Kansas. 
Disposed of my possessions and returned to God's country. 

After a short visit at home, again returned to Akron, bought 
the only blacksmith shop Sept. 20, 1870. Feb. 1, 1871, was mar- 
ried to May A. Estil, my present wife. Continued blacksmithing 
until March, 1886, when we moved to Kansas and was again 
struck by hot winds, and at the end of four months returned to 
Akron, commencing where I had left off. 

1888, I was nominated for Sheriff on the Republican ticket, 
my opponent being A. A. Gast, and after the votes were counted 
1 found I had received a handsome majority to remain at home, 
and I am not sure but this was worse than being left alone on 
Grand river. However, I went back to shoeing horses, having 
followed blacksmithing in Akron a little over twenty years, and 
tried to look pleasant. In 1891 I sold out and moved to Spiceland. 
Failing to find anything to suit, I bought property in North 
Manchester, worked at my trade, also at the carpenter's trade 
until September 1892, I came to Rochester and entered into part- 
nership with T. M. Snyder in the manufacture of buggies and 
wagons, doing an extensive business. In 1894 I was again nom- 
inated for sheriff, having as my opponent the late John King. 
At this election I was successful. Was again nominated in 
1896, and elected, this time my opponent Ed. S. Fultz, being up 
to this time the only Republican elected to the office of sheriff in 
the county. During my term, I had the honor of closing the 
last court in the old court house and opening the first in the new. 
After leaving the sheriffs office, I again engaged in the manu- 
of wagons and buggies for a short time, closing out, devoted my 
time to improving my farm until 1906, I was appointed post 
master, which position I now hold. You will observe from my 
dates, I am past sixty-two years of age, yet I have never sat on a 
jury, was sued once and once sued a man, both cases settled out 
of court. I have been a member of the Odd Fellows lodge since 


1868, and the by-laws of this order allow four dollars per week 
sick benefits. I have drawn no benefits. Belong to the G. A. R. 
since its first organization. Politically, I am Republican and in 
this our family is an exception to the rule, as in most cases boys 
vote as the father. There are four brothers yet living, and all 
vote the Republican ticket, while father was a Democrat. I can 
account for it no other way than that father paid no attention to 
our political training, and we grew up natural, and that of course 
means to be a Rebublican. 


Hunter Fired at Deer, as Supposed, but Killed a 
Friend and Neighbor. 


j N MARCH, 1844, in company with my parents, I came to 
-*- Fulton county by wagon from Ohio, stopping for a time 
at Adamsboro, Cass county, where we moved into a log 
cabin on the banks of Eel river. That same fall pap came on to 
Fulton county and entered a small tract of land on the west line 
of Liberty township, within one mile of what is now called 
Marshtown. Here he erected a round log house, twenty feet 
square, with a large fireplace built of stone and a stick chimney. 
There was the customary clapboard roof laid on ridgepoles, a 
hewed puncheon floor, and door hung on wooden hinges. There 
was a wooden latch on the inside, with a string to it, which passed 
through a hole in the door and hung on the outside. Kitchen, 
parlor, bedrooms were all in one, and we had no difficulty in 
making choice of place. 

At the huge fireplace mother did the cooking. Our bread was 
baked in an oven which she set on the coals, covering the lid with 
more live coals. It was mostly corn bread, quickly baked, but 
on Sunday morning we always had warm biscuit. 

The country was new, therefore a wilderness and swamps. 
We therefore contracted ague, and had it to our satisfaction. It 
was an easy matter to kill squirrels, turkeys, pheasants and 
ducks. I once killed a deer and immediately took a chill. Was 
told by Oliver Bryan that I had "buck fever." Where we once 
pulled cattle out of the mud and shot ducks and geese, is now the 
finest corn laud in the township. 

One morning mother was salting the cows, not over ten rods 
from the house. Soon afterward a deer was observed licking salt 
with the cattle. Mother stepped behind the house and called to 



David VanBlaricoru, who had just passed, going to the home of 
Uncle Erwin Barker's. Having his gun with him he came quietly 
to the front of the house, waited until the deer was separated 
from the cattle, then fired and down came the deer. A dog be- 
longing to VanBlaricoru was anxious to fiuish killing the deer, 
but his master would not consent, so began to reload his gun, 
when up jumped the deer and ran away, and that was the last 
Dave saw of him. 

Pap built a calf pen, joining it to the cabin, and in it was a 
young calf. One night when pap happened to be away from 
home the wolves put in their appearance, apparently intent on 
having a meal on fine veal. They made the air ring with their 
growling, but mother kept them away by throwing fire brands 
out of the window. Thus the calf's life was saved by fire. Our 
neighbors kept a few tine sheep for the purpose of raising wool, 
from which to make their clothing. Strong pens had to be built, 
and the sheep put therein every night, to protect them from 
wolves. From spring until fall was a busy time, especially dur- 
ing sheep-shearing time. Pap would catch the sheep and lay them 
on a platform, where they were tied down, and mother would 
take a common pair of shears and cut the fleece, which was 
washed, then picked to remove dirt and burs. It was then put in 
a sheet, which was pinned with a thorn, and sent to the carding 
mills. When it was returned, mother would get out her old wool 
wheel and spin the rolls into yarn. It is forty years since mother 
was called to her heavenly home, yet in my imagination I can 
still see her as she tripped back and forth across the puncheon 
floor, spinning, spinning the yarn that was to be converted into 
clothing for her children. When finally done, the yarn was col- 
ored blue, then taken to her sister, Mrs. Edwin Barker, who wove 
it into jeans for the men's clothing and into linsey-woolsey for 
herself and daughter. 

Pap sowed a small patch of flax. After it matured it was 
pulled, spread on the ground to rot sufficiently to break on the 
flax break. It was then skutched, then heckled, and then it was 
ready to spin on the flax-wheel. In this way mother made her 
own flax thread, and it was far superior to the flax thread of 
present day manufacture. With it she made our clothing. Pap 
made all our shoes, making his own wax and shoe pegs. A pair 
of shoes was supposed to last a year, for we went barefooted Sun- 
days and week days. 

When we needed a doctor, that meant a trip to Logansport, 
and when we went to mill, we went to Springcreek mill, run by 
Henry Miller. Pap had some of his Virginia meal sacks which 
held three bushels. They were home-made from the flax of their 
own raising. He would put a grist in a sack, throw it over the 


gray mare and set me on top and start me off for the mill. Those 
were the happiest days of my life. 

The first money I ever had of my own I earned hoeing corn 
for twenty cents a day, and I very well remember selling eggs to 
Robert Aitken, at Fulton, for three cents per dozen. 

In comrade Samuel Miller's story, he alluded to experiences 
he had while employed with J. W. Wright, and it brought to my 
mind an incident that occured in Fulton. Mr. Wright had a 
number of men in his employ, cutting logs and hauling them to 
the mill to be sawed into lumber to plank Michigan road. Some 
of the hands imbibed a little too much corn juice to meet the ap- 
proval of Mr. Wright, who then took matters into his own hands, 
went into the place where it was to be purchased, rolled the bar- 
rels into the road and with his ax knocked in the heads, the fire 
water running into the street. The place was kept by a man 
whose name was either Burnett or Swarts, I forget which. Mr. 
Wright was summoned to go before the prosecuting attorney, at 
Rochester. To show that his act had met with the approval of 
good citizens of his home town, W. D. Martin, V. C. Conn and 
other representative men decorated a wagon, over which was a 
flag flying to the breeze, bearing this inscription: "No Saloons 
Allowed in Fulton." The prosecutor lived in Winamac, and was 
then a candidate for re-election. K. G. Shryock was then a rising 
legal light, and on the side of the defendant. Seeing where he 
could squelch the case before it came to trial, he went to the 
prosecutor and said: " If you make a case out of this you might 
as well withdraw from the ticket, as your greatest strength comes 
from Fulton." After a few preliminaries, the case was thrown 
out of court, and that is not the last time the "drys" have won 

I will now go back to the year 1849 and re'ate a circumstance 
or two that created not a little excitement and a good deal of pro 
and con gossip. Daniel Rush lived in our neighborhood. He 
was very fond of hunting and would go to the forest, climb a tree 
and watcn for deer, and this trait was well known by his ac- 

One evening he jumped astride his old bald-faced sorrel mare, 
and started out on a hunting trip. He stopped near where the 
Smalley grave yard is now located. He hitched the mare, shoul- 
dered nis gun and went around on the opposite side of a swamp, 
which was covered with a thick growth of underbrush. After his 
customary fashion, he climbed a tree and waited to see a deer. By 
and by his patience was rewarded, as he thought, by seeing a 
deer flaunt its tail and he raised " old trusty " and fired. Great 
was the astonishment of Rush to find that he had killed his own 
mare. In his excitement, and to throw the blame on some one 


else, he hit on a very ingenious plan. He took a stick, measured 
the tracks made in the soil, to show the people that as he had 
taken his own shoes to Uncle Samuel VanBlaricom's (father of 
Henry VanBlaricom, of Rochester) to have them mended, and 
had borrowed a pair of VanBlaricom, and had the borrowed 
shoes on his feet when the accident occurred. So you can imag- 
ine it raised something of a talk when Rush went around meas- 
uring the feet of his neighbors. He accomplished nothing. But 
that is not the worst that came from Rush's disposition to shoot 
something, and about September 25, 1850, a tragedy occurred of 
which Rush was the cause. In the same locality lived Berryman 
McCarty, who resided on what is now a part of the Adam Kline 
farm. McUarty took his gun and started through the woods to 
the home of Rush, to get him to bring his horse over the next 
day to help tramp out wheat. Rush was again perched in a tree 
watching for deer, and catching sight of some moving object, he 
shot. He then got down to get his supposed game only to find 
he had mortally wounded his neighbor McCarty, who feebly said: 
11 Dan, you have shot me," — then died. 

No action was taken against Rush, as the general supposition 
was that the shooting was accidental, as the two men were 
friends. The shooting occurred about eighty rods south of the 
Olive Branch U. B. church. McCarty was the father of Mrs. 
Louisa Louderback, of Fulton, and Mrs. J. W. Redd, of Metea, 
grandfather of John W. Louderback, of Fulton, and Francis 
Louderback, of Rochester. 

In those days there was not very much wheat sown. It was 
cut with a sickle, afterward with the "muley cradle," then the 
reaper and then the table rake, and later the binder. To do the 
threshing, wheat was beat out with a flail, but sometimes 
tramped out with horses. Samuel Rouch ran the first threshing 
machine in the neighborhood. It was called a "caver," for the 
reason that it threw the wheat, straw and chaff all together, men 
having to shake the straw to get the wheat out and throw the 
straw to one side. Later, Rouch purchased another threshing 
machine, named the Traveler. The machine was pulled in the 
field and a few dozen sheaves were thrown on, and the team 
started, when the straw would be scattered behind in bunches 
and the wheat and chaff fall into a box to be emptied when full. 

In the story written by Jonathan Dawson, I find the names 
of Joseph and Josiah Terrel, ministers in the United Brethren in 
Christ. I well remember both of them. The last time I saw 
Josiah was in 1856, when he made a political speech in the Fogle- 
song neighborhood, Cass county. It was the fall that the Path- 
finder, John C. Fremont, the first Republican candidate, ran for 
president. Terrel said, among other things: "Once there was a 


fellow who wished to learn to skate, so took his skates and went 
to the river and pulling on his skates, went under the limb of a 
tree, which he grasped with both hands and by this means 
skated back and forth. Presently a large buck deer, with spread- 
ing antlers, came out of the woods and, seeing the skater, ran be- 
tween his legs. At this the skater let go of the limb of the tree 
and grasped the horns of the buck, and away they went, the on- 
lookers shouting, 4 Hold on to the velvet.' As the buck jumped 
a fence, the skater surged back on the horns and broke the back 
of the buck. So you sec» as we are on the back of Mr. Buchanan, 
and have him on the run, all we have to do is to hold on to the 
velvet, and when the proper time comes we will give him a jerk 
that will break his back." Batchelor Buck had a very strong 
back, as the ballots showed in November, 1856. Josiah Terrel be- 
came blind and died in Kansas. 

Joseph Terrel was the first preacher I have any recollection 
of. That was in 1846, when he came to Liberty township and 
preached in log cabins. That year he organized a class of United 
Brethren, the first in the township, if not in the county. The 
charter members were Mr. and Mrs. Edwin Barker, Mr. and Mrs. 
Isaac Pownall, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Pownall, Mr. and Mrs. 
John VanBlaricom, Mr. and Mrs. Henry VanBlaricom. To com- 
plete the organization it was necessary to elect a class leader, so 
Rev. Terrel took a chair and seated himself in the middle of the 
room, and each member whispered the name of their choice in 
the ear of the preacher. Samuel VanBlaricom was elected leader 
of the charter members. All save one have long since gone to 
"the mansions not made with hands," Aunt Sarah Pownall, who 
is eighty-five years of age and still enjoying good health. 

Comrade Myers, in his story, writes of some of the doings 
and sayings of the northern "copperheads," while we were facing 
and fighting the enemy at the front. I have now in my posses- 
sion the original letter written by one of these men to a soldier in 
the 29th Indiana Infantry, and it is a fair specimen of the dis- 
couragements offered to our boys in the fall of 1862 and spring of 

NOTE: — On account of the length of the letter, its lack of 
bearing on pioneer evetits in Fulton county, and the fact that it 
might be construed to be personal, on account of names, etc., and 
thereby engender ill feeling and regret, the relic of ante bellum 
"Copperheadism" is respectfully tvithheld." — Editor. 

I served in Co. E, 29th Indiana Infantry, from September 6, 
1861, to December 2, 1865, participating in the following battles : 
Shiloh, April, 1861; Siege of Corrinth, Miss., May and June, 1862; 
Lavergne, November 27, 1862; Triune, December 27, 1862; Stone 


River, December 31, 1862, to January 3, 1863; Liberty Gap, June 
24 and 25, 1863; Chickamauga, September 19 and 20, 1863; was be- 
sieged at Chattanooga by General Bragg. 

I know what it is to endure hardships and short rations. 
Was slightly wounded at Stone River, being struck with two bul- 
lets, and at the battle of Chickamauga was wounded once in the 
right side and once in the left leg, but lived through it all and 
reached home December 10, 1865. 

On the 7th day of April, 1867, was united in marriage with 
Susannah A., daughter of John Hower, of Cass county, Indiana 
To this union were born eight children, five boys and three girls, 
one boy passing away in infancy. One son, at this writing, is at 
Devil's Lake, N. D.; one in Marion, Ind.; one daughter at Deeds- 
ville, Ind.; two daughters and one son in Logansport, Ind., and 
one son still at home. 


Ragged, Hungry, Tired and Sick in a Prison as 
a Confederate Captive. 


nQt 8 THE EARLY or pioneer days in Fulton county have 
-^- -^~ been so well described by those who are older, and who 
have had a wider and more varied experience, what I may have 
to say will be on almost entirely different lines. In fact, the lat- 
ter and principal part of this story is by request. 

The first part of this article will be devoted to my boyhood days 
and a few incidents connected therewith. The writer of this 
sketch was born in Rush county, Indiana, July 11, 1843, and with 
his parents moved to Fulton county in December, 1846. We 
moved into a little one-story cabin on the north side of the road 
from Rochester to Talma, not far from the Lawrence McCarty 
farm. The following spring we moved into a cabin about 200 
yards west of the present house, located on what is now known 
as the Stephey farm, with which our farm joined on the north. 
Less than one-quarter mile away my father rented some land, 
though he put in all the time he could clearing his farm. In the 
fall of 1848 we moved into our new frame house, which we had 
built that summer. We now had a comfortable home, for those 
days; one of the best in the immediate vicinity. This was indeed 
a neighborhood of neighbors. I never knew of but two excep- 
tions up to the time I went to the army in 1861, who were not the 
best citizens, and they did not stay there very long. We had 
none of the luxuries of the present day, but my father was a good 
provider and we always had plenty of what the count r y afforded. 
There was no market where one could buy or sell anything. 
I will just mention a few things that we could and did have, just 
about whenever we wanted them. Venison, fresh, dried or 



smoked; wild turkey, squirrel, mallard ducks and quail — there 
was no end to them. Also maple sugar and syrup, and I have no 
doubt that some of those articles of diet would be welcome, or at 
least tolerated, upon the dining table of the most fastidious and 
opulent of Rochester's "four hundred." We all worked early and 
late. Father would chop and grub all day, then he would burn 
brush and log heaps until ten or twelve o'clock at night. As soon 
as we got a few acres cleared, father planted an orchard, which 
later proved to be a good one. 

There was no school house nearer than one and one-half or 
two miles, on the east side of what is now known as the Mt. Zion 
grave yard. Father bought books for us and mother taught us our 
letters— to spell and then to read, so that before I was eight years 
of age I could read quite well. I went to the old school house 
two winters, three months each, and part of the third, when the 
school house burned down and all our books went with it. In 
the meantime a frame church had been built, near where the 
present Mt. Zion church now stands, in which we finished the re- 
mainder of that term. Before leaving the old school house I will 
relate an incident that occurred there. In the southeast corner 
and joining the chimney, was a plain pulpit for ministers to oc- 
cupy when they came that way. Now, there was an old gentle- 
man who lived in that section of country whose name was 
Shockey and a minister of the gospel. Father came home one 
day and said, "Tnere is going to be preaching at the school house 
next Sunday, and we must go." When Sunday morning came, 
we got in the big wagon and went to church. The preacher was 
there when we went in. Mother took us children and sat on the 
east side of the house. Father sat on the other side with the men. 
Both sexes did not sit together those days as they do now. The 
minister had not preached very long when he took a notion to 
illustrate some point he thought he had made, and this is the way 
he went at it: 

" For instance, my brothers and sisters, the ostrich flying 
through the air," and spreading out his arms at full length, as 
though giving the bird a start, when his right hand came in con- 
tact with something besides air. Everybody smiled, no two alike, 
and I snickered. Mother said, "John, if you do that again I'll 
settle with you when we get home." I got no more good out of 
that sermon, and I never knew when or where that bird landed. 
I learned later that an ostrich couldn't fly any more than a cow. 

In those times everybody had the ague. I have seen my 
father plow when he could hardly hold to the plow handles. I 
heard a man tell a story about the ague, one day, as follows: He 
went over to see neighbor Jones, who was plowing in his field. 
Wnen he came up to where he was, he said Jones was shaking 


till he could hardly stand still, and he noticed that Jones had 
taken some hickory bark and put it through his boot straps and 
tied it to his galuses. Said he had to do that to keep from shak- 
ing his boots off. I don't know whether that is true or not. 

There was an old gentleman who lived a mile east of our farm , 
by name of Woodfield, some called him Uncle Johnie, more gen- 
erally known as "Old Windy." He was a nervous, excitable 
man, and when he got excited, the way he would cut his tobacco 
would discount Bill Conrad (and that's goin' some) . He had a 
son whose sirname was Peter, and it came to pass in those days 
that Peter lay sick of a fever, and (apparently) was nigh unto 
death. Dr. Chas. Brackett was his physician, and one evening as 
he went home, he asked father to go and take care of Peter, lest 
he might die, and father went. He did not get ten or fifteen dol- 
lars a week and board. No, justed bored, that's all. From some 
cause Peter would refuse to take his medicine. Father asked the 
old gent what was the matter. He said Peter wanted the north 
forty off the old farm, and that he was going to give it to him 
some time. 

Father said, "If you are going to give it to him, do it now, 
and I believe he will get well." The old gent got up, went 
straight to the bedside of his son and said: "Peter, my son, down 
with the salts and the land shall be yours and the deed made in 
your name," and down they went. Straightway Peter got well, 
built a cabin on his forty, took unto himself a wife and lived 
there until he moved away. 

You may think I am pretty old when I tell you I went to 
school with Martha Washington, but I did. She was a big, 
strong and kind-hearted girl, and many times helped me through 
or over the big snow drifts along on the ridge north of old Mt. 
Zion. They would sometimes be from three to five feet deep. 
When it rained, or melted, a crust would form, over which us 
child ren could run with safety. One evening, coming from school , 
I guess I got saucy on Martha's hands. She told me that if I 
didn't shut up she would slap me. I knew she could do it, so I 
said the meanest thing I could and lit out over the snow drifts 
with her after me. Just as she sailed over a big drift about four 
feet deep, the crust broke and in she went. 1 could just see the 
top of her head sticking out. I did not, help her out, nor stop, 
next morning, at her house, but that evening she was just the 
same as ever. She was not George Washington's wife. 

I will now tell you a fish story. In the spring of 18—1 was 
hauling timber to Rochester for the construction of the big flour 
miil, being built by Anthony F. Smith, which burned down a 
few years ago. I was coming from town one afternoon, when old 
Uncle Peter Sands, who, with his men, had been seining an hour 


or two in the north end of Lake Manitou, lying between Biar 
island and the east shore, or Hickman farm. He called to me and 
several other men and boys to hitch our teams and come in where 
they were seining. A half dozen or more of us did so. From the 
shore to the lake, at that time, w r as reasonably dry prairie mow- 
ing ground. The old gent had a wagon in there with a large box 
on it, filled as long as they would lay on with all kinds of fish, 
from a ringer to a buffalo. After we had pulled the wagon cut to 
the bank, east of the Phil Hoot house, the old gent said: "Now, 
every one of you get up on the wagon and take all the fish you 
want." I took thirty or forty, some took more. He then said, 
"I am going to give everybody some fish between here and home," 
and I expect he did, for he was a kind-hearted, liberal man. 
Now, that's what I call "goin' fishin'." 

I will relate a few of the many incidents of my early military 
experience. In 1852 Scott and Pierce ran for president. My 
father brought home, one day, a magazine containing the mili- 
tary life of General Scott, in the war of 18'2 and the war with 
Mexico. I read this so often that I almost had it committed to 
memory, and I made up my mind then that if I ever had the op- 
portunity I would go and see for myself, and I did. Just nine 
years from that October I enlisted in the 46th Ind., Co. K, and 
served almost four years. The regiment was made up at Logans- 
port, Ind. We went to Kentucky in December and spent the 
winter there until February, 18H2. At Beardstown, Camp Mor- 
ton and Camp Wickiiff we drilled every day the weather would 
permit. Part of the time we drilled brigade drill, about four regi- 
ments in a brigade, and what they called knapsack drill, or heavy 
marching order. This is what we carried: Gun, cartridge-box, 
haversack, canteen full of water, knapsack, our clothes and 
blankets on the inside, and our overcoat strapped on top. You 
could just about see my cap over the top of that rig, and if you 
don't think that was a load for a slim, green, tow-headed boy, 
weighing from 123 to 125 pounds, just try it. 

The history of the regiment is, or includes, my military his- 
tory. I was with the regiment every day, and Sunday too, from 
the time they left Logansport in December, 1881, to April 8, 1864. 

I will pass over my military service to April 7, 1864. On the 
8lh day of April, 1864, at the ba-tle of Mansfield, La., there were 
about eighty of my regiment taken prisoners. Our colonel was 
ordered to hold an important position on the field. He said he 
would, and did, though at a heavy cost. Our regiment lost over 
one hundred men out of less than three hundred. We staid too 
long. Where I tried to get out, I found a rebel regiment across 
the road. Running through the thick pine woods I did not see 
them until I was within twenty feet of them, when I turned and 


went the other way. I passed a rebel captain, who pulled his re- 
volver and tired as fast and as long as he could see me. Later, 
just as I passed a big pine tree, some one said "Halt." It was so 
close I stopped, looked around and there stood a reb, his gun to 
his shoulder and finger on the trigger. He said, "Throw down 
that gun." I said, "Johnnie, it looks like you have the best of 
me." He said, "Yes, throw down that gun." I threw it down. 
"Take off that cartridge box." I took it off. "Now, you may go 
to the rear." I went. Tried to get close to him, but he knew his 
business and kept me eight or ten feet ahead of him. He was a 
small man, while I weighed 180 pounds net, and as sound as a 
twenty-dollar gold piece. He proved to be a pretty good man. 
As soon as we got back where there were plenty of rebs, we 
walked side by side and talked pleasantly with each other. When 
we reached the edge of the woods, where there were large fields 
on either side of a lane, I said to him, "It looks like there had 
been somebody here." He said, "Yes, and a good many are here 
yet," referring to the dead lying there on the ground. 

"He enquired, "Do you know what two regiments came up 
here in front of and on the right of this lane?" I said "Yes, they 
were my regiment, the 46th Indiana, and the 29th Wisconsin." 
He said, "You alls don't miss a shot, do you?" I said, "Oh, yes, 
we miss a good many." Going down the lane we met a lot of 
General Price's cavalry. We stepped to the side of the road to 
let them pass, when a great, big, uncouth reprobate rode up to 
me, and with an oath demanded my canteen. My captor, who 
now became my protector, told me to keep my canteen, for I 
would need it, and told the trooper, "If you want a canteen, go 
and hunt one, for you won't get that one." That enraged him, 
and with another string of oaths pulled his revolver and swore he 
would shoot hell out of me if I did not give it up. I said, "Gen- 
tlemen, I hope you will settle this satisfactorily between your- 
selves." My brave little man now stepped in front of me, told 
the cavalryman to get out of there or he would shoot him off his 
horse. He went, and I was glad of it. While we were waiting 
for Price's men to go by, I could look over the field where our lit- 
tle brigade of 1200 men had fought for two or three hours against 
twice their number. A mile beyond we passed over the battle- 
field where the gallant little third division of 2,500 men fought 
three times their number for four hours, when they were sur- 
rounded, just the way they did us in the afternoon. It was a 
costly victory for the rebs. 

I had a chance to see, as we passed over the battlefield. 

When we got to Mansfield it was about dark. My guard put 
me into the court house, bid me good bye and went away. About 
100 of us were put upstairs, where we stood up all night, no place 


to lie down. Next morning about 8 o'clock they lined up all 
prisoners and started for Camp Ford, near Tyler, Texas. There 
were about 1200 in the squad. We had not had a thing to eat 
since the night of the 7th, and this was the 9th. About two 
miles from town we came to their commissary department. 
Stopped ten or fifteen minutes. There were wagon loads and 
tons of corn meal there, and many men baking corn bread. Say, 
mister, it smelled good. We bad orders not to step outside the 
road. I saw a pleasant-faced Johnnie standing looking at us. 
He stooped and picked up an arm-load of corn dodgers, about a 
foot long and three inches thick. He walked out to the roadside, 
about ten feet fron where I stood, broke them and tossed them 
among us, then laughed to see us go for them. 1 got half a loaf, 
but divided it till I did not have much left. The line of march 
was again taken up. All that long, weary day until near night, 
having marched twenty-four miles. About ten o'clock a little 
wood, one-half pint of musty corn meal and a small piece of saft 
beef were issued to each man, and one baking pan to one hun- 
dred men. No salt. I cut some of the salt meat in small pieces, 
put it in my tin cup with water, set it on the fire, stirred in some 
ruea!, making a half-pint of half-cooked mush, a pretty good sup- 
per after two days without a bite of anything. About midnight 
I was ready for bed, which consisted of a space of cold ground, on 
which we were packed like sardines in a box, except that we 
didn't lay on top of one another, and with the kind admonition 
that anyone who raised his head or attempted to get up without 
calling the guard would be shot then and there. Next morning 
we started at daybreak, and this was the routine we went through 
for about twelve or fifteen days, when we arrived at Camp Ford, 
where we were turned in and told to make ourselves comfortable. 
Many incidents occurred on that long, weary march. We stopped 
at a little town near the Louisiana line, called Keechi, appar- 
ently a county seat. There was a high wooden fence along the 
road, which was lined with hundreds of women, old and young, 
while the whole face of the lot inside was covered with children. 
A young artilleryman stood near the fence and to whom a young 
woman took special dislike. After calling him all kinds of names, 
she said, "if I was close enough to you I would cut your throat." 
Then h<> said something. The guard made him shut up. A few 
days after that a man gave out, when a guard put a rope around 
his neck, tied it to the horn of his saddle and dragged him through 
sand several hundred yards. He was an awful looking sight. We 
passed on and I don't know what became of him. The guards 
seemed to enjoy our suffering. Inside of Camp Ford was a dreary 
place. Not a thing to eat that day. Next day we received a pint 
of old meal, which was alive with small, black bugs. Nothing 


to cock it in. I had the mush business down pretty fine and 
wsnt at it. Meal next day aud some smoked hogs' heads. I 
never saw any other part of the hogs. I don't think there were 
any. We used to catch some up in Arkansas, of that kind, and 
when we dressed them and cut the head off, the hog was about 
aii gone. The stockade was about twelve feet high, enclosing six 
acres, about four of which were aliowed for use of the prisoners. 
In that prison we met some of our old friends. Doc Collins, John 
Barnett, Phil Venters, Dave Clemans and others of the 26th Ind., 
who had been captured in September, 1883. We were all glad to 
see each other, but could not tell why. This was a sorry place. 
Half rations of "buggy" meal, a little chunk of fly-blown freth 
beef once a day, sometimes, the bare ground to lay on and noth- 
ing but the sky overhead. Few days went by that some "yank" 
did not bite the dust. The guards could make any excuse they 
liked, or none at all. One day the adjutant of the camp came in 
at roll call, and wishing to pass through the line, and without 
saying a word, struck one of the men across the mouth, knocked 
his teeth out and cut his face badly. This was done with a big 
navy revolver which he carried in his hand. 

The commanding officer at Camp Ford, Lieut. Col. Borders, 
was an Englishman; a very low type of man, who seemed to 
take a fiendish delight in torturing prisoners. There was a cap- 
tain of one of the companies of that regiment, whose name was 
Mo&ely, who seemed to be a kind-hearted man. He would come 
into the prison, walk all through it, stop and look around, then 
go on. Often stopped at or near our quarters. One day, while 
standing there, he called to me. I approached, saluted and said, 
"Good morning, Captain," wondering what would happen. He 
asked me my name and regiment to which I belonged. I told 
him. We had taken a seat on an old log, when the following con- 
versation occurred: "How are you getting along in here?" I said, 
"Captain, I have seen some hard service, but this is the toughest 
place I ever got into. The worst feature is that we don't have 
half enough to eat." He said, "I feel sorry for you ail," and I 
believe he meant it. "How would you like to go out and stay 
with me? You can eat at my table and have a good bed. I will 
give you a pass and you may have my horse to ride around the 
country when you want." 1 said, "I don't know, I never thought 
of such a thing." "Well, you think it over. Good morning," 
and he went out. When he came in again we sat down on the 
log, talked about various things, when he said, "Now, I don't 
ask you to desert or do a dishonorable act of any kind. I just 
want you with me for company. 1 may tell you some things 
later." I said, "Captain, I thank you very much for your kind 
offer. I know I would fare much better, but I have been with 


my company and regiment every day since I left Indiana in 1861, 
and I don't care to break the record if I can help it. I don't 
think I can go." Then he went outside to his camp. The boys 
asked me what we were talking about so much. I told them all 
the captain said to me. They asked if I were going out. I said 
"No, I am not." There was a man in our company by the name 
of McVoke. He said, "Tell the captain I will go out with him." 
In a few days the captain came in and said to me, after we had 
talked awhile, "Well, Yank, are you going out with me this morn- 
ing?" I said, "Please excuse me, I believe I will not go, but 
there is a man here who would like to go." "Where is he?" I 
pointed him out. "Call him here." I did so, and introduced 
him, then walked away. When the captain had gone, Mc said, 
"I am going in the morning," which he did. I think he was 
gone one day and night and next day till ten o'clock. He didn't 
suit. I didn't think he would. The captain never asked me any 
more, though he said one time, "I've got a good place out there 
for the right man." Came to see me occasionally as long as we 
stayed there. I never knew but one traitor in all the prisons I 
was in and the Rebs took him out and kept him where we could 
not get him. 

Nearly everybody was sick or feeling badly. Some starved to 
death, a majority of those who died passed out in the night, often 
without a friend or comrade near. Many of the prisoners had 
been stripped almost entirely of their clothing. There were hun- 
dreds who had not a stitch of clothing except a pair of cotton 
drawers; hat, coat, shirt, pants, socks, shoes, all gone. In July 
hundreds of prisoners took sore eyes, myself included. No medi- 
cal aid of any kind could we get. A brute they called a doctor 
came in every week or two and issued ten curses to every dose of 
medicine. The old villain vaccinated a lot of the boys and some 
of them very nearly lost their arms. He wanted to fix me up, 
but I showed him a big scar on my arm and he let me go. Some 
of those afflicted with sore eyes went entirely blind for awhile. I 
was very nearly there myself, though we all recovered, more or 
less. However, I have been practically unable to see out of my 
left eye since July, 1864. 

Along in the month of June there was an old Johnnie who 
used to drive into the rebel camp two or three times a week with 
a load of produce, such as meal, cabbage, meat, sugar, potatoes, 
etc., different things at different times. I had noticed several 
times that there seemed to be quite a commotion in their camp. 
One day they had a big racket with him. I learned this after- 
ward. They drove him out of their camp and told him to go and 
sell to the Yanks; not on account of their love for us, but by 
reason of their hatred for him, and with the hope and expecta- 


tion that we would clean him out. Wait a minute. He drove 
into our camp and stopped on what we called Main street. It 
wasn't a minute until his wagon was covered with swarms of 
hungry Yanks. We could not have afforded to buy his stuff at 
the prices if we had the money, all of which we didn't have. In- 
side of five minutes we had a job put up on him. Our old orderly 
sergeant, John VanMeter got on a stump. When he dropped his 
hat everything was to come loose. The neck-yoke taken off, 
hame strings and belly bands cut loose, lynch pins out and wheels 
off. All ready, down went the hat. Just then the old fellow 
smelled a mice, but it was too late. Somebody had moved the 
previous question. Everybody sailed in and in less than two 
minutes there was not one of that mob in sight, and not an ounce 
of anything eatable in that wagon. The old Johnnie had not a 
thing on except his pants and shoes. He jumped up and down 
and swore a blue streak. That didn't bother us any. The Rebs, 
on the outside, were watching us, and such a yell as they raised 
only old soldiers ever heard, but in order to keep up appearances 
they sent a guard of twenty-five or thirty men to search the 
camp. They didn't find anything and did not try very hard. I 
got a cabbage head, but had it buried before they got there. The 
old man never came back any more. 

About the 15th of August there were about 500 men taken out 
of this "camp" and ordered to Camp Groce, 200 miles south. 
They were taken promiscuously from this camp, except our regi- 
ment, who were all taken except four or five, who were either 
sick or unable to see to walk. We had about ten minutes' notice 
to get out of there, and not having drawn rations, had nothing to 
eat that day, but we were getting familiar with that. 

This march was Dot nearly so disagreeable as the former one. 
The guards were nearly all reasonably kind-hearted. We could 
tell the difference quick. A soldier of the 29th Wisconsin, who 
was along, and I, had for some time been quite "chummy." On 
the second day he found a cousin of his among the guards. I 
managed to get an introduction to him, which came good to me 
later. He proved to be a good Union man, and said there were a 
good many others in that little regiment of 250 men. My shoes 
had given out and I had by some means got a pair of coarse shoes 
from the rebs. One of them made a sore on my left foot, the scar 
of which is there today. This happened before leaving Camp 
Ford. I made that 200-mile march barefoot, and there were 
others. After three or four days' march, one afternoon my foot 
gave out. The captain saw my foot and told me to like down by 
the roadside until the wagon-master came along. I lay there an 
hour or more. The rear guard came along and asked what I was 
doing there. Told them and showed them my foot. They said 


"he is all right, couldn't run away if he wanted to. The wagon- 
master will be along soon. He will let you ride." As good luck 
would have it my Wisconsin friend was wagon-master that day. 
He rode up and said, "Yank, what's the matter?" I told him. 
He ordered one of the teamsters to stop and told me to get on the 
wagon. I went to climb on, when the teamster pulled his gun 
and swore he would shoot me ofl faster than I could get on. The 
wagon-master put his gun to his shoulder and again ordered me 
to get on, and on I got. He told me to ride till we went into camp 
at night, if I wanted to, and if I was molested in any way, there 
would be a new driver on that team tomorrow. I rode about 
three hours when the team stopped. I think the column halted 
for a rest. I was suspicious of that fellow, so got ofl' and walked 
the balance of the way. Arrived at the stockade about the 25th 
of August. There were about 150 prisoners there when we ar- 
rived and they were in a deplorable condition. Before November 
eighty or ninety of them had died. The men transferred from 
Camp Ford rapidly fell sick and by the middle of September 
there were not 100 well men in camp. Many were crazed with 
fever, and many, after a night of horror, would wake in the 
morning to find their bunk mate dead by their side. On account 
of yellow fever at Houston, Texas, the prisoners were removed 
twenty-five miles west of the Brazos river, on a low, damp piece 
of ground. There the men died off like flies. Poor grub, filthy 
water, the wet, cold ground to sleep on, nothing except the rags 
they had on to keep them warm. No wonder they died. About 
October 1st they moved us again, twenty-five miles to, or beyond, 
Chapel Hill, on the Houston & Central railroad. Fifteen died on 
the way. That was the worst place we ever got into, on the bank 
of a creek between two hills, in almost a mud hole. Those of us 
who could walk had to go about a mile, almost every day, husk 
corn and shell it. When it was ground, or cracked in an old 
horse mill, it was hauled to camp. I don't think we drew any 
meat while there. 

One night there came a big rain and raised the creek. Next 
morning there were over twenty lying dead on the ground. There 
was no excuse for this, as there were sheds and houses near that 
would have sheltered 1,500 people, having been built for camp 
meeting purposes. The guards used what room they wanted, the 
balance stood vacant. About the last of November we moved 
back to Camp Groce. Forty-five days before, we left there with 
650 men. Returned with 440. 

We had to cross a creek about forty feet wide and about waist 
deep to me. The water was very cold and current swift. The 
guards had rode their horses in the creek about twenty feet below 
the ford, forming a solid line across the stream. This was for the 


purpose of stopping those who could not stand the current and 
floated down to the horses, which they could hold to and help 
themselves across. Borne of the stronger men carried one and 
some two of the sick and weak ones across the stream. I was the 
only one who carried three. Went back after the fourth, but 
could not make it, and we floated down to the horses and got 
across. They then loaded us on flat cars, many of us wet all over 
and with a cold north wind blowing, it seemed as though we 
could not stand it, but we did. When we came to an up-grade 
those who were able, and some who were not, had to get off and 
push until we got over the hill. Many were barefoot and it took 
us several days to get the sand-burs out of our feet after reaching 
Camp Groce, which was thirty miles from Chapel Hill, where we 
got on the cars. 

Remained there until the 5th of December, when 342 men 
and officers were paroled, including all who were there of the 
46th Indiana. Were taken to Galveston and put in a large cotton 
warehouse. Got there at four p. m. Waul's Legion, 2d Texas, 
were then at Galveston doing guard duty. They were the same 
regiment that lay in front of the 46th Indiana at the siege of 
Vicksburg and who came over into our camp after the surrender, 
and we entertained them for an hour, and fed them all they could 
eat. They had new gray uniforms and were a nice looking lot of 
fellows. There was a sergeant, a man of forty years, came up to 
me and said, "Yank, I believe I know you." I said, "Like as 
not, I've been around some." Said he, "Wasn't you at Vicks- 
burg?" "Yes." "Where did you lie?" I told him. "Do you 
know who was in front of you?" "Yes, Waul's Legion, 2d 
Texas." "Do you remember feeding us after the surrender." 
"Yes." "Well, we haven't forgotten you; are you hungry?" 
"Yes, I have been hungry ever since the 7th of last April." He 
went back to their camp, and with a lot of other Rebs brought 
over arm loads of corn bread. He said, "Help yourselves, boys, 
this is all we have on hand." 

The guards allowed us to stay up and talk with them till 11 
o'clock, and had a good visit. Among other things they said 
they never expected to be captured again, but if they were they 
hoped the 46th Indiana would get them. Next morning they 
went down to the wharf with us, and gave us a hearty hand- 
shake and kind good-bye. Got aboard a vessel which was wait- 
ing and steamed out into the gulf, where Uncle Sam had the 
steamer "Clifton," of New York, riding at anchor. Ran along- 
side and made fast. A gangway was placed across at which a 
guard was stationed. The Reb officers went over and were gone 
an hour. I supposed they were in the cabin, taking something. 
The boys, when they saw the old flag, cheered till they were 


hoarse, cried and acted like children who had got back home. 
Some of them rushed past the guard, but were compelled to re- 
turn till the officers got through with their "toot." 

At last we got started for New Orleans. One of Co. B died 
and we buried him in the gulf. For many days we were allowed 
a stipulated amount to eat, and no more. From New Orleans up 
trie river to Cairo, 111., thence to Indianapolis, and then home, 
where I arrived about six o'clock p. m., December 31, 1864. My 
folks did not know I was coming. I sat in the house and talked 
with them half an hour before they knew who I was, and then 
only by reason of the questions they asked me. We had turkey 
for dinner New Year's day, the best meal I had eaten since I left 
home, over three years before. I had a good visit at home and 
among my old neighbors until about the first of February, when 
I went to the regiment at Lexington, Ky. 

From there we went to Louisville, Ky., and were mustered 
out September 4, 1865, that being the close of my military his- 
tory, having, as I said before, passed from February, 1862, up to 
April, 1864. 

I want to give you a price list of a few articles at Camp Ford, 

Flour $300 per barrel, chickens $30 and $40 apiece, sugar $10 
and $12 per pound, melons $10 each, cabbage $1 to $2 per head, 
meal $30 per bushel, tobacco 50c for a piece one inch square. You 
could buy what they called "Pheasant Tail," natural leaf twist, 
from $3 to $5 per twist. 

Believing the present generation never saw, nor read, a mili- 
tary parole, 1 herewith submit a verbatim copy of the parole 
signed by me December 5, 1864, a day or two before we left our 
last prison pen. I have the original, retained by me, now in my 
possession, and from which this is copied. 

Camp Groce, near Hemstead, Texas, 1864. 

To all whom it may concern: 

Know ye, that I, J. Stallard, a private of Co. K, Regiment 
46th Indiana, U. S. A., being a prisoner of war in the hands of 
the Confederate States forces, in virtue of the surrender of myself 
at Mansfield on the 8th day of April, 1864, do give this my solemn 
parole, under oath: 

That I will not take up arms again against the Cedfederate 
States of America, nor serve in any military, police or constabu- 
lary force, in any fort, garrison or field work, held by the United 
States of America against the Confederate States of America; nor 
as guard of any prisoners, depots or stores, nor discharge any 


duties usually performed by officers or soldiers, against the Con- 
federate States of America, until duly exchanged by proper 

J. Stallard, Co. K, 46th Ind. 
Sworn to and subscribed before me, at Groce, near Hemp- 
stead, Texas, this 5th day of December, 1864. 

George N. Buchett, Jr., Paroling Officer. 
Witness: W. M. DeHart, 

Captain 46th Ind. Vols. 

There were twelve of my company taken prisoners, only four 
of whom, besides myself, I know to be living: George Moore, 
Athens, Ind.; Wm. Kreighbaum, Akron, Ind.; Samuel Johnson, 
Sugar Grove, Ind., and Elmore Shelt, Soldiers' Home, Marion, 
Ind. They will, if they see this, recognize it at once. 

As this is my first appearance, I assure you it will be my last,, 
and hoping I have not overtaxed your patience, I bid you good- 



A Series of Stories 
by Old Settlers of 
Fulton County, 

The first volume of %i Honie Folks' 1 '' becaine so popular that it is 
deemed best to put another series in book form. The individuality 
and originality of each writer has been carefully preserved, that 
the reader may come in closer touch with the one who describes peo- 
ple and events of the long ago. This volume contains valuable his- 
tory of a personal character, besides that of various organisations 
in Rochester, which have assumed magnificent proportions from 
insignificant beginnings, showing the steady progress of our citizen- 
ship toward greater things, as we climb the ladder of time. 



Volume II 

Pedagogues and Pupils by William H. Banta 1 

Echo From the Pacific by John A. Hickman 8 

Game Hunting Stories by William A. Barker 16 

Fulton County's Tribute (to Civil War) 20 

by Augustus G. Sinks 

History of Brass Bands by William W. Rannells 35 

Incidents of Boyhood Days by David W. Shryock 49 

Picked Up From Others by Ancil B. Hall 57 

Story of a Preacher by Rev. Samuel McNeely 60 

Retrospective Remarks by Ben Franklin Brown 64 

Knights of Pythias History by Isaac W. Brown 72 

Fulton County Odd Fellows by Dell Kesler 79 

Incidents of Bridal Days by Mrs. Charles K. Shryock 84 

Training to be Soldiers by Dr. John E. Brackett 88 

A Little History of Home Folks 106 

About Marguerite Miller - the Author by Shirley Willard 108 

Marguerite Miller - Chautauqua Speaker 113 


What the Papers Say 114 

01' October by Marguerite Miller 115 

Going Round the Square by Albert W. Bitters 116 

The Editor's Evening Prayer by Albert W. Bitters 120 



Schools and Practice at a Period When "Lidon' 
and Learnin' " Joined Forces. 


HAVE NOTICED that most of the writers of the "pioneer 
- 1 - stories" have given, mainly, the chief events in their own 
lives. In this short sketch I shall omit all the principal events 
of my own life and merely mention those things which seem 
necessary to an understanding of the subject in hand. 

I began my career as a seeker of knowledge in a little log 
school house on the banks of a small stream in Bartholomew 
county, Indiana, about fifty-eight years ago next winter. My 
father moved from Ohio to Indiana, where he owned a small 
farm, when I was but three months of age. We remained there 
until I was nine years of age, at which time we returned to Ohio 
and I was soon a pupil in a district school in the Buckeye state. 

I prefer, at present, to give some notion of the little Indiana 
school, for I believe it typical of the schools of that day. The 
house had two long, narrow windows, one on each side, running 
horizontally. Along each window was a broad board, slightly 
inclined, thus forming writing desks for the large boys and girls. 
In front of these desks were placed rough, backless benches, on 
which the writers sat. The ink and pens were often prepared at 
home, but quills from the wings of geese were kept on hand in 
the school house. The pen and holder were made of one quill, 
and one of the essential qualifications of the "master" was the 
ability to make a good pen. The smaller children were never 
permitted to occupy the benches in front of the writing desks. 
In fact it was considered a waste of time to try to teach the 
young pupils how to write. Those of us who did not write sat on 
well hewed puncheon benches, each having four legs fastened into 


holes bored into the wood. These were very uncomfortable, be- 
cause they were all too high for the little folks, and having no 
rests for the back, and the feet lacking fully six inches of reach- 
ing the floor, it will readily be seen that the little tads wno were 
compelled to sit there by the hour, with the bend in their backs 
corresponding to the bow in their legs, soon fairly well repre- 
sented the letter S. How we came out of it with sound bodies I 
do not know. The recitations, with the exceptions of spelling 
and reading classes, were entirely individual. The little "scholar" 
who was learning the alphabet was called up to the teacher, and 
standing by his knee had the various letters pointed out to him, 
and after puzzling for some time, he was sent to the bench or 
made to stand in the corner and study his lesson. 

Just think of it. Can it be possible that the teacher of that 
day thought the little abecedarian could study his lesson? For- 
tunately my mother had taught me the "letters" at home, so that 
I began by trying to learn in the "a-be-abs." I soon committed 
them to memory, that being my only "sludy," and, of course, 
found time for other matters not in the books, even in this day of 
educational "fadism." Do you wonder that an active and 
healthy lad of the mature age of five years, found many amusing 
things to occupy his time? As a result of that ability to "see 
things," I well remember how the fun changed when the beech 
gad wound around the legs and gave a sound something like the 
crack of a pistol. Well, although the master kept his whip in 
his hand from morning till night, we soon became so familiar 
with it that we took many risks, and gave heed to it only when 
we heard the keen crack as it wrapped around the legs of the 
luckless lads who were unable to keep back the "giggle." Why! 
to laugh out loud was a serious misdemeanor, and to pinch or 
tickle your neighbor was a heinous crime. When whipping did 
not suffice to cure the mischievous tendency, boys, and even girls, 
were sometimes tied to the door-latch or to a bench-leg. I have 
also known both boys and girls to be compelled to sit on the floor 
or stand in a bent position for what now seems to me to have been 
an hour at a time. Nor did the teacher of that school hesitate to 
use the whip across the shoulders of the girls. Notwithstanding 
all this useless harshness the ordtr was seldom good, except while 
we were watching the "infliction" of severe punishment upon 
some hapless offender. 

As to the course of study, a few words should be said. Arith- 
metic, reading, writing and spelling occupied most of the time, 
although I remember seeing an atlas brought to school by one 
large boy. The spelling for "head marks" was very interesting 
and useful. To be a good speller or a good reader was always a 
mark of distinction. It ought to be so today. There was some 


advantage, I believe, in the method of individual teaching. Each 
one tried his best to master his lesson without aid, and when un- 
able to proceed the teacher's suggestion was timely and of practi- 
cal value. 

Some of the teachers of those days were mentally and physi- 
cally strong. Of course, there were others who were very poorly 
qualified and were allowed to "keep school" because they were of 
little value for anything else. Results, in such cases, were unsat- 
isfactory. Methods of discipline, however, worked moreevi', it 
seems to me, than any other feature of the old Koosier school. 

Soon after attending this first school for me, my fathar put 
me in a small private school in which was an old time school 
mistress. She was a terror to evil doers. She kept on one side of 
the room a series of six dunce blocks, and had six paper caps 
about one foot in height, and printed across the front of each cap 
was the word "Fool," in large letters. I have many times seen 
these stools fully occupied. My fear of being compelled to wear 
one of these caps was my terror by day, and the burden of my 
dreams at night. Although I try to practice the Christian virtues 
and always aim to forgive those who wrong me, I feel a hatred 
rankling in my heart against that woman. I never was placed 
on one of those blocks, but I lived in mortal fear of it constantly. 
Such means of government was, is and always will be vicious, de- 
giading and despicable. Though not in the same way, the same 
method is still used to a great extent by some of our modern 
teachers, who are totally unworthy of their high calling. 

The relation of the old-time "master" to the school was 
unique. In the school was usually severe and tyrannical, but at 
all other times and in all other places you felt that he was your 
friend and willing helper. (Not so, my old school ma'am; she 
was not good.) From this fact you came in time to feel that his 
severity was considered a necessity and merely veiled for the time 
a good, kind heart. In the days when "lickin' and larnin' " went 
hand in hand the "master" was co spelled to maintain his repu- 
tation for both. His complete ignorance of method and his usual 
contempt for college training makes the pioneer teacher appear 
to the modern critic as a much weaker educational force than he 
really was. His practical knowledge of the "Three Rs" enabled 
him to do much toward laying a good foundation for a sound edu- 
cation. Although the elementary studies were taught by "main 
strength and awkwardness," they were taught, and on that foun- 
dation the greatest men of this nation built educational structures 
that have never been excelled. 

Many incidents and experiences might be related, that would 
show more clearly the character of the schools of more than half 
a century ago, but at present I prefer to pass over all my exper- 


iences, both as a pupil and as a country school teacher, and make 
my debut as first assistant in the Rochester schools, when I wore 
my first mustache, and on all public occasions had great difficulty 
in properly placing my hands and my feet, to say nothing of at- 
tempting to control the tendency of the red blood to tingle in my 
face, even to the tip of my nose and the very roots of my hair. 

I came to Rochester early in September, 1867. James McAfee 
had been elected to the principalship of the schools, and I was to 
be first assistant. Our trip overland from Peru to Rochester I 
pass over at present, because a description of it would occupy too 
much space for the interest it would add. Suffice it to say we ar- 
rived the next day after our start from Peru, having spent the 
night with Mr. McMahan, father of John McMahan, who lived 
on the farm now occupied by Lon Carithers. We walked to town 
that morning and stopped at the Continental Hotel, kept by Mr. 
VanDusen, but soon took up our residence at the home of Rev. 
N. L. Lord. I was about as bashful and verdant a youth as ever 
took a position in the town schools of Indiana. The school board 
were Rev. N. L. Lord, William Sturgeon and Jonathan Davson. 
I doubt if Rochester has ever had a more competent, painstaking 
and faithful school board. They had employed Mr. McAfee at 
the suggestion and upon the recommendation of State Supt. Geo. 
W. Hoss. I had been attending the Normal school at Kokomo, 
and had met with some success as a district school teacher during 
three winter terms, one taught in Newton county, and the other 
two in Howard. I managed to attend school during the fall and 
spring terms, and taught three months in the winter. I con- 
cluded however, to seek a place to teach an entire nine months, 
in the hope of soon saving sufficient means to enable me to com- 
plete a course at Asbury University. 

Hearing of the possibility of getting a place in Rochester, I 
made application and was elected. We began in the fall with a 
subscription school and did very well, but the regularity of our 
pay, during the time the public money lasted, was much more at- 
tractive. We enrolled, during the year, some three hundred 
pupils. I had about sixty boys and girls in my room, and did my 
level best to teach grammar, geography, arithmetic, reading, 
writing and spelling. I believe I succeeded fairly well in every- 
thing except writing. There were two boys in school who I be- 
lieve had taken lessons of Prof. W. H. Green, and both of them 
were much better writers than I. However, I had taken a course 
in penmanship while at Kokomo, of one William Scribner, and 
understood the principles pretty well, and although we did not 
always agree as to slants, shades, crosses, etc., I carried the work 
through seemingly to the satisfaction of the principal and scholars. 
The two young men who were so good in penmanship, and at first 


cast some disparagment on my work in that branch, were Nelson 
O. Hunter and John (J. Pearson, both of whom became very 
warm friends of mine, so far as I know, are so to this day. Of 
the sixty pupils enrolled in my department that winter, I believe 
I could with but little difficulty recall their names. 

At the end of the first year Mr. McAfee took charge of the 
Huntington schools, and I became principal at Rochester. This 
gave me charge of the high school department, and I thus greatly 
enlarged my acquaintance among the older boys and girls. I 
transferred a large number of those who had been with me the 
last year, and hence had more students than the seats would ac- 
commodate. We brought in chairs, benches, tables, and filled 
every availaule foot of floor space. I also remember that one P. 
O. Jones, now a lawyer in Plymouth, occupied my chair at my 
desk. The fact is I had no time to use the chair and felt that it 
ought to be occupied. The crowded condition made the work 
very difficult, and although the order was not as good as I have 
seen, it did very well, and the students made good progress. 

Although I realize that my scholastic attainments were rather 
meagre, 1 had one very essential qualification, viz: I always had 
the courage of my convictions. Boys who had a tendency to do 
mischief were pretty cautious and seldom went beyond the limit 
of endurance. Whenever that did happen, I regret even now to 
say that the four-foot gad was used with considerable severity. I 
do not believe, however, that I ever iucurred the permanent ill 
will of my pupils during the entire three years of my service in 
the Rochester schools. 1 can now see what ridiculous blunders 1 
made, but for all that, those were three of the happiest years of 
my life. 

Among those who helped with the teaching during those 
years were Christopher Fitzgerald, Angie Moore, Sydney Moon, 
Mollie Ewing, Emma Ford, Sallie J. Banta, George Tipton and 
two or three others whose names I do not now recall. Many of 
them were teachers of good qualification and met with reasona- 
bly good success. But my intention was to describe with some 
carefulness the work done in the schools at that time and the suc- 
cess attained. What there was in the schools of that day that re- 
sulted well, and wherein lay their great weakness, are matters 
worthy of study. 

I believe I had the honor of introducing written examina- 
tions and extensive written work in preparation of lessons in 
Rochester. I was then a student of the Kokomo normal school 
and had been instructed in the so-called "Normal Methods" that 
had just come to be famous in New York and Massachusetts. My 
instructors were Prof. E. N. Fay and Miss Anna Smith, both of 
Boston. They were superior teachers and I tried hard to profit 


by their instruction. They gave me careful training in methods 
of teaching, reading, grammar, arithmetic and geography. I had 
also had some work in history, physiology, natural philosophy, 
rhetoric, elementary astronomy and algebra. I was also at that 
time a private student of Latin and geometry, with Rev. N. L. 
Lord. I likewise took up the study of German with a Mr. Rich- 
ter. Rev. Lord also directed all my reading during the three 
years of my stay in Rochester. (In all my life I have never 
known a nobler man or a better instructor than Mr. Lord.) 1 
mention all these details in order that the reader of this sketch 
may know the length and breadth of my qualification for the 
work I had undertaken. The great amount of writing required 
of the students was of great value in at least two respects, it 
tended to thoroughness and accuracy in the work of students, and 
it kept them so very busy that most of the usual school mischief 
was obviated. Boys and girls who did all the work assigned had 
but little time for anything else. I also called a "deportment 
roll." Some of the responses were honest, but keen observation 
taught me that the desire for a good report often overcame con- 
scientious scruples. We made great use of the blackboards and 
by their means were able to know the strength and weakness of 
pupils in mathematics. Map drawing was taught in the geog- 
raphy according to the system introduced into Indiana by a Mr. 
Apgar, of New Jersey. This means of learning geography, while 
it may have been a step in advance of the old "singing method," 
was carried to such an extreme as greatly to mar its usefulness. 
In history those getting highest grades were those having the best 
ability to memorize the text. The same could be said of the work 
in rhetoric. I find nothing in this method to commend. The les- 
sons in spelling were both written and oral. Most of the analysis 
and parsing were written and the books carefully criticised. 
While possibly too much time was devoted to arithmetic and 
algebra, it roust not be thought that other branches were neg- 

We also had what we called "Rhetoric Exercises," on Friday 
afternoons. Many of the students became good declaimers, and 
I now remember some whose compositions showed real literary 
talent. I believe I have never known better work done in history 
and rhetoric than was done by a few young ladies whose names I 
could mention, were it not that the name of some worthy one 
might be omitted. That same class of girls are uow among the 
most intelligent, high-minded and noble-hearted women in the 
communities in which they reside. Their lives have been greatly 
blessed, and one of the proudest memories of my early teaching 
is that of the sincere friendship and kindly helpfulness given me 
so freely in my great bashfulness and awkwardness by these same 
noble-hearted girls. 


Now it can be seen tint our school was not disturbed by any 
of the fads and fancies of many of the schools of today, nor was 
it taught according to the best pedagogical methods, and hence 
the scholarship may not have been as broad as that gained in 
present day schools, but if the chief business of schools is to "make 
men and women," then the schools of 1867-70 will not suffer by 
any comparison with Rochester schools from that day to this. 

The spirit of the school, the constant knowledge that it is im- 
portant to lay well the foundations of learning, the cultivation of 
self-reliance, and the encouragement of all honest effort, are 
among the essentials that must characterize good school life. 
Without these, no matter how philosophic or modem your sys- 
tems of education, the results cannot be satisfactory. Because 
too mony of these fundamental elements are either neglected en- 
tirely or but feebly presented in present educational systems fur- 
nishes the reason for a multiplicity of failures found among the 
products of our schools. 


Former Resident of Fulton County Gives Some 
Fond Recollections. 



"T^TaVING READ the Old Settlors' stories of early days, and 

-" *- through solicitation of my better half, I am induced lo 

add my mite to the history of the place of my birth. 

Although I have traversed this continent from the Atlantic to 
the Pacific, and from the great lakes to the southern shores, and 
found many beautiful and *>ood places, I have carried with me a 
fond remembrance of the scenes of my childhood, where, in the 
earlier days, we lived in our humble log cabins, sometimes using 
greased paper for window lights. We had comparatively no facil- 
ities for learning what was going on around us, so knew no trouble 
except what happened in our own immediate neighborhood. 

Those were surely the days of contentment. But little cleared 
land was necessary for the production of a living, the land being 
new and well tilled. Climatic conditions were more favorable 
then, so that what we sowed we expected to reap. The chief 
products of the land were wheat, corn, buckwheat, and J might 
properly add pumpkins and other vegetables. Flax was grown 
in small quantities. But little cash was needed. Small grains 
were cut with a sickle, later with a cradle, threshed with a flail 
or tramped out by horses. There was no waste of anything. Our 
mothers and sisters made our clothing of wool and flax, from start 
to finish, swept their puncheon floors and dooryards with splint 
brooms, made of small hickory saplings. They did the house- 
work, milked the cows, and in some instances helped to till the 
land. There were few weakly girls then, and few idle boys. All 
worked. The necessary farming implements were one or two 
plows, hoes enough for the family, a sickle, a mowing sythe, a 
rake, a chopping ax or two, one cross-cut saw would do for a 



whole neighborhood; harrows were simply brush dragged over 
the ground. Some of the ground was so rooty that what we called 
jumping shovels had to be used. These were large single shovels 
with a rounding coulter or cutter, made fast to the beam, and ran 
down close to the point of the plow. When it struck a root it 
could not cut, it jumped over it, but it cut most of them. They 
were sometimes hard on shins. The coulter could be taken off 
and the plow then be used as a cultivator. Hogs could mature in 
the woods, ready to be put in the pen to be fed a short time, to 
harden the meat. 

The country abounded with the choicest wild fruits, such as 
the cranberry, which is a luxury today, the swamp huckleberry, 
which is unexcelled, the blackberry, which was better than the 
domestic berry of today, strawberries, plums aud grapes. Coupled 
wiih all this was the excellent maple sugar and syrup, something 
that we cannot get pure in the west. Wild meat was also plenti- 
ful, deer, squirrels, turkeys and many other birds and animals. I 
have killed, in two or three hours, and on a few acres of ground, 
about all the squirrels I wanted to carry out. 

All people were equal and happy. Talk about the difference 
between primitive ages and the pnsent, though we would not 
want to be set back to the former, we must admit that their man- 
ner of living, and lack of knowledge, was bliss compared with the 
life of today. 

It comes to my mind that as I have spoken of flax, the young 
reader might be interested in a description of how it was manu- 
factured in those days. In the fall, at a certain stage of its growth, 
it was pulled and thrown on the ground to rot. Thus the straw, 
or woody part, became brittle, but the lint, which in a sense was 
the bark, remained strong. When ready, the flax was taken up 
and thrown across what was called a flax break, which broke the 
flax into small bits. Then the broken flax was held across the 
end of a board which stood erect. A sword-shaped piece of wood 
was used to knock the straw from the lint, then came the hack- 
ling process. A hackle was a piece of wood, or board, with a 
number of very sharp steel teeth set in it. The lint was thrown 
on and drawn through these teeth until it was split in fine threads 
and separated from the course lint, which was called tow, then 
spun and wove. 

About the year 1833 my grandfather, A. C. Hickman, came 
from Virginia and settled in Marshall county, on the Michigan 
road, his being oue of only three white families between Roches- 
ter and Plymouth. My father, L. H. Hickman, was then eight 
years of age. His playmates, for some years, w T ere Indian boys. 
They were peaceable, but treacherous at times. One night they 
came to my grandfather's cabin to kill him. It had only one 


door and one small window. They tried the door, but, finding it 
hard to move, they went to the window. Grandfather stood 
there with ax in hand, intending to chop heads off as fast as they 
were put through, but they did not gain an entrance and went 
away. Next day he went to the chief, and found that they 
thought he was on their land. He explained the matter to him 
satisfactorily, but later some of them found that grandfather kept 
whiskey about the house. One day he was away from home. A 
large Indian, by the name of Keenuck, came to the cabin and de- 
manded whiskey. Grandmother, feeling compelled to do so, gave 
him whiskey. He staid there the rest of the day, bothering her 
all he could. When grandfather came home in the evening, Kee- 
nuck lay acroos the hearth in front of the fireplace, pretending to 
be asleep. After hearing what had happened, he said, "Let me 
get a bite of supper and I will show him how to come around 
here." At that moment Keenuck jumped up and said, "By God, 
me just as good a man as Hickman." They came together. 
Grandfather was a small, frail man, but he had the grit and was 
a good knocker. He soon had the Indian senseless on the floor 
and dragged him outside. Some time during the night he re- 
gained consciousness, got on his pony and rode away. Next day 
grandfather met him on the road and said to him, "Keenuck, 
what hurt you?" He replied, "Oh, pony throw me off." The 
lesson is that pioneer women had nerve, unlike the modern man 
or woman, they regarded such incidents as small matters. 

The second family was that of Michael Shore. He built a 
log house with two apartments, but under one roof. It was known 
as Shore's tavern. It was on the Michigan road, six and one-half 
miles north of Rochester. He was the grandfather of Perry Shore 
and Kline Shore, now in Rochester; two of his daughters are now 
in Portland, Oregon. The third family I do not remember. 

My grandfather moved from Marshall county to Fulton 
county, where he lived many years, the last few years of his life 
being spent in Rochester, in the mercantile business. At the age 
of nineteen years my father married Miss Amy Rogers. Some of 
her people live in Fulton county now. Fourteen months later I 
came on the scene. Was born on the 26th day of June, 1846, in 
Marshall county, close to the south line, about a mile west of the 
Michigan road. On this place occurred an event which I remem- 
ber as distinctly as though it was but yesterday, yet my mother 
always contended that it happened before 1 was born. Here it is. 
My father lay sick with a fever. A flock of wild turkeys came 
into the field near by. He called for his gun, raised on his elbow, 
and through an open window shot one of them. It ran into a 
thicket of briars near the house, and I helped my mother to catch 
it. Well, now I think I hear you say, "He must have a wonder- 


ful memory." 8uch things are liable to make such deep impres- 
sions on the young mind that they can hardly be erased. My 
father was a wagon maker by trade. Never staid long in one 
place. Always looking for a better location. We lived in Roch- 
ester, and at all points of the compass, around but near there, so 
lived on the place where I was born twice afterward. You can 
see how my mother could have been mistaken. Father built the 
truck on which was hauled the heavy timbers used in the con- 
struction of the iron forge built on Tippecanoe river, just above 
the Michigan road. This was about ttfty-fiv2 years ago. I was 
small then, but remember just how the truck looked when com- 
pleted. About that time Young Ralston built the first saw mill 
between Rochester and Plymouth. It was an up-and-down, or 
vertical saw. Could not cut clear through the log, so left a "stub- 
shot" on the rear end that had to be sawed off or split apart. 
There were no circular saws then. 

Also, about this time, the first telegraph line in the country 
was stretched along the Michigan road. Messages were dotted on 
paper, instead of being read by sound. This road was a stage 
route at that time. When these improvements were made the 
people thought the country was making great strides. People 
knew each other for miles around. Many of tnem were fanatically 
religious. My parents were Methodists. They attended church 
regularly and took me along with them, and although I thought 
as they did then, I noted many things. The meeting house, as 
we then called it, was a plain log structure, with puncheon floor, 
and benches made of the same material to sit upon. It was used 
for both school and church. The preacher who could make the 
most noise could get up the greatest excitement. All joined in 
singing hymns without instrumental music. Some of the old 
ladies would often shout and sometimes fall over and be carried 
out, but the world has changed and people have become more en- 
lightened on such subjects. 

My experience in the school room was on the Michigan road, 
about five and one-half miles north of Rochester. There I spelled 
v-i-p-e-r (snake) . I remember quite well that the rod was not 
spared, and that the spelling book was one of the principal text 
books, yet I never became master of it. 

I dare say that perhaps many of the young people of Fulton 
county would not believe that no longer ago than I can remember 
there were a multitude of swamps, lakes and springs in Fulton 
county, which are not there today. They bred billions of mos- 
quitos and the prevalent ague. I lived there long enough to see 
some of the swamps go dry, and some of the once quite large 
lakes fill up and grow over. I mowed wild grass some three miles 
southwest of Rochester, on the head of Mud creek prairie, on 


ground that lay within the boundary of what was a lake, per- 
haps a mile wide, the center of which had not yel grown over. 
There were some two or three acres there that was too thick to 
swim in and too thin to walk on. A variety of a willow grew 
out over the water, and the grass followed. Where I was mow- 
ing the ground could be shaken for many rods in all directions, by 
tramping upon it. I have since learned from good authority that 
most of the swamps are dry, some of them being burned to a 
depth of several feet, consequently many of the springs have 
gone, and more of the lakes have filled, been ditched, and are now 
being cultivated. lam led to believe that Jasper Packard, of (I 
believe) LaPorte, Ind., who was my colonel in the civil war, was 
right when he wrote that the water was gradually leaving the sur- 
face, that the earth would eventually become dry, and conse- 
quently dead, but I think there is yet some water in Manitou 

One w rite r speaks of the fabulous stories about the great mon- 
ster, or devil, and the fish that were caught and let go in the lake. 
Reminds me that I once did some fishing in that lake, myself. 
We then lived near the head of the lake. My grandfather Rogers, 
who was a great fisherman, lived with us. He kept a nice boat 
on the lake all the time. I frequently went with him at night. 
A torch was placed in the bow of the boat. One sat in the stern 
and rowed over ground which overflowed by the damming of the 
lake, to a depth of about three feet, the other would stand just 
behind the light and throw a spear into the fish as we passed 
them. We caught many nice ones, but did not let many go, 
neither did we see the devil, and I have serious doubts as to 
whether anyone will ever see him. I have swum the lake at its 
widest place. On one occasion I was in the lake swimming with 
two other boys about my age. If I am not mistaken, one was 
Hiram True, the name of the other was Richardson, who could 
not swim. We got into a boat, ran out some distance from shore, 
turned the boat upside down, then True and I would get under 
the boat and lay there until we consumed the air, theu would dive 
out, refill it with air and do the same thing over again, while 
Richardson sat on the boat with his bare back to the burning sun, 
he being afraid to get into the water. He was burned so badly 
that the skin peeled off from the back of his neck down. I have 
also skated from one end to the other of this lake. I remember 
that I was once skating there, in company with James Chapin, 
who started off briskly and cut his name in the ice with his skates, 
as perfectly as though it had been carved there. He was a fine 
fellow, and I believe was a clerk in the store of Robert Wallace 
at that time. 

I remember when the race was cut from the lake down to 


Rochester, where the mill was built, that afterward was owned 
by Hickman & Leiter, both uncles of mine. 1 also remember the 
wagon ioads of buffalo fish taken from the race, after drawing the 
water off. 

I remember too many names to mention all, so excuse me if I 
mention only those whom I remember as being there when Roch- 
ester was yet a small village. Sidney Keith and K. G. Shryock, 
attorneys at law; Jesse Shields, Robert Wallace and Levi Mer- 
cer, merchants; William Wallace, a miller; there were William 
Hill, A. K. Plank and Charles Praekett, physicians, and a man 
by the name of Johanna, who was proprietor of the first carding 
machine there and, by the way, a writing medium. Though a 
small boy, I assisted my lather in building the water wheel which 
drove that machine. Southeast of Rochester were the McClungs, 
the Steffeys, Frank Porter, John Pence, and a Mr. Stone, who, I 
believe, was step-father of Gus Sinks and his two sisters. North 
of Rochester were Young Ralston, David Ralston, Clarkson, 
David and Talbert Shore, William Hal I , John and James Robbins, 
Den Wilson, David Mow, Mart Reed and Joseph Jackson. I re- 
member David Mow as one of the best marshals of the day that 
I ever saw. When he mounted a horse, donned the red sash, he 
had a commanding way about him that always kept a procession 
in order. This reminds me that Jack Holmes was officiating in 
such a capacity when he was thrown from his horse, the fall 
bursting his heel, which caused his death. A wound in the heel 
is next to sure death, unless the foot is amputated. I have known 
several who were shot in the heel, and all proved fatal. 

When I can first remember, people there had only a few acres 
of cleared land each. I helped to burn, and make into rails, tim- 
ber that would now be w r orth more than the land. As time 
passed, people became more selfish, more antagonistic politically, 
and times became harder, on account of the so-called money then 
in use, called "wildcat bank notes." About the years fifty-eight 
and nine my father was in the grocery business for a time, and I 
was a clerk. We then took what was called a "Daily Detective," 
to tell us each day what money was good, and then it often hap- 
pened that we would take in money that was reported good that 
day, which would be worthless next morning. There was no gold 
and very little silver in circulation. Any man having a little 
property could start a bank, print his own notes, float a hundred 
thousand or more, put himself in a shape not "comeatable," and 
then go broke. This was the result, and about the terminus, of 
democratic rule. The coming into power of the republican parly, 
at the time it did, although very nearly five years of darkness fol- 
lowed, was certainly the salvation of the nation. They soon 
made money that everybody wanted. It could be laid away for 


a lifetime with safety, but then came the dark days of the rebel- 
lion. Sumter was bombarded. The young republicans and some 
of the democrats answered the call to arms, and most of them 
never returned. 

Now, the most of the men left at home were democrats, who 
sympathized with the south. What reason they could have had 
for doing so is more than I can tell. They seemed bent on mak- 
ing life miserable for the loyal people at home, especially women. 
They would quarrel with, and say all manner of mean things to 
the soldiers' wives, daughters, mothers and sisters, and tear down 
the stars and stripes that were hoisted by loyal women on public 
days. Some of these women actually ran them away from their 
homes with hot water. No one will ever know, except those hav- 
ing had the bitter experience, the trials of the loyal women 
during that awful struggle. It was enough to mourn for hus- 
bands and sons who had gone into the army. 

In the fall of '63 I entered the service, my father having gone 
a year before, in the 87th Ind. 1 enlisted in Company G, 128th 
Ind. Rendesvoused for the winter at Michigan City, Ind. While 
there I nursed Nelson Kirkendoll through a severe case of small- 
pox. Went to Georgia in the spring of '64, participated in all the 
battles of that campaign, under old Billy Sherman, as he was 
known by the boys, Columbia, Franklin and Nashville, Tenn., 
and Kinston, N. C. We followed Johnson's army, and he sur- 
rendered at Greensboro, N. C, which ended the war. We were 
in the city of Raleigh, N. C, a short time, and while there Lin- 
coln was assasinated. Safeguards were placed at all points of im- 
portance throughout the city, to prevent soldiers from burning it, 
or doing bodily harm to any one. It happened that I was sta- 
tioned at the residence of an old man, who taught Andrew John- 
son his trade, that of tailor. He seemed quite intelligent and free 
to talk. He pointed out the building in which they worked, and 
said that Andrew Johnson, at the age of nineteen, got into trouble 
there, and ran away. He did not then know the letters of the 
alphabet, but he went to Columbia, Tenn., where he married a 
widow, who educated him. I will say no more on this subject, 
for what I might write about the war would be like mentioning 
all the names of those I know in ludiana — it would make a book 
of itself, but will conclude with the events of the new day. 

On the 10th day of April, 1866, we were rrustered out of the 
service at Raleigh, N. C, and on the 20th day of the same month 
I arrived at home, four and one-half miles north of Rochester. I 
brought home with me several relics, among the most important 
was a Springfield rifle, which I took from under a dead confeder- 
ate at the battle of Franklin, Tenn. He was ramming the charge 
when shot dead and fell forward on the gun. I brought a silver 


penholder and gold point, which cost me three and one-half dol- 
lars. Now, there was one Rev. J. M. Donaldson, a Methodist 
minister, who preached in our neighborhood at intervals, and al- 
ways made my father's house his home while there. After a 
while he saw this pen, and straightway he wanted me to give it 
to him, but I said no. I kept it until late in the summer, when 
he again got after me. My parents interceded for him, saying 
that he needed it worse than I did, and [ yielded. Then my 
parents undertook to j.>ke me, by telling him that I would want 
to get married some time, and then I woulu be after him. "Very 
well," he said, "I will marry you for that." I said nothing, but 
resolved that minute that I would turn the joke on him, for all 
arrangements were previously made for that event, but myseif 
and intended onlv kne*v it. In due time [ sent him word that I 
would be there on the 30th day of December, 1868, to be married. 
My wife-to-be was Miss Mary M. Cole, reared by her uncle and 
aunt, Abial and Betsy Bush, who lived five miles north of Roch- 
ester. At the appointed time we were there. A goodly number 
of guests had gathered in to witness the ceremony. Amongthem 
was Lou fSpotts, as I then knew him, who, if I mistake not, was 
editor of the L T nion Spy, printed in Rochester, and I understand 
that he now edits a paper in Roann. After we were married and 
introduced in the new name, I said to Mr. Donaldson, "1 suppose 
you remember the understanding between you and I." He said he 
did, but I thought from his looks that he did not expect to be 
called on in that way. We then took our leave of them, and went 
on our way rejoicing back to Bush's, where a wedding supper 
awaited us. Rev. Donaldson was then on the Rochester work, 
living in the Methodist parsonage there. We remained in Fulton 
county until February, 1870, when we started westward to grow- 
up with the country, taking with us our only daughter, born to 
us in Hoosierdom. We took up our abode in Kansas, where we 
lived for some eighteen years. Four sous were born to us there. 
All are living and well. The babe is now about twenty-th'ee 
years of age. We were not "stuck on" Kansas, so in '88 1 came 
to Oregon. My family came to this state a year later, where we 
now live, and where we will probably remain the rest of our days, 
as there is no more going west, unless we take water. 


Incidents of the Chase in Union Township in an 
Early Day in Fulton County. 


IN THE YEAR 1847 my father moved from Ohio by wagon, 
and settled on the bank of Eel river, east of Twelve Mile, in 
Cass county, Ind. After living there some time, a stranger came 
to father's house and wanted to board with him. Father seemed 
to take up with him, but could not get him to tell his name, so 
he gave him a name. He called him William A. Barker. 

Father entered an eighty-acre tract of land in Fulton county, 
one mile east of Blue Grass, on the banks of Mill creek, and moved 
on his land when I was six months of age. Father did as all the 
other old settlers — built a log house on his land, had puncheon 
floors, etc. Many persons are not familiar with the way puncheon 
floors were constructed. Trees were cut down, split, and then 
hewed on one side; laid flat side up. The house had a fire place 
in it, with stick chimney. I well remember, and shall never for- 
get, the time when I was five years of age We had the measles 
at our house and I was a victim. Was getting better, but they 
would not let me go out of the house. Old Trim had a "coltie" 
one night, and father told about it. I wanted to go and see it, 
but ihey said I must not go out of the house, for I might catch 
cold and get worse. I wept about it, so in the afternoon I slipped 
out of the house and went down. There was a big crack in the 
fence that I always crawled through. Sure enough, there was 
the coltie. The old mare took after me and I ran for the crack in 
the fence. Just as I was half way through, she grabbed me by 
the ear and nearly cut it off* close to my head. I didn't slip back 
to the house, but went screaming and the blood running, so I 
didn't need to tell them 1 had been down to see the "coltie." 



I well remember looking across the creek one evening, and 
seeing the deer playing on a little hill. They played like little 
lambs. My father was an expert on deer hunting. He could go 
out and shout a deer in less time than we can hunt a rabbit now. 
We have father's old deer rifle that he used fifty years ago. When 
he pulled trigger on a deer, blood was sure to flow. 

I must tell you about the first deer hunt I took. I was only 
fourteen years of age when a nice snow fell one night, and the 
next morning my brother and one of my cousins were going deer 
hunting. I told them I had a notion to go along. They said all 
right. I didn't know whether to go or not. I was as much 
afraid of a deer a-, a girl is of a mouse, but I went. We hadn't 
gone far when we found the tracks of three deers. We followed 
them about one-half mile and they led into a marsh, where the 
brush was as thick as it could grow, so the boys said I had to go 
n and run them out, and they would watch to shoot them. I'll 
bet they could have heard my heart beat, if they had listened. 
They told me to wait until they got ou the other side of the marsh 
and then start in and track them through. I didn't say a word 
about being afraid, so when the time came for me to start in I put 
on courage and started. I followed their tracks in the marsh 
about fifty yards, then up the marsh a short distance and found 
they had turned and went out toward the woods again. I thought 
they had went out, so I halooed for the boys, and told them the 
game had gone out, so the boys came straight through the marsh. 
All at once I heard the greatest racket in the marsh and there 
came the deer, right out to me. I let go, all I had in the gun, 
and down went the old doe, but up she got and away she went 
again. I heard the boys say, "Now, if he hasn't killed one, we'll 
kick him clear home." Out they came, giving me blazes. I told 
them I thought they had gone out. We followed them about a 
half-mile and found the old doe lying dead. Oh my, you ought 
to have seen me. It was big I and little you. I killed a deer. It 
wasn't like Bro. John Troutman's deer — he killed a little yearling 

Along about 1858 and 1860 there were more pigeons than any 
other bird that wore feathers. They would commence flying 
northwest about four o'clock in the evening, and one could not 
see the end of the flock till dark. Then they would begin to set- 
tle down on the bushes and trees until their weight would break 
the limbs. I remember that my brother, Isaac, shot with a rifle 
at a line of pigeons on a limb and killed nine. Shot three of their 
heads off. We would take torches and go to their roosts on a dark 
night and kill all we wanted in a little bit, with clubs. 

There were lots of turkeys in the woods. Many a one I have 
made "quit, quit" when he felt the sting of the bullet from my 


gun. There were plenty of pheasants and quail. About every 
farm had from six to ten coveys, now it takes six to ten farms to 
find one covey. 

Old Mill creek bottom, which is such a fine corn belt now, 
was a solid body of water. The water was about four feet deep 
in the main channel, and from six to ten inches over all the rest 
of the marsh, and quite often a deep hole. We could catch all the 
fish we wanted. It was just full of pike, sunfish, cat and dog- 
fish, and I have seen as many as five hundred musk rat houses 
on ten acres. Looked like a hay field. Wild ducks by the tens 
of thousands. I was the champion, those times, on shooting 
ducks. People would come and hire me to go and kill ducks for 
them, but we have to hunt the lakes and ditches now. Old Mill 
creek has given up her water to old Tippecanoe, by way of ditches, 
and yielded her soil to the farmer. 

Well, when I was fifteen years of age — that was in 1863, right 
in war time, I wanted to go to the army. I was big and robust, 
and had an idea they would take me, ?o myself and one of my 
chums started to Fulton to enlist, but before we got there we 
heard that the recruiting officers had left Fu'ton, so I did not get 
to go. I have always thought that it was too bad that I didn't 
get to go, for I do believe that the war would not have lasted as 
long as it did if I had been on the line. You can see how near I 
came getting shot. 

It is hard to tell what fifty years will bring forth. When we 
came here, sixty-two years ago, there was not a road on any line, 
but they ran in every direction. In going one mile we had to fol- 
low the high places. We had no threshing machines, but instead 
we either pounded it out with a flail or club, or put it on a place 
that was cleaned off and tramped it out with horses. The first 
threshing machine I ever saw was what they called a "caver." 
If you would take a modern threshing machine and saw it in two 
back of the cylinder you would have a "caver." The wheat, straw 
and chaff would all come out together, then it would be run 
through a fanning mill. The machine was driven by horse 
power. You can see the difference in the last half-century, what 
will it be in the next fifty years? 

How true it is that people are getting weaker and wiser. We 
can see that people have better advantages to get an education, 
and become wiser, and we can see that the young men can't stand 
near as much work as their fathers, or grandfathers, and also the 
young women. There are but few young ladies that can do the 
day's work that their mothers can do The reason the young 
can't do as much as their parents is that hickory is not applied in 
time of need as it was in former days. 

Well, what I have written all happened while I was at home 


with my father. I staid with him until I was twenty-two years 
of age. Show me the young man now that will stay with his 
father and farm for him and I will show you forty that didn't 
stay. When I was in my twenty -second year I found a wife, 
Miss Sarah Caton, with whom I lived thirty-one years. We 
raised a family of seven children and on the 24th day of February, 
1901, God saw fit to take her from labor unto reward. 

My second marriage occurred on the 22d day of September, 
1903, uniting with Mrs. Gatha Hipp, of near Kewanna, where we 
are now holding the fort until God sees fit to call us from this 
home to a home above, where trials and tribulations never come. 

Now, I hone I haven't said anything in this chapter that will 
have a tendency to hurt any one's feelings, and as some may 
doubt some things I have said, all I will ask of you is to go to 
some of my brother writers and ask them if it is true. 

I will now leave the subject with the readers of this paper, 
hoping I may be permitted, some time in the future, to speak to 
you again. 

rr-f.. , ..,- : V 




Sketch of What Was Done by One of Ten Com- 
panies That Went to the Front. 


p/^ELIEVING that the records of the pioneers and the rerai- 
— —* niscenses of the early settlers will not be complete with- 
out mention of the patriotic boys of 1861 to '65, who, to the num- 
ber of nearly one thousand, came forward under the successive 
calls of President Lincoln, offering their lives if need be to pre- 
serve the form of government established by our fathers, I will 
append the following: 

In writing this article on the citizen soldiery of nearly half a 
century ago I give the statistical part from Adjutant General Ter- 
rell's reports, aiming to give a short sketch of the service of each 
organization that left the county, not going into detail, but just 
skipping along, hitting a few of the high places, so as to give the 
readers a faint idea of what the boys of that period suffered and 
endured that this government might be perpetuated. 

In looking over Adjt. Gen. Terrell's reports, we find Fulton 
county credited with enlistments in the following regiments: 
9th Indiana Infantry, substitutes and drafted, ... 22 
20th Indiana Infantry, enlisted in Plymouth company, . 5 

26th Indiana Infantry, Company A, 86 

29th Indiana Infantry, Companies D, E and H, . . . 81 
42d Indiana Infantry, transferred from other regiments, . 49 

46th Indiana Infantry, Company K, 88 

87th Indiana Infantry, Company D, 108 

87th Indiana Infantry, Company E, 106 

87th Indiana Infantry, Company F, 137 

90th Indiana Regiment (5th Cavalry) Company I, . . 45 
118th Indiana Infantry, six months' regiment, Company A, 51 



128th Indiana Infantry, Company G, 28 

155th Indiana Infantry, Company A, 108 

155th Indiana Infantry, Company G 39 

These, with a few scattering enlistments in other regiment* - , 
making a total of about 960 enlistments credited to Fulton county, 
out of a total population of but little over 5,000, according to the 
■census of 1860. The soldiers from this county were engaged in a 
line of battle from Prairie Grove, in the extreme northwestern 
corner of Arkansas, to the Potomac, and from North Carolina to 
Texas. Part of them assisted in opening the Mississippi river 
from Cairo to the gulf, whilst another part helped cut the con- 
federacy in two again, via Nashville, Chattanooga and Atlanta, 
and a few in the 20th Indiana regiment were in all the great bat- 
tles of the Army of the Potomac. 

According to the adjutant general's reports, this county's 
losses were as follows: Killed in battle, died of wounds and died 
in the prison pens of the south, 40. Died of disease while in the 
service, 104, making a total of 144 deaths while in the service. An 
unknown number died shortly alter reaching home, from disease 
contracted in prison pens and the hardships endured on the 
marches and scouts in the enemy's country. 

The 26th Indiana regiment was recruited at Indianapolis, aud 
left the state in August, 1861, Company A from Fulton county, 
going to the state of Missouri, where they served over a year. 
They were in the batlle of Prairie Grove, Ark., December 7, 1862, 
where the regiment lost a number, killed and wounded. In June, 
1863, the regiment came to Vicksburg, where they participated in 
the siege of that stronghold until its surrender on the 4th of July. 
During the siege two men of Company A, Sergeant Carson 
Swisher and Corporal Ciemans, were killed by the same minnie 
ball. Being transferred to the Gulf Department, they went to 
New Orleans. When going on an expedition up the west side of 
the Mississippi, they were attacked at Atchafalaya bayou, by 
Green's Texas Rangers aud suffered severely in killed, wounded 
and prisoners. It was in this battle that Captain David Rader 
lost his eye. 

The 29th Indiana regiment rendezvoused ac LaPorte, Ind. 
After completing its organization, it proceeded to Keutucky in 
September, 1861, where it remained until March, 1862, being a part 
of Buell's army that arrived at Shiloh in time to take an active 
part in the second day's battle. The regiment was engaged in 
the desperate battle of Stone River, December 31, '62, and Jan- 
uary 1, '63, losing heavily. The regiment took part in the Chat- 
tanooga campaign in 1863, was engaged in the two days' battle of 
Chickamauga, where it lost heavily in killed, wounded and men 
taken prisoners. After the Chickamauga campaign, the regiment 


was stationed at Bridgeport, Ala., re-enlisting in the veteran ser- 
vice. On its return to the front, it spent the remainder of its ser- 
vice in Tennessee, Northern Alabama and Georgia. The long and 
short of the 29th Indiana volunteers were Isom New and Jud 

The 87th Indiana regiment was organized in August, 1862, at 
South Bend, Iod. Fulton county sent three companies, 351 men, 
to the field in this regiment, Companies D, E and F, leaving 
Indianapolis August 31, 1862. The regiment, on arriving at 
Louisville, Ky., was assigned to General Burbridge's brigade, 3d 
division, 4th army corps, and took part in General Buell's cam- 
paign against Bragg in Kentucky. The regiment took part in a 
number of minor campaigns and was engaged in several skirm- 
ishes in Tennessee during the summer of 1863. Crossing the Ten- 
nessee river and the mountains they, on September 19 and 20, re- 
ceived their terrible baptism of fire at Cnickamauga, where the 
regiment suffered a loss of 40 killed, 142 wounded and 8 missing, 
a loss of about 52 per cent, of those engaged. The 87lh was one 
of the noble band that held Snodgrass hill under the eye of the 
"Rock of Chickamauga" (General Thomas), against the desper- 
ate assaults of Longstreet's veterans, of the Army of Northern 
Virginia, and saved Rosecrans' army from annihilation. 

After enduring the siege of Bragg's army in Chattanooga 
until the 25th of November, the 87th occupied the front line in 
the assault and capture of Mission Ridge, and the rout of Bragg's 
army. In Sherman's campaign against Atlanta, begun in May, 
1864, the regiment participated in the battles at Rocky Face,Cass- 
ville, Resacca, Kenesaw mountain, Peach Tree creek, siege of At- 
lanta and Jonesboro. In Sherman's march to the sea, Fulton 
county was represented by the men of the 87th. After the cap- 
ture of Savannah, Sherman's army took a short rest. On the 30th 
of January, 1865, the army crossed the Savannah river and cut a 
wide swath of destruction across South Carolina. The regiment 
was in its last battle at Bentonville, N. C, March 29th, 1865. After 
the surrender of Johnson's army, the 87th marched through Vir- 
ginia and took part in the grand review at Washington. Return- 
ing to Indiana it was mustered out of the United States service 
June 10, 1865. During its term of service the 87th lost 47 killed 
in action, 188 wounded in action and 214 died of wounds and dis- 

The 90th Indiana regiment, 5th Cavalry, was organized at In- 
dianapolis in 1862, forty-five men of Company I hailing from Ful- 
ton county. The regiment did noble service in Kentucky, east 
and middle Tennessee and Georgia. The regiment was in numer- 
ous engagements in Eastern Tennessee during Longstreet's siege 
of Knoxville. The 5th Cavalry took part in the campaign against 


Atlanta, was in Stoneman's raid to the south of Atlanta, where 
it !o*t Heavily in killed and captured. When Sherman marched 
tn the sea the 5th Cavalry was returned to Kentucky, where it 
was remounted and refitted, and remained on duty until the close 
of the war. 

The 118th Indiana was a six months' regiment, assisting in 
holding Eastern Tennessee undor Burnside, during the winter of 
1863 and '64. Fulton county was represented by fifty-one men in 
Company E. 

Twenty-eight men from Fulton county saw service in Com- 
pany G, 128th Regiment Indiana Volunteers. This was one of 
the four regiments raised in Indiana in 1864, by General Alvin P. 
Hovey, popularly known at the time as "Hovey's Babies," the 
majority of them being boys from fifteen to twenty years of age. 
But they got there all the same. The regiment served in the 4 in. 
Army Corps and participated in the Atlanta campaign, the bat- 
tle of Franklin and the siege of Nashville, and was in at the rout 
of Hood's army. After the repulse of Hood and the destruction 
of his army, the 4th corps was transferred to North Carolina, 
where the 128th remained until it was discharged on account of 
the clo^e of the war. 

In February, 1865, the 155th Indiana Regiment was recruited, 
and organized at Indianapolis on the 18th of April. On the 26th 
of April the regiment was ordered to Washington City, from 
whence it went up into the state of Delaware, where it remained 
on duty until August, when it was sent home and mustered out 
of service. Fulton county was accredited with Company A, 103 
men, and Company G, 39 men. Fulton county was credited with 
22 substitutes and drafted men, who served in the 9lh Indiana 
Volunteers. Also with 49 men transferred to the 42d Indiana 
Veteran Volunteer regiment from other organizations. 

The 46th Regiment, Indiana Volunteers, was organized at 
Logans port, October 4, 1861. Dr. Graham N. Fitch was commis- 
sioned colonei; Nelson G. Scott, lieutenant colonel; Thomas H. 
Bringhurst, major. Fulton county sent 88 men to the army as 
Company K, in this regiment, with the following officers: B. A. 
Grover, captain; Robert M. Shields, first lieutenant; Jacob H. 
Leiter, second lieutenant; John McClung, orderly sergeant. Hav- 
ing received clothing and arms, and having been mustered into 
the United States service, the regiment, on the 12th of December, 
proceeded to Indianapolis. On the 14th it left for Madison, where 
it arrived the next morning. Going on board steamboats it pro- 
ceeded down the Ohio river to Louisville, Ky., where it arrived 
before dark. Going ashore it marched out to camp, and so be- 
gan its active service. The regiment left Louisville on the ISth 
of December, and reached Bardstown after a few days' march, 


being our first experience in that line we thought soldiering a 
pretty lough job. The first night out we got nothing to eat till 
ten o'clock. We remained in camp, near Bardstown,over Christ- 

Mess No. 4, of Company K, of which the writer was a mem- 
ber, thought it would be just the thing to have a Christmas din- 
ner, so we chipped in our few remaining quarters, bought chick- 
ens, soft bread, pie, cake, butter, etc., and just had a fine spread, 
the table garnished with side dishes of hard-tack, sow- belly and 
beans. Sergeant Moses, the head of our mess, thought the proper 
thing to do would be to invite our company and regimental offi- 
cers to take dinner with us. Of course they came, and as guesis 
ate at the first table. We stood back and looked on while the 
chicken "fixins," and everything except the side dishes, disap- 
peared under dress coats ornamented witk gilt buttons and shoul- 
der straps. We passed three more Christmas days in the service 
of Uncle Sam, but was never again guilty of doing such a fool 
thing. From JBardstown we moved to Camp Wickliffe, near 
Hodgensville, and went into camp on a chestnut ridge. Here we 
were placed in the division of General William Nelson. Were re- 
quired to put in about ten hours of the twenty-four in squad, com- 
pany and battalion drill. Measles broke out in the regiment, 
from effects of which, and pneumonia, our company lost six men 
by death and twelve discharged for disability. The regiment left 
Camp Wickliffe on the 14th of February, marching down the 
Nolensville pike. We passed a log house, a short distance to the 
left of the road, which we were informed was the house in which 
Abe Lincoln was born. Arriving at the Ohio river we embarked 
on steamboats, proceeding down the river to the mouth of the 
Tennessee. Fort Donelson having been captured, we went on 
down to Cairo, 111., from whence the regiment was ordered up the 
Mississippi river to Commerce, Mo. Reporting to General John 
Pope, it formed part of the army organized for the opening of the 
Mississippi river, the first task being the capture of Island No. 10 
and New Madrid. On the 1st of March the army moved on New 
Madrid, arriving before the town on the 3d. The works were in- 
vested immediately, and after a ten days' siege the enemy evacu- 
ated their fortification, leaving their heavy guns. 

General Palmer's division, consisting of the 34th, 43d, 46th 
and 47th Indiana regiments, then moved down the river some 
twenty miles to Riddle's Point, where a battery of 32-pound guns 
was planted after night by the 46th, rifle pits dug, and other ar- 
rangements made to cut off communication with Island No. 10, 
which, though above New Madrid, still was in possession of the 
enemy. Having completed our works at night, the next morning 
a thick black smoke was observed raising above the trees, up the 


liver behind a point of timber. Soon a confederate gunboat came 
around the point, followed by another, and another, until five 
came in sight, coming down the river under full head of steam. 
It is unnecessary to say that we crawled into our rifle pits in a 
hurry. Company K occupied the pits immediately in front of the 
battery. The gunboats passed us, then turned, forming a circle. 
Each boat, as it came by, about half a mile from us, poured in a 
broadside of solid shot and shell. This they kept up for over two 
hours. After this had been going on for an hour, John Stallard 
and the writer, who occupied a pit immediately in front of one of 
our guns, had just begun to enjoy the entertainment, when a shot 
from one of the boats struck in front of us and, plowing through, 
covered us completely with wet sand. Well, we dug out as soon 
as we could. Our pit was full of sand. During the remainder of 
the entertainment we had an unobstructed view of the show. 
Finding they could not drive our battery away, the enemy with- 
drew. In a short time Island No. 10 was abandoned, the enemy 
retreating to the mainland. Generals Palmer's and Payne's divis- 
ions, crossing over toTiptonville, hemmed them, in between Reel- 
foot lake and the river, captured the entire rebel force, about 
7,000 in number. So ended that campaign. General Pope's army 
went aboard transports and, accompanied by the fleet of ironclad 
gunboats, proceeded on down the river to Ft. Pillow, Tenn. Here 
General Pope was ordered to reinforce Halleck in front of Corinth, 
so taking all his army, except Palmer's division, he steamed away 
and we saw him no more. 

After being invested and bombarded by the gunboats, until 
the 4th of June, Ft. Pillow was evacuated. The gunboats, ac- 
companied by transports carrying the 43d and 46th Indiana regi- 
ments, then proceeded on down the river to Memphis, where, on 
the 6th of June, in front of the city and in the presence of 10,000 
spectators gathered on the bluff, occurred the great gunboat fight 
between the union and confederate fleets, resulting in the annihi- 
lation of the confederate fleet, every boat but one being sunk, 
burned or captured; the one escaping was a short time afterward 
found sunk in White river, opposite St. Charles, Ark. Immed- 
iately on the close of the fight, the steamers carrying the land 
forces ran down and landed troops in the city. A detail from the 
46th proceeded to the top of the bluff and cut down a tall flag- 
staff, from which a rebel flag was flying. That flag, with others 
captured by the 46th, can be seen in a glass case in the public 
library at Logansport. If Senator Brady's bill passes in the legis- 
lature, for returning the rebel flags captured by the Indiana 
soldiers, some persons will have a picnic getting those flags. If 
the original owners want them they will have to come and get 
them as we did. 


After remaining at Memphis a short time, the regiment went 
as guard on two transports loaded with rations and commissary 
stores for Curtis' army, which was coming down from northwest- 
ern Arkansas. The fleet, convoyed by two ironclad gunboats, 
running down the Mississippi river until they arrived at the mouth 
of White river, ran up that river about eighty miles. Arriving at 
St. Charles they found the bluff fortified, and the gunboat which 
had escaped from the fight at Memphis sunk across the channel 
of the stream. Tieing up to the bank, a couple of miles below 
the fort, until morning, Colonel Fitch landed his regiment, send- 
ing two companies directly up the river as skirmishers. He took 
the remainder of the regiment around through the woods to the 
rear of the works. 

The gunboats and skirmishers attacked the fort in front. A 
short time after the attack began, a plunging shot from a 32- 
pounder penetrated the steamchest of the gunboat Mound City, 
killing and scalding ah but a few men of the entire crew of 180. 
At about this time, having gained a favorable position, Colonel 
Fitch ordered a bayonet charge and carried the works with a 
rush, wounding and capturing Colonel Fry, the rebel commander, 
a battery of field guns, two 32-pounders and the garrison flag. 

After running up and dQwn White river for some time, trying 
to locate Curtis' army, the expedition returned to the Mississippi 
and landed at Helena, Ark., about the middle of July, where 
Curtis had arrived with his half-starved troops, while we were 
hunting him on White river. 

The regiment remained at Helena, making it their headquar- 
ters, going on numerous scouts, raids and expeditions through the 
states of Arkansas and Mississippi, until the next fall. 

Uncle Sam, in providing for the welfare of his boys, not only 
provided for their temporal wants, but made provision for their 
spiritual welfare also. 

When we were mustered into the service, among the commis- 
sioned officers we had a good looking young man, wearing a fine 
blue uniform, with bright buttons and the shoulder straps of a 
captain. He was the chaplain of the regiment. He was a good 
young man, and remained so during his stay with us, but he only 
stayed with the regiment a few shoit months. Well, we had to 
worry along the best we could until December, '62, when there 
came down to us from out of "Egypt," a Hard-shell Baptist 
preacher, who was commissioned as chaplain of the 46th. He 
proved to be, to us, the Good Samaritan, on a mission of human- 
ity. Kind and unobtrusive, always ready with a word of counsel 
or advice when called upon. Dear old Father Robb! In my 
mind's eye I can see him yet. Tall and slender, thin white hair 
reaching down to his stooping shoulders, dressed in a suit of well 


worn, dingy black, on his head a battered plug hat. When we 
started on a march, and he was afoot, the boys considered their 
first duty to be to "draw" Father Robb a horse to ride. In time 
of battle he was always to be found close up to the firing line, 
caring for the wounded and ministering to the dying. 

At the battle of Sabine Cross Roads he was captured and 
taken into Texas. There he was released and furnished a pass 
by General Kirby Smith, the confederate commander. He was 
left to make his way, as best he could, to our lines. After tramp- 
ing four hundred miles, and being arrested several times as a spy, 
at last he came out safely at Little Rock, Ark. He rejoined the 
regiment in Kentucky, and remained with us until the close of 
the war, when he returned to his home in Illinois, where he died 
at a ripe old age, loved and respected by all who knew him. 

During the winter of '62 and '63, while we were at Helena, 
there was much sickness among the troops stationed there. Dr. 
Charles VV. Brackett, of Rochester, surgeon of the 9th Illinois 
Cavalry, died there during the winter, of malaria and exposure 
incidental to the service. 

I notice that all persens writing pioneer sketches ring in deer 
stories somewhere along the line, so here goes. Along in th? fall 
of '62 we were camped near Helena, between the river and levee. 
One day the attention of the regiment was called to the baying 
of a pack of hounds up in the hills, back from the river. Pretty 
soon a big buck was seen coming down the levee, chased by the 
dogs in full cry. There being strict orders against firing arms in 
camp, Sergeant Dave Krisher, Company I, seized his gun, put on 
the bayonet, and running out to the levee stabbed the deer 
through the heart as it passed him. For further particulars write 
D. T. Krisher, North Manchester, Ind. 

In March, 1863, the regiment formed part of an expedition 
that tried to reach the high ground above Vicksburg, via the 
Cold water, Tallahatchie and Yazoo rivers, but, being unsuccess- 
ful on account of high waters, returned to Helena. 

About the middle of April, 1863, the division commanded by 
General Alvin P. Hovey, consisting of the 11th, 24th, 34th, 46th 
and 47th Ind. regiments, the 24th and 28th Iowa, 56th Ohio and 
29th W sconsin Infantry regiments and four light batteries of ar- 
tillery started down the river for Vicksburg. Landing at Milli- 
ken's Bend, they marched across the country, striking the river 
below the city. The division lay on transports waiting to make 
a landing, when our iron clads silenced the rebel batteries at 
Grand Gulf. The attack failing, we went ashore, marched still 
farther down the river and next morning embarked again, the 
fleet having run the batteries during the night. The 24th and 
46th Indiana regiments going aboard the flagship Benton, on 


board of which, with Commodore Porter, was Gen. Grant and 
staff". Running down the river a few miles to Bruinsburg, Miss., 
where Gen. Hovey's and Gen. Carr's divisions went ashore, the 
Benton rounded in to shore and as they ran out the gang-plank 
Thomas A. Howe, a Rochester boy, quartermaster of the 46th, 
sprang ashore, being the first man of Grant's army to land in 
that memorable expedition that was destined to capture Vicks- 
burg in the next sixty days. 

The troops ashore started immediately for the hills, pushing 
forward all night. They met the Confederate forces at 2:00 in the 
morning on the 1st of May, near Port Gibson. The battle began 
as soon as it was light; Maginnis' brigade, to which the 46th be- 
longed, stripping off knapsacks and haversacks, leaving them 
piled in a field, crossing hills and deep ravines, through brush 
and canebrakes, toward where the battle was raging. Pushing 
each other up a steep bluff", we came out on an open ridge, where 
we were met by a withering fire of musketry and canister. A 
brigade of tfie enemy was in a deep ravine immediately in front 
of us. Firing a few volleys, the 46th was ordered to fix bayonets 
and charge down into the ravine, which was done with a cheer. 
We routed the enemy, capturing the flag of the 15th Arkansas. 
Charging across the road, we headed off a battery that was try- 
ing to make its escape, two members of Co. K, John Stallard and 
William Wood, shooting the lead horses attached to a gun, 
caused a mix-up in which the cannon and gunners were taken, 
the remainder of the brigade saved the balance of the battery. 
The fighting and maneuvering continued all day. Carr and 
Hovey were reinforced during the day by Osterhaus and a bri- 
gade of Logan's division. At sundown the enemy was in full re- 
treat, having lost every piece of artillery brought on the field. 
Laying on the battlefield during the night, the army moved for- 
ward next morning and occupied Port Gibson. 

After the battle of Port Gibson, the 13th corps moved north 
along Black river, holding Pemberton at bay while the 15th and 
17th corps struck out northeast, fought and defeated the enemy 
at Raymond on the 12th, defeated Johnson and captured Jackson, 
the capitol of the state, on the 14th. On the morning of the 16th 
of May, Grant turned the entire army west toward Vicksburg. 
Hovey's division moved west on the main Jackson and Vicks- 
burg road, encountering the skirmishers of the enemy at Cham- 
pion Hill, where was destined to be fought one of the decisive 
battles of the war. 

Under Johnson's orders, Pemberton, after leaving a strong 
garrison in Vicksburg, was attempting to join Johnson with his 
main force, about 30,000 men. Grant held Hovey back until Lo- 
gan, with his division, had time to come up and form on the 


right. Then about 12:00 o'clock the two divisions, numbering 
about 9,000 all told, were ordered forward. In the first rush of 
battle Hovey drove the enemy back off the hill and through the 
woods to the open fields, the 11th Indiana being credited with the 
capture of four guns and 46th Indiana with three, the 24th Iowa 
with the capture of rive guns. 

Pemberton massed his forces in the open fields, coming on in 
three lines of battle against our thin single line. Hovey was 
pushed slowly back through the woods to the brow of the hill, 
where we had captured their artillery. There Hovey's division 
made a desperate stand, holding their ground for three hours, 
against five successive charges of three times their own number. 
About five o'clock Crocker's division arrived, having marched 
twenty-four miles since morning. Logan pressing in on the right 
and Crocker clearing the woods with a bayonet charge, Pember- 
ton began falling back and by six o'clock was in full retreat. So 
ended the battle of Champion Hill, one of the most desperately 
fought battles of the war, and, considering the number engaged, 
one of the bloodiest. In the five hours fighting Hovey lost over 
1,200 killed and wounded, about 42 per cent. The 46th, out of 300 
engaged, lost 20 killed and 5 mortally wounded. The Union loss 
was about 2,500 killed and wounded, the Confederates fully as 
many. 5,0U0 dead and wounded men in five hours in a hilly strip 
of woods one and one-half miles long and half a mile wide was 
butchery almost equal to Cold Harbor. 

Illustrating the coolness of men under fire, Capt. Frank 8\vi- 
gart, Co. B, 46th, relates the following: "During the hottest of 
tne battle, Peter Mias, a german of Co. B, came up carrying his 
gun barrel in one hand, the stock in the other, saying — "Cap. 
Svigard, shust iooka dare, de dam rebels shoot mine gun off, vot 
I do now?" Captain Swigart replied, "Why pick up another 
and get back to your place." Said Peter, "Veil, dot is all right, 
but I did not vaut to pay for him." If a soldier lost his gun the 
price was deducted from his pay. 3 a the course of an hour up 
comes old Peter again, this time holding his right arm in his left 
hand, the blood trickling down off his fingers, saying: "Cap. 
Svigard, shust looka dare now; next dime te Got tarn rebels shuts 
mine arm off, vot I do now ? "Why get back to the rear and 
have it attended to," says the Captain. "Veil, dat bes all right, 
you say so, but I vas no tam coward." Hovey's division was left 
on the battlefield one day to bury the dead, care for the wounded 
and gather up the arms scattered over the ground. On the 17th 
Carr and Osterhaus defeated the enemy at Black River bridge and 
on the 18th Grant's army arrived in front of the rebel works at 
Vicksburg. On the 19th Hovey moved forward to Vicksburg, ar- 
riving on the 21st. The division was held on the reserve during 


the assault of the 22d of May. But Maginnis' brigade was as- 
signed to the front line of investment and to the 11th and 46th 
Ind. regiments was assigned the duty of working the approaches 
to Fort Garret, one of the strongest fortifications on the rebel line. 
By the 3d of July, when the white flags were hung out, our ap- 
proaches were within twenty feet of the ditch surrounding the 
fort and on the morning of the 4th of July the flags of the 11th 
and 46th were placed on the fort by order of Gen. Hovey. The 
scenes, incidents and adventures happening to any one regiment 
or company during the 43 days sei^e, would make a long news- 
paper article by itself, so I will skip it. 

After the surrender of Vicksburg, Hovey's division started 
for Jackson on the morning of the 5th of Juiy, which place was 
invested on the 12th aud after five days skirmishing and fighting 
was evacuated by Johnson on the 17th. Returning to Vicksburg, 
the 13th corps was transferred to the Gulf Department. Going 
aboard steamboats, the troops proceeded down the aver, stopping 
a few days at Nalches. We arrived at New Orleans about the 
middle of August. Here we lay in camp at Carrolton, ten miles 
above the city, resting, refitting, drawing pay and new clothing 
until the latter part of September. The 3d division, then under 
command of Gen. George F. Maginnis, crossed the river and pro- 
ceeded west by rail to Braspear City on Berwick bay. About the 
first of October an expedition, under command of Gen. W. B. 
Franklin, started west toward Texas, reaching Opelousas, 200 
miles west of New Orleans, it stopped a few days, then began fal- 
ling back. Ttie 4th division stopping on Carencro bayou, the 3d 
division going back five miles farther, bivouaced on another bay- 
ou. Expecting an attack from Green's Texas Rangers, on Bur- 
bridge, our division was ordered to remain close to their arms. 
Along in the afternoon of the 3d of November, a courier was seen 
coming over the prairie, his horse on the dead run, announcing 
that Burbridge was being cut to pieces. Hardly had he passed 
the 46th, which lay in line next the road, when Col. Bringhurst 
ordered the regiment to fall in, take arms, and we were away on 
quick time, reaching the crest of the prairie, within two miles of 
the scene of trouble, a never-to-be-forgotten sight met our eyes. 
For two miles or more up and down the belt of timber, Bur- 
bridge's wagons, teamsters, stragglers and niggers were pouring 
out on the open prairie, the Texans after them on horseback, shoot- 
ing and yelling like demons while the smoke and roar of battle 
filled the woods. Starting forward on the double-quick and soon 
breaking into a run, the 46th made for the nearest point of tim- 
ber, swinging into line of battle when within half a mile of the 
woods. The regiment formed square against cavalry, fixed bay- 
onets and lay down on the open prairie, just as two guns of 


Nimra's battery came out of the woods followed by a large body 
of the shooting and yelling Texans. The gunners made for us as 
fast as their horses could run. As they came up to us, Col. Bring- 
hurst ordered the Lieutenant in charge to halt, unlimber and 
pour double shotted loads of cannister into their pursuers, while 
the regiment assisted in their repulse by working their Enfield 
rifles to their full capacity. The pursuit was checked right ihere 
and before the enemy had time to reform for another charge the 
3d division was in sight, coming up on double-quick time. The 
enemy retreated, having burned and destroyed the camps and 
capturing quite a number of the 4th division They had been sur- 
prised by about 3,000 of Green's Texas Rangers riding right over 
their picket line. The Department Commander issued a general 
order thanking Col. Bringhurst and the 46th regiment for their 
promptness and gallantry in coming to the assistance of the 4th 
division. After this the expedition continued to fall back to- 
ward New Orleans, stopping for thirty days at New Iberia, in 
the heart of the land of the Arcadians, the home of Evangeline. 
Here we passed the most pleasant thirty days of our entire soldier 
experience. A most delightful climate, the country full to over- 
flowing with cattle, hogs, chickens, yams and the sugar houses 
full of sugar and molasses barrels. We lived well. The retro- 
grade movement continued and we reached New Orleans about 

While we were lyi.ig at New Orleans President Lincoln's call 
for veteran volunteers reached us. Of the Fulton county company 
in the 46th, thirty re-enlisted for another three years, being all but 
two who were entitled to do so. Early in January the 11th, 24th, 
34th and 47tu Indiana regiments departed to their homes in the 
north on their veteran furloughs, leaving the 56th Ohio and 46th 
Indiana to go when the exegencies of the service would permit, 
which proved to be a long time for a part of the boys. 

About the 1st of March Gen. Banks started on his disasterous 
Red River campaign, encountering Green's brigade of Texans at 
Berwic bay. Our men kept them on the move. At Alexandria, 
on the Red river, Banks was joined by Gen. A. J. Smith with 
10,000 men from Sherman's army. Proceeding on up Red river, 
meeting with little opposition until the 8th of April, 1864, when 
the enemy was encountered in force under command of Kirby 
Smith, at Sabine cross-roads, twelva miles from the Texas line 
and not far from Shreveport. 

By this time Banks had his army scattered out for more than 
twenty miles along a narrow road through a pine woods. Our 
5,000 cavalry, supported by 2,000 infantry of the 4th division, was 
soon wiped out by Kirby Smith's well concentrated army. The 
few of the 3d division, about 1,200, arrived on the field a short 


time before sundown and held tbe enemy in check only long 
enough tor them to reform their lines and move around us on 
each flank. Having our forces completely surrounded in the 
thick pine woods, the order was for each man to take care of him- 
self as best he could, which meant a fight or a foot race, the only 
show for safety being the latter. 

About four miles back, just at dark, we met Gen. Emor.v's 
division of the 19th corps, about 4,000 strong. They and darkness 
checked the pursuit of the victorious enemy. Company K, of the 
46th, went into 1 he battle with two commissioned officers and 
twenty-eight men. Lost Lieut. John McClung, in honor of 
whom McClung Post is named, and private Thos. W. Scott, 
killed; Jeff Marshman, wounded and 12 members taken prisoner*. 
Frank M. Reid and Wm. Wood were captured, ordered to throw 
down their arms and go to the rear. Seizing the opportunity 
they gave the Johnnies the slip and regained our lines during the 
general mixup. 

The night after the battle the army fell back twenty miles to 
Pleasant Hill, where it arrived about daylight. Here was met 
Gen. A. J. Smith with 7,000 men. The next day a sharp battle 
was fought by our men under command of Gen. Smith. The en- 
emy was defeated and driven back eight miles, but as Banks was 
then headed for New Orleans, he ordered Smith to retreat imme- 
diately) leaving his dead and severely wounded in the hands of 
the enemy. On arriving at Alexandria it was found the river had 
fallen so much that the gunboats could not get down over the 
rapids, which necessitated a halt of ten days to build a dam so as 
to raise the water to float the boats over. Meanwhile the infant- 
ry was constantly annoyed by Green's Texas Rangers. They had 
a couple of light pieces of artillery which they would bring up 
and fire into our camps, then about the time we would get out 
and after them, they would gallop away. We would drive them 
ten or twelve miles, then go back to our camp, when, most likely, 
they would be throwing shells into camp before supper. The 
writer had the pleasure of meeting a number of the Rangers down 
in Texas three years ago and passed many pleasant hours with 
them, fighting our old battles over again. One of them expressed 
it all when he said: "When you all wasn't chasin' weuns, we all 
was chasin' youuns." Banks finally reached the Mississippi be- 
low the mouth of Red river about the 20th of May. Arriving at 
the river, the 46th took steamer for New Orleans, where we ar- 
rived in due time. After drawing new clothing, six month's pay 
and bounties due us, the regiment left New Orleans on our leave 
of veteran furlough. Since re-enlisting one-half of our company 
had been killed or taken prisoners. Going by boat to Cairo, we 
took cars for Indianapolis, where we arrived in due time, received 


a thirty days' furlough on the 27th of June. From Logansport 
we hired two wagons to take us to Rochester, where we arrived 
just after daylight, June 27, 1864. 

Company K left Logansport in December, '61, with three 
commissioned officers and ninety men and returned in two and 
one-half years with one officer, Captain R. M. Shields and six- 
teen enlisted men. After spending thirty days very pleasantly 
with friends, we reported back for duty at the appointed time. 
We were held in camp at Indianapolis until after McClellan's 
nomination at Chicago. The regiment was then sent down the 
Ohio river to repel a raid made on Shawneetown, 111. From there 
we reported to Louisville, Ky., our former division commander, 
Gen. John M. Palmer, being in command of the district. He as- 
signed our regiment to duty in Lexington, Ky. In a short time 
we were sent up into the mountains of eastern Kentucky to care 
for and guard 100,000 rations at Prestonsburg, said rations to sup- 
ply Gen. Burbridge's troops in their raid on the rebel salt works 
in Virginia. After the raid was over we returned to the Ohio 
river, then down to Louisville, whence the regiment was assigned 
to provost guard duty at Lexington, Ky., Capt. Chester Cham- 
berlain being appointed provost marshal of the city. Here we re- 
mained on very pleasant duty until June, 1865, when we were 
ordered down to Louisville, the army corps to which we had been 
attached having been ordered to the Rio Grande, on the Mexican 
border. But our old friend Gen. Palmer stood by us and had the 
regiment assigned to special duty in the city of Louisville, 
the commissioned officers serving on court martial and various 
military commissions, while the enlisted men were detailed as 
clerks, guards and orderlies at the various offices and headquar- 
ters in the city. 

As the war was over we were all anxious to get home and 
finally on the 4th of September the order came for our muster 
out. Going to Indianapolis, we were discharged from the U. S. 
service Sept. 14, 1865, the regiment lacking just twenty days of 
being in service four years. 

In giving this sketch of the history of the regiment in which 
I hai! the honor to be a member from start to finish, not intend- 
ing to boast of our achievements as an organization, but knowing 
whereof I write, I can thereby give a truer picture of what a sol- 
dier was required to perform, endure and undergo. In writing 
the above, I have only shown the bright side of a soldier's life. 
There is another side to the picture of a soldier's life, which, if we 
could, we would all gladly forget. I will give a few instances: 
The first winter out at camp WicklifFe, Ky., one-fourth of our 
boys were down with measles, pneumonia, lung fever, etc., num- 
bers dying and when we left, many were left behind uncared for. 


Again, the summer and fall of '62, at Helena, Ark., 40,000 troops 
encamped up and down the river, not well enough to care for the 
sick, every steamer going north, loaded with sick soldiers, all that 
room could be found for. For three months nearly any hour of 
the day you could hear the mournful notes of the Dead March, 
played by fife and drum, as they were carrying some boy to his 
last resting place in the hills. Then again, after a battle, when 
half of our comrades were missing, part were known to be killed, 
but what about the others? Were they dead or alive, and some 
times it would be weeks before we would learn the fate of ihe 
missing ones. I have heard some soldiers (recruits mostly) tell 
of hardships endured by not having anything to eat for a day or 
two at a time. We always considered that as a sort of a joke, 
after making three days rations last ten days, victuals, most any- 
thing, in fact, would taste awful gond. 

On the 30th of October, 1861, thirty young men and boys 
started from Green Oak, to go to Logansport to enlist in the 46th 
regiment. On the 14th of Sept., 1865, six veteran soldiers re- 
turned. What became of the others? Two were killed in bat- 
tle, John McClung and Wm. Johnson; one died of wounds, John 
Hoover; five died of disease; two were captured in battle, Samuel 
Johnson and John Stallard and served ten months in rebel pris- 
ons. The remainder of the squad fell out all along the line from 
Camp Wickliffe to the swamps of Arkansas and Mississippi, re- 
turning home with broken constitutions, but two or three are 
living today. 

Of the six old "ironclads" four are still living and enjoying 
the blessings of the government they helped save, John R. Stal- 
lard, Samuel Johnson, W'illiam J. Davis and the author of the 





From the First Organization in Rochester Until 
the Present Time. 


7 HE FIRST BAND in this place was called "The Roches- 
— *- ter Cornet Band" and was organized in the fall of 1856. 
The membership consisted of the following persons: O. P. Os- 
good, teacher, Wm. Osgood, Jas. S. Chapin, J. J. Davis, H. C\ 
Long, M. L. Minor, G. E. Smith, V. O. O'Donald, J. Holmes, 
Chas. A. Mitchell, Al. G. Pugh. 

C. A. Mitchell and Al. G. Pugh, our honored citizens, are the 
only members of this band now living in Rochester, and to whom 
I am indebted for present information. This organization 
launched out on the musical world by employing an instructor, 
of Peru, whose name was F. C. Brown. The band continued to 
practice for sis months and quit entirely. Some of the boys 
still kept their instruments and in 1858 reorganized with some 
changes in membership, Asa Mitchell selling his instrument to 
Os. McFall, who became a member. This band continued to 
practice at intervals, when they could get a place to practice, 
which was usually in the old court room until 1861, when the 
war caused a wave of excilem?nt over the land and it struck the 

As musicians have an excitable lemperament it gave the band 
a death blow. Some of the band's best musicians were inspired 
with a patriotic impulse and enlisted in the service for the Union, 
tilling many responsible positions. M. L. Minor, Capt. Co. A, 
16th Ind. Vol. H. C. Long became Capt. Co. F, 87th Ind. Vol., 
Al. G. Pugh, 87th Regt. O. P. Osgood, musician 87th Regt. In- 
fantry band, accompanying Sherman's march to the sea and 
serving until the grand muster out at Washington, where they 
played at the reviewing stand. 


The band reorganized with J. S. ('hapin, leader, and the 
addition of three new members: John Nafe, Orian Fuller and 
John Shaffer. This organization, with very little change in the 
membership, continued until the close of the Rebellion and the 
return of the boys, when O. P. Osgood become leader again, with 
a few new members, among whom were the following: Wilber 
Trouslow, Grant Long, Jack Willard, Al. G. Pugh, L. M.Spotts, 
Ed. R. Rannells, Jas. M. Beeber, Isaac True, F. M. Ashton, 
J. G. Pearson, Monroe Armantrout, Austin McFall, Newton 
True, A. (J. Copeland. This includes all as near as I can find by 
the records. Some were in the band a she rt time, then others 
took their places. This organization continued with different 
degrees of success, practicing in print shops, the court house and 
old Odd Fellows' hall, where the M. E. church now stands, until 
1868, when politics became very "warm" among thf members 
and the band was divided. 

The result was two bands, Fred Peting, leader of the Demo- 
cratic band and Ovid Osgood, leader of the Union baud, as it was 
called at that time. This put new life into the band business as 
opposition and politics always does, and a great rivalry sprung 
up between the bands as to which was the best band. Then prac- 
tice commenced in earnest. You could hear hoi ns tooting at any 
old time in every part of town. The Union band conceived the 
idea that a band wagon was the necessary article, for mud was 
knee de< p on Main street after a rain and the sidewalks were 
boards laid lengthwise, crosswise or just mud. And it was nearly 
impossible to march and play on the sidewalks for fear of stumb- 
ling and falling, beside the noise of the walks was louder than the 
noise of the band. So the age of band wagons commenced. A 
contract was given to some carpenters to build a band wagon, 
which consisted of making a bed for an ordinary wagon. If it 
was not grand it certainly was a wonderful creation, ( like some 
of the ladies' hats of the present day. ) It was so high they used 
a ladder to get in and out of it. As the band used over-shoulder 
horns, lead horns and all down to the bass horn, which was six 
feet long, they would extend considerably above the top of the 
wagon, and when all the bo,ys were in it would resemble a great 
pipe-organ of a new pattern, but did not imitate one in sound. 
This urged the Democrats to have a band wagon also. 

A committee was dispatched to hunt a band wagon that 
would beat the Union wagon. They found a stranded circus 
which had a band wagon for sale and a bargain was immediately 
consumated. It was a gorgeous affair, built very low in the cen- 
ter and high at front and back ends, an imitation of large golden 
dragons or serpents, with heads and tails up, mouths wide open, 
large teeth and fiery tongues protruding. The driver's seat was 


between the beads of the dragons, the body coiling up and down 
iormed seals for the players, the tails turned up, with canopy 
top, for the drummers. 

It was difficult to determine which wagon caused the great- 
est sensatioa. The next thing was how to show off the best. 
They hitched from four to six horses (according to mud) to the 
band wagon and drove up and down town, Main street being 
about the only street passible when wet and it none too good. 
I think "Jap" True drove the Union wagon and I know "Bill" 
Hoilman was driver on the dragon. "Jap" was a good driver 
but owing to the height of the wagon, could not drive very fa.-,L 
on account of upsetting. "Kill" Ho!man owned a livery barn 
from which he would take six horses, hitch up to the dragons, 
take a couple of drinks or more, and drive up and down Main 
street as fast as the horses could go, turning on the run. That 
was the time for musicians to get nervous. He could not upset 
for the wagon was low down and heavy. I think he paid three 
fines in succession for fast driving. The marshal would march 
him up to the 'Squire's office, he would pay the fine, get on the 
wagon and start off on the run and they would "yank" him up 
again before the 'Squire. The second time, he said he would pay 
another, for he was not done driving yet. I do not remember if 
the boys played while driving or not, but think some did. Al 
Pugh says he went in the wagon with the band to piay at Peru, 
and alter getting back was glad to take his meals standing up. 
No springs on the wagon and he had to carry a six-foot tuba 
horn. The music consisted of the popular songs of the day, such 
as "John Brown's Body Lies a Mouldering in the Tomb," "Rally 
'Round the Flag," "When Johnnie Comes Marching Home " 
"Johnnie Fill up the Bowl," "Mollie Darling," "When Nell and 
I Went Swinging in the Lane," and many others too numerous 
to mention. Such strenous life could not last long and their 
musical zeal began to cool, but before it did I must relate how 
"Old Heilicon" tuba came to Rochester. 

Mack Ashton, one of the jolliest baud boys of the day played 
tuba, and as the old six-foot tuba was a very poor instrument 
decided to have a new horn, for he played tuba for both bands. 
With plenty of money, he started to find one; walking down 
street in Cincinnati, he passed a music store and sa'v the big 
horn in the window. The size suited Mack and he went in and 
enquired what they wanted for the horn in the window. He was 
informed that it was not for sale, as it was only used for a sign. 
Mack said "That is just what I want it for, wmat will you take 
for it?" "One hundred and fifteen dollars," said the proprietor. 
"Wrap it up," said Mack, and he brought it home with him. 
When he tried to blow T it he found it was not in tune and could 


not run a scale on it; some of the pipes were six inches too long. 
After cutting off pipes and getting it in tune he found it to have 
an excellent tone, but the valves were a combination between a 
rotary crank and string action, but it was the easiest blowing 
horn in town, with great carrying power. It has been heard 
three or four miles from town. This was in 1868. 

The band continued to hold together and practice occasionally 
until 1872. It was continued under the name of the Union Cor- 
net Band and pave a series of entertainments commencing at 
Balcony hall, Dec. 25, 1871, grand ball. Jan. 1, 1872, they gave a 
grand masquerade ball; floor managers were S. R. Moon, M. T. 
Osgood, Milo R. Smith, E. E. Cowgill and J. H. Beeber. 

After this there was no active band in Rochester until 1874 
when Prof. J. G. Pearson and Jimmie Chapin organized what 
was known as Pearson's Brass and String Band, using the old 
water mill for a practice room. Jimmie Chapin and John, as 
they were familiarly called, collected some old horns from some 
place, where they came from or where they went, I never knew. 
The roster of the band consisted of the followrng members: J. 
G. Pearson, B-cornet, leader; J. S Chapin, 1st B-cornet; O. P. 
Osgood, Eb cornet; Wm. W. Rannells, solo alto; John H. Wal- 
lace, 1st alto; Wm. H. Shelton, 2d alto; , tenor; Will 
Rex, tuba; George W. VanSkike, bass drum; N. G. Hunter, ten- 
or drum. This band played for picnics, dances, excursions or any 
old thing. Gave Saturday night dances furnishing our own mus- 
ic. Following is copy of program. 

"First Annual Grand Ball by Pearson's Brass and String 
Band, at Balcony hall, Friday Eve., July 3, 1874. The proceeds 
to assist in the permanent organization of a brass and string band. 
Honorary managers: J. P. Myers, Sidney R. Moon, Milo R. 
Smith, A. T. Bitters; floor manager Levi S. Emrick." I find the 
names R. C. Wallace and Nelson G. Hunter frequently associated 
as friends of the band. Through all the years this band has never 
had a break since this date up to the present time, but has ex- 
perienced several hard knocks. 

On Feb. 20, 1875, John Wallace was killed by John Vandecar, 
and Pearson was called to Remington, Ind., did not return until 
1877. During this time the band was directed by J. S. Chapin 
and Ovid Osgood. Carlos (Tom) Edison came to Rochester to 
work for M. O. Reese in the cabinet shop, where Pyles' hardware 
store is now located. The band rented the up-stairs for a prac- 
tice room. George VanSkike bought the "Old Hellicon" tuba 
and commenced playing it, the band having retrograded after 
Pearson left Rochester. Edison was a very enthusiastic band man 
and a good Eb cornet player. Levi S. Emrick, Edison and my- 
self organized the band which consisted of the following mem- 


bers: Carlos (Tom) Edison, director, Eb cornet; J. 8. Chapin, 
Bb cornet; Ovid Osgood, Eb cornet; VVm. W. Rannells, solo alto; 
Ed. Zook, 1st alto; W. H. Shelton, 2d alto; Mox Samuels, Trom- 
bone; L. 8. Emrick, baritone; Geo. W. VanSkike, tuba; F. M. 
Ashton, bass drum; Tommy Shaffer, tenor drum. This combi- 
nation, with the exception of J. 8. Chapin dropping out and Wm. 
Rannells taking solo Bb cornet; Ed Zook, Trombone; Henry Edi- 
son, 1st alto; continued until 1877, when J. G. Pearson returned 
to Rochester and took trombone in the band. About one year 
before this L. 8. Emrick was chosen manager, which position he 
held for many years. No man was better fitted for the position. 
Of a kind, lovable personality, good executive ability and re- 
spected by the members. To him more honor is due for the 
splendid band organization of Rochester tha" any other man. 
He decided that the band should be uuiformed and secured the 
first uniforms any band ever had in Rochester, consisting of blue 
flannel pants with gold braid on the seams. The pants were so 
thin they had to be lined with muslin. We all had black coats 
so we turned the collars up and pinned them around the neck. 
The only thing we had to send for was the gold braid and little 
flat navy blue caps with a small bunch of feathers, called a"pom- 
pons" in front of the cap. That was certainly one of the proud 
days for the boys, when we marched down the street. We had 
tried to keep it a secret until we marched out in our new uni- 

Emrick commenced to agitate the necessity of having new 
instruments. We gave balls, shows, Emrick's minstrels, etc., 
until we got enough money to get a set of Straton instruments. 
They were all hellicon shape and very cheap. I remember 
marching down the street one day, playing on the old board 
sidewalk. Billy Shelton's bell fell off his horn and he nearly fell 
over it. By the way, he still keeps his old hellicon alto, the only 
one of that breed left. 

About that time the band decided to engage an instructor, a 
Grand Army man by the name of James Nevota, a very fine cor- 
net player. I gave up Bb cornet and took solo alto, which I 
placed for over twelve years. Prof. J. G. Pearson accepted solo 
Bb cornet and also received private instructions from Prof. Ne- 
vota. Prof. Pearson became one of the noted cornetists of the 
country. He was also chosen director of Emrick's band, which 
position he filled for several years and under his directorship the 
band became one of the best bands in northern Indiana, filling 
many important engagements. To Prof. J. G. Pearson is due the 
honor of elevating the standard of music in Rochester from a low- 
er to a higher degree of excellency than any other man. In 1877 
the band commenced giving concerts and entertainments to 


equip themselves with new uniforms. I find in the Rochester 
Sentinel of July 7, 1877, that an entertainment was given by the 
young ladies of Rochester, on Friday evening, for the benefit of 
the band and raised $51.55. I am very sony the article does not 
give the names of the girls for it has been thirty-two years since. 
The uniforms were procured and consisted of good cloth and lat- 
est style cutaway coats and light blue pants; suits trimmed in 
red and good caps, costing about $2fi.00 each. Also bought new 
instruments from Quimby Bros., one of the best makers of in- 
struments in America. Old "Helicon" was sent to the factory, 
repaired with new valves and piping of the Quimby Bro's. make, 
also silver plated. Cost of repairing $72.10, making a very beau- 
tiful horn out of an old one for George VanSkike. This organi- 
zation was continued with very few changes up to 1882. Prof. 
J. G. Pearson, director; Chas. Hastiiuger, Ebcornet; J.S.Chapin, 
Bb cornet; Ovid Osgood, Eb cornet; Wm. W. Rannelis, soio alto; 
O. R. Decker, 1st alto; W. H. Shelton, 2d alto; Ed Zock, tenor; 
L. S. Emrick, baritone; George VanSkike, tuba; Milt Farnham, 
bass drum; Lol Samuels, tenor drum and finally Billy Tiue, the 
old standby. This band had a great reputation and contracted 
many engagements at Indianapolis, Chicago, LaPorte and Mich- 
igan City. 

July 4, 1871, the band, accompanied by their wives and sweet- 
hearts, went to Michigan City and had a jolly good time. We 
piayed a few pieces and the town was ours. We could play an 
evening's engagement without books, as every member knew his 
part. The little band of eleven led many parades at Indianapolis. 
At the General Grant boom we led the parade, both day and 
night. I could relate an account of a fight we had for it but 
space is limited. 

In 1882 the band gave a show called "Emrick's Minstrels," 
benefit of the band. Will give a few names of those assisting: 
Lee Emrick, manager; Jack Case, stage manager; J. (4. Pearson, 
musical director; Wm. Williams, leader orchestra. Performers: 
John Hunter, Ott Townsend, bones; J. H. Bibler, interlocutor; 
Chas. Brouillette, O. R. Decker, James Rannelis, Frank Ralston, 
quartette; Bobbie Williams, black artist. The band realized 
about $80.00 from the show. I may mention a few names of 
members of the band who belonged about that time, 1880. H. A. 
Reiter, commenced learning cornet; Julius Michael, piccolo and 
flute; Wm. Williamson, Eb clarionet, and many others whom L 
cannot remember. 

In 1880 a band was organized called "The Rochester Band," 
consisting of twelve to twenty men, which "flunked" in about 
one year, from which Emrick's band received some new recruits. 
Among the number were Henry Meyer and J. F. Ault. In 1S82 


another band, called ''Rochester Cornet Band" was organized by 
Prof. Pearson and after giving it a few lessons he received an en- 
gagement nt San Antonio, Texas, playing cornet for Mox Sam- 
uels in theatre. Win. Downey, manager of band, made me a 
proposition to join them. Oct. 22, 1883, I signed contract to play 
baritone and instruct band. This ended my membership with 
Em rick's band. George VanSkike was elected director of the 
"Old Band" as it was commonly called and the battle was on. 
I found a new set of boys with no knowledge of music, except 
< harles Clyrner, who had some knowledge of the cornet and Wm. 
Endeis, who played the tuba in the band with Henry Meyer and 
J. F. Ault. I changed some of the parts, Frank Crim having 
baritone, 1 put him on solo alto, which he has played to the pres- 
ent time; Jake Crim, 1st alto, which he has placed to the present 
time, and it is a fact which cannot be disputed that the Citizens' 
band has the best alto section of any baud in the country. 
Schuyler Reed played 2d alto, Roy Myers and Win. Downey, 
tenors?; George Adams, bass drum; Allen Myers, tenor drum; 
Viv Essick was on alto. 1 changed Viv to Eb cornet and I feel 
that I did a good thing for he has become one of the best cornet 
players of the town, and a great entertainer at social gatherings, 
giving solos on the cornet. Chas. Clymer afterward took up tuba 
and became quite an artist on that instrument. We had to rent 
a band room, while Emrick's band, having secured a room in the 
tire engine house when it was built, did not have any expense 
for rent, which has been one of the greatest factors in perpetuat- 
ing a band in Rochester. The two bands became the greatest ri- 
vals, in tact the members w r ere so enthusiastic over the bands that 
they often nearly came to blows. Several would not speak to 
each other. They would work all night to beat the other band 
out of a job, money or not. Wnen a show came to town both 
bands would be after it. I remember of a show coming herefrom 
t e south and Emrick's band was going to get its job. Frank 
Crim, secretary of our band was notified, and as he could not go, 
we sent Schuyler Reed down to Peru to intercept the show and 
get the job of playing in front of the Academy of Music. Fe was 
successful and te egraphed for band to be at the depot. Both 
bands were there, but we had the job and escorted the troup to 
the hotel. if there was any advantage to be gained by any 
move every one was ready and willing. Our practice was great 
and nothing kept the members away from rehearsal. If a new- 
man came to town and he was a musician we would follow him 
all night. I remember when Walter Chapman came from Penn- 
sylvania. George Adams discovered that he was a cornet player 
and passed the word. Two or three of the band boys were "put 
next" and stayed with him until one o'clock in the morning, 


then others talked to him until they had him solid for the band. 

The name of the band was changed to "Rannell's G. A. R. 
Band" having made arrangements with the G. A. R. to do their 
playing. We equipped ourselves with uniforms of good cloth, 
but the color did not suit the Grand Army boys, as the uniforms 
were butternut gray. The coats were colored to a deep blue, same 
as the Emrick band. We became one of the best bands Roches- 
ter ever had, with a membership of twenty-four men. We had 
a not^d trombone soloist, Billy Casad, who played all the profes- 
sional solos of the day, and Viv Essick became one of our cornet 
soloists, playing triple-tongue polkas; Chas. Clymer, tuba solos. 
Emrick's band changed its name to the "K. of P. Band" and 
equipped themselves with new uniforms, consisting of light frock 
coats, bright blue pants and white helmets with large horse-hair 
plumes. This was a very pretty and unique uniform. Emrick 
joined our band as Bb clarionet player. There were several clar- 
ionets in the G. a. R. band: Sam Hilbrun, Joe Hilbrun, Sam 
Steiglitz, Chas. Shoup and J. W. F. Smith, piccolo. Soon after 
this Rannell's G. A. R. band joined an association called the Tri- 
State Musicians' Association, composed of northern Indiana, 
southern Michigan and northwestern Ohio. There was a mem- 
bership of over fifty bands. The first meeting was called at Fort 
Wayne, Gart Shober, of that city, was chosen president and Wm. 
W. Rannells, vice-president. They would hold meetings three 
days, all bands playing in unison on parade, one day. We had 
our last meeting at Warsaw. The band attended the G. A. R. 
encampment at Fort Wayne with the o»d soldiers for three or 
four days and things that happened would not look well in print. 
I could tell a good many things that happened in my experience 
with bands, but it has become, in the long years of my band life, 
a habit not to tell stories out of school, and 1 will not do so now. 

I must relate one circumstance which occurred while at the 
Fort Wayne encampment. We had one tent about 10x12 feet 
erected for the band, which we used for our instruments and to 
sleep in. There were about twenty men in the band and space 
was limited. When we lay down with our heads to the wall and 
feet to the center of the tent, we were packed like sardines in a 
box. There was room for about four to lie lengthwise at our 
feet. 1 was lying next to the curtains at the back end of the 
tent and Viv Essick lay next to me. Frank Crim came in late 
and had to take his bed at our feet next to the entrance. We had 
our food cooked by steam, that is beef and roasting ears cooked 
in barrels with steam pipes in them. The second night was a 
good time to go strolling— and go quick. Viv waked up very 
suddenly with a desire to go strolling double-quick. He took one 
leap for the opening and landed on Frank Crim's neck. Frank 


thought the cannon wagons had stampeded and were running 
over him and I don't think a short-hand writer could have found 
hieroglyphic characters enough to have recorded the things he 
said, but as no one replied Frank got settled without killing any- 
one before Viv got back. Next night all were peaceably sleep- 
ing as comfortably as the case would admit, when I awoke to 
find I was laying in water. It was raining in torrents and we 
had not ditched around our tent and that was a job we imme- 
diately had to do, with anything we could find to dig with. 
After the job was finished we were too. wet to sleep. Talk about 
your army life— we had a plenty. There was a panorama of the 
battle of Gettysburg showing under a large tent and the mana- 
ger wanted a band to play at the entrance. We got the job for 
$5 per hour, which we felt pretty big over, as there were eight or 
ten bands on the ground. We got five hours playing and a storm 
came up, blew down our show and closed up our business. 

In the fall of 1887 the two bands were consolidated: Wm. 
Downey, manager; H. F. Crim, secretary; Wm. W. Rannells, di- 
rector; Viv Essick, J. S. Crim, J. C. Tipton, Roy Myers, L. B. 
Walters, members of the G. A. R. band, and Chas. Myers, Ed. 
Zook, Joe Ault, Henry Meyer, O. R. Decker, S. P. Bailey, Will 
True, George Adams, members of the K. of P. band; Chas. Brouil- 
lette, drum major. This organization lasted only two or three 
weeks. Owing to petty jealousies existing among the members 
the band separated, going back to their respective band rooms. 
The G. A. R. band continued until 1889, when it disbanded, some 
of the members going in with the K. of P. band, which was 
changed later to the Third Regiment band under command of 
drum major C. A. Brouillette. George VanSkike resigned his 
position as director, Henry Meyer was chosen as director and 
VanSkike organized "The Mascot Band" about 1891, which by 
dilligent practice became very good and filled several important 
engagements under VanSkike's directorship, but it had to give 
up as the old band, now called the Citizens' band, still held the 
prestige and a free band room, which has been the main factor 
and I may say, the only reason that Rochester ever held a band 
together as long as it has. The new members of the Citizens' 
band at this time were: Chas. A. Kilmer, Ellery Stockberger, 
Alfred Goodrich, Cal Hoover, P. J. tStingly and Billy DeWitt, 
the latter becoming quite a slide trombone player. 

In 1898 a band was organized at the college by Prof. Germann 
and collapsed in 1901, the Citizens' band taking the best players 
into its fold, the following members joining: Wm. Hoffman, 
Lontue Hoffman, Fred Ault, Guy Showley, Luther Mitchell, 
D. M. Swinehart, L. B. Walters. This was the last opposition 
the old Citizens' band had. I was solicited to take tuba and in 


1900 the Citizens' baud gave an antique fair which cenainly was 
antique enough, for we bad all the old relics in the county on ex- 
hibition, ft was a great place for the old people to enjoy them- 
selves and entertaining for the young. It was conceived by Al- 
bert Bitters aud executed by Frank Grim and Joe Ault, assisted 
by the entire band and families. It was a great, sueeess socially 
and financially and netted over $400.00 in three weeks and bought 
the present uniforms which are the showiest uniforms Rochester 
has ever had, but the band is sadly in need of new onus as they 
are getting scuffed and always were too heavy for comfort. In 

1901 1 was chosen director and continued to fill the position uutil 
190ti, when I resigned, Viv Essick tilling the position until he 
was employed by Argos band as instructor and 1 was again ap- 
pointed aud filled the place until 1908, when Henry M>er was 
again elected director. The citizens donated enough money to 
purchase Mr. Meyer a beautiful new gold cornet of the latest 
Conn model and presented it to him. This was a very meritor- 
ious action on the part of some Rochester citizens, as the director 
in the band takes all the kicks if the music does not suit and 
when the band plays well the director is not thought of. This is 
all the director gets in the Citizens' band. M. L. Davidson, of 
Rochester college, has acted as director since the fall of 1908 aud 
will do so as long as he wishes. The band does not pay the di- 
rector any salary, in fact there has never been any salaried 


No other band has ever gained the prestige or been more 
highly favored away from home, or executed more classic music, 
than the oand of Rochester. Peru paid her band director fifty to 
seventy -five dollars per month. Logansport employs a director 
for her band; Michigan City keeps a high salaried man. Every 
city and town around us have hired musicians for their bands, 
while poor old Rochester refused to even let her band have a room 
for practice. Ever since the fire house was built, the band was 
allowed to have a practice room until the present council. In 
June 1908, the council gave the band orders to vacate their room 
at once. Manager Crim and the members were looking for other 
quarters. The council tendered the band the use of the council 
room for rehearsals, which was thankfully accepted. In Dec, 
1908 the council adopted a resolution that the band should vacate 
their room on or before Jan. 25, 1909. This was settled without 
any recorse, as friends did everything to change the decree. Every- 
thing was done to get a room suitable for practice, but we met 
with disappointment, as the excuse was always presented that it 
would annoy someone. In the time allotted to vacate, the town 
clerk, Mr. Jerome Swihart, circulated a petition among the tax- 
payers of the town, a tax of 1 1-4 cents for each person in Roches- 


ter. The band, in return, to furnish concerts during the summer 
months and furnish music free for Decoration day. He was noti- 
fied to stop at once, as the plan would be opposed, and as no other 
plan suggested itself, the band was taking action to disband. But 
the friends of the band, headed by Omar B.Smith, W. H.Taylor, 
(councilman, who stood by the band all through), J. E. Trout- 
man, R. C. Wallace, Sol Allman, twice went before the council, 
pleading for the privilege to let the band return there. But Mr. 
Joel Stockberger, seconded by Mr. Frank Sheward, absolutely re- 
fused to consider any proposition. When the band was just about 
to draw its last breath, up steps Doctors Shafer & Rannells, free 
and unsolicited, ottering, not medicine, but consolation to the 
band and friends of the band. They tendered the use of a fine, 
newly papered and painted room, centrally located. One of the 
best rooms the band ever had, to be used indefinitely. Therefore 
the band is at home once more. 

The membership is, at present: Henry Meyer, Bb cornet, 
director; Adison Keiter, Bb cornet; Chas. A. Kilmer, 1st Bb cor- 
net; Walter Stevenson, solo clarionet; Peter Stingly, Eb clarionet; 
H. F. Crim, solo alto, manager; J. S. Crim, 1st alto, treasurer; 
Fred Stevenson, slide trombone; Will Hoffman, slide trombone; 
Alfred Goodrich, trombone; Oran Karn, baritone saxophone; 
Cal Hoover, tuba; W. W. Rannells, tuba; W 7 ilham True, side 
drum; Wm. Crable, bass drum; Bert Skinner, drum major. This 
constitutes the roster of the band at this time, of the actual mem- 
bership. Blythe Buchanan is playing slide trombone; also John 
Simons plays baritone; Lovell Walters, tenor saxophone, but are 
only honorary members. Paul Emrick,solo Bb cornet, will play 
with us when at home from his work. It is understood that Mr. 
Reiter will soon leave the old Citizens' Band and go to LaPorte. 
This is to be deplored as Mr. Reiter is a first-class cornetist and 
his place will be hard to fill. But this is always the case with 
Citizens' Band. They can not pay anyone to stay, while others 

In regard to the "Old Helicon Tuba," which I use and of 
whicli I spoke, I can truely say it is the best instrument I have 
ever seen or blowed, but am sorry to say it does not belong to me, 
and is only under my care while I blow it. It belongs to the 
band, having been purchased by them after George VanSkike's 
death, Sept. 28, 1897, when his sister was going to take it away 
from Rochester. The band was informed of this, and Manager 
Crim went to see what could be done. He found that it could be 
bought for fifty dollars, which amount was found to be in the 
treasury, and voted to be paid for "Old Helicon," to be preserved 
for Rochester, and to remain here until worn out, which was 
nearly the case, when, through the unsolicited kindness and gen- 


erosity to the Citizens' Band, of friend Albert Bitters, the money 
has been donated by the citizens for the repair of "Old Helicon," 
and it is now good as new. It is an expensive instrument, having 
cost $327. It is a great pleasure to me, as a friend and lover of the 
old horn, which I have played for so many years. I thank any- 
one laboring under the supposition that they were subscribing 
anything to me personally, as I am now the oldest musician play- 
ing in the band, having been associated with the band since 1871 
—38 years. I have always tried to do my duty and play what 
ever I had to play, whether playing for money or friendship. The 
band boys do not get very much for a year's playing, in fact if all 
expenses were counted, there would not be a member but would 
come out in debt. Our records will show that nearly one-half our 
playing is gratis for the town, and is donated by the band boys 
for the good of the town. No other organization in Rochester does 
for the town so much free advertising without remuneration. No 
charitable institution ever asked the aid of Citizens' Band, that it 
was not cheerfully granted. There are very few paying engage- 
ments in Rochester, and with giving concerts in summer, which 
keeps the boys practicing twice a week, and one night for concert. 
This occupies three nights each week, rain or shine, with a very 
liberal donation of fifty cents per man for concert night, or possi- 
bly seventy-five cents. This for three nights' work and the band 
pays for music, lights and forty cents for moving the wagon out 
each night. All other expenses deducted, who would like to take 
the band's place? The band is one of the greatest advertisers the 
town may have to draw a crowd. The band does not receive any- 
thing for this, and our manager, H. F. Crim, who has acted as 
such for nearly twenty years, says a great many subscribers never 
pay, or make a big kick. 

July 4, 1886, L. S. Emrick engaged the band to accompany 
an excursion to Chicago. I was playing "Old Helicon" for the 
band. Several of the band boys' wives accompanied them. 
Emrick engaged lodging at the Kune hotel, on Clark street. At 
four o'clock in the morning someone aroused my wife and I by 
pounding on our door. On inquiring what was wanted, found 
Ed Zook frightened nearly to death, trying to find all the band 
boys, saying the house was all on fire. It did not take us long to 
get out, in truth I think my wife forgot to see if my necktie was 
on straight. On gaining the hall, there was a general rush to get 
out. Some carrying their clothes, some without any. I was told 
that Stilla Bailey went out with one pants leg on and the other 
over his shoulder. Lee Emrick, when awakened, turned over 
and put his hand on the wall, said: "Oh, it ain't hot yet," then 
turned over and tried to go to sleep. When we reached the bal- 
cony in front, over the street, we found the fire was on the opposite 


side of t,h# street, in a four-story building; used as a restaurant, and 
rooming house. Smoke, in thick, heavy, greasy-looking rolls and 
clouds, was seen pouring out from every window. The whole 
neighborhood was thick with a dense fog of smoke. It was a very 
extensive conflagaratiou. There were thirty-six engines playing 
the fire. The first alarm reported that it was our hotel, which 
caused the first excitement, but when it was reported that some 
of our crowd was over in the place, Sam Hefliey and Chandley 
were missing, then there was more excitement, but it proved to 
be a mistake. We saw two bodies carried out of the building. 
The fire was not fully under control until ten o'clock. 

I will now bring this story to a close, as it is too lengthy now, 
and I have not mentioned several very lunny things that hap- 
pened for fear it would offend someone. But I must name some 
of the boys who have made some take notice. 

Prof. J. G. Pearson started from the Rochester band and has 
gained a ureat reputation as a cornet soloist, located at Kansas 
City. Fred Ault, another boy, started from the band, would have 
become one of the noted musicians, but was called into the wilds 
of Wisconsin with his father, J. F. Ault. Another fine young 
man, and a chip of the "old block," is Paul Einrick, who grew 
up in the band, son of L. S. Emrick. He is full of musical en- 
thusiasm, a good clarionet, violin or cornet player, capable of 
blowing any part in the band. Was director of Purdue College 
band two years. Another bright, kind-hearted, good boy every- 
one liked, was Luther Mitchell. Played piccolo in band, but was 
a professional on violin. If he had lived would have become one 
of America's best violinists. Another Citizens' Band boy was 
Edgar Wallace, who grew up in the band, and is today a profes- 
sional trap drummer at Mishawaka. And another; my old friend 
Viv Essick, who I depended on for my solo cornet work for many 
years. How often when directing, has he caused my heart to 
pound with anxiety, fear, pride and pleasure. But I can truth- 
fully say Viv seldom failed me, aad today he is one of the best 
cornetists in the country, holding positions with several bands as 
instructor and soloist. I could mention many others but my 
space is full. I will say for myself that I have done some hard 
work in the band business and have not given up yet. 

I never laid any claim to being a soloist, or a great musician, 
but have been a lover of music all my life. If I have given pleas- 
ure to some, I am repaid, but if I have caused any sorrow, I will 
beg your forgiveness, as my aim has been ever to please. I have 
been cross in the band room many times when things did not go 
to suit me, and said harsh things, for which I am ashamed. I 
could never reach my ideal in music, therefore have been a failure. 
I would like to say that the band is not the place for every young 



man. Some have talent, others join the band for the purpose of 
show and to "mash." They never amount to anything for them- 
selves and are worse for the band. There are always some silly 
girls who would run after any fellow if he wore a uniform. It is 
not a good school for such a young man. There is a certain 
nature, or trait, in a musician, born with them, to love music. 
They are of a very sensative and nervous temperament, or become 
so. There is no lodge fraternity as great as the fraternity which 
exists among band men. After being associated for a number of 
years, they have their minds so frequently attuned in harmony 
that they have a sympathy for each other. While there may be 
feelings of jealousy, there is a bond of friendship existing between 
them, though they may not speak to each other. It has long been 
the custom of the band to play or attend in a body all funerais of 
band men if it does not conflict with the fraternal societies to 
whick they belong. 



Fun of Youthful Inhabitants of Rochester When 
Town was a Small Village. 



TV/^Tr. EDITOR: In reading Mr. Perschbacher's reminiscen- 
-*- ■*■ ces I saw many incidents in the narrative that I re- 
member, so thought I would try and write a few that happened 
and to do so I will have to go back to my younger days again 
and work up to the present. 

Not giving much of a history of my family in my other ar- 
ticle, I will give a short sketch of it after arriving in Rochester. 
There were eleven children of us, four boys and seven girls. One 
brother and two sisters died in Ohio, one sister in southern Indi- 
ana and four in Rochester. My oldest sister Susan, married 
Stephen Davidson. Many of the old settlers wiil remember him. 
My sister Eliza, married a man by the name of McGruder; sister 
Sarah married Albert Ward, brother of Del. Sister Nancy mar- 
ried Bill Carter. 

Now I want to give you a little history of Bill and his bride, 
to show how things were done in those days when they wanted 
to take a honey-moon trip. Carter came from Bartholomew 
county and he proposed to take his bride home to see his 
folks. There were no railroads in those days, so they con- 
cluded to go in a covered wagon. They got all ready to start a 
day or two after the wedding. Had the wagon all fixed up fine 
ready to start the next morning, but when Bill looked at his 
wagon it only had three wheels, the other one was gone. He 
didn't know what to do. Of course they thought they would 
have to give it up, but next morning the wagon stood at the same 
place with the fourth wheel all right. He never knew who 
played the trick. If I had been old enough they would have 


blamed me, but I was not. I grew older and was always just as 
full of fun as it was possible for a boy to be. 

In this narrative I want to speak of a few things and if you 
think it worth while print it; there may be some left there who 
will remember some of the things I write about. I just want to 
say that I don't write them for the long-faced and sanctimon- 
ious, but for a little fun. People, if the> are like me, love fun, if 
it is truly fun, and of what I write was fun for me and my 
chums way back in the forties and fifties. The first little inci- 
dent was back about the year 1843, when we were living on the 
farm. Our neighbor, Mr. Samuel Parker, had a boy, James (Jim, 
we always called him) about three years my senior. One Sunday 
we concluded we would slip off and go hunting, so I took our 
dog and my little hatchet and met him according to the plan. 
We started west through our pasture; there was a small field of 
rye joining the pasture on the west. The dog "treed" something 
in the rye field and we broke for him. There was an old hollow 
elm stump in the field, one side all burned off and two roots that 
were hollow. There was something there, we were sure, but 
what, we didn't know. We could see something down in the 
roots, so concluded we would investigate. Jim reached down 
and got hold of something and yanked it out. We could pretty 
nearly tell what it was by the odor. Weil Jim held it up and I 
whacked it with my little hatchet and then gave it to the dog and 
he shook it awhile. Suppose you know what it was, if you don't 
I can tell you. It was a skunk kitten. That one disposed of Jim 
proceeded to take out another and I would whack that one and 
throw it to the dog, which he carried out as his part of the pro- 
gram. The atmosphere by this time was getting pretty blue, but 
we did not mind that much. We were out for a "lark" and did 
not propose to give it up and proceeded until we had killed three 
kittens and two old ones. 1 tell you we thought that was fun 
and we had done a good thing for the country. It didn't make 
us sick, but the poor dog was indisposed for quite a while, but 
finally recovered. Thought we had enough experience for one 
day, so concluded we would go home. Thought probably we 
would not smell very good, so we decided we would go down to a 
creek that ran though our pasture and take a bath. Well, we 
did, but thought it would be better to keep our clothes on and 
then tell the folks we had fallen into the creek. I expect you 
have seen a good many people and boys that looked more tidy 
than we did, but no matter, we lit out for home. This part of it 
was not so funny for us. I thought I would slip up behind the 
stable and get to the house without mother seeing me, but she 
met me about fifty rods from the house. I knew pretty near 
what was coming. The first thing I had to do was to divest my- 


self of all the garments I had on, then I was sure of what hap- 
pened, for if there ever was a kid got trimmed down, I was the 
chap, and Jim, well, he didn't fare any better than I did, maybe 
worse, for he had a father to attend to his case. In a day or two 
I saw Jim and he asked me how I got along and what mother 
did. I told him that if he had been there and seen for himself 
he could form his own opinion. That was trie last time 1 ever 
went hunting on Sunday. Poor Jimmie, he got snake bit, and 
every season about the time he was bitten, he would have a very 
hard time and I guess that was what killed him. 

Now, how's that for a skunk story? Jt may look like a 
skunk story and may smell like it, and in fact is, but I don't 
think it any more of a skunk story than Jonas Myers' fish story. 
Jonas' fish story I can vouch for. I know of it and have often 
told the story, and havn't any idea that people thought it was 
true. I have seen fish come down the creek from the lake in 
a freshet, that was perfectly astonishing. Along the creek and 
over the bottom willows grew quit thickly. Those large buffalo 
fish would get caught in those willows and you could go there 
after the creek went down and get more than you could carry, 
for some of them were very large. I remember one time, I think 
it was Ike Good and Dave Edwards, came to town one day with 
one on a pole between them and the tail of the fish reached to the 
ground. It weighed sixty pounds. (Another fish story.) 

Now we will talk a little more of my life on the farm and 
then we will go over on the other side of the Michigan road and 
I will try and entertain you a few minutes from that part of the 
couutry. In those early days everyone had a large fireplace. No 
stoves then and no matches; yes, there were some, but poor folks 
could not afford to use them and had to depend on keeping fire 
in the fireplace. If you happened to get out of fire, you had to go 
to the neighbors for it. Well, one time we ran short and mother 
sent me down to Mr. Parker's after some. It was getting quite 
late in the evening. Got the fire and started home. By that time 
it was beginning to get dark and 1 was hustling along. It 
was through the woods, only a small place cleared away for a 
road. When I had gotten within sight of home, there was an 
awful yel, I thought it was right behind me. I dropped the fire 
and if ever a fellow did tall running I was the chap. Told 
mother there was some awful thing that yelled at me and scared 
me, so I dropped the fire. By the way, I didn't look back until 
I reached home. One of the girls went back and managed to get 
enough fire to start with. Mother said I was brave (?) to get 
scared at a screech owl, but I was scared pretty bad all the same. 
Now, for the other side of the road. There lived in the neigh- 
borhood of which I wish to speak, Bill Carter, Hardy Parker, 


Thos. Wilson and Jos. Reed. Hardy Parker Jived on the hill, 
just north of Carter's. Joe. Reed's place joined Carter's farm on 
the south and Tom Wilson's just south of Reed'.- about half a 
mile. I was out to Carter's to spend the night. He proposed to 
go and get Wilson and Parker, and taking me along as a kind of 
a side partner, we would go over to John Pence's and buy some 
apples, the way we most always got them. Pence had a fine or- 
chard. This happened before Carter had any apples, in fact none 
of them had orchards that bore any fruit at that time. Pence 
also had a dog and he was cross as sixty. The orchard was quite 
a distance from the house, and we thought that by being right 
quiet, we would not disturb the dog. The orchard was about 
forty rods from the timber and along the timber was a high stake 
and rider fence. Well, we got to the orchard all right and was 
going around just as quiet as we could to hnd the best fruit. We 
came to a tree that had very fine ones on. We had to get them 
some way as the tree was pretty large. Parker thought he could 
shake the tree and not disturb the dog. Carter told him he had 
better not as the dog would hear us. He shook the tree and 
about that time we heard the dog and he was coming in our di- 
rection. Now if ever you saw fellers "git," we were the three. 
We didn't slop to climb the fence, just naturally fell over it. I 
was the youngest of the trio and got into the woods first, the oth- 
ers got over the fence just in lime, for the dog was pretty close, 
but the fence being pretty high he didn't try lo get any farther. 
We were some pretty badly frightened boys and did not get any 
apples there. 

Mr. Sinks lived about three-quarters of a mile from Pence's, 
on the road running from Rochester to Hoover's Mill, not far 
from the lake. He had a good orchard and we held a council of 
war and decided we would try and get some of Sinks. That 
time we made a haul. Got a bag of fine apples. I don't know 
whether he missed them or not, anyhow we never heard anything 
about it. We had another little time over there, but lest I tire 
you will not relate it, but will go from there to Rochester and see 
what we can find there, whether anything of interest loyou. 

Fulton county settled up pretty fast and it was not long be- 
fore there was a good many people in the county. The first 4lh 
of July celebration held in Rochester was in 1846 or 1847, and 
when the Fourth was celebrated then, it was a celebration in the 
full sense of the word. There were two tables constructed in the 
public square, on the south side of the court house, among the 
trees. Early in the morning the people began to come in. We 
had no idea there were so many in the country. About nine 
o'clock Isaac True, snare drummer, Nat Bryant, fifer, (1 don't 
remember who beat the bass drum) began to play down about 


where Banner Law head's tavern used to stand. Of course the 
crowd moved toward the music. I think brother Kline was Mar- 
shal of the Day. They began to form in line for the march. Let 
me say right here, lest I forget it, that there was one Revolution- 
ary soldier in the county at that time, old Mr. John Johnson. I 
think he was the father of Grandpa Tommy Shelton's wife. He 
rode in a buggy with some one. Don't recollect who led the pro- 
cession at that time, and for two or three celebrations after that. 
The procession formed and marched south, out near where the 
old fair ground used to be, then returned and filed in to the table. 
At the head of the table was a small squad of malitia, and as the 
column marched in fired a salute. If tables were ever loaded 
with good things to eat, it was on that occasion. After dinner 
they had some toasts. I didn't hardly know what that meant — 
remember of brother Kline making quite a speech, as well as 
others. Don't remember of but one other — that was Jesse Yhost. 
He used to be with Chris Hoover in the furniture business. At 
that time tie was living a few miles east of Rochester. That was 
the first Fourth of July celebration Rochester ever held. There 
were many subsequent, and every one better than the preceeding 
one. People then celebrated with an enthusiasm that has been 

I must now tell you a little more of my experience, and that 
of some others. Jesse Shields was keeping store on the corner 
north of public squnre, and it was there at Jesse's that Jonathan 
Daw.-on made his debut. He was a young man from the coun- 
try, and a nice fellow. His father was one of Fulton county's 
solid men. Now for a little joke said to have been played on the 
young man from the country I don't know that it is true — 
Jonathan will know. R.N. Rannells kept store at the north end 
of town. The story goes that Jonathan had not been with Jesse 
very long before he was sent down to Rannells' to get a dozen 
button holes. Think some are living in Rochester who will re- 
member the circumstance. 

The first show under a tent, in Rochester, was on the lot 
across from the Mansion House. It was a small affair, but very 
interesting to us kids, and 1 was one of them, don't you forget it. 
What struck me as being the nicest thing of the whole shooting 
match was the monkey riding the pony. Thought that was just 
too grand for anything. That was the only time I ever wished 
to be a monkey, so that I might ride that pony. The next show 
was a larger concern. That one had an elephant, which was the 
wonder of the nineteenth century to us boys. It exhibited ud at 
the north end of town, just east of Alex Chamberlain's tavern. 
We all thought it was a "buster" of a show. Some of the girls 
rode the elephant — don't remember who they were, but know 


they kept up quite a giggling, each one holding on to the other 
to keep from falling off. 

I must hasten along, for I can't tell everything I know in re- 
gard to the times when I was a boy. Will just speak of one of 
the jollifications thty had at Rochester. The Democrats and Re- 
publicans tried to outdo eachother in the way of a big demon- 
stration, but I thing the Democrats rather came out ahead. (I 
am a Republican and always have been.) If it had not been for 
Newcastle township the Republicans might have taken the cake, 
but when the delegation came in from Bloomingsburg, that just 
beat everything. They came, that time, with twenty-five yoke 
of oxen drawing a big hickory wagon full of Democrats— and the 
band playing "Shove 'em Up," Fin Emmons leading the van. 
Of course things did't go off right unless there was a fight, and 
they had it all right, as they had many times before and after- 

I don't know that this has interested any of you, but will tell 
two or three other little incidents and then "ring off " and give 
you a rest. I will give, as the last of my reminescences, where 
Chris Hoover figures again. It would't be complete if I couldn't 
bring Chris in somewhere. Did any of you fellows ever go out 
"sniping?" Maybe you don't know anything about it, so I will 
have to explain the workings. Get some "greeny," as you sup- 
pose, to go with you with a sack. You get him to hold the sack 
at a certain place while you and your chums go and drive the 
snipe into the bag, etc. One night we found a young fellow who 
didn't know anything about the game. Took him out just north 
of the old cemetery, at the edge of the prairie. Got him all fixed, 
told him to be very quiet, and we would go up along the prairie 
and drive in the snipe. We left him and then lit out for town. 
We loafed around about an hour and the fellow didn't come in, 
consequently became a little uneasy about him and went back to 
hunt for him. Found him just where we had left him, fast 
asleep. After awakening him he wanted to know if we had seen 
any. Told him we had, and if he hadn't been asleep would have 
made a good haul. That is snipe story No. 1. Now for another, 
somewhat different. 

There was a young fellow in town — I don't remember his 
name. We had been fishing for him for some time. One night 
four of us rogues went down to Rannells' store on a kind o' lark, 
and that chap was there. He was a very friendly sort of fellow. 
We proposed that we would go sniping and asked if he wouldn't 
like to go along. He said "anything for fun." Asked him if he 
would hold the sack, and he replied that he would do anything. 
We borrowed a new sack at Rannells' store and told the proprie- 
tor we would return it next morning, then made haste to our 


"snipery." Took our victim to the same place we had taken the 
other fellow, lie was very particular and wanted to know just 
how to hold the sack, and how he should act when he heard the 
birds coining. Of course we gave him the necessary information, 
got him all fixed and then broke for town. Went to Rannells' 
store, loafed around there a while, and thought we would go and 
have a dish of oyslers. Reub Tally was keeping a little oyster 
stand just across the alley from Dr. A. H. Robbins' office. When 
we got there, who should we rind but this young fellow, eating 
oysters. He had traded the sack to Tally for a dish. That was 
one on us. We gave Tally thirty cents for the sack and returned 
it to Rannells, who sold sacks at twenty-five cents. Don't you 
think that was a good one? We were always good friends after 
that, and quit the snipe business. 

In the early days ot Rochester the town site was covered 
with hazel brush and oak grubs, on the west side of Main street 
to the prairie on the west. Lot Bozarth had a farm just at the 
edge of town, on the west, or rather northwest. He was at one 
time a partner with my brother, J. J. Shryock. Lot had a little 
path from his house through the brush to the store. You could 
not see him when coming or going, as the brush hid him from 
view. By the way, I want to say that I used to drop corn for 
him, back where I. O. O. F. cemetery is now located, for one dol- 
lar and a quarter per week, to get money enough to go to the 
circus. But this is not w T hat I started out to say. 

Rabbits, those days, were almost as plentiful as the brush. 
We used to have great times shooting and catching them. Chris 
Hoover was quite a sport, as well as myself. Just after a snow 
Chris and I used to go hunting down by the prairie. We would 
see Br. Rabbit's track going down into the prairie and we'd fol- 
low it into the tall gra*s and see where Br. Rabbit had crept in 
under a bunch. Well, Chris would square himself, and down he 
would go on top of Br. Rabbit, and he never missed getting his 
game. I was always afraid to fall, through fear of hurting my- 
self. A dog wasn't in it with Chris when it came to hunting 

Think I have written about enough nonsense for once. You 
know there is always a funny side to almost every one's life, and 
I have written just a small part of mine, hoping it may amuse 
some, at least those who read this article. "A little humor now 
and then is relished by the best of men." 

I don't want to close this story without giving a short history 
of our city. When I came here, in 1S95, there was nothing here 
but pine woods and a turpentine camp. Xow it is a most beau- 
tiful city of nine thousand inhabitants, with all the modern im- 
provements that go to make a city attractive. It is located one 


hundred miles south of Macon, with five good railroads. It is 
nine miles from Irvinville, where Jeff Davis was captured, ninty 
miles from the sea coast. There are a great many old soldiers 
here, some two or three hundred, where the old chaps have a 
good time, away from the cold winters. Here ii is just fine— only 
winter enough to tell when spring begins. We make our garden 
in February. You will find everything in the way of "garden 
sass" in the markets. We are building a new court house, jail, 
and high school buildings, putting in a sewage system and ex- 
tending the water mains and electric lighting system, which 
makes it quite lively in the way of business. 

Right here I "ring off" and bid you all good bye. 

Backward, turn backward, of Time in your flight, 
Just about sixty years would be about right, — 
Cover my bald head with hair as of yore, 
Give back my teeth, good and sound to the core, 
Let me again without spectacles see — 
Oh hallelujah ! How happy Pd be. 

* Sirnw \ 




Music of the Howling of the Wolves Described 
for Boys and Girls of Today. 



KDITOR REPUBLICAN: This is my tftird letter written 
upon early times in Fulton county. It is with great 
pleasure that I read the letters of those who have contributed to 
the early history of the county. 

In my former letters I have given a history, according to my 
best recollection, of early times up to the civil war, and this letter 
will consist of " pick-ups" from other letters. My old friend and 
boyhood neighbor, Jonathan Dawson, speaks of the spelling 
schools we had in the winter time. I remember well that we 
went as far as six or eight miles to spell down a school, and Daw- 
son was one among the best. The foundation stone of our educa- 
tion is now shamefully neglected— the three Rs are somewhat 
eliminated — and now we receive letters from college students 
with misspelt words, and also find them deficient in arithmetic 
and reading. 1 cannot help but think that the old log school- 
house method of teaching is more proficient than the method 
now in vogue. 

I note what Brother Mitchell says about the Rev. Dr. Bazie 
Clevenger and family, when they resided in Akron. I went to 
the same school with Sarah Clevenger and became somewhat 
infatuated with her, and she thought "the world of me," and I 
made up my mind she would be my life partner, when one even- 
ing after spelling school, on the road home, she told me she was 
engaged to John Louderback, of Fulton. Disappointment was 
no name for it, for I thought she was perfection. 

I well remember the underground railroad spoken of by Bro. 
Essick. When I was a boy 1 used to see one or two negroes 
come down from our "loft" in the evening, to get into a wagon 


with a white driver and go north toward the Canadian line. Dr. 
Sippy and my father both kept " underground" stations. There 
are no more use for those railroads — the black crime of human 
slavery is gone forever. I remember also that one of the Fssick 
boys, who was a student in Fort Wayne college, came to Akron 
and delivered a temperance lecture, one evening. Whether it 
was M. L. or not I cannot say. 

Bro. Waymire speaks of Millark. When a boy I was fre- 
quently sent to Hoover's mill with a grist of wheat and corn, and 
usually had to stay at the mill over night. There were bunks in 
the mill building, with straw ticks and straw pillows, and we 
had to furnish our own cover. There we would sleep while the 
mill would grind away all night long. They "tolled" the grists 
with a peck measure, so much for each bushel of wheat or corn, 
and John Hoover never forgot to "toll" the grists — once— or 

I remember Dr. Charles Brackett and his brothers Lyman 
and Albert. Albert was the youngest of them, and went to the 
war with Mexico, and at the close wrote a history of the doings 
of the Indiana soldiery during the war. I happened to be in 
Rochester when the books came and I purchased one. It was 
among the first, if not the first one sold. I paid a dollar for it in 

Now, you young Hoosiers never heard a wolf howl. Some- 
times, during the summer, especially of a dark, gloomy night, 
the wolves would begin to howl. Of all the howls that ever did 
howl, they were the " howliest," and most mournful. It would 
make the hair raise on your cocoanut, and make you think they 
were in a few rods from the house. My father and mother would 
stand on the door steps and listen to them, but not me. I would 
not have gone out of doors for all of Carnegie's gold or Roose- 
velt's reputation. One afternoon about 4 o'clock, there came up 
a terrible wind and rain storm, and I could not go and drive in 
the sheep, as was my duty, and next morning at daylight my 
father went to the woods and found the wolves had killed four- 
teen out of twenty sheep. Did they eat the sheep? you ask. No, 
they only cut their throats and suck the blood. There were many 
droves of wild hogs in the woods. How they came there no one know. But they were there, and were more danger- 
ous than the bear or wolf. No person was safe in going through 
the woods without a trusty gun. One time a neighbor by the 
name of John Hoover was attacked by a dozen wild hogs, and 
after firing his last bullet at them, climbed a tree and the hogs 
kept him up until 10 o'clock at night, when some neighbors 
came and relieved him. Firearms were not the same then as 
they are now. Could only shoot once until you would have to 


reload. Roosevelt would be in great danger if he had the same 
kind of shooting irons they had then. " The gobblins would get 
him if he didn't watch out." 

Railroads were not thought of then, and we marketed our 
grain at Wabash or Peru, a distance of about twenty-five miles 
from Akron. Once a neighbor and I took two wagon loads of 
wheat to Wabash to market, and stopped over night at a farm 
house about three miles from town. There was a spelling school 
nearby and 1 went over and spelled down the whole cheese three 
times. Gee! but I was happy, and they did not know where I 
came from and wondered what had struck 'em. 

I remember the murder of Jack Clemans, by Arnold Perry, 
as related by Bro. Ward. My father thought he must have been 
insane, but according to the history of his after life he must have 
had his right mind. 

I remember, also, of Sheriff Ben Wilson being locked up in 
the old log jail, and his friends " bored" him severely about it. 
Wilson was a good-natured fellow and took the " augering" in 
good part. 

Well, I have had some political career. Was a candidate for 
auditor of Fulton county against A. J. Holmes, in 1858, and came 
within eighteen votes of being elected. Was clerk of Henry 
township several years. 

Married and located in Warsaw. Was school director for 
several years. Elected county auditor and served eight years. I 
was appointed United States special agent, with headquarters at 
Seattle, by the Harrison administration in 1889, and served until 
Cleveland was elected and "turned the rascals out." Served a 
term in the customs office here. Was engaged in the taking of 
the last census. 

My wife and I have a good home and pleasant family and 
are living well. Am doing little except writing for one of our 
daily newspapers. 

Good luck to all old settlers of Fulton county. 


Vicissitudes and Vexations of Orphan Boy Com- 
pared With Present Possibilities. 


ON THE 20th of October, 1844, in a log cabin on the banks of 
Brown's Run, Butler County, Ohio, the writer first saw 
the light of day, being the youngest of nine children born to John 
and Elizabeth McNeely, father being of Irish and mother of 
Scotch descent. Mother died in September, 1846, and father in 
1849, from the terrible scourge of cholera. The writer also suf- 
fered an attack of the same disease, but fortunately recovered to 
be, in later years, the victim of all the diseases incident to child- 
hood, such as measles, whooping cough, mumps and other like 

My early years were spent in many homes. Having neither 
father or mother, I was subjected to the kindness of strangers, as 
a rule, who treated me fairly well as long as 1 was able to serve 
them without extra trouble upon their part; but when sickness 
came they would take me to an aunt, my mother's sister, who 
always took me in and cared for me tenderly until health was 
restored, when some other home would be found for me. All 
with whom I spent my earlier years have long since passed to 
their reward. Of the nine children of the family, seven grew to 
man and womanhood. There were five brothers, and all were 
soldiers during the civil war, but no two of us in the same regi- 
ment. There was one brother in the Eighteenth Indiana, one in 
the Twenty-sixth Indiana, one in the Twelfth Ohio, one in the 
Sixth Iowa, and myself in the Forty-sixth Indiana, also the One 
Hundred and Eighteenth Indiana. All have been mustered out 
and gone to join the ranks on the other shore and 1 am left all 
alone, so far as blood relation goes. 

There are some incidents in my early life that recall some 



pleasing recollections. When about eight years of age a coupie 
of incidents occurred which I recall as rather amusing. Myself 
and brother Henry, who was two years older than 1, were both 
staying at my aunt's, who lived just on the edge of a large clover 
field, in which brother and I spent a good deal of our time. One 
day, playing with a neighbor girl, she caught a bumble bee and 
got a drop of honey with which she taunted me for a while and 
then ate it. That fired me with a desire to have a feast of honey. 
I told my brother about it, so we repared to the clover field bent 
on having all the honey we could eat. We would watch for 
a bumble bee to settle on a clover bloom, when we would put our 
hat over it and pound the life out of it. After securing some 
eight or ten, we concluded to begin the feast. Of course I wanted 
to do the dissecting, but my brother said he knew all about the 
business, so I had to yield. He took up a bee and began opera- 
tions, but alas for human expectations. Soon the air was rent 
by screams sufficient to raise the dead. The bee resented and 
made use of his only weapon, stinging my brother on the end of 
the thumb, which put an end to our feast. A few days afterward 
we were again under the shade tree in the clover field, where the 
dust was nearly ankle deep, and we concluded that we would 
play fighting bumble bees. We would fill our hats with dust 
and throw it up in the air and then run through it, waving our 
arms in imaginary battle. We were having a good time, until 
suddenly a sound fell upon our ears, the angry voice of our cousin 
calling us to the house. When we arrived we discovered that she 
had a gad about five feet long, which was anything but a wel- 
come sight to us. We crowded into a narrow space between the 
buildings, where she could not follow us, and of all the begging 
and "slinging snot" you ever witnessed, surely that was the limit, 
but all to no purpose. We had to come out and take our medi- 
cine, which was pretty severe, but proved to be a radical cure, as 
I don't think I have fought bumble bees since. 

When twelve years of age, I was brought to Indiana, landing 
at Lagro, Wabash county, on new year's eve., 1856, and have 
lived in the state ever since. When in my fourteenth year, I 
went t^ live with an Irishman, named Casey, with whom I re- 
mained until I enlisted in the Forty-sixth Indiana. My life there 
was a complete change from former things. It simply set me 
free, allowing me to go where I pleased and do what I pleased, so 
long as I would be home Monday morning to go to work. While 
there I learned to dance, play cards, drink whisky, or whatever 
my fancy dictated. Living three years under such influences, it 
was no wonder that I graduated soon after going in the army. I 
was an expert in nearly all games played with cards, but one 
thing I absolutely refused to do, and that was to play for money. 
1 tried "chuckaluck" once or twice and that satisfied me. 


I enlisted in Company I, Forty -sixth Indiana, in October, 
1861, being but seventeen years of age. Was with the regiment 
until December, 1862, when I was sent with a number of others to 
St. Louis, Mo., to the Good Samaritan Hospital, where I kept 
going lower and lower in strength until I gave up hopes of ever 
seeing Indiana again. I became so weak that I fainted, several 
times, in making efforts to raise up in bed. One day I was lying 
on my cot when the door bell rang, and I sprang up in my 
bed and turned my ear toward the door. The boys in the ward 
became frightened, supposing that I was dying. They gathered 
around me and tried to get me to lie down, but I told them to let 
me alone, that was someone from Lagro. In a few moments my 
uncle was shown into the ward, after which I laid down, perfectly 
happy. My uncle was so overcome that he could not talk for 
several minutes. The first words he said were: "My God, Sam, 
is this you?" I replied, "Yes, what there is left of me," when he 
exclaimed, "Well, God knows there is not much left except your 
feet." In after years he used to joke me about it, saying that my 
feet looked like mud sills hung to a rye straw. I was completely 
"hide-bound" and could not hide my teeth to save me. My uncle 
often remarked afterwards, that if anyone had told him that men 
could become so poor and emaciated, and still live, he would not 
have believed it until he saw a case with his own eyes. He re- 
mained with me for over a week, trying to get me a furlough, but 
could not succeed, as all the hospitals were run by contract at so 
much per head, and every one furloughed would cut off that 
much revenue from the doctor. But I got a discharge on the 13th 
of February, 1863, and my uncle came down and took me home. 
I recruited up and on the 1st of July, 1863, enlisted in Company 
F, One Hundred and Eighteenth Indiana, and spent the winter 
of '63 and 4 in East Tennessee, coming home in March, 1864. 

Feeling that I had soldiered enough, concluded I would get 
a wife and settle down, thinking that that was all I needed to 
make life complete. I soon found that I needed everything else 
worse than I did a wife, but having got her, I had to keep her. 
For some years after marriage I tried farming, but made a com- 
plete failure, so I worked by day's work to maintin myself and 
family. Many a time I have walked five miles, done a day's 
work and walked home again. I did whatever my hands found 
to do. One thing was in my favor — I always enjoyed good 
health. I have many times made the statement that I had not 
missed a half-dozen meals on account of sickness in forty years. 
In the year 1872 I began trying to preach and have been in the 
work for thirty-seven years, having done what good I could. 
Some of my experiences have not been the most pleasant. I 
remember one or two that will bear telling. While living in 


Huntington county, I had to go to Argos. Wishing to catch the 
early train at Huntington, I aimed to start at two o'clock in the 
morning from the house. Having company, I did not get to bed 
until eleven o'clock; when 1 awoke I made a mistake of one hour 
in looking at the clock and was taking things very coolly until 
my wife awoke and said: "You can't go now, as it is three 
o'clock." I said "no, it is only two o'clock," but when I looked 
again, saw my mistake. I was five and one-half miles from 
town and the train due at 4:04. Started on a race for the train. 
The night was dark and the roads rough, hence I partly ran and 
partly walked, but I made the train all right. Another time I 
started for the same train. It was just when th y were working 
the road and everything was all the same color. Aimed to keep 
in fie center of the road, but unfortunately for me I could not 
see where I was going:, so about a mile from home I fell off a 
culvert into a hog wallow and was completely plastered. What 
to do I hardly knew, as I had not time to return home and then 
make the train, so I continued on my way. When I reached 
Huntington it was just coming daylight, so I went to the river 
and commenced to wash off all the mud in sight. It was a cold, 
damp morning and no fire. I nearly froze until I got to a fire to 
dry my clothes. If some of the preachers of today would meet 
with such experiences I don't know what they would do. In 
those days I thought nothing of walking fifteen and twenty miles 
to fill my appointments, and I will say, right here, that although 
I have been in the work thirty-seven years, I have never made a 
complete disappointment. Have been detained on account of 
funerals and sickness, but always managed to send word to my 

I located in Argos in the summer of 1875, and remained there 
until I moved to Tiosa, twenty-eight years ago, where I expect to 
remain as long as I stay on this mundane sphere. After locating 
in Argos I soon found my salary was too small to maintain my 
family, so I took up plastering and stone masonry, which I followed 
for fifteen years, working five days in the week and preaching 
over Sunday, besides preaching a great many funerals. In fact I 
never knew anything but hard work until the last twelve years, 
but I don't regret it, as I feel that it is better to wear out than 
rust out. 

I have been trying for three or four years to cut out some of 
my points, feeling that I am entitled to some rest, but the people 
won't have it that way and keep me in the work. While I have 
never had what would be called a living salary for my work, I 
am not complaining, as I have a home and enough to eat and 
wear, and what should we ask for more. I have often made the 
remark that I would rather die a pauper and be buried as a county 
charge and know that I had done something to help some poor 
soul than to dip a millionaire and know that I had lived for no- 
body but myself. 


Fall of a Giant Poplar Tree and Piercing Cry of 
a Panther Impress Memory. 



WAS BORN IN FULTON COUNTY, Indiana, on the 14th 
day of July, 1841, so says the records. The particular 
place of this happening was on what was known, thirty years 
ago, as the John Shriver farm, about two and one-half miles 
southwest of Akron. My mother told me she used a sugar-sap 
trough in lieu of a cradle, to rock me to sleep when I had a spell 
of disturbing things with an unusually loud and unnecessary 
noise. With my father-in-law, Mr. E. R. Powers, I visited this 
particular spot the last time in the summer of 1868. 

My earliest recollection of an incident worthy of note in this 
article, occurred on a farm about one mile west and one mile 
north of Akron, adjoining Judge John Ball's farm on the north, 
and where I became acquainted with Ancil, Daniel and George 
Ball, sons of Judge Ball I do not know how he came to have 
the honorable prefix of "Judge" to his name. No doubt Ancil 
could give us light on the subject, but I remember well that 
father called him "Judge." Father purchased this farm and had 
moved his family on it when I was quite young, as I have no 
recollection of the transfer. The incident occurred in the spring- 
time of 1845 or 6. This portion of Fulton county was covered 
with the heaviest timber I ever saw anywhere in all my ram- 
blings over several states and territories in the last fifty years. 
Early one morning there came to our house two neighbors, living 
west of us about a mile, by the name of Bryant (the discription 
of our house I will omit, as there has been so many just like it 
described in former articles) . It was a drizzling, rainy morning. 
They could not work out, so came over to have a talk with fatber. 
They sat down in front of the fireplace and were soon engaged in 



conversation. Not long after they had got to talking good, father 
spoke about the giant tree of all that forest, a yellow poplar, 
standing some fifty feet southeast of our housp, and expressed a 
fear that lightning would strike it and thereby endanger the lives 
of his family. I remember that one of the men said, "Henry, if 
you have the axes we will help you to cut it down today, as we 
cannot do anything else." Father rather demurred on account of 
the weather, but they insisted. Finally he said, "1 have the 
axes," and went out into a kind of a lean-to shed, in the rear of 
the house, and brought in three axes, with a whetstone. They 
whet them and then went out and waiked around the tree two or 
three times before commencing operations. Now, it so happened 
that all three men were what is termed right-handed in axe craft, 
and when they were at work were entirely out of sight of each 
other. They worked until anther called them to dinner. Of 
course they did not work all the time, as if th^y were working for 
wages, as they would stop and inspect one another's work and 
talk a little. After dinner and more talk, they resumed and 
worked something more than an hour before the giant fell, and it 
made a terrible crash and shook our cabin like an earthquake. 
The men then measured the stump and found it to be a little over 
eight feet inside the bark any way they measured, and it was 
sixty feet to the first limb, and that was over three feet in diam- 
eter. What a value there would be to such a tree now. Methinks 
enough could be realized to buy a farm of one hundred and sixty 
acres in some localities in this country today. 

The following autumn we moved to Rochester and father 
worked for Grandfather Rannells, who was operating a general 
store at that time. I don't think I visited the old home again 
until in 1866, when I found a part of that tree still lying there 
where it fell twenty years before. After moving to Rochester, I 
spent most of my time, for four or five years, at my grandfather's 
home, which was about half way between Rochester and Akron 
(then Newark). He had a large family and one boy, Jacob, a 
few months my senior, who made a good playmate, hence I pre- 
ferred to stay there rather than at home. Grandfather had a 
large house, perhaps the largest in Fulton county at that time, 
particularly on a farm, and I do not remember any house in 
Rochester, sixty years ago, as large as it was. He had two large 
frame barns at that time. I attended my first school while stay- 
ing there. The school house, like a number that have already 
been described, was situated about a half-mile north and east of 
Henry Hoover's mill, which was also of ancient type, and the 
person who wielded the birch, or beach, at that school was James 
F. Wagoner, still an honored, valuable and respected citizen of 
Fulton county. I shall be much disappointed if I fail to read an 


article from his pen in the series being published by the Repub- 
lican before the closing changes are rung on. 

It was while staying at grandfather's that my next incident 
of note occurred. It was in the early springtime of 1847 or 8, it 
being sugar-making time. William Woods, who had married my 
aunt, Nancy Rannells, had become foreman of grandfather's 
large farm, being chief in everything pertaining to sugar-making. 
The camp was of logs, about 12 feet by 20, as I remember it, and 
covered with clapboards. It was so constructed that the west end 
was almost entirely open, as from that end the furnace was fed 
with fuel, which consisted of logs split up ten feet long. The 
furnace contained four very large iron kettles for boiling sap. 
The pit under the furnace to receive the fuel was about one foot 
deep and extended outside the camp house at the west end about 
four or five feet. The camp was located about a half-mile from 
grandfather's house in a southwest direction and about due south 
of where the town of Athens now stands, very near the residence 
of Frank Brouillette, which was then all a dense forest from the 
Akron road two miles due south without a single human habita- 
tion, and about half a mile south of the camp meandered a slug- 
gish stream called Beaver creek. Its borders contained numerous 
almost impenetrable jungles, ideal places for varmints and wild 
animals to frequent and seek shelter from the hunters in quest of 
game, such as served for food. This particular evening, after 
supper at the mansion, I got permission of Uncle Bill to accom- 
pany him to the camp. He also took Fan Rose, a negro woman, 
along to help carry the sugar home. He expected to "take off" 
that evening, after dark. Fan and I sat in front of the furnace, 
watching the bright glow of the fire, while Uncle Bill busied him- 
self with the boiling of sap. He always did his final boiling 
down in the kettle, farthest back in the camp. Along about ten 
o'clock, while he was transferring the syrup from the kettle to a 
large wooden tray for the purpose of grainiug into sugar, which 
he did by constantly stirring with a large paddle until cold, up 
and out of the darkness from the south came the most piercing 
scream I ever heard before or since. Fan turned her eyes wrong 
side out and looked at me and exclaimed: "Fo' de lubufGod, 
what's dat"? And almost in the same breath turned and asked 
Uncle Bill what that screeching was. He replied that he did not 
hear it, but I always thought he did and was doing some very 
hard thinking, just then, before announcing a conclusion. How- 
ever, he did not wait long, for in five minutes the scream was 
repeated, and then when Fan interrogated him again, he replied 
without hesitation, "Panther, b— G— d." 1 did not know at that 
time what a panther was, and asked Fan. She told me that it 
was a large and ferocious wild animal, which was in the habit of 


dining on women and nice young kids, when or wherever found. 
This somewhat disturbed my sense of safety, and I at once 
changed my position from in front of the furnace to the rear end 
of the camp house, on the inside, near Uncle Bill. Now, don't 
think I was alone in making this change. Fan was moved by 
the same spirit at the same time, and we both got as close to 
Uncle Bill as he would allow. The movement of the panther 
was slowly to the east and the screams were repeated about every 
five minutes, it appeared to me. Uncle Bill finally transferred 
his sugar from the large tray to two wooden pails and we were 
soon wending our way through the timber toward home. Uncle 
Bill was on the side toward the panther, Fan next to him, help- 
ing to carry one of the pails of sugar, while I was on the other 
side of Fan, hanging on to Fan's other hand. Still I did not feel 
at all comfortable, by this time having heard the screams a num- 
ber of times. Fan had come to the conclusion that it was not a 
panther, but was a woman, lost in the woods, calling for relief. 
They argued the question as we walked along, but Uncle Bill 
could not convince her that she was wrong. Finally he told her 
that when he got to the house he would prove to her that he was 
right, by the dogs. All settlers had dogs, and whenever there 
were dogs in hearing of the screams they would bark and howl. 
(We had three dogs.) Uncle Bill told Fan when we got to the 
house he would get his gun and start out toward the noise and 
call the dogs to follow, and if they followed him it would be some- 
thing other than a panther; but if they refused to go with him it 
was sure to be a panther. This proposition to test the matter 
seemed to satisfy her. So when we arrived at the house he pro- 
ceeded to carry out the test. Our dogs were all sitting on their 
haunches in the front yard, barking and howling. By the time 
we arrived home, the panther seemed to be almost due south of 
there. Uncle Bill procured his gun and started out, calling the 
dogs, which were always ready to go with him when he had his 
gun, but this time they seemed to become ashamed of themselves, 
for instead of following him, they immediately hushed their noise 
and retired to the rear of the house, out of sight, utterly refusing 
to take part in the game in evidence. This seemed to satisfy Fan 
that her contention was wrong. However, I thought she had 
good reason for her belief, for I have heard very much the same 
kind of noise from girls and women at the sight of a little mouse. 
This was the only time that the scream of a panther was heard in 
that particular neighborhood, to my knowledge. I was told that 
Asa Bozarth, father of Jasper Bozarth, of Rochester, killed one 
in the timber east of Lake Manitou, when looking for his cows, 
one evening. I speak of this case, for I have failed to note any 
reference of the fact that there were panthers in the early days of 
Fulton county, by any of the former contributors. 


There were wild hogs in the vicinity of grandfather's home, 
more numerous than deer or wild turkeys. I remember one 
autumn grandfather had forty acres of corn, where it was entirely 
surrounded by heavy timber. No human habitation nearer than 
half a mile. It was fenced into two fields, the oui side fence being 
eleven rails high. Still the wild hogs would climb that fence and 
get into the corn, and being so plentiful, done great damage. 
Cnris Woods, one of the employes on the farm, thought he would 
take a look at that corn, one afternoon, and in walking through 
the field, flushed four or five bunches of wild hogs. He reported 
that they were fat, and grandfather told him to take a team, his 
gun and a dog and get some fresh pork to eat if he found any hogs 
in the corn again. The next afternoon he hitched a team to a 
wagon, took his gun and a good dog for the business. Myself, 
and I believe George Moore, who lived near Athens, went along 
to see the fun. On our arrival at the field, we hitched the team, 
climbed over the fence and started the dog out. It was only a 
very short time until he found a bunch and soon we heard a 
squeal. We were quite close, soon coming in sight, and pre- 
vented the balance of the hogs from attacking the dog. He was 
holding one that Chris said would weigh about 200 pounds and 
would make good meat. Accordingly he shot it and told Towser 
to go after another one, which he soon caught. That one, prov- 
ing satisfactory, was dispatched the same way. After driving all 
the hogs out of the corn, we returned to the dead ones and pro- 
ceeded to skin them and cut them into convenient pieces to carry 
out to the wagon. It was dark when we reached home with our 
meat. After that, for several years, fresh hog meat was plenty in 
the fall of the year if they were found trespassing in the fields of 

I remember one day, when wheat was almost ripe, one of the 
men told grandfather that the hogs were in his wheat in a certain 
field. After dinner grandfather put the saddle and bridle on old 
Jim, his saddle horse, mounted and rode out to the field reported 
infested with hogs, destroying the wheat. As he was riding 
through the field he suddenly came upon a nest of them lying 
down. They did not see him, nor he them, until very close. 
Among them was a large, sandy boar. Being so suddenly aroused 
he at once became furious, springing up, with bristles six inches 
long pointing toward his head, and tusks three inches, reared on 
his hind feet and aimed a blow at the horse. But he had seen the 
danger coming and made a wheel at the right moment, as the 
boar missed him, but caught grandfather's boot-top with one of 
his tusks and cut it about half off. Old Jim had business else- 
where and proceeded to take himself and grandfather out of there 
before the boar could renew the attack. Grandfather was satis- 


fied with the investigation and quit the held very willingly, but 
sent one of the men, with gun and dogs, to clear the field, which 
they did at the time, but the work had to be repeated every day or 
two until the wheat was harvested. This incident illustrates the 
ferocious nature of the wild hog, which was dreaded and feared 
by the early settler more than any other wild beast inhabiting 
the forests of Fulton county over sixty years ago. 

We now come to about the winter of 1856 and 7, at Rochester. 
The Methodist people put on a revival meeting in their church, 
which stood where Chris Hoover had his furniture store in 1900, 
when I was last there, Rev. Burghner acting as chief pilot, and a 
Mr. Fairchild, as good a man, morally and religiously, as ever 
lived in Fulton county, as first mate. Bro. Burghner threw the 
brimstone, while Fairchild dispensed the milk and honey, 
and they succeeded in working up quite an interest, as I 
think the sequel will show, and 1 will ask Uncle Del Ward, Milo 
R. Smith and others that no doubt remember this incident, to 
lorroborate what I here relate. R. N. Rannells, better known as 
Newt, and Rev. Burghner had become quite friendly in a business 
way, prior to the opening of this meeting. Before this I don't 
think Newt ever went to church, but on account of friendship for 
Burghner in their business matters, concluded that he would attend 
some of the meetings. At first he was irregular, but seemingly 
becoming interested became quite regular in his attendance. This 
action on his part being so unusual, caused a great deal of gossip 
and conjecture as to the final result. After the meeting had pro- 
gressed a month or more, Bro. Burghuer, as usual before closing 
the meeting for the evening, extended an invitation to the peni- 
tent to come forward to the altar. Uncle Newt, being of a very 
impulsive make-up, was the first on his feet and immediately 
went forward. This action on his part created quite an excite- 
ment as well as surprise to those knowing him best. He ap- 
proached the altar with alacrity, Bro. Burghner meeting him 
with extended hands. As they clasped hands Uncle Newt was 
heard to exclaim (and several heard him, as he was not in the 
habit of whispering or even speaking in a low tone of voice when 
he had anything to say) : "Here is my hand for thirty days, 
Burghner, and if I can stick thirty days I will try it six months." 
I am sorry to have to record the fact that he failed to finish the 
thirty days. Pie had a number of men in his employ at that 
time, and some of them were prompted to do things that they 
thought would annoy and aggravate him to say something not 
strictly orthodox. One of these men was Spang Sperry. Uncle 
Del, Milo, et a!., will remember him. I have heard him relate 
things he would do, then lay in hiding for Uncle Newt to show 
up and hear him swear, and then the laugh of Sperry proved too 
much for him. 


Before closing I will relate an army story about Uncle Newt 
that is well known to a goodly number of Rochester people. He 
went into the army in 1862, as quartermaster of the Eighty-sev- 
enth Indiana Volunteer Infantry, in which service he remained 
about eighteen months. On the morning of September 17, 1863, 
the Eighty-seventh was in line of battle in front of Pigeon range 
of mountains, in Northern Georgia, about twenty-five miles 
southeast of Chattanooga, Tenn. We were confronting that wily 
old Confederate general, Braxton Bragg, and for some reason, 
about eight o'clock that morning, he saluted our lines, from left 
to right, with a desultory artillery fire. It seemed to have the 
desired effect, for very soon we received orders to strike tent, load 
transports and move to the left. We got busy at once, and what 
could not be carried by the boys was left for the quartermaster 
and teamsters to load in wagons. The regiment filed out into 
a road that, for acute angles, excelled anything of the kind I have 
ever seen, before or since. No one of said angles would contain 
more than two of our six-mule-team transports, and be in sight 
of one another. Just as the regiment was ready to move, a regi- 
ment of rebel cavalry came in view, about a half-mile to our front, 
in the timber. This fact and the fact that we were leaving the 
quartermaster to finish loading, as he was only about half loaded, 
perturbed him, consequently he rushed things, in order to follow, 
before the Johnnies could intercept him. Our officers had taken 
the precaution of throwing out a pretty strong line of men to the 
right of main column, about one hundred yards or more, as 
flankers, as protection against a sudden attack. We had marched 
something more than a mile when a courier from the quarter- 
master passed to the front, where the colonel and staff were, and 
asked for a halt of regiment until he, the quartermaster could 
come up with his transportation, as he was seriously threatened 
with capture. The colonel promptly moved column by right 
oblique, outside the road, then halted. The colonel and staff dis- 
mounted and waited for the quartermaster to show up, which he 
very soon did, coming into view from around one of the sharp 
angles, on his roan charger, and he was making good time, I 
assure you. A few rods behind him came a six-mule team on 
the double-quick, a few rods behind that another, and so on in 
this very much out-of-order condition until they were all safe 
within the lines. For some time there had existed a bad feeling 
between the colonel and the quartermaster and he never failed to 
rebuke the quartermaster when opportunity was presented. As 
the quartermaster pulled the old roan down, near where the 
colonel stood, and dismounted, he being in a very high state of 
excitement, the colonel saw his opportunity, from the condition 
the transportation was in and proceeded to deliver his reprimand 


by saying: "Mr. Quartermaster, I want you to keep those teams 
closed up and straight in the road, sir." The quartermaster, as- 
suming his characteristic position, by crossing his hands on his 
back, replied: "Colonel, how in h — 1 are you going to keep teams 
closed up and straight in a crooked road, by G — d," this being 
delivered with a rising inflection from start to finish. Laugh, 
did you say? Everybody that heard the quartermaster laughed 
except the colonel and the quartermaster. The colonel turned 
and walked down the line with more bad blood to the surface 
than ever before, and the quartermaster having never before de- 
livered himself more seriously, could not see where the laugh 
came in. Closing, will say that the colonel and the quarter- 
master had several tilts before this, in which the colonel invari- 
ably came out second best. Thus endeth the chapter. 

i Wfflf*' * 



Story of the Institution, Progress and Prosperity 
of Fredonia Lodge, Rochester. 

IN JUNE, 1884, C. D. SISSON, who was a member of the 
Knights of Pythias, at Ashland, Ohio, Joseph Copeland, 
wno was a member of Marion Lodge, Ohio, and S. P. Terry, con- 
cluded to attempt to organize a K. of P. lodge at Rochester, Ind. 
S. P. Terry corresponded with Grand Chancellor Dunlap in regard 
to instituting a lodge. He secured the necessary blanks and the 
boys got busy. In a short time they had secured the signatures 
of the following persons, who became 


I. W. Brown, 
Joe Levi, 
J. F. Johnson, 
F. W. Busenburg, 
W. E. Becker, 
John C. Phillips, 
Henry Morrison, 

Ben Heilbrun, 
Leon Kewney, 
Chas. D. Sisson, 
A. E. Rapsh, 
J. C. Copeland, 
Jos. F. Siegfreid, 
J. F. Barcus, 

S. P. Terry, 
M. 8. Weills, 
K. W. Shore. 
Ferd Heilburn, 
S. J. Steiglitz, 
R. 8. Stewart, 
Sigmond Lauer, 
Nathan Kramer. 
They next secured a warrant and arrangements were made 
to institute the new lodge on the evening of July 3, 1884, at I. O. 

0. F. Hall. That evening Grand Chancellor Dunlap and Grand 
Instructor Heiskel were present, and assisted by Hyperion Lodge, 
No. 117, of Plymouth, Indiana, they instituted what is now Fre- 
donia Lodge No. 122. 

Before the instituting of the lodge, the Grand Chancellor 
asked if they had a name for the lodge. S. P. Terry suggested 
that as we already had a Rochester Masonic lodge and Rochester 

1. O. O. F. lodge, that the name of the K. P. lodge be something 
besides Rochester, and proposed the name of Fredonia, the same 
being impressed upon his mind by the private car of Col. Condit 
Smith, president of the construction company which built the 
Chicago & Erie railroad, being of that name, he having named 






the car after the home town, Fredonia, N. Y., which name was 

The first and second ranks were conferred and then intermis- 
sion was taken for supper, which was prepared by Mrs. I. W. 
Brown and furnished by the Colonel. The third rank was then 
conferred, after which the following officers were elected and in- 
stalled: lien Heilburn, P. C; J. L. Copeland, C. C; 8. P. Terry, 
V. C; M. 8. Weills, P.; K. W. Shore, M. of Ex.; N. Kramer, M. 
of F.; Ferd Heilburn, K. of R. and S.; J. F. Barcus, M. at A.; H. 
Morrison, I. G.; 1. W. Brown, O. G. Lodge was duly instituted 
about daybreak upon the morning of July 4, 1884. July 17, 1884, 
the resignation of J. C. Copeland, C. C, was read, and as he had 
not been present since his installation, was accepted, and 8. P. 
Terry, who had filled the position pro tem., was elected as C. C. 
and J. C. Phillips as V. C. 

For the first few months of its existence the lodge was finan- 
cially weak, and whenever any money was needed, C. C 8. P. 
Terry went down in his pocket and procured the same. A short 
time after being instituted the lodge was invited to assist in insti- 
tuting Hercules Lodge No. 127, of Peru. Officers and members 
responded, taking the band with them, and assisted in the w^rk. 
Later they were invited to North Manchester to do some work, 
and were highly complimented by Grand Chancellor Charles 
Shively for their proficiency in the work. Afterward they went 
to Michigan City and there added laurels to their reputation. 
Later they assisted in instituting Argos and Kewanna lodges, 
and instituted Akron and Kulton lodges. 

April 15, 1886, a committee, consisting of Ferd Heilbrun and 
J. C. Phillips, was appointed to ascertain the feeling and the 
possibility of organizing a division of the Uniform Rank, and on 
May 24, 1886, a division of the Uniform Rank, known as Roch- 
ester Division, No. 27, U. R. K. of P., was instituted by James 
R. Carnahan, Major General U. R. K. P., with the following 


Ferd Heilbrun, Al. Ford, John C. Phillips, 

Wm. W. McMahan, Sam'l Heilbrun, C. W. Brackett, 

W. H. Deniston, L. Wohlgemutb, Soloman Allman, 

Nathan Kramer, C. D. Sisson, Chas. Brouilett, 

Joseph F. Siegfried, L. M. Brackett, J. P. Michael, 

E. F. Johnston, F. W. Bosenburg, Chas. M. Shoup, 

F. H. Cornelius, M. S. Weills, W. E. Becker, 

G. VV. Taylor, R. C. Wallace, James A. Terry, 
M. O. Rees, C. Cooper, Chas. F. Meyer, 
G. H. Killen, A. B. Sabin, John Wallace, 
Charles Hoover, D. L. Gaskill, E. C. Stanton, 
A. Biccard, Clark Babcock, 


The first captain being John C. Phillips. After instituting the 
division a banquet was given at the Wallace Hotel. The division 
added more honor to the reputation of Fredonia Lodge by win- 
ning in drills over such divisions as Logansport, South Bend, La- 
Porte, Michigan City and Huntington. On March 11, 1886, 
Emrick's Band was adopted by the lodge and given the name of 
K. of P. Band. On July 1, 1886, they left I. O. O. F. hall and 
went to Masonic hall, where they remained until June 27, 1889, 
when they went back to I. O. O. F. hall. 

January 24, 1889, there were two propositions submitted to 
the lodge to build and lease a castle hall; one from Brackett & 
Barrett and the other from J. B. Fieser, which were taken under 
advisement until the next meeting. At the next regular meeting, 
Jan. 31, 1889, the trustees were instructed to accept the proposi- 
tion of Brackett & Barrett, which was to build and lease to the 
lodge a castle hall on the south half of the third floor of the block 
which they were planning to build, namely, what is known now 
as the Arlington Block. At the same meeting a committee of 
three, which afterwards was increased to four, to be known as an 
advisory committee, to act in conjunction with the trustees, until 
the new hall was built and furnished, was appointed, the com- 
mittee, consisting of 8. P. Terry, C. B. Moore, Enoch Myers and 
Newt McQueen. April 18, 1889, a committee consisting of Lou 
Wohlgemuth, Charles Brackett and Floyd Herman was ap- 
pointed to fix the time and make arrangements for laying the 
corner stone of the new hall. May 30 a committee of five, con- 
sisting of H. A. Barnhart, R. C Wallace, Enoch Myers, P. M. 
Buchanan and 8. P. Terry was appointed to prepare the ceremon- 
ies for laying the corner stone. Afterward, 8. P. Terry and Enoch 
Myers were appointed to prepare a synopsis of the lodge, a list of 
the charter members, also of all the members up to that date, the 
first and present officers of the lodge, a list of Past Chancellors, 
also of the Grand and Supreme officers, to be deposited in the 
corner stone, which was laid June 6, 1889. 

Ex-Senator Zimmerman when introduced delivered the ad- 
dress of welcome on behalf of the citizens. The Senator spoke 
briefly, opening his remarks with an eloquent welcome, couched 
in the following language: 

Once within the borders of our city, her freedom is yours. 
We welcome you, not as strangers, but as our guests and friends, 
and while in our midst you are a part of the common household, 
a part of the great family of this peaceful and prosperous com- 
munity. None are more hospitable and kind, none more sociable 
and generous than the good people who surround you this hour. 
No pilgrim ever entered the gates of this city and departed 
hungry. No man or woman in distress or danger, knocking at 
the doors of her denizens for protection, shelter or relief, was ever 


refused. Such is tradition and the history of our town. Pardon 
me, when asserting that we feel a modest pride in our city. Not 
because she is a great metropolis, not because she is the abode of 
naillionaires and lords, not because we can boast of riches and 
wealth, but because within the city's confines are contained most 
precious jewels— jewels of virtue and all the attainments and at- 
tributes of superior manhood and womanhood, because crime, 
poverty and indolence are unknown within her walls, whilst 
industry, peace and happiness mark the pathway of her homo- 
genous population. We welcome you because you have come 
hither to honor Fredonia Lodge — an organization composed of 
the flower of the community, and which is today the pride and 
admiration of the city. Although the junior fraternal order of 
Fulton county, her charter dating back but five short years, in 
point of strength and character, in discipline and general pros- 
perity, she surpasses her worthy sen or rivals. We welcome you 
because we see inscribed upon your handsome proud banner the 
significant motto: "Friendship, Charity and Benevolence," 
which embrace at once the cardinal principles of true Christi- 
anity, genuine philanthropy and good fellowship. 

The senator also referred to the sublime example of true 
friendship demonstrated by Damon and Pythias, from which the 
order took its origin, and eulogized the fundamental principles of 
Pythianism— Friendship, Charity and Benevolence — in a most 
eloquent tribute. 

At the close of this speech the glee club rendered the beauti- 
ful quartette, "Over Land and Sea," after which the procession 
was reformed and marched to the site of the new building. Here 
the opening ode of the order was sung, and Prelate J. H. 
Winans delivered a fervent prayer. Then the president, vice- 
president, secretary, treasurer and architect, viz: Sam P. Terry, 
P. M. Buchanan, Charles K. Plank, Enoch Myers and Robert C. 
Wallace, laid the corner stone with impressive ceremonies, after 
which the president delivered a short address, and the exercises 
were closed by the pronunciation of the benediction by Rev. J. 
H. Neff. 

About the 1st of January, 1890, the lodge moved from I. O. 
O. F. hall into the new hall. On January 9, a committee of five, 
consisting of Joseph Levi, C. D. Sisson, A. L. Rannells, A. T. 
Richter and P. M. Buchanan, was appointed to make arrange- 
ments to dedicate the new hall, and also a committee of three, 
consisting of E. A. Rannells, Charles Brackett and O. A. Davis, 
was appointed to prepare a banquet for the same. On Jan. 21, 
1890, the present castle hall was dedicated, with a membership of 
114, by the following improvised grand officers: G. C. C, H. A. 
Bamhart; G. V. C, M. A. Baker; G. P., C. D. Sisson; G. K. of 
R. and S., A. Biccard; G. M. of Ex., M. B. Phillips; Herald, E. 


A. Rannells; G. M. at A., Charles Bracket!; G. I. G., Estilla 
Bailey; G. O. G., James A. Terry. The ceremonies were admir- 
ably given, being both beautiful and impressive. These cere- 
monies over, the doors to the banquet room were tbrown open 
and the assemblage, numbering more than one hundred Knights 
and their ladies, were seated, where they feasted, broke bread and 
tipped cups to the everlasting prosperity of Fredonia Lodge. The 
tables were then removed, and to the delightful strains of Wil- 
liamson's orchestra, the knights and ladies tripped the light fan- 
tastic far into the midnight hour. 

Dec. 28, 1888, a committee of three, consisting of I. W. Brown, 
Adolph Biccard and N. McQuern, were appointed to make ar- 
rangements to institute a ladies' rank, and on Dec. 4, 1890, I. W. 
Brown, chairman of the committee, reported that after nearly 
two years of hustling, he had made the proper arrangements, and 
on Dec. 17, 1890, a ladies' rank, known as the Pythian Sisterhood, 
was instituted by Grand Chief Alice M. Gilman, with a charter 
membership of fifty-four ladies and thirteen knights, as follows: 

Mrs. Veron Gould, Belle Slusser, Dollie Siegfried, Mollie 
Baker, Julia Hoover, Dora Rannells, Alice Allman, Bertha Rosen- 
berg, Masia Deniston, Mary L. Zook, Theressa Levi, Mabel Tip- 
ton, Pauline Bowers, Dove Miller, Essa Bailey, Etta Gast, Mollie 
Phillips, Clara Bitters, Ora Myers, Rose Killen, Eva Bennett, 
Hida Wohlgemuth, Edith Rhyan, Carrie Shore, Kate Cooper, 
Estella Reiter, Jennie Sisson, Lena Fretz, Fannie McMahan, 
Hala Myers, Isadore Goss, Angie Lowe, Ellen Essick, Ella 
Brackett, Byrd Mercer, Maggie Buchanan, Emma Brown, Retta 
Barnhart, Sarah Brackett, Rose Reed, Mary Wolf, Emma Wil- 
son, Belle Woods, Minnie Plank, Nona Butler, Mary Butler, 
Mollie Rannells, Nellie Wallace, Lizzie Stanton, Louisa Holman, 
Mrs. J. P. Michael, May Terry, Mrs. Charles Swartwood and 
Mrs. Orton Mitchell. Knights — I. W. Brown, C. D. Sisson, C. 
K. Plank, J. F. Siegfried, F. C. Wilson, S. P. Terry, Joseph Levi, 
J. C. Phillips, G. H. Killen, Jacob Rosenburg, L. B. Walters, L. 
Wohlgemuth, and M. M. Bitters, by card, from North Man- 
chester, Indiana. The organization adopted the name of Isabel le 
Temple No. 33. The following officers were elected and installed: 
P. C, Mary Wolf; M. E. C, Emma Wilson; M. E. S., Hala 
Myers; M. E. J., Rose Killen; M. of F., Rose Reed; M. of R. and 
S., May Terry; M. of F., Dora Rannells; P. of T., Estella Reiter; 
G. of O. T., Minnie Plank. 

The lodge gradually increased in membership up to the latter 
part of 1893, when there was a revival started, and during that 
period and the first half of 1894, thirty-six were added to the 
membership. About this time there was an inclination upon the 
part of the older members to shift the responsibilities and active 


duties of the lodge upon the shoulders of the younger members. 
Those who had been present at the beginning of the lodge and 
had guided its early footsteps as an unrnaned barque upon an un- 
known sea, out of the silence of darkness which entombed it into 
the light of day and prosperity, a strong, healthy youngster, 
able to combat with the best, backed up by the principles and 
teachings of Frienship, Charity and Benevolence, considered that 
their active work was done, and the results, after a quarter of a 
century, have shown that it was well done. Although the ma- 
jority of them still retained their membership, they gradually 
ceased, one by one, to be active members, until, at the present, 
there are but three or four of the old members who are active 
workers. The next largest increase in membership was in the 
term beginning Jan. 1, 1899, and ending June 30, 1899, when the 
membership was increased by twenty-eight. Tne banner term 
was the last term, ending June 80, 1909, marking the iwenty-flfth 
anniversary of the lodge, when the membership was increased 
thirty-five, making the largest number taken in during any one 
term of the lodge. On the 13th of May, 1909, the rank of Knight 
was conferred on twenty -five Esquires. At 7 o'clock p. m. the 
members and visitors met at the hall, and, headed by the Citi- 
zens' (K. P.) Band, marched up Main street and down again. 
While a good turn out was expected, the parade was a surprise, 
as over 250 members and visitors, including the twenty-five can- 
didates for Knightly honots and the goat, turned out. The com- 
modious hall was well filled, and the excellent team of Fredonia 
Lodge conferred the work in an excellent and impressive man- 
ner, omitting nothing of the work; but working without un- 
necessary delay, the work was completed by 1:00 a. m. 

Soon after the work began announcement was made that 
lunch would be served in the adjoining hall, and notwithstanding 
the large crowd, there was plenty, and the committee was kent 
busy until 1:00 a. m. During the work the band furnished music, 
and after the work the quartet sung for the lodges. Atwell Sieg- 
fried, son of Joe Siegfried, one of the charter member, was given 
a little extra at the close, and Brother Alvah McCarter performed 
a stunt not down on the program. There were present large del- 
egations from Fulton, Akron and Argos; also representatives of 
lodges in Frankfort, Delphi, Indianapolis and Osage City, Kan. 
The officers aud active working members of that term are de- 
serving of great praise and credit for their earnest and diligent 
work on behalf of Pythianism, and also went to prove that the 
trust placed upon the younger members by the older ones was 
not misplaced. 

During the twenty-five years of Fredonia Lodge's existence 
there was taken into membership 471; lost by death, 20; by with- 
drawal card, 40; by suspension for non-payment of dues, 96; by 


expulsion, 6. Making a membership at the close of the term end- 
ing June 30, 1909, of 308. During the above time there was paid 
out of the exchequer of the lodge for relief, $10,61*4.74. The de- 
ceased members of the order are: 

J. F. Johnson, Kt., J. A. Carter, P. C, A. E. Rapsh, Kt., 
Jos. C. Zolman, Kt., Wm. Downey, Kt., E. C. Stanton, Kt., 
E. Neil Hoyte, Kt., Chas. H.Hoover, Kt., Rudy Bybee, Kt., 
H. L. Weltmer, Kt., A. L. Rannells, Kt., Wm.Pontious,Kt., 
Lon Stockberger, Kt., P. E. Terry, P. C. E. Thompson, Kt„ 

E. M. Polley, Kt., Lon J. Hoffman, Page, John King, Kt., 

Bloomfield Metzler, Kt. 

Fredonia Lodge has had its ups and downs, its seasons of joy 
and hours of sorrow, but it has at all times stood ready and will- 
ing to lend a helping hand to those in need and sorrow. Like in 
every other organization, there may have been some members 
who have not at times come up to that standard which is meas- 
ured by the principles of Pythianism, but take them as a body, it 
will be hard to find a more loyal-hearted, chivalric band of 
Knights in the Supreme Domain than those who dwell within 
castle hall of Fredonia Lodge No. 122, and they make better citi- 
zens, better husbands, fathers, sons and brothers by having taken 
the vows and obligations of Pythianism. 

Joseph F. Siegfried, 
CD. Sisson, 

K. W. Shore, Committee. 
E. E. Borden, K. of R. and S. 


Brief History of the Brotherhood, from its Insti- 
tution to the Present Day. 


T~N THE SERIES OF ARTICLES preceding this the life and 
- 1 - history of our community has been reflected, as well as 
the personality of the various individuals who wrote the articles. 
It is from the records of the past that we learn to measure our 
progress and thus formulate and forecast for the future. From 
the experience of many of the writers of these articles referred to, 
we have gleaned much that was of interest and value concerning 
our community. While the individual is the unit of society, yet 
any sociological organization of individuals whose interests be- 
come common, sucti as churches, fraternal societies, etc., is also 
of moment and interest to the community, as they are the expres- 
sion of a common interest of a collection of individuals. Believ- 
ing that the fraternal society is an important and useful element 
of a community, and also believing that Odd Fellowship has ac- 
complished much that has been tor the more complete and better 
development of the community, the writer, at the request of 
friends, is submitting the following as a sketch history of Odd 
Fellowship at Rochester: 

Upon a petition of J. H. Staley, W. H. Mann, Anthony F. 
Smith and Samuel Staley, the I. O. O. F. Grand Lodge of Indi- 
ana on July 15th, 1847, issued a charter authorizing the institution 
of Rochester Lodge No. 47. This lodge was one of the early pio- 
neers in the field of Odd Fellowship, having been established 
about twenty-eight years after the first American Odd Fellow 
Lodge had been founded by Thomas Wildly at Baltimore, April 
28th, 1819. Thus this lodge is in its sixty-second year, and in 
ihose three-score years and two reflect, in point of time practi- 


cally the entire history of Fulton county. There is no brother of 
this lodge now living who witnessed the birth of No. 47; but no 
doubt many of our more aged brothers and citizens may have 
many pleasant and personal memories of those whose petition 
made the institution of this lodge possible. At the time of the 
founding of this local lodge our community was new. Few in- 
deed were the changes that the hand of man had wrought to that 
section now known as Fulton county where forests stood prime- 
val, and where now are our fine farms and flourishing villages. 
Fulton county had been organized only eleven years previous, and 
the small town of Rochester had been platted out by Alexander 
Chamberlain and Lot N. Bozarth for a period of only twelve 
years. The Indian had scarcely ceased building his wigwam and 
birch bark canoe on the banks of Lake Manitou and Tippecanoe, 
his removal from this, his former hunting ground, had been ac- 
complished for but a period of eight or nine years, when Odd 
Fellowship was founded at Rochester. Thus, it is true, that in 
point of time, Rochester Odd Fellowship reflects practically the 
entire life of Fulton county, and it is the oldest lodge of any fra- 
ternal society in the county. 

Let us reflect back over these three-score years and two, which 
represent the life of Rochester lodge, the aged in memory, the 
younger in history, and follow briefly what the local Odd Fellows 
believe to be a successful career. Few, if any, are the old land- 
marks now standing to guide the memory back to those earlier 
days. Rochester Lodge No. 47 was instituted in a frame struct- 
ure on the west side of Main street, about where the Zook hard- 
ware store is located today, and its first permanent home, which 
they owned, was the second story of a very modest frame struct- 
ure, situated on the corner of Jefferson and Seventh streets, which 
corner is now occupied by the Methodist church. Handicapped 
by lack of members, lack of paraphernalia and many of the now 
supposed-to-be necessities, the pioneer brothers struggled against 
difficulties and established the lodge upon a firm and safe founda- 
tion. The lodge then conferred upon the candidate five degrees 
at a minimum cost of $25.00 and paid $o.00 per week sick bene- 
fits. The lodge now confers the work for a minimum price of 
$10.00 aud pays $4.00 per week sick benefits and $75.00 funeral ex- 
penses, and furnishes a nurse day and night if required. Some 
of our present members were made Odd Fellows amidst these 
adverse surroundings. For instance, Brother Isaac Good, who 
was initiated September 15, 1849. He is the oldest member in 
Rochester Lodge, and one of the oldest in Indiana in point of 
continuous membership, and, if perchance, Brother Isaac Good 
is seen trudging down the pathway of life assisted by a gold- 
headed walking stick, or the venerable old Jonas Myers is seen 


peacefully reclining in the large Morris chair at his residence on 
Jefferson street, it can be rerrembered that these are presents from 
Rochester Lodge No. 47, given to show their appreciation of the 
lodge for their long, continuous membership and sturdy efforts to 
make Odd Fellowship what it is today. 

Having outgrown their former quarters, negotiations were 
closed whereby the lodge became theownerof their present home, 
the third story of the brick building at the corner of Main and 
Ninth streets, and the same was dedicated as such on August 15, 
1870. A very important act, aud one which has been very highly 
appreciated by the community, was the establishment, in 1855, of 
the Odd Fellows' cemetery. A total of 1828 now lie buried in our 
silent city of the dead, and it has become a source of pride to the 
lodge and community. On January 19th, 1853, upon a petition of 
John H. Stailey, Anthony F. Smith, Charles W. Brackett, Rob- 
ert Rannells, Henry Alexander, James H. Tucker and William 
ISagger, a charter was granted to Mt. Horeb Encampment No. 24, 
I. O. O. F., and thus an opportunity was given for members of 
Rochester and surrounding subordinate lodges to receive the ad- 
vanced work of the order. The membership of this department 
have always been noted for their social good times, frequent pic- 
nics and banquets. 

On August 15, 1870, upon the petition of John W. and Eliza 
J. Davis, David and Ella Barb, Samuel and Sarah T. Heffley, A. 
L. and Deborah Goodrich, and Samuel and Susan J. Barkdoll, a 
charter was granted to Evergreen Rebekah Lodge No. 57. This 
department is officered and managed exclusively by the ladies, 
who must be wives and daughters of Odd Fellows in good stand- 
ing, Odd Fellows, or single ladies, to be eligible to membership. 
Evergeeen Rebekah Lodge No. 57 is one of the most active lodges 
in the community, and a great deal of good is accomplished 
through this branch of the order. Woman is especially adapted 
to the care of the sick and afflicted, and the Daughters of Re- 
bekah have ever been ready to give that help and comfort which 
is so needful in the day of trial. The membership of the various 
departments of the order at Rochester are as follows: Subordin- 
ate, 268 members; Rebekah, 171 members, and Encampment, 63 
members. Besides various donations to other lodges and mem- 
bers in distress, flowers to sick and deceased members, these vari- 
ous departments expended last year for the care of their members 
about $1,200. These departments have property, consisting of 
lodge hall, furniture and fixtures, paraphernalia, cemetery, notes 
and other properties, of a total value of over $13,000. 

Among the present and deceased membership, Rochester 
Lodge No. 47 enrolls many of the leading Rochester citizens. 
The growth of the lodge from its beginning has been steady and 


sure. At its beginning and through its early history conditions 
were such as to present many difficulties to the organization* one 
of which was the prejudice of the people, which time has prac- 
tically eliminated, as fraternal societies are now looked upon as 
being of help to any community, and through the civil war its 
membership and attendance was much depleted by absent mem- 
bers that were sacrificing their life blood on the held of action, 
and those absent members were kept in good standing by the 
members here paying their dues as they matured. But through 
it all Rochester I. O. O. F. Lodge No. 47 has existed, and who 
can estimate the influence it has exerted toward placing Roch- 
ester and community upon the high, moral and inteliectual plane 
it enjoys today? 

Rochester Odd Fellowship has a smaller working jurisdiction 
than any other lodge in Rochester, as there are more other Odd 
Fellow lodges in Fulton county than is true of any other society 
here. There are ten I. O. 0. F. lodges in Fulton county, with an 
aggregate membership of 1,000. Odd Fellowship in Rochester is 
today in a very satisfactory condition in every way. La»t year 
the present home was made very attractive by a thorough over- 
hauling, having a very attractive design of paper hung upon its 
walls, new desks purchased, all the chairs upholstered and var- 
nished, and in all making a very pleasant and well-lighted home 
for its membership. The financial condition is the best of any 
time in its history, having accumulated enough funds to warrant, 
with careful handling, a sufficient resource for all future needs. 
Its membership is large and active in all departments, and the 
various degree staffs in splendid working order. And especially 
true is tnis at present of the Rebekah Degree Staff, which has been 
pronounced, by those in position to know, as being one of the best 
in the state. The Rochester degree teams frequently confer de- 
grees for the other lodges at other points in the county, and such 
invitations are favorably hailed by Odd Fellowship, as it war- 
rants a pleasant social time to all present. 

In recent years, perhaps, there has been no such events that 
have been so universally enjoyed by our membership as the dedi- 
cation of the hall at Leiters Ford, where Rochester and sister 
lodges met in great numbers, witnessed the dedication ceremonies, 
assisted in the degree work and the consumption of a very boun- 
teous spread at that time. Another event which is especially 
well remembered was the institution of the new lodge at Blue 
Grass, No. 840, which was instituted about three years ago, as 
those who were present will remember some additional excite- 
ment was caused by a fire, which originated during the degree 
work, and which was put out only by timely and hard effort, and 
some of the members were compelled to make the journey home 


in the wee sma' hours of the night minus coat-tails and headgear. 
Perhaps the coolest of all present at the time were the candidates, 
who took it all as a part of the ceremony. 

The teachings of the fraternity of Odd Fellows conform to law 
and sound morality. They inculcate a veneration for religion and 
subordination to civil government and its laws. To visit the sick, 
relieve the distressed, educate the orphan and bury the dead are 
leading offices of our affiliations. The motto of the order is 
"Friendship, Love and Truth." Its emblem is the three links 
entwined, which is almost universally worn by its members. 

When we reflect upon the age of our local lodge, its lar<e and 
active membership, its strong financial resources; when we wit- 
ness the care with which the order exercises for its members in 
distress, the care with which they consign the dead bodies of 
deceased members to the grave; when we pass by the beautiful 
cemetery which the order has prepared for the last resting place 
of man; when we reflect on all this can we not conclude that 
Rochester Odd Fellowship has done, and is now doing much that 
is of benefit and for the more complete development of the com- 


Stage Hold-up, Attempted Robbery of U. S, Mail 
and Lucky Escape in 1859. 



|~ CAME TO THE LITTLE TOWN of Rochester on Decem- 
-*- ber 24th, 1856, the bride of Charles K. Shryock, the editor 
of the Rochester Republican paper. 

We were married at my home in LaPorte and came directly 
from there to Plymouth by rail, and from there made the twenty - 
five-mile trip to Rochester by carriage, there being nothing at 
that time between the two places but a stage line. Fred Ryland, 
our best man, returned home with us. He, like many other brave 
boys, fell in the civil war and now sleeps in an unknown grave 
on the battlefield of Chickamauga. He fought and died for the 
dear old flag. 

" Oh long may it wave 

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave." 

How well I remember our arrival at the Shryock home! I 
had never seen any of my husband's family, except his sister 
Josie. I felt a little shy about meeting them. But when my 
husband's father, Col. K. Gh Shryock, came out to the carriage, 
and, taking me in his strong arms, said, "Welcome home, daugh- 
ter," all fear left me, for I then knew I had found a friend in my 
father-in-law, which proved true in the years that followed. 
Then I met the dear little mother, with her welcome smile and 
gentle manner, which was her birthright. After meeting the rest 
of the family, I went directly to my room, to adorn myself in my 
wedding gown. 

I could hear the murmur of voices in the rooms below, and 
knew the guests were anxiously waiting to meet the new bride, 
who had come to make her home in Rochester. I had just com- 



pleted my toilet when I discovered some object, completely hid- 
den in a blanket, on the bed. I went over, and drawing aside the 
■cover, to my surprise, saw a little child fast asleep. I turned to 
my husband's sister and asked, "Whose baby is this?" "Why, 
that is little Charlie Flank, our druggist's little son," she replied. 
"His mother placed him there to bring good luck to the bride." 
I stooped down and touched my lips to his warm cheek, thinking 
and wishing the mother's prophecy would come true. Just then 
my husband came to take me down to meet his friends. The first 
I was presented to was Brother Watkins, pastor of the Methodist 
church, who you all will remember; then the parents of the little 
baby, and a host of good people, whose names I cannot remem- 
ber now, gave me their welcome hand and good wishes. 

The large fire place was piled with old hickory logs, which 
made the room so bright and cheerful, and the warmth was very 


Father-in-law of the Author. 

welcome to me, for I felt chilled through and through after my 
long, cold drive. We soon surrounded the long table, with its 
snowy cloth and dainty china, spread with all the good things 
that had been prepared for the occasion. All seemed to enjoy the 
bountiful repast, and it was long past midnight before the Merry 
Christmas greetings and good nights were exchanged. The next 
week or two was spent in meeting my husband's friends and rela- 

86 H O M E FOLK S 

lives, and it was not long before I knew most of the town peopie, 
many of whom have passed away years ago, while others have 
moved to distant places. 

After we had lived in Rochester some two or three years, there 
came to our home a little stranger — a son. The first to announce 
the good news was the Democratic town paper. Jt came out 
next morning in a big headline — 


Born, last night, to Mr. and Mrs. Charles K. Shryock, 

a son. Congratulations." 

This announcement, coming from the Democratic paper, caused 
quite a little furore among the people, many calling at my hus- 
band's office to congratulate him. 

When our little son was some months o'.d I went to LaPorte, 
to visit my parents, and on my return trip I had quite an experi- 
ence. I left LaPorte in the morning, arriving in Plymouth near 
noon, and there took the stage for Rochester. There were but 
two other passengers besides myself. It was a lovely day, and it 
did not seem long bifore the stage reached the little tavern, where 
we stopped for the passengers to partake of the evening meal and 
to feed and rest the tired horses. I was sitting in the waiting 
room when the driver of the stage entered and said: "Well, I 
believe you are the only passenger who goes through to Rochester 
tonight." I noticed, for the first time, how young the driver 
was — a mere lad. 

By this time it was getting well toward sunset. With my 
baby I got into the stage. The young driver climbed to his seat, 
cracked his long whip, which the horses knew was the signal to 
start. After we had gone a few miles we came to a dense wood, 
which made the surroundings look rather gloomy. I thought of 
the stage coaches in California, that were so often "held up" by 
masked men and the passengers robbed of all of their hard-earned 
gold, but glad to escape with their lives. The road led down into 
a swampy hollow, and, just as we reached it, two men came out 
of the woods. One sprang to the leaders' bits, while the other 
came to the side of the coach and demanded, in a rough voice, to 
deliver up the mail. I was looking through the front window of 
the stage, and I saw the driver wrap the lines around his left arm 
and with his right hand take the long whip out of the holder. 
He arose to his feet. His right arm went out from the shoulder, 
and with whip in hand, he fought those men. The whip was not 
what they bargained for. The man at the leaders' heads sprang 
aside. The horses, not understanding such treatment from their 
young master, became unmanageable and started on a run over 
the corduroy road. I could not keep my seat; was rolling and 
bumping around on the floor, but my whole thought was for the 


safety of my little son. The horses went quite a distance at the 
same mad gait; but finally the driver had them under control, 
and he, bending down from the box, called and asked if I were 
safe. "Yes," I answerd. "But tell me who those men were?" 
He then told me they were stage robbers. "They thought I had 
nothing to protect myself with and would have an easy time to 
get the mail, but my whip was too much for them." He then 
got down from the box aud went to the horses' heads. I saw him 
pat their smooth necks, and in a low, gentle voice, he said: "Old 
boy, I'm sorry, but I had to do it; and you, too, Brownie, but we 
will lix i hat, old fellow, when we get to the stable tonight." I 
knew then that those frightened horses had felt the sharp sting of 
their driver's whip. The young man again mounted the stage, 
and the horses trudged along, seeming to understand that they 
had had a peace meeting with their young driver. 

We arrived in Rochester some time after nightfall, and drove 
up to the postoflice. The attempted robbery was told to a crowd 
which surrounded the stage. The postmaster, Jesse Shields, 
came out to get the mail. The driver threw thf* bag down and 
said: "There is the mail, but I had a hard fight to get it here. 
Firearms are all right when you want to kill a man, but in this 
case my whip did the business." 

Here I want to say if any of my readers know who drove the 
stage in 1859, and if he is still alive, I would be pleased to hear 
from him. 

In 1862 my husband gave up his paper and came to Wash- 
ington, D. C, and was appointed a clerk in the mailing division 
of the city postoffice, which place he retained until his death, 
which occurred in 1901. 

In 1880 my son reached his twenty-first birthday and his 
father and grandfather were both anxious for him to return to 
Rochester to cast his first vote for president. It was arranged, so 
he and his father, who ha i never given up his right to vote in 
Rochester, started on their trip. At the polls, election morning, 
there were some Democrats who challenged my son's vote, but it 
did not take his Grandfather Shryock long to hunt up the record 
of his birth, which proofs gave him the lawful privilege to vote. 
So he cast his first vote for James A. Garfield. 

He has held a position in the city postoffice for a number of 
years, has a little home in Maryland, a few miles' run on the elec- 
tric cars from Washington. He still votes the Republican ticket, 
which makes "a little Republican gain" for "Maryland, My 


How a Blushing Fulton County Girl Danced witft 
the Governor of Indiana, 



-*- -*— wife were cousins, and therefore of the same family in 
Virginia, where they were born, and where their ancestors for 
many generations had lived and labored. During the days "that 
tried men's souls," the long and bloody period of the American 
Revolution, members of these families were found withthe rifle- 
men of Morgan and among the troopers of Light Horse Harry 
Lee. Slavery in his native state became so intolerable that he 
and his cousin, also named William, decided to migrate to the 
far west. Kentucky would have been their natural selection for 
their new home, reaching the fertile lands beyond the mountains 
by way of the old wilderness road, over which so many Virgini- 
ans had passed on their way to the blue grass country. But then, 
Kentucky had elected to enter the Union as a slave state, an in- 
surmountable objection. They decided in favor of the northwest. 
These two cousins were known in Virginia as Long Billy, my 
grandfather, and Short Billy. Their homes were near together 
and from boyhood days they had lived and worked side by side, 
attended the same schools and the same frolics. Late in May, 
about the year 1816, these cousins, having disposed of their lands 
and such stock as they cared not to take with them, freeing their 
slaves, and leaving their wives with friends and neighbors until 
their return, with two good saddle horses and one pack horse, 
all properly equipped with such articles as voyagers through the 
wilderness would require, started westward and to the north. 



My grandfather carried in his saddle bags and about his person, 
gold and silver coin to the amount of $9,500. How much Short 
Billy had I do not know, but probably a like amount. Now, 
$9,500 was a considerable sum of money to be wandering about 
with in an unknown country, infested by Indians, to say noth- 
ing of the weight. Without loss or serious accident of any kind 
they reached Champaign caunty, Ohio, where uncle, or Short 
Billy, concluded he would make his home, selecting a fine piece 
of land on the Springfield road, near the county seat Urbana, and 
here he afterwards brought his wife, cleared away and cultivated 
one of the finest farms in the state of Ohio, and here also, he 
reared a large family of boys and girls, no better ever lived. My 
grandfather pushed on alone to Cary, several miles further west, 
and it was here he halted for a number of years, also clearing 
and cultivating a large tract of land, and also rearing a family of 
boys and girls, though before they reached maturity the western 
fever seized him and he pushed farther out. 

The Pottawattomie Indians were preparing to vacate their 
lands for their new reservation west of the Missouri river, and 
here promised a favorable opening, and so, alone this time, he 
went prospecting and found satisfactory land in the dense timber 
district about midway between the towns of Rochester and 
Akron. Making his purchases and claims and having them 
properly surveyed and recorded, he returned to bring his family, 
stock and farm implements. My mother and grandmother have 
often told me of that trip through the dense wilderness. Roads, 
such as they were, often impassable until properly mended, 
througn swamps, over sand hills, fording streams and skirting 
lakes, camping at night, when bodies of Indians often would 
steal in out of trie darkness, silently squatting around the camp 
fire, smoking their pipes, finally wrapping themselves in their 
blankets and going to sleep. When morning came the camp 
would find itself rid of its dusky visitors, probably to reappear at 
nightfall, with strings of fish and game of various kinds, veni- 
son, wild turkey, squirrels and quails. These they would care- 
fully dress and with grave ceremony and courtesy hand them 
over to be cooked. Under such circumstances always self-invited 
guests for supper. Invariably kind, little to say, but never for- 
getting to treat us with the greatest courtesy, so that soon the ter- 
ror that their presence at first produced among the women and 
children wore away, except in the case of Fanny Rose, a slave 
girl who had insisted in sharing the adventures of her young 
mistress, and but for whom life in the wilderness would have 
been hard for all of us, especially mother. And so the days and 
nights passed away until finally the journey came to an end. A 
house of logs, such as was generally found in the far west in 


those days was built with the aid of neighbors and we moved 
into it and settled ourselves as best we could in our narrow and 
cramped quarters. There was a loft, or attic, where we children 
slept, as did Fanny Rose, a space at one end having been parti- 
tioned off for her especial accommodation. As on the journey, 
Indians in various numbers would come in from the quiet dark- 
nesss after supper, squatting around the hearth when the nights 
were cold, often bringing game and fish. If eaily enough, join- 
ing us at supper and apparently enjoying our cooking, certainly 
our coffee, of which they would drink great quantities. 

And so we lived alone there in the wi'derness, quietly and 
uneventfully, we children growing older and stronger and more 
able to help in the work. 

It is my mother talking. 

"Eliza Ann, a girl of about twelve at that time. The heavy 
timber was giving way to fields of wheat, corn and other farm 
products. The land was rich and the yield plentiful. Our log 
house at that time stood in the middle of the second field, about 
half a mile south of the Akron road. But father soon found the 
little cabin much too small for his growing family and began pre- 
parations for a new and larger house, a s te for which was cleared 
north of the road, and not far from the little stream of Chipp?- 
wanoch, along the banks of which and north and west of the 
house an orchard was planted, fruit trees of great variety, proving 
as it soon did, to be one of the finest orchards in the whole 
county. Below us lived the Hoovers, who, about that time, 
built a dam across the creek to run a sawmill, from which much 
of the lumber for our house and numerous out-houses wer^ 
brought. The work went on and, August 25th, 1842, the hou^e 
was finished — large, substantial, and the counterpart, as far as 
possible, of the old home in Virginia. To us it seemed very fine 
in its white paint and green window shutters. We were very 
proud of it, for a more commodious or handsome home was not 
to be found in that part of the county. Father, not satisfied 
with farming, bought a whole square of ground in town on 
which he built a large store house for dry goods and general mer- 
chandise, and another for groceries, so that he and the boys, 
J-jrnes and Newton, spent most of their time in trade, and we 
saw little of them at the farm, which mother managed with the 
help of several hired men. Will Woods, who afterwards married 
sister Nancy, was her main prop, though ably supported by 
George Moore, whom she called L ttle George, and Tun Williams, 
whom she named Timothy Tugmutton, and one or two others all 
of the time, and in busy seasons as many as a dozen or more. I 
was not destined to live long in the new house for your father 
came a-courting. At first we did not know to whom he gave 


preference. There was quite a rivalrv between Becky and me. 
We girls were all fond of him for he was a tine man and much 
thought of by everybody. Father set great store by him declar- 
ing, often, that while Lyman was not a professed Christian (we 
were ardent Wesleyans) , leastwise not an orthodox Christian, 
nevertheless a better man never lived nor a more honest. Lyman 
equally admired father. Many times I've heard him say he did 
not know which to admire most, father, mother or Fanny Rose. 
Father for his strong sense of justice and sound political opinions 
and courage in freeing his slaves and pushing out into a new 
country, "The Great Republic of the West," as he was wont to 
call it, or mother for following and so ably supporting with her 
unchanging cheerfulness in the midst of so many discouraging 
and disheartening conditions, confronting the pioneer and fron- 
tiersman, or again, Fanny Rose, the black woman, who refused 
freedom and comfort in order that she might cast her fortunes 
with those of her young mistress — all of which praise I listened 
to with great satisfaction, for I am sure that I was very much in 
love with your father." 

"Father served two terms in the state legislature. It was 
thought best, before I married, that I spend one winter in Indi- 
anapolis. During father's last term, mother and I did so, though 
I did not care especially to go until your father said that he 
would be down for a week or two during my stay. The Grand 
Lodge of Odd Fellows was to meet there and he wished to be 
present at their meetings. One bright fall morning saw father, 
mother and myself occupants of the old Concord stage coach that 
ran between South Bend and Indianapolis. As I happened to 
be the only young lady passenger, it was voted that I should 
have a seat on the box with the driver. I therefore was mounted 
up in front when we started with four fresh horses from the front 
of Alexander Chamberlain's hotel, just across the street from fath- 
er's store. Quite a little crowd had gathered to see us off, as the 
arrival and departure of the stage was always an event in those 
days. Your father had climbed up on the coach box, and some- 
how, squeezed himself on the seat beside me. I felt very proud 
on my elevated perch with a man on either side of me, behind 
four tine spirited horses. I thought how all the girls in town 
must envy me, for it was my first experience of the kind, and so 
we trotted merrily away toward the state capitol, more than sev- 
enty miles distant. In the fall of the year the roads were at their 
best, which was not saying a great deal, though parts of this par- 
ticular road was very smooth and pleasant. Your father left us 
at the Elam farm, saying he would walk back a mile or more, 
and then for the first time I realized I was really going away 
from home. Onward we went, at times quite rapidly, at others 


not moving at all, for we often stuck in the mud of the swamps. 
We reached Logansport just at dark. How we went clattering 
down the long hill just before reaching the Wabash river, the 
driver blowing a delightful call on his horn. I became quite ex- 
cited. Across the old covered bridge we rattled, up the hill and 
through the streets of the town until we pulled up at the steps of 
the hotel where we were to spend the night. Four days and 
nights this sort of thing continued, in many ways delightful, 
always something new and romantic. The frequent stops to 
change horses and drivers, and the stage drivers, in those days, 
were mighty fine fellows, as tine in their way as those Uncle Sam 
tells about out in California. We had no mountain roads, but 
there were hills and many bad places that required quite a degree 
of skill in driving, to avoid. The drivers were all very kind to 
me but never obtrusive, probably because they knew father and 
mother were inside. I cannot tell you how much I enjoyed that 
ride. The inns or taverns where we stopped for dinner or for the 
night, were always so pleasant, the meals all so good. Th it was 
perhaps partly because we were so hungry from our long ride. 
Often we would have our breakfast by lamplight in order that we 
might get an early start. Our supper, always by lamplight. 
Then the beds were so soft and comfortable. I could go on for 
hours recalling those days and that ride in the old stage coach. 
Nothing like it in these days. Well, we arrived in Indianapolis 
in due time. The season, it was said, was unusually gay tuat 
winter. Every night we were out to a party of some kind, a ball, 
concert, reception, what not. I was crazy to go to the theatre, 
but father thought it no place for a professor, so I did not have 
my wish gratified until after your father came. He took me 
several times. I was glad when he came, for I now always had 
some one to go with me, and I tell you I felt very proud going 
into the reception rooms leaning on the arm of your father, for he 
was tall, graceful, handsome, and walked with such a lordly air 
as if the world belonged to him— just a way he had, a way I 
much admired, as I know did many other girls, for I saw many 
a bright eye glance admiringly as we passed. I was no dancer, 
but your father was a fine one. He seemed to enjoy it so. One 
night he persuaded me to dance a reel with him. I acquitted 
myself very well. The governor gave several balls and receptions 
at his home, to all of which we were invited, and attended. The 
finest of all was the reception given to the Odd Fellows. To this 
one I went with your father, und if I say it, who should not, a 
liner couple was not seen there. I wore a new dress father had 
given me, made in the latest style and which fitted me perfectly. 
I knew ail this and felt quite proud. I was so happy that I 
danced several times, once even with the governor himself, while 


Lyman had the governor's laay tor a partnei. We four were in 
the same set. I well remember the look of surprise on the faces 
of mother and father as they saw us. I could also note that 
father was quite pleased that his little backwoods Hoosier girl, as 
he often called me, should be so distinguished by the ruler of his 
adopted state. He had been very fond of dancing in his youth 
and attended all the balls and routs in Richmond during the win- 
ter, and at the Springs during the summer. Indeed, he and 
mother had been quite gay before they were converted to 

"And so the winter passed away and we were back home 
again and glad enough to be there, for while we had a pleasant 
time we somehow felt that such festivities were not suited to our 
simple tastes. Well, we were married, and I moved to town 
where your father had built himself a good, substantial 
house near Newton's grocery store and not far from fath- 
er's dry goods store. As father and the boys boarded with me, 
and much of the time I had one or two of the girls down from the 
farm, I did not lack company, though often when your father 
would be away on professional work in a distant part of the 
county for three or four days, I would become lonesome. We 
were very happy in.those days, for we were young, strong and all 
enjoyed good health. We were warm and comfortably housed, I 
had a tine fruit and vegetable garden and many flowers and fruit 
trees in our vegetable garden. Plenty to eat and drink, though 
no very fine dresses, yet good, strong and substantial clothing, 
warm and comfortable if not very stylish. Fine enough for a 
girl brought up to farm or country life as 1 was, indeed, good 
enough for any one, and so you see I was necessarily very happy 
at that time, and when you came, as you did quite soon, I was 
truly a happy woman if ever there was one. We were both very 
proud of you for you were well formed and healthy and bid fair 
to favor your father, than whom, let me tell you, there were few 
handsomer men, or more kind-hearted, tender or affectionate. 
But our happiness could not, did not last. Your father came 
home wet, cold and weary from a long ride in the country. 
He complained of pains in his chest. Albert, his youngest 
brother, was with us at the time, studying medicine. He sent at 
once for Doctors Howes and Shyrock, but pneumonia developed 
and he sank rapidly. He died April 7th, 1847, 28 years of age. 
We buried him at the farm. Our little family burying ground is 
now incorporated in what is known as Hoover's cemetery. 
Friends from both town and county came to show their love and 
respect by accompanying us all the long five miles to the little 
country graveyard. Odd Fellows from Logansport, members of 
the lodge to which your father belonged, were also present in a 


body and conducted the funeral ceremonies after the ritual of the 
order. While I do not know it for a fact, I have no doubt but 
that your father was the first member of that order to die in Ful- 
ton county. Indeed, I believe that there were but few members 
of the order in the county, but a lodge was organized soon after. 
I was frequently told that such action was hastened by the kind- 
ness and attention members of the brotherhood had shown at 
your father's funeral. 

This little chap, known as John Ely, waxed strong and 
healthy and soon grew to be a sturdy lad, somewhat mischiev- 
ous, as all strong, hearty boys are inclined to be, though never 
vicious, usually well contented, for he had practically two homes 
to choose from. His time was about equally divided between his 
home with his mother, who had married again, and at the farm 
with his grandmother, aunts, uncles and cousins, all good, kind 
and inclined to humor and perhaps spoil the youngster. !None of 
them kinder or more indulgent than the black woman, Fanny 
Rose, of whom he was very fond; indeed all were. Such a farm 
it was, for everything a boy's heart could wish was found. Of 
stock there were horses to ride and drive, cows to milk, oxen to 
yoke and sheep to pasture. Of fowls, turkeys, chickens, geese, 
ducks and a fine flock of pigeons. 

Such eating as we had! Such dishes as Fanny Rose and my 
aunts could and did prepare! Such quantities of fruits of all 
kinds, both large and small! Could any boy, or boys, have 
wished for more? I say boys, for much of the time Scott Ran- 
nells, Uncle Newt's oldest son, a year or two my junior, was my 
companion. In the very early days there were two others, 
Willie Rannells, sou of James and Susan Brown, daughter of 
June. Susan died in early girlhood. Plenty of company, and 
we were therefore never at a loss for fun and frolic, though we 
had our chores to do. These, however, were never very onerous 
and performed quickly in a spirit of fun, for we were good-hearted 
always, never, that I can remember, quarrelsome or unruly, all 
of which was no doubt owing to my grandmother's good govern- 
ment. Also to that prince of good fellows and best friend a boy 
ever had, William Woods, better known as Uncle Bill. What 
larks we had with him as guide, and what sweet times during 
sugar season, for the farm included one of the finest sugar groves 
in the county. No better sugar or syrup ever was made, even in 
the state of Vermont, than that made by Uncle Bill. 

The sugar house was the original cabin occupied by the 
family during the first few years. What days and what nights 
were spent by us in that sugar house or camp, as we called it, 
boiling down sap. At night, seated or stretched out at full 
length on the ground around the fire listening to Uncle Bill's 


stories of Indians and of wars, for he had served as a soldier and 
had taken in a campaign or two, probably during the Black 
Hawk war. He knew a great deal about the habits, ways and 
methods of Indian fighting, indeed Indian life in general. After 
a time he would jump to his feet, call out, "Fall in Company 
A!" and while he was busy with his sword and sash, Company 
A (I was Company A) a lad of from five to twelve for these exer- 
cises covered a period of several years. This little boy of five 
would spring to his feet, grab a piece of wood, shaped like a gun, 
and stand very erect, with head up and chest thrown out, feeling 
very proud and important and there remain until the command- 
ing officer, Uncle Bill, had his handsome sash and sword prop- 
erly adjusted, when he would step out into the light, draw his 
sword and shout, "Eyes right!" "Left!" "Front!" "Dress up 
there!" Finally, with great dignity, "Attention, battalion! File 
right! Forward, march!" Now and then Scott Rannells would 
form a part of Company A, though Scott never took so kindly to 
the work, not having the proper military spirit. He would 
rather lie on his back in front of the fire and listen to stories. 
After marching us about for half an hour we would be brought 
back to the fire and for another half hour or so we would be put 
through the manuel of arms, often getting much mixed, for he 
had been drilled in Scott's tactics, while Harder's was the stand- 
ard, latest. But he would consult the book, correct himself and 
correct us. All this was not only confusing to the intellect, but 
fatiguing to the body. When the order came, as it always did 
finally, "Break ranks!" we were very glad indeed and would hasten 
over to the barrel containing sugar sap, fiill the gourd drinking 
cup and take a long, deep pull, then stretch ourselves out before 
the fire ready to listen to Uncle Bill's yarns of the Indians, of 
which he had an inexhaustible store. 

And so this association went on year after year as long as I 
remained a member of the community. Uncle Bill's ambition 
as a drill master was not wholly satisfied with this sort of thing, 
for about 1856, '7 or '8, he organized the farmers, old and young, 
of his neighborhood into a military company, the first, so far as 
I know, to be organized in the county. Though there were a 
number of men in the county who had served in the Fourth In- 
diana Volunteers during the war with Mexico, members of a 
company in which my uncle, Albert G. Brackett, was first lieu- 
tenant. Whether any of these were members of this company I 
do not know, but I know that subsequently most, if not all of 
them, served during the civil war of 1861-5. 

They met for drill at irregular intervals on a lawn, or rather 
glen, north of Uncle Bill's orchard. Here they would march, 
countermarch, go through the manual of arms, in all of which, 


owing to the careful and patient instruction given by my pains- 
taking uncle, they attained a good degree of proficiency. Now 
this was a well organized, uniformed company of men just away 
from the plow or harvest field, much in earnest and bound to 
make the most of their opportunities. Very proud and splendid 
they bore themselves. It was no easy matter to distinguish the 
individual member as they marched past a given point, for the 
ordinary stooped and slouchy gait gave place, when in the uni- 
formed ranks, to an erect bearing true military air. Heads up, 
chests well out and a quick and elastic step. The uniform, I re- 
member it well, consisted of a black cloth roundabout or jacket, 
military cut, standing collar and a single row of brass buttons, 
the exact counterpart of that worn as a fatigue uniform by the 
household troops of Great Britain today, even to the little point 
down behind. Only the British jacket is always scarlet or blue, 
generally the former. White duck trousers with bright red rib- 
bon or stripe down the outer seam. Large blue cloth cap, black 
leather vizer and glazed cover for wet weather. Shoes or boots, 
as may be, always bright and shining as the best blacking and 
polishing could make them. This alone was enough to cause a 
transformation. For arms each man carried his own squirrel 
rifle, more or less ornamented according to individual fancy. 
Powder-horn, highly polished, bullet pouch of undressed deer- 
skin slung across the shoulders by a broad strap of the same 
material. No side arms except in the case of Uncle Bill, who 
always appeared with his handsome, crimson silk sash and 
bright, well polished dress sword and scabbard strapped to his 
side, and who marched proudly at the head of his company 
with sword drawn, the bright blade flashing in the sunlight. 
How I did enjoy watching them march past where I sat perched 
on the topmost rail of a high stake and rider fence, cheering 
lustily and waving my cap with enthusiasm. Once when Uncle 
Bjll gave the order to "Present arms!" as they passed me, my en- 
thusiasm was so great and my dignity so profound I almost fell 
from my high perch as I removed my cap in return for the cour- 
tesy. iSo the drills went on, from season to season, covering a 
period of several years. I was always an interested spectator. I 
do not recall just how the information came to me, but somehow 
I was always informed when a drill was to be held, and early 
made my plans to be present, driving or riding to the farm, when 
I could have the horse, and when not, walking. Now I always 
had one boon companion or comrade, one who always was glad 
and eager to join me in any expedition, no matter where. That 
was my step-sister, Helen Staily. Certainly no boy ever was so 
fortunate as I in having a comrade so kind, so gentle, so ready 
and eager to assist me with advice and comfort of her presence. 


One bright day in June, I heard that the drill was to take 
place. I went at once to Helen and asked her to go with me. 
♦'Gladly, Johnnie," she said, "if father will let us have the horse 
and buck-board. I don't feel strong enough to walk so far. You 
go and ask him," which I did at once, knowing beforehand just 
what his answer would be whenever Helen was concerned, and 
when I told him what we proposed doing he very promptly re- 
plied, "Why certainly, Johnnie, I am glad you are going and it is 
real thoughtful in you to take Helen." He doted on Helen, as we 
all did. "I'm sure you will have a good dinner at your grand- 
mother's. I declare 1 wish it was so I could go. Well, some day 
we will all go up and have dinner at the farm— Newt, Lib, and 
the rest of us. Tell Helen to take an extra wrap for it may be 
cool coming round the lake after sundown." 

And so we started, but had not gone far when Helen suggest- 
ed that we take Joe Chamberlain with us. Joe was soon ready 
and eager for the trip. At her request we added somewhat to the 
length by deciding to come home by the river road, visiting the 
famous Indian fields where strawberries were many and large. A 
couple of baskets were added to the outfit, when we were off, and 
in due time arrived at the head of the lane from where we could 
see the farm house. I soon discovered grandma, seated com- 
placently in an easy chair on the honey-suckle covered front 
porch, and as surely there was the black face of Fanny Rose peer- 
ing over the gate. I drove gaily up, sprang out, greeted Fanny 
with an affectionate slap on her broad shoulders, saying, "Fanny, 
my girl, you are going to have guests for dinner." She answered 
promptly, "Now you John, what you alls want for your dinner?" 
"Stewed chicken, cream gravy, hot biscuit and strawberry short- 
cake." I had approached grandma, who had arisen to greet me, 
holding out her soft, white plump hand, which I stooped over 
and kissed, a ceremony she was very fond of, and one I had been 
early taught by my mother. "Why, grandma," I exclaimed, 
"what a beautiful dress you have on, and that new and dainty 
lace cap is so becoming. I declare you look as if you had just 
stepped off a Watteau fan. Every day you are growing more 
and more like Martha Washington," all of which little excusable 
flattery seemed to please her and harmed no one. Indeed, the 
girls both corroborated my statement as they came forward to greet 
her, who beamed with pleasure at the sight of the bright young 
faces. She held out a hand to each and bade them welcome. 
While we were exchanging compliments, Fanny Rose came 
around the corner of the house followed by Jake and exclaimed: 
"Now, you John, if you alls want strawberry shortcake for your 
dinner, you will have to help pick the berries." We all gladly 
consented and started out for the south field where they were to 


be found. We managed the first fence in good shape, but on 
reaching the second, were not so fortunate. The girls were ahead, 
Jake, my uncle (then a young man of 16 or 18) , and I lingered be- 
hind. In attempting to climb the second fence their skirts 
caught on the fence rails, causing some consternation, and on the 
part of Joe, a considerable show of lace and embroidered lingerie, 
together with two plump calves and well turned ankles. Helen 
made very little show for her stockings were gray, with black 
elastic garters, and her skirt a dark silk. I ran to her assistance, 
while Jake helped Joe. I soon released Helen, she remarking 
to me in an understone, "What a spectacle Joe is making of her- 
self ! I hope I don't look like that." I assured her she did not, 
and further protested that Joe made rather a pleasing and inter- 
esting picture. Her voluminous white and billowy skirts looked 
like the foam of the sea, while the bright red of her garters, in the 
midst of all this whiteness, might resemble two coral reefs. But 
I think I shall have to paint Joe as the "circus-rider," "hoopla," 
ready to spring through the paper balloon. "O, John, you 
always think of pictures. What are you going to do with me?" 
"You, Helen? Oh, you are always my dear delightful, Es- 

"Esmeralda, lithe and airy, 

Graceful she as any fairy, 

Like a tuneful, sweet excess, 

In a world of happiness, 

While all gladsome motions meet, 

In those lightly da?icing feet." 

I sang as we ran to assist Joe in releasing herself from 

her embarrassing position. "John, you are real nice to think 

of me in that way," said Helen, as she caught me round the neck 

and gave me a soft kiss, taking up the refrain in her glad, sweet 


"Esmeralda, joy surrounds her, 
Sunlight clothes her, sunlight crowns her, 
Passion stirring, thought entrancing;, 
Softly blushing, softly glancing, 
And a thousand witching fancies, 
Make wild music as she dances." 
But just then an exclamation from Joe, a rip and tear, and 
she had freed herself from the splinters of the fence, only leaving 
quite a bit of lace petticoat behind, which I saw Jake quickly re- 
lease and hastily put in the inside pocket of his coat. 

We were all now engaged picking strawberries. As they 
were plentiful and large our basket was soon filled, when we pre- 
pared to return to the house. At this point Joe declared she never 
would, in all her life again, attempt to climb a rail fence, if there 
was no other way out. She would remain here forever. Jake 


and I soon had the rails lowered enough for the girls to step over. 
Returning to the house we found grandma still seated on the 
front porch. We seated ourselves there also, while Fanny went 
in to prepare dinner. 

"John, what do you hear from your Uncle, Captain Albert?" 
asked grandma. Albert was a favorite of hers and she always 
asked about him. "O! Uncle Charlie had a letter from him the 
other day. He is with his regiment down in Texas fignting Indi- 
ans. His Colonel, Albert Sydney Johnston, has been sent up to 
Utah to look after the mormons and straighten them out. Lieu- 
tenant Colonel Robert E. Lee is in command. Uncle Albert likes 
him very much; says he is a good soldier, an excellent officer, a 
gentleman and a Virginian. You know he always thought well 
of Virginians, grandma. I suspect that is why he likes you so 
well. You and he were always great friends, you know." "Yes, 
indeed we were; Albert was a good soldier, his work in Mexico 
was a credit to himself and family." "I hope you have read the 
book he wrote about the services of his brigade while there." 
"Certainly, I have read it through three or four limes, and parts 
of it, several times." "But, say grandma, I think the services of 
Uncle John vastly more important and interesting. You don't 
know much about him. I do, for Uncle Charlie has told me a 
lot which few knew. Uncle John did not write and publish a 
book about himself." "Why, Johnnie, tell me about him." 
"All 1 know, he was a West Pointer but resigned from the army 
after a campaign or two." "What had he to do with the Mexi- 
can war?" "Why, you see grandma, after war was declared, he 
offered his service to the Government and the President appointed 
him to a Captaincy in a regiment organizing in New York to be 
sent to California as soldiers of conquest and as settlers after the 
war was over, like many of the old Roman legions. After a 
voyage of six months around Cape Horn they reached San Fran- 
cisco. Uncle John with his Company was sent to Nappa, where 
he was near neighbor of the Mexican general Vallejo, with whom 
he became quite chummy. Well, after the war, and California, 
as you know, became American territory, a state government 
was next in order, for with the discovery of gold the state filled 
up very quickly. In 1849 as many as a hundred thousand emi- 
grants reached there, overland, and by the way of the Isthmus of 
Panama. The excitement was tremendous. That same year, 
Sept. 1849, a state convention was called at Monterey, to which 
delegates were sent for the purpose of framing a state constitu- 
tion. Uncle John, well knowing the strong feeling on the part 
of delegates from slave states, Missouri, Kentucky and others, to 
make California a slave state, attended the convention, though 
not a delegate. Uncle John, through his friendship with General 


Vallejo and other Mexican delegates, soon had all the Mexicans 
pledged to vote for a free state. The contest was warm and furi- 
ous. The government at Washington favored the slave element 
and it looked as if they would win, but the free-state men kept 
well together, resisting all efforts at compromise and with the 
aid of the Mexicans kept a bold front. Efforts of all sorts were 
made to break the solid Mexican vote but an influence that no 
one could understand or make out, kept them together until a 
final vote was taken and the free state men won, by a small 
majority it is true, but still won. Now I will tell you what but 
few knew : Uncle John was the influence that kept the Mexicans 
together first, last and all the time, and so I say I had rather 
have done what he did, for it was he who practically made Cali- 
fornia a free state. Think what it would have meant to the 
Nation and the whole world had that great state adopted slavery. 
Why, I had rather been Uncle John than General Scott himself. 
I could tell you a lot about California if we had the time, but I 
see Fanny Rose has dinner ready and I am as hungry as a bear." 
What a dinner it was! It makes my mouth water even now 
to think of it. Everything we had asked for and much, very 
much, more. We all ate heartily, even Helen, who generally fed 
daintily. As for Joe and I, we even astonished grandma by the 
way things disappeared down our throats. Joe was in her ele- 
ment while eating chicken, hot biscuits and gravy. Grandma, 
bless her kind old heart, fairly beamed on us with pleasure, at 
the way we ate of her good things. Well, even the stomach of a 
growing boy, and a jolly rollicking girl, have limits and ours 
were finally filled. And now to see the soldiers, Hurrah! 
There's the drums, and here they come, with the best martial 
music in the county leading. Ike True with his drum and Nat 
Bryant with his fife. We rushed to the front porch as they 
proudly marched past with banners waving and drums beating. 
A more inspiring sight I never saw and never expect to see 
again, for since then I have seen all the fine companies and crack 
regiments of all the countries of Europe, including Great Britafn, 
as well as our own country and Mexico. None produced that 
proud, swelling of the breast, the almost choking sensation of 
enthusiasm as did the company of plain and sturdy yoeman, the 
farmers of our own beloved Fulton county. They passed by with 
a quick, springy step, the drawing up of the right leg and bring- 
ing the foot down with a sharp, quick thud, not unlike a horse 
with the spring halt. Uncle Billy at the head, calling out "one, 
two; one, two; one, two, three, four!" He saluted us as he passed 
and ordered his men to "Present Arms!" We waved our caps 
while the ladies waved their handkerchiefs with great enthusi- 
asm. I saw Joe's eyes sparkle with delight and a bright red 


flush mount to her face and neck. Even Helen showed emotion, 
for her eyes, too, sparkled and a flush suffused even her pale 
face. As for grandma, she was delighted and clapped her hands 
in glee. They marched on down the lane, passed the barn, 
turned and came back, reaching the house, halted and came to 
"dress parade." Uncle Will stepped forward and asked for a 
drink of cool water from the well. "Better than that boys," 
grandma answered. Turning to Jake, she asked him to go down 
cellar and draw a bucket of cidar and bring it to the soldiers. I 
followed Jack as did Uncle Bill, and we soon returned, each with 
a bucket full of good sweet cider just beginning to turn a little, 
but noon the less tasteful and refreshing on that account. Fanny 
Rose brought up the rear with a great dish pan piled high with 
fress, brown ginger cookies. Uncle Hill called, "Attention! stack 
arms, break ranks and have a good time boys." They all pre- 
ferred the shade and grass of the yard to the hot, dusty road, so 
stretched themselves out on the grass in the shade of the trees, 
drank cider, ate cookies until they could neither eat nor drink 
more. Helen and Joe busied themselves passing cookies and fill- 
ing the tin cups. 

How beautiful and charming they did look! like Hebe offer- 
ing nectar to the Gods. After they had filled themselves with 
cider until they could hold no more and had eaten all of Fanny 
Rose's cookies, uncle Bill, who had been talking with grandma, 
called out. "Fall in, Company A!" Grandma and the girls 
ranged themselves in line beside the gate. As they filed out, the 
men gravely and courteously shook hands, taking off their caps 
and expressing thanks for the good time they had had. 1 heard 
one or two call out — "Say, Captain Billy, that was a happy 
thought of yours, marching us up here!" I never had a better 
time in my life and never saw two prettier girls." They formed 
ranks and marched away to the stirring music of fife and drum. 
Tim Williams soon brought our horse around and we prepared to 
depart. "Johnnie," said grandma, "the next time you and your 
Uncle Charlie are out scouring the country you must come this 
way and tell me more about California. I hear Sam Stailey has 
lately returned. I should like to hear of his adventures. You 
might bring him along." "All right, grandma, I'll do it. 
Thank you so much for that good dinner and the general good 
time, for we have had a jolly one, haven't we girls?" "Indeed 
we have," they answered in union and away we went. 

Turning north at Hoover's, we soon entered the dense tim- 
ber. The road was soft and fairly smooth, the shade was grate- 
ful, so we bowled along at a pretty fair gait. Helen soon put her 
wrap about her shoulders, for the air was both cool and damp. 
We were not long in reaching the river and the old Indian fields, 


where the horse was pulled up at the side of the road away from 
passing wagons and securely hitched to a tall sapling. All three 
went busily to work picking the small but deliciously sweet ber- 
ries that grew in great profusion. On looking into Helen's basket 
we found it half-full of berries that had been gathered at the farm 
and which Fanny Rice had evidently placed there. After some 
persuasion, Joe was induced to have a few transferred to her bas- 
ket, refusing many, because, as she said, Fanny had evidently 
intended them for my mother. It was not long before our basket 
was tilled, when we both turned in to fill Joe's, and that took but 
a short time. Again we were on the buckboard, with faces 
turned homeward, where we arrived a short while before supper. 
Mother met us at the door and said: "Well, I'm glad to see you 
safely back. Now, girls, you set the table. We will have supper 
on the back porch, and I'll boil the ham and poach the eggs. My 
rolls are already in the oven. We might have a dish of those 
berries, if you girls will hull them." "Mother," I said, "may 
Will Chamberlain and I make ice cream for supper?" "Yes, 
certainly, and that will be real nice. You boys get the ice from 
the ice house and ask George Innman to come over and help me 
mix the cream, for he knows more about ice cream than anyone 
in this town." We two boys, very much delighted, soon had the 
horse in the stable and a big block of ice in the tub ready for cut- 
ting, while George Innman and mother fixed the cream. I 
insisted on the big freezer, and soon we boys were busy whirling 
it. George promised to step over now and then to watch prog- 
ress. I rather think he wanted to exchange glances with Joe. 
It was not a great while before George pronounced the cream in 
prime condition, ready to dish. As the other things were ready, 
Helen rang the bell for her father and the children. As he came 
around the house Helen and I were standing together by the gar- 
den fence, where he paused, stroking her hair tenderly, saying: 
" Well, daughter, have you had a nice time today? " "Oh, father, 
so nice, and all owing to John. You don't know what a comfort 
he is to me." "You and John are very good friends, I am sure. 
Well, John is a very good boy when not engaged in mischief, 
though he is inclined to be a little lazy. They do say, however, 
that is because of the Brackett blood. I myself do not believe 
the Bracketts are the least bit lazy. It's only their slow, 
delibetate way of doing things that gives that appearance." We 
were now called to supper by mother. As we stepped upon the 
porch my father exclaimed, "What a pretty table! Why, girls, 
this beats me. I never saw anything more inviting. Joe, I'm 
sure you are responsible for the flowers. They certainly do look 
pretty — almost as pretty as you are." My step-father, John H. 
Stailey, could be very gallant when he chose to take the trouble. 


My mother now called me to her side, saying, "I see Milo Smith 
across the lot going to feed his horse. You run over, give him my 
compliments and ask him to come and have a bit of supper with 
us." I did so. Milo said he would wash up a little and come 
over directly. We were all seated when Milo appeared, stopped 
and exclaimed: "I must have dropped down in Arcadia, every- 
thing looks so nice and comfortable." My step-father, holding 
aloft his carving knife, said: "Come right in, Milo; here is a 
place for you, and I'll give you my head if you don't say this is 
the best piece of ham you ever set your teeth into." Milo was 
liberally helped, and we were all busy, when my father again 
exclaimed: "I'm a living sinner if there ain't Charlie Brackett. 
Come right in, Charlie; there is always room for you." But be- 
fore coming to the table Uncle Charlie stopped at the pump, where 
there was a basin, soap and towel, and g ve his hands and face a 
thorough washing. "Well, this is nice," he remarked as he 
seated himself at the table, after having greeted everyone pres- 
ent. "How glad I am old Dolly turned down your alley. She 
knew what she was about, for a more charming table I never saw. 
The flowers are beautiful." "That is Joe's doing," I called out. 
Of course, George Innman was at the table, seated next to Joe, 
and I saw him squeeze her hand when I sad this, and they 
looked knowingly into each other's eyes. "Yes," said Milo, "it 
struck me, and I still think we are all in Arcadia." "That's so, 
Milo," replied Charlie, "only there are two pretty maids here in- 
stead of one, as in the song, 'Pretty Maid of Arcadia; Pretty 
Little Maiden She.' I could play it for you if I had my fiddle; 
but I never was much at singing. It's a mighty pretty ballad, 
all the same, and our two maids here would answer well to the 
poetic fancy of the piece." 

The supper progressed to the end. George Innman offered to 
dish the cream and Joe served the berries, while Will and I acted 
as waiters. Everything was good— the cream only such as 
George Innman knew how to mix and two stout boys how to 
freeze. George had brought with him a box of his famous sugar 
cakes, freshly baked that afternoon, as he said, expressly for this 
occasion. .But after a while all were satisfied. They could eat 
no more. My mother suggested that they move to the front 
porch, where the moon could be seen, while she and Martha 
would wash the dishes. The large lunar oil lamp, my father's 
pride, had been lighted and placed on the table, and also a num- 
ber of Chinese lanterns that Joe and George had strung about 
the porch. We were all gathered on the front porch admiring 
the moon when the gate latch clicked and in marched Mr. Kline 
Shryock, his daughter, Josie, Uncle Newt Rannells and Aunt 
Lib. They were all congenial and kindred spirits. While they 


were exchanging salutations my father called out, "Is that you, 
Jonas Myers? " "Yes, that's about the size of it," came back the 
answer, cheerfully. "Well, Jonas, you old rascal," called Uncle 
Newt. "How dare you, sir, tliink of passing that gate? Come 
right in here, sir!" "O, well, Newt, don't get mad; 1 was only 
pretending. We were not going to pass, were we, wife? Why, 
man alive, we came down here expressly to make a call, a thing 
I seldom do." There was much shaking of hands and expres- 
sions of delight as the different members of the party were rec- 
ognized by the new-comers. My mother came forward and 
invited them to the back porch, an invitation accepted by all, 
though Newt declared he could not eat a morsel, yet he would 
go out for company. Mother bad newly spread the table, the 
lamp was burning brightly and the small colored Chinese lan- 
terns added much to the beauty of the spread. There were many 
and loud exclamations of delight at the beauty of the fairy-like 
grotto. After ranging themselves around the table George Inn- 
man, with the two boys for waiters, prepared again to dish 
cream. Joe and Helen added berries at the table and mother 
poured the coffee. There could be no question about the taste- 
fulness of it all. Uncle Newt was delighted and expressed him- 
self in language forcible, if not always elegant. And so the 
evening passed away, eating, drinking and making merry. 
Uncle Newt was the first to suggest going, saying that while he 
had told Margaret, his wife, that he would probably not be home 
for supper and might even remain for lodge" meeting, he now 
thought he had better be "moseying." At the word lodge my 
father sprang to his feet, declaring that he must go at once, how- 
ever much he regretted leaving the good company. After a great 
deal of talk the men all decided that duty called them to the 
meeting, and they must go. I was asked to bring out a box of 
cigars, "the Rio Hundo," from the mantel in the parlor and puss 
them around. I did as directed, and all the men present took 
one, even Uncle Charlie, whom, I am sure, rarely stnoked. He 
even said so, but would make an exception tonight. After light- 
ing up, they all started for Odd Fellows hall, all being members 
of that order, several of them charter members. The ladies 
remained behind for a little further gossip and music. 

While still on the porch Helen said to me: "What a day 
this has been! Perfect in every way. l O! What is so rare as a 
day in June?'" she quoted. Uncle Charlie, who was standing 
near, answered: "I declare, Helen, I don't know, unless it is a 
night in June, for this is a perfect night, neither cold nor hot — 
just right. What a rare good time I have had, am having; an 
evening long to be remembered by all of us here. I am sure 
John will not soon forget it." "No, indeed," I replied, "for I 


mean to paint the back porch as it looked tonight, and I shall 
have Joe and Helen iu the foreground. I think it will make a 
good picture." "Indeed it will, John, and I bargain for the first 

Soon after all had departed, even mother had gone to walk 
home with Aunt Lib. The girls had gone to bed and I was left 
alone on the settee among the cushions and was fast drifting 
away into dreamland when Helen came out and cuddled up to 
my side. I told her I thought she ought to be in bed asleep, for 
she must be tired after such an exciting day. She quietly re- 
plied, "John, I could not sle^p; it was so warm and close in the 
bedroom. Joe, the best girl in the world, was restless and uneasy 
and that disturbed me. I could not breathe freely, so came out 
here to be with you for a while and to ask mother when she 
comes back if I can't sleep upstairs. It is large and airy, wilh 
more windows. I d.m't believe she would object, do you?" "Of 
course not, Helen. You know very well that you may have any 
room in the house at any time. There is nothing anyone of us 
would not give up to you. You can go to bed at once if you wish. 
I will make it all right with mother." "Yes, dear, 1 know, but 
I had ralher sit here with you a while and talk, it is so cool, so 
bright and pleasant here. You and I have sat out here many 
times watching the stars and wondering which one of them 
would be our home after leaving this world. John, tell me, 
would you-feel very sad if I were to leave you and find a home in 
one of those far-distant stars up there, for I may tell you I have 
a feeling I shall not be here when another June comes around." 
"Dear Helen," I said (and there were tears in my voice) "p'ease 
don't talk of leaving us just yet. I am sure now that the hard 
winter has passed and summer is here and you will grow stronger 
every day. I heard Uncie Charlie say to mother this evening 
you were looking so much better tonight; better and brighter 
than for a long time. We all think so, so please don't talk about 
leaving us." 13ut it was as she had predicted. Before another 
spring came around her gentle spirit had left us, to join that of 
her mother, leaving us all inconsolable. 

I am now an old man, but even now when I allow my 
thoughts to wander back to the time when she was the joy and 
brightness of my life, my eyes fill with tears. We laid her away 
by the side of her mother in Odd Fellows cemetery, near the 
town, and there she quietly sleeps. 

" Warm summer sun, shine kindly here, 
Warm southern winds, blow softly here. 
Green sod above, lie light, lie light, 
Good night, dear heart, good night, good night.'" 



I understand a want ad has appeared in that section of your paper 
asking for a copy of Home Folks written and published by Marguerite 
Miller, the advertisement signed by the National Librarian at 
Washington, D. C. 

I have had letters from the National Librarian, State Librarian and 
Secretary of the Indiana State Historical Society asking for extra copies of 
the book and thus far I have been unable to locate a copy of either volume 
besides those in my own library. 

The National Librarian said: "You have given Indiana valuable 
history because it is first hand from those living in the early days of In- 
diana and your county." These statements have been written by the other 
two librarians mentioned. 

It was through the kindness of the late Hon. H. A. Barnhart that 
"Home Folks" found a resting in the National Library, and our own 
librarian, Mrs. Grace Stingley-Mason placed a copy in the State Library 
at Indianapolis. A request from the State Historical Society was answered 
by forwarding one book of each volume. 

A little first hand history of the book might be interesting to your 
readers. It came about by visiting with some of the men I interviewed 
every day when reporting for the Daily Republican, which covered a 
period of nearly twenty years. 

Reporting for a country newspaper when Rochester was a town did 
not'mean what it does today, now that Rochester is a city. Then it meant 
friendly visits every day with every merchant, clerk, doctor, lawyer, 
minister, officers in the court house and city hall, visits to the railway 
stations, justice of the peace — in fact, a continuous round of visiting and 
picking up items of interest to the general public. 

One day when stopping at the Henry Ward furniture store in the com- 
mercial block, I stopped to visit with Uncle Dell Ward, as he was reminisc- 
ing on days in Rochester when Main Street was little more than a cow 
path through the town, of the Indians who were sent West, etc. The story 
was of such dynamic interest and told with such dramatic power that I 
asked for an interview, which he readily granted. The book grew from Un- 
cle Dell Ward's story week by week until completed. I set the type of 


evenings and Sunday afternoons and after each story appeared in the 
Daily Republican, my son, Earle A. Miller, printed four pages at a time on 
the old Mehle job press. He and I folded the pages, sewed them together 
and put on the binding. As I recall it, only one hundred copies were made. 
Each of the pioneers whose story appeared were given a copy of the book. 
An effort, not a very strenuous effort, was made to sell the remainder, but 
every one had read the stories in the paper so the remainder of the books 
were packed away in a box and later sold for waste paper as far as I know. 

The second volume contained history of the Methodist Church, the 
late Charles Jackson furnishing the data, history of the Citizens' Band, 
with pictures of those early musicians, history of the K. of P. lodge, the 
late Isaac W. Brown providing the record and many other histories of men 
and events of the days in which they played a part in Rochester. 

I was not in Rochester when the second volume appeared. It was 
edited by the late Albert W. Bitters, although I made notes and had set 
the type for the most of the book. The second volume does not have the 
same value to the general public because it dealt with purely local affairs 
and people, while the first book has to do with Indiana in the raw, of very 
primitive times. But the point is that after so many years that which 
seemed valueless and meant very little to the readers of Home Folks now 
is very valuable and the only record of the people and events of Rochester, 
Fulton County, Indiana, written from the personal experiences of men 
who lived when our town was little more than a pasture for cows, pigs and 
chickens and farms few and far apart. 

I doubt very much whether there will ever be a monument at the head 
of my grave — after all a monument is but a bit of stone with a name and 
dates of birth and death inscribed thereon, but I believe in years to come 
Home Folks will grow in greater and still greater value as history, and that 
will be a monument that will endure long after his house of clay is but a 
bit of dust. 

I shall also leave a history of Main Street as I knew it, of the men and 
women I knew, respected and loved, of the intimate stories told me-of their 
trials, tribulations and better still their joy and happiness that made 
each day and each visit long to be remembered. 

The Hon. George W. Holman and C. C. Campbell are the only at- 
torneys living in the time to which I refer, Mr. Campbell than a young 
chap trying his wings in the flight of legal oratory. Every doctor of that 
day has passed on, every merchant but Charles K. Plank and George V. 
Dawson, Val Zimmerman, then a young man in the employ of his father, 
the late Hon. Valentine Zimmerman, and W. H. Howard, then learning 
the jewelry trade with C. C. Wolf. 

Now strange faces everywhere — in stores, offices, shops. All who 
belonged to the yesterday of which I am writing have passed onward. Rare 
food for thought, rich thought for reflection, sacred thought for coming 

How fast the sands of time run on. What history made, what sorrows 
endured, what courage needed, what faith declared. Your life — my life but 
passing figures on the screen of time. 

-Marguerite Miller, Sept. 16, 1940 


-& By Shirley Willard, £}- 

president of 
Fulton County Historical Society 

Marguerite Lillian Bitters Miller was born in Peru, Indiana, October 
29, 1863, to Thomas Major Bitters (born August 7, 1835, in Northampton 
County, Pennsylvania) and Maria Victoria Elizabeth Rose, (born near 
Basil, Ohio). 

Thomas Major Bitters was always known as Major, having been so 
named in honor of his mother's maiden name. He came with his parents 
and brothers and sisters to Akron, Indiana, around 1850. He taught school 
in Akron one year. Then he was apprenticed to a printer and learned the 
trade. In 1856 he went to Peru and took the foremanship of the Peru 
Republican, which position he held for 17 years. He married Maria Rose in 
Peru in 1857 and had two children, Albert and Marguerite. He served in 
the Civil War. 

Major's brother, Tully Bitters, was partner to William T. Cutshall in 
publishing the Akron Globe 1866-67. Then he moved to Rochester and 
bought the Rochester Sentinel in 1872 from A. T. Metcalf. He published 
the Sentinel until 1886, when he sold it to Henry A. Barnhart. Tully 
served as Rochester postmaster 1886-90. Tully was also a brickmason and 
built the first brick building in Rochester, the Jesse Shields store, on the 
northeast corner of Main and East 8th streets. (This building was razed in 
1974 to be replaced by the new Farmers & Merchants Bank.) 

Major bought the Rochester Union Spy weekly newspaper from 
William H. Mattingly on October 8, 1873. His son Albert quit school in the 
sixth grade at the age of 12 to become a "printers devil" and to press and 
type in the newspaper office. The office was on the second floor of the 
I.O.O.F. building (now called the Knapp building) on the northeast cor- 
ner of Main and West 9th streets. Marguerite's newspaper career began at 
age 15 when she went to work as a typesetter. 

Six years later on August 29, 1879, Major sold the Spy back to Mat- 
tingly, who had founded the Rochester Republican July 6, 1878. Bitters 
went to Rensselaer and purchased the Republican there, which he 
published for two years. Then the death of a six-year-old son (two sons, 


Franklin and Frederick, died in childhood) made all of the family dis- 
satisfied with Rensselaer and they returned to Rochester. Here Major 
tried both the grocery and real estate business, but as he was a newspaper 
man by training and inclination, he founded the Rochester Tribune in 
January of 1883. He sold the Tribune to W. I. Howard & Son in 1884, and 
purchased the Rochester Republican in January 1885 from L. N. Noyer. 
(These dates are verified from the old newspapers themselves, stored in 
the Recorder's office in the Fulton County courthouse.) 

When his father did not have a newspaper, Albert worked for his un- 
cle Tully on the Sentinel. In February 1886 Major started publishing 
Rochester's first daily newspaper, the Daily Republican. He continued to 
publish the Weekly Republican, using the important news stories already 
set in lead type for the Daily. Albert was assistant editor and job printer 
for the Daily Republican. In September 1891 Major bought out the 
Tribune and merged its business with the Republican. 

Marguerite married John Logan Miller, son of Judge Hugh Miller, on 
May 6, 1882. After the wedding they lived in a new brick house on 
Railroad Street (now called Franklin Street). Among the wedding gifts 
were a majolica dish, silver card receiver, plush-frame mirror, nickle- 
plated smoothing iron, and $5 in gold. Their only child, Earle, was born 
February 8, 1885. Following her marriage she taught art for a time but 
returned to the newspaper staff in 1900. 

After a fire destroyed the I.O.O.F. building, Major bought a lot and 
put up a one-story building on the alley, 114 East 8th Street. The 
Rochester Republican was published there until it ceased to exist in 1923, 
after 45 years of publication. 

Major made a success of the business to such an extent that he owned 
the Republican, the building it occupied, a business room just north of the 
Masonic building, and three residence properties. 

Major was active in church work and in early life was a leading 
member of the Methodist church. But for the last 20 years of his life, he 
was a free thinker, an advocate of advanced or independent thought and 
for the last 10 years an enthusiastic Spiritualist, being head of the 
organization in Rochester. Having no church, this group met in the up- 
stairs room above the Book Store (826 Main). 

When Major died April 5, 1902, the funeral was held in the courtroom 
of the courthouse in order to accommodate the crowd of people. Business 
was suspended in the county offices, and the stairways and court room 
were decorated with flags and floral emblems. Rev. J. Harry Moore of the 
Spiritualist Society conducted the service. The Rochester Citizens Band 
led the funeral cortege to the Odd Fellows cemetery for the last rites. 

The Rochester Sentinel supplied Republican subscribers with news 
service for a couple of days while funeral arrangements were going on. The 
Republican resumed publications on Monday with Albert W. Bitters as 
editor-in-chief. The Weekly Republican was published on Thursdays. 

Albert's sister, Marguerite Bitters Miller, was associate editor. Dur- 
ing 1909-10 Marguerite wrote the two volumes of Home Folks. Volume II 
of Home Folks was advertised in the Republican December 29, 1910, for 50 
cents a copy. 

Marguerite's son, Earle Miller, helped set type in the newspaper of- 
fice. He operated one of Rochester's earliest movie theaters, the Earle, 


located in the south half of the present Knapp building at the corner of 
Main and West 9th streets. It featured silent films of 20 minutes in length. 
Admission was five cents. He was also manager of independent basketball 
teams during the first years of that sport here and promoted appearances 
of semi-pro teams for games in Rochester. 

Marguerite served as editor of the Republican 1921-23 while Albert 
Bitters was Rochester postmaster 1922 on. Earle Miller was managing 
editor. As editor of the Daily and Weekly Republican, Marguerite 
published the only Sunday edition of newspaper ever produced in Fulton 

Bitters sold the Republican to the Daily News in September 1923. In 
1924 the Daily News, owned by Harold and Floyd Van Trump, con- 
solidated with the Sentinel, owned by Hugh A. Barnhart, into the News 

Not much is now known about John Miller, Marguerite's husband. 
His father, Hugh Miller, was county surveyor 1844-51 and the first judge 
of Fulton County Court of Common Pleas 1853-57. John had a grocery 
store on the north half of the 800 block of Main street across from the 
courthouse. He may also have been a lawyer for a time. He died 
September 27, 1924, at age 70, of camp disease. According to I.O.O.F. 
cemetery records, he died and was buried the same day. His death was not 
recorded in the courthouse nor could an obituary be found in the 

After the death of her husband, Marguerite entered the lecture field 
and spoke in many cities across the nation on the Chautauqua circuit. She 
lectured on psychology, temperament and getting along with others. She 
always spoke without notes; words seemed to gush from her spontaneously 
and she held her audiences spellbound. When asked how she had nerve 
enough to get up before thousands of people to speak, she said she never 
even saw them; she just spoke from the heart and was unafraid. While lec- 
turing in California, she was given a sapphire ring and a long necklace of 
pearls by an admiring audience that took up a collection to get her this 
gift. From then on she always wore them whenever she gave a speech. She 
is wearing the pearls in the photograph reproduced in this book. 

Marguerite was nicknamed Maggie, but she always called herself 
Marguerite (pronounced Mar-gur-reet). She was a radio broadcaster over 
a Florida station in 1927. 

Marguerite Miller was the author of several books, according to her 
obituary, but the titles are unknown except for the two volumes of Home 
Folks, an historic account of the lives of prominent and pioneer Fulton 
County citizens. She also wrote poetry. She was a student of religious 
philosophy and had an extensive library on the subject, including such 
titles as The Encyclopaedia of Death and War Letters from a Living Dead 
Man, which are now in the possession of Ann Kindig Sheets, editor of 
Akron-Mentone News. Ann purchased them at the sale following Mrs. 
Miller's death. 

Earle Miller left Rochester to pursue a newspaper career, having 
begun in the Rochester Republican, and served as reporter and copy 
editor in Louisville, New Orleans, and San Francisco. He became 
associated with Blue Products Company, which manufactured special 
cleaning powders, in 1931 at Cleveland. Taking over ownership in 1940, he 


moved the business to Rochester, 130 East 8th Street. Miller sold his in- 
terest in the firm to Dee Fultz in 1954. 

At the age of 67 in 1952 Earle Miller became director of Fulton Coun- 
ty Welfare. For 14 years he put more energy into this job than most 
younger men are capable of mustering. He wrote a weekly column, 
"Thoughts at Random," (sometimes called "It's Your Welfare" but the 
other title proved more popular) for the Rochester Sentinel, in which he 
discussed welfare programs, philosophy of life, and early local history. 
Scrapbooks of his articles are now in the Fulton County Library and the 
Fulton County Historical Society museum. 

In her later years Marguerite lived with her son Earle and his wife 
Cecyle (Brady) in the big Bitters house that had belonged to her father 
and used to stand on the corner of East 9th and Monroe streets, where the 
Biggs building is now. Her quarters faced Monroe Street and Earle had 
the rest of the house and upstairs. 

Well-known speakers and authors of books on new thought visited 
Marguerite Miller. One book which we believe was given to Mrs. Miller by 
the author is now in the FCHS museum: Friendship by Hugo Black, 1898. 
Mrs. Miller had given this book, along with the prized pearl 
her dear friend, Gladys Kindig Hall. Mrs. Hall gave the book and 
photograph of Marguerite Miller to the museum. She gave the pearls to 
her niece, Marie Wideman. 

Mrs. Miller visited many sick people and prayed for them. That is 
how she met Galdys Hall in 1937. Gladys had tuberculosis and lived a 
block east of Marguerite, at 916 Franklin Street. Mrs. Hall said, "Because 
the house had a large windowed porch, I was allowed to stay there to 
recuperate instead of going to a sanitarium. My hospital bed was on that 
porch and the windows were kept open so in the winter snow covered my 
bed and when I got out of bed, I stepped in snow. I was allowed to go in the 
house for only one hour a day. 

"Mrs. Miller came down the alley to visit me and help me get well. 
We sat facing each other with hands extended palm upward 'to receive 
from God' and Mrs. Miller spoke the prayer. She was so sincere and 
prayed so intently that it really helped. It lifted my spirit and made me 
feel confident that I would get well. It took two years but I was finally 

"When Mrs. Miller prayed, in her intensity of love she tried to con- 
tact a higher Spirit to bring healing and answer her prayer. Of course, she 
was misunderstood and called a 'spooky kook' by some. When people 
criticized her, my husband would say, 'Mrs. Miller forgot more than he 
(the critic) ever knew.' We both loved her dearly. 

"Her father, Thomas Major Bitters, had been the leader of a National 
Spiritualist group in Rochester, and Marguerite probably was a member 
of that group too when she was young. But the group died out after his 
death in 1902, and Marguerite was not connected with a Spiritualist group 
during the 20 years that I knew her. She was a Christian and taught my 
Sunday School class in the First Christian Church for several years, 
though she was not a member of the church. Her philosophy did not con- 
flict with ours, and we greatly enjoyed her class. 

"In the 1940's and 1950's Mrs. Miller taught a class of metaphysics in 


her home. I attended and learned much about life and reality and how to 
live, which is what metaphysics means. 

"Even in her 80's and 90's she was spry and active and enjoyed good 
health. She had a young mind and her eyes glowed with a lively spirit. We 
were very close, and she used to say to me, 'Gladys, if I had a dozen 
daughters, I would want every one of them to be like you.' During my bout 
with TB we became very close and continued until her death at the age of 
97. She was sick toward the end and had to be taken to Miller's Nursing 
Home (by the post office on Madison Street) to be cared for. I went to visit 
her every day and so did her son. She cried to come home and I wished I 
were able to care for her in my home but couldn't. 

"Marguerite Miller believed in being kind to everyone and trying to 
understand why they believe the way they do. She believed the best in 
everyone and questioned criticisms, urging the critic to investigate further 
and find out both sides before passing judgement. She loved people and 
her God and her son. It was an honor to know her and to hear her talk. I 
shall never forget her. She was the most wonderful person, the most 
spiritual person I ever met." 

Marguerite Miller died November 14, 1960, at the age of 97 and was 
buried beside her husband in the I.O.O.F. cemetery. Her son Earle died 
January 19, 1966, at the age of 80, and was buried beside her. 

As Earle had no children, and Albert Bitters' son Harry had no 
children and his daughter Margaret Rose Dillon lives in North Carolina, 
the Bitters family is gone from Rochester. But the contributions of this 
great publishing family of talented writers will never be forgotten in 
Fulton County. 

(See Fulton County Folks vol. 1 for Albert Bitters Family, Marguerite 
Miller and Earle Miller stories. Details are also included in Early Akron, 
Gast Family, and Hugh A. Barnhart stories.) Other references: Historical 
Atlas of Fulton County, 1883, A. L. Kingman; History of Indiana and 
Fulton County, 1896, Elia Peattie; Account of Fulton County From Its 
Organization, 1923, Logan Esarey and Henry A. Barnhart.) 


Making Your Dreams Come True 



The Kingdom Within. Love — The Emancipator. 

Personal Atmosphere. The Open Road. 

Tithing — Key to Success. Keeping Young. 

The Power of Affirmation Enlarging Our Vision. 

Renounciation. The Golden Rule. 


What The Papers Say 

"Mrs. Marguerite Miller, of Rochester (Ind.) Daily Republican, talked to a capa- 
city house at Woodmen's Hciil, Sunday evening-. IIc^ address was a running fire of 
wit and wisdow, done in de luxe binding. Mrs. Miller has a charming manner, and 
to this added the art of telling a story in an entertaining way. The subject, "Making 
Your Dreams Come True," was really a talk on opportunity; optimistic, but seasoned 
with hard practical facts. "Class Talks," will follow the lecture this week.- Kokcmo 

"Marguerite Miller, a newspaper writer from Indiana, occupied the rostrum at 
Mt. Pleasant Park, this afternoon. Her subject, "Making Your Dreams Come True," was 
filled with timely advice, witty stories and deep religious philosophy, which was de- 
livered in a quaint, yet interesting style particularly pleasing. Mrs. Miller will re- 
turn to Mt. Pleasant for the program next season. — Clinton (Iowa) Advertiser. 

"One of the most entertaining and helpful lectures given in Peru this winter, was 
by Marguerite Miller. Mrs. Miller handled her subject, "Making Your Dreams Come 
True," in a graceful, easy* way, and held the interest of the audience from first to 
last." — Peru Evening Chronicle. 

"Those hearing Marguerite Miller, an Indiana newspaper writer, lecture at Knights 
of Pythias Hall, Thursday afternoon, will not regret thay were given the opportunity 
to listen to this gifted speaker. Her theme. "Making Your Dreams Pomp Tnie." con- 
tained many valuable suggestions which, if followed, would make life happier and 
better. "Class Talks," follow, this week at the homes of the members of the "Sun 
Flower club." — Fort Wayne Gatette. 

"Marguerite Miller, a well known newspaper writer, found a receptive audience 
at Winter's Hall, when she gave her lecture, "Making Your Dreams Come True." 
There was no lack of interest from the beginning to the end of the talk, for it was 
presented in a new way, that instructed while entertaining. She will be welcomed to 
Dayton in future engagements." — Dayton (Ohio) Evening Herald. 


v * ** 4 44444444 444 + 9 + 4* 

* * 


* 4 

* Marguerite Miller. 4 
4 4 

* There is somethin' sad an' somethin' glad 4 

* 'Bout ol' October. 4 
4 When yaller leaves come tumblin' down 4 
4 Coverin' earth with gol' an' brown, 4 

* With here an' there a touch o' green. 4 
4 Purty ad a carpet from ol' Bagdad, 4 
4 Yet it makes me sorry an' it makes me glad. 4 
4 4 
4 There is somethin' sad an' somethin' glad 4 
+ 'Bout ol' October. 4 
4 Did you ever take an ol' friend's ban' 4 

* When he was leavin' fer another Ian' ? 4 
4 Your heart felt heavy as a lump of lead 4 
4 Thoughts of grief went through your head, 4 
4 An' you knew he'd go, yet wish'd he'd stay, 4 
v That's how I feel this fcutumn day. 4 
4 4, 

* There is somethin' sad an' somethin' glad 4 
4 Bout ol' October. 4 

* It's a pinch 6' summer an' a pinch o' spring 4 
4 An' a hint o' what the frost will bring. 4 
4 Jest rjay goodbye to birds an' flowers 4 
4 Then its how d' do winter hours, 4 
4 Fcr snow will fall on earth an' bough 4 
4 An' cover the ground where leaves are now 4 


v Tiitre is somethin' sad an' somethin* glad 4 

* 'Bout ol' October. 4 
4 It's just like life fer you an' me, 4 
4 Rich ess gol' er poor we be. 4 
4 Sometimes we laff. an' oftimes we cry — 4 

* An' keep on askin' the good Lord why? 4 
4 Young an' happy the world's aglee, 4 
4 Then October days for you an' me. 4 








This poem about the stores and businesses around the courthouse 
square in Rochester, Indiana, was written between 1910 and 1914. 

Beginning with Dawson 
The "soda fiz" man, 

The only drug store run 
On the "Rexal" plan. 

And Omar, the Mayor, 
First National Bank 

With Arthur and Michael 
All men of first rank. 

And next we have "Nobby," 
The pie mon-te-bank, 

The only original 

Real doughnut crank. 

And Ditmire sells paper 
With such a sweet grin; 

The ladies are crazy 
To go there agin. 

And next cometh Charley, 
The Hoosier store man, 

He'll fit your "toot-wootsies' 
With shoes black or tan. 

Southwest corner of Main and 

West 8th streets, 800 Main, 
now Lord's. Jonathan Dawson 

Bought this drugstore in 1867. 

802 Main, now AVCO Finance. 
Omar Smith was mayor 1910-12, 
later became president of the bank. 
Arthur Copeland founded the bank 
in 1866. Michael Sheridan was cashier 

804 Main, now Doering TV. Reynaldo 
P. True, nicknamed Nobby, had 
a restaurant and Eagle Bakery. 

806 Main, now Wards store. Henry 
Ditmire had a book store. 

808 Main, now north side of 
Hirsh store. Charley Plank's 
Hoosier shoe store. 

There's always big doin's 
At Wile's clothing store. 

There's bargains a plenty 
For rich and for poor. 

810 Main, now south half of 
Hirsh store. Lee Wile and 
Joe Levi were partners. 



But if you want something 

Delicious to eat, 
Dave Shaw is the gentleman 

You want to meet. 

Mier Levi will greet you 
At his great big store 

Of dry goods and notions 
And carpets galore. 

Cy Davis, the tall one, 
And his better half 

Have sundries to sell you; 
The price cut in half. 

Ike Wile looks so handsome 
With his bunch of girls; 

His store is a garden 
Of roses and curls. 

Frank Marsh, the fat grocer, 

On him we rely 
To furnish us butter 

And bacon to fry. 

Holman and Onstott 

Are cutting a dash; 
They've got the bargains 

If you've got the cash. 

George Ross has the mug 

That women adore. 
When looking for sunshine, 

They flock to his store. 

The fair lady Maxwell, 
The star of South Main, 

Will treat you so nicely 
You'll come back again. 

Stockberger and Hisey, 
The corner hardware, 

If you want a square deal 
Don't fail to go there. 

You can tell that George Keith 
Sells drugs by the smell; 

Buy your physic of him 
And always be well. 

812 Main, now Adler's dress 
shop, Shaw's Cigar Store had 
a lunch counter in front, pool 
tables in back. 

814 Main, now B & B clothing 
store, on north side of the 

816 Main, now the doctors' clinic 
(formerly Dr. Dean Stinson, now 
Dr. Kenneth Hoff and Dr. Paul Hess) 
on south side of alley. Davis had 
a variety store. 

818-820 Main, now Dr. Carson McGuire's 
office and Clay Floor Covering. 
Wile sold cloth, household goods. 

822 Main, now Rochester Auto 

824 Main, formerly Walle's 

jewelry, now Hardesty's 
Printing, John Holman and Isaac 

Onstott had a dry goods store. 

826 Main, now The Book Store 
operated by Lichtenwalters. 
George Ross founded the 
book store. 

828 Main, northwest corner of 
Main and 9th, now American 
States Insurance. Fred 
Maxwell ran a variety store 
called the Bazaar. 

105 East 9th, southeast corner 
Main and 9th. Now the parking 
lot for Kentucky Fried Chicken 
restaurant. Joel Stockberger 
and Lee Hisey had a hardware. 

107 East 9th, now Kentucky 
Fried Chicken. Formerly the 
New York Candy Kitchen before 
the fire in 1949. 



Chamberlain sells sugar 
At five cents a pound; 

He's the jolly, joking 
Harry of the town. 

If it's shoes that you need, 
The kind that will fit, 

The place is at Hedge's, 
And Oscar is it. 

109 East 9th, now Deamer & 
Deamer Realty and Lancaster 
Insurance. Harry Chamberlain 
had a grocery store. 

Ill East 9th, now Manitou TV 
& Stero. 

I passed "King David's" place. 

Nothin' doin' there. 
I said "where's David gone?" 

Echo answered where? 

Right then I smelt a smell 
Like roasted chicken meat, 

And Shanks' South Side Hotel 
Is just the place to eat. 

And next I found a place, 
Just south the public square 

Where Jesse shaves 'em slick 
And cuts and combs their hair. 

Ben Noftsger sells you seeds 

By the pound or can, 
While Jesse C. sells parrots 

On the installment plan. 

If you want the white light 
And the griddle red hot, 

Just ask for the gas-sy-est 
Joker John Ott. 

Such a busy hum 

Of solid industry 
And scores of sweet girls 

At the glove factory. 

In Babcock's great big store 
Were bargains everywhere. 

If I had plenty "dough," 
Sure I'd spend it there. 

The faithful G.O.P. 

With Albert at the wheel 
Was grindin' out the news, 

More than I can spiel. 

113 East 9th, now Horn Cycle 
Center. Evidently a vacant 
store formerly occupied by 
David King? 

115 East 9th, now Moore Shoes. 
Roy Shanks was proprietor 
of hotel. 

117 East 9th, now Kroger parking 
lot on east side of alley. 
Jesse Shelton ran a barber 

130 East 8th, now Blue Products. 

128 East 8th, still Chamberlain's 
tavern, the only business in the 
poem that is still operating. 
Jesse Chamberlain had a pet parrot. 

126 East 8th, now H & D Creamer 
& Co. Then Rochester Gas 
& Fuel Co., John Ott-manager. 

120-22 East 8th, now Credit 
Bureau and Gottchalk Realty. 
Then Waring Glove Company both 
upstairs and downstairs. 

116-118 East 8th, now The Sentinel. 
Clark Babcock had a grocery store 
downstairs; the Red Man Lodge 
was upstairs. 

114 East 8th, west of the alley, 
now Gemini variety store. Albert 
Bitters was editor of the Daily 
Republican newspaper. 



I passed the stairway down 
To basement barber shop, 

A lovely place to shave, 
But no time to stop. 

At Byer's place I saw 
With anxious longing eyes, 

The sweetest bunch of girls 
This side of paradise. 

Have you seen Dysert's store 
Of clothing and shoes? 

The bargains he turns out 
Fairly beats the Jews. 

At Frank Bryant's office 
I found just only two 

Of the sweetest peaches 
This side of Kalmazoo. 

At Indiana's bank 

Was money plentier'n hay. 
I feasted me my eyes 

A while and walked away. 

I crossed the street to see 
My dear old Hebrew chum; 

Sol Allman always leads 
And bids the others come. 

Now to conclude my rhyme 
I'll say this at the end: 

No public square can boast 
Of cleaner business men. 

112 East 8th, now Westwood's 
barber shop. Then operated 
by Alfred Tipton. 

110 East 8th, now Lloyd Rouch 
Insurance. Beyer Brothers had 
the Rochester Electric Light & 
Power Co. office here. 

Back door 8th street entrance to 
J. F. Dysert's Racket, whose 
main door was at 929 Main. 

Back door of Indiana Bank, now 
Farmers & Merchants Bank. Frank 
Bryant was examiner of bank, 
had office by back door. 

731 Main, northeast corner of 
Main and 8th, now the new 
Farmers & Merchants Bank. 

730 Main, northwest corner of 
Main and West 8th, now Olympic 
Sports Center. Almann sold 
clothes, advertised "Cy, I and 




g Grand Artificer of the deep, the land and sky, 

8 Turn Thqu Thine ear to humble mortal such as I; 
With contrite thought, in fervent supplication, 

8 Do seek Thy guidance with my full appreciation. 8 

jjj Teach me, first, to weed my heart of guile, Q 

ft And I do beseech Thee, all the while, Jjj 

A To plant therein the roses of pure white ft 

8 And nurture them with dew of Eivine right. a 
Give me light to better understand myself — 

8 That all of life is not of worldly pelf, 

For all the wealth of precious stones combined Q 

Q Is dross beside the will of man in being kind. jjj 

X Cleanse my mind of envy, greed and strife — X 

2 Cast these aside for higher precepts rife. * 
Let me but know my neighbor's righteousness, 

8 Nor ask to have him meekly wrongs confess. 

jjj Give courage and reward to brethren of the pen, 8 

jjj The workmen of the craft — beyond their ken — jjj 

X And banish every doubt, dread care and sorrow, X 

a That they may always see a bright tomorrow. x 

5 Oh, let me voice my thanks profound 

8 For all blessings which on earth abound — 

3 The sunshine and the rain, the heat and cold, 
8 And all the works of nature we behold. 
X Bless dear wife, who toils from morn to night jjj 
* That we have comfort, ease and pleasures light; X 
J And Mother, who entered the Garden of Gethsemane 2 
8 To give me birth, and life and win my good name. 

jjj Show me the course to earn my way as I deserve — 8 

jjj From honesty and frugality never swerve, jjj 

X And, if it by Thy law that I should lose, jjj 

jk Good Lord, just grant me strength to choose X 

s The better way, at setting of the sun, 

8 To say "Thy Will, oh God, not mine be done." 

jrf Finally, when all my labors here are o'er 8 

jjj And faintly I hear the Boatman's oar, jjj 

X Let me lie down in peace to sleep jjj 

jk Where dearest friends sweet vigils keep, X 

« Then give me grace to look to Thee * 

8 And say that "All is well." So mote it be. * 

jjj s 

jjj Rochester, lmii: n;i. Peceinler 20, lt'20. 8