Being the Personal Recollections of Mr. Stiles Moe Arranged and Written by Stella G. Moe UNION GROVE, WIS. 1921 Foreword It has been a happy experience, this writing my father' s story. It has always been of great interest to me, and I am glad to pass it along to the rest of the family, just as he has told it to me. Irving Bacheller rightly says, "America has undervalued the brave souls who went west in wagons, without whose sublime courage and endurance the plains would still be an unplowed wilderness." And I think it was just that which induced me to write down the ensuing facts, hoping that our family, at least, will remember and appreciate our own pioneers who blazed the trail for us. A Family Story CHAPTER I The Moe family is of French descent, but the name is of Scandinavian origin. In the middle of the ninth century sea-roving bands of Norsmen made invasion upon France, planted colonies on the north coast, and became so formidable that they were granted the territory they occupied. The "Norman' s" tilled the fertile fields of Normandy, made it a garden, and became an integral part of France. Along in seventeen hundred and something, when the country was in the state of despotic oppression preceding the awful French Revolution, two brothers, Jacob and Isaac De Moe, (the Scandinavian name, through centuries of French adjustment had partaken of the prefix) resolved to seek a home in another land where their democratic principles would not be offended. They escaped secretly, leaving vast landed estates, which were confiscated by the Crown and came to America, whose Colonies were at that time under British subjection. The French prefix was then dropped and the name reverted to its original Scandinavian form. We have no other record of them, except from the tales handed down from generation to generation, which bear witness of the aid they or their sons rendered, and their participation in the American Revolution, and, unfortunately, we can not give the full family line. They settled in western Vermont, along the shore of Lake Champlain. After Jacob and Isaac, the first ancestor of whom I have personal knowledge, is my great-grandfather, another Jacob. (At least I think it was Jacob.) He was either a son or a grandson of one of those first settlers, probably a grandson, as he was born about 1749 or 1750. I remember him well, as he visited us in Ohio. Of his large family, my grandfather, Isaac Moe, and the youngest son, Charles, are all I recollect. After he grew to manhood, Grandfather Isaac moved across the Lake and settled at Plattsburg, N. Y., and some time later his brother Charles emigrated to Michigan, which was then a veritable wilderness. Grandfather had eight children, the oldest being John, and next came my father, Edwin, born October 20, 1804. The others, as I remember them, were; Isaac, Hannah, Betsey, another girl, then Jane and Charles. John died when about five years old. Plattsburg, on the northwest shore of Lake Champlain, being near the Canadian border, was in the direct line of activities during the War of 1812. Military training was compulsory, and all "free and able-bodied white male citizens between the ages of 18 and 45 years" served in the militia. There was quite a land force at Plattsburg in 1814 - some 6,000 or 7,000 - of militia and volunteers, besides the fleet. Ship-building was quite an industry then in New England, and all summer work had been rushed on this line, until there was a fleet of fourteen vessels just off the town, guarding the head of the Lake. The British army and fleet came down the St. Lawrence River in August, 1814, preparing to make a double attack on Plattsburg, by moving on the town from the rear, while the fleet engaged our ships in the Bay. The Saranac River lies almost parallel to the shore there, and turning abruptly, flows into the Lake. On the north bank of the river, on this peninsula, they erected redoubts and block houses, and tried to force a crossing to the town, on the opposite side. Grandfather was in the militia, so Grandmother and her little family were alone. Father was the oldest, and he was only ten. On September 11, when the enemy tried to attack the town, orders came for all the women and children to be taken to a big hill behind the city, for protection. The land engagement lasted some hours, and at the same time the fleets fought desperately in the Bay, ending in a victory for the American side. Many times I have heard father tell how he watched the fleet maneuvers and the movements of the land troops from that hill, and how he saw trees a foot in diameter mown down by the cannon balls. Grandfather escaped injury, and the family was soon re-united. They lived in Plattsburg until 1816, when they moved to Genesee County, New York. The same instinct which caused our sea-faring Norwegian ancestors to rove the seas has come down the Moe line all through the ages. It has skipped a few generations, but not many. Grandfather Isaac ran true to type and was a real pioneer, and we find that after nearly three years' residence in Genesee County, New York, he made a third move - this time to Lorain County, Ohio. They came by boat from Buffalo to Cleveland, and, leaving the family there, Grandfather took father, who was just coming fifteen, and they walked the twenty miles from Cleveland to Elyria, their objective point being French Creek. Elyria was then just a settlement around a mill with a natural fall of water on Rocky River. There was a blacksmith shop, a store, and a few log houses here and there in the woods. French Creek was a small tributary of Rocky River, and received its name from the settlement (French Creek) of French speaking people, built on this stream. Our family all spoke French as commonly as English, and it was natural for them to wish to settle among those of the same speech. I am not certain, but I think it was 'Uncle' Nun Lent, son of Grandfather' s sister, who had previously come on from New York and settled here, who drove into Cleveland and brought out grandmother and the children. Northern Ohio then lay largely in ridges with timbered swale between. Some ridges ran east and west and others north and south, and were quite high, but not steep. All the main roads lay on top and from ridge to ridge connecting corduroy roads were laid through the swamps. These ridges were sometimes a mile wide where cultivated. Grandfather located on Stony Ridge, heavily timbered with butter-nut trees. Others had chestnut groves. Others maple, iron-wood, and in fact, all northern Ohio was a dense wood. Shortly after this, the Case family moved in and settled at Case' s Corners, between us and Elyria. They came from Barkhamsted, Litchfield Co., Conn., and the family consisted of Hezekiah and Huldah Case and their twelve children: Orin, Carlos, King, Jerome, Laura, Orrie, Philinda, Huldah, Esther, Mehitable, Eunice, and one who died in infancy. Mehitable, born October 20, 1806, was third from the youngest. The Case children had all received excellent schooling in Connecticut, and " Hitty" taught several terms in the school-house where I afterward got my first instruction. Of all the young fellows who looked her way, Edwin Moe was the favored one, but something or another occurred to break up their courtship, and Mehitable married a man by the name of Alcott, living on Butternut Ridge. He lived but a few months after their marriage, and their baby daughter was born shortly after the father' s death. Now, Edwin didn' t lose any time after this, and when Baby Premila was about a year old, in 1827, Mehitable and Edwin were married and went to live on her little farm on Butternut Ridge. Here six children were born: Miles, on January 19, 1828; Clarissa, January 8, 1830; Stiles, January 29, 1834; Giles, June 2, 1836; Zelia Marion, January 11, 1841, and Orin, March 16, 1843. Premila was as dear to father as his own, and we children knew no difference. I was quite a youth before I found out that she was a half-sister. About the first thing of which I have any recollection is my first day at school. I was three years old, and Giles just a baby. I suppose mother was busy and let me go with ' Clat,' (our nickname for Clara). Cousin Emily Barber, Aunt Eunice' s daughter, was the teacher. I remember a broad shelf, set high against the wall, where wraps and dinner pails were placed. I presume I was restless and noisy, for the teacher picked me up and set me on this shelf. I didn' t like it, but didn' t cry, and after a while Cousin lifted me down, kissed me, and said I must be a good boy. That ended my schooling for a while. The next year I started in and was a regular attendant. Another thing I remember very clearly was Great-grandfather Jacob' s visit with us. He came down from Vermont and stayed a year with grandfather. He must have traveled by stage, as the Erie Canal was not then built. It was considerable of a trip for an old man to take, but his vigorous activity was remarkable. For some reason, which I do not remember, father had left the farm on Butternut Ridge, and during that year we lived across from grandfather, going back home at the end of the year. Great-grandfather and I were good chums and spent much time together, as we were both at those ages when leisure time is abundant, he being ninety-two and I about six years old. He talked French as fluently as English, and taught me to speak quite a bit in that tongue. All I can remember now is: "Messieurs bo' jour," as he said it in a short, clipped speech. He used to run races with me. I could run pretty good, always could, but great-grandfather could always beat me. He would take sticks and draw lines across the road for goals, and give me a good " start," but he always came out ahead. That winter father made a trip to Cleveland, There came a big snow and piled up high. We knew father could not possibly get home that night, so great-grandfather came and stayed at our house. How it did snow and blow! In the morning the snow was so deep we couldn' t open the door, so Miles and great-grandfather got shovels and went to work. I had to have a shovel, too. Miles was only twelve, and I don' t suppose I helped much, but us two youngsters and that old man shoveled the place out all right. Great-grandfather went back to Vermont in the spring and lived to be ninety-six years old. All our furniture in those days was hand made. Cabinet makers would go from house to house, staying long enough to make what was required. I remember one of them, Lester Saxton by name, spent some three weeks with us and one of the things he made was a bureau, or big chest of drawers, for mother. Father felled the tree, a fine bird' s eye maple, on our farm, and took the logs to the mill to be sawed up; when made up, the bureau was a fine piece of furniture. It was one of the few pieces we brought to Wisconsin later, and is still in the family in fine condition. Saxton made us some fine chairs, and father was quite adept at making splint bottoms. He would get swamp elm, boil it, hammer it, and then split it into long strips. He was quite a mechanic and good at most anything; got the blacksmith to make an apple-parer at his direction. I can see the picture now - father paring the apples, great pans of them, while mother and Premila would core and quarter them, and us youngsters with needles and long strings, would string them for drying. When there was a good apple year we sometimes had eight or ten grain sacks full of dried apples, and they brought a good price. There were few conveniences, and customs and methods were largely primitive. We had no matches, of course, so we made fire either with a flint or by a sun glass, a little lens through which the concentrated rays of the sun will ignite any inflammable substance. " Borrowing fire" was a common phrase, and I have gone when just a bit of a boy, through dark woods at night to the neighbors to bring home live coals in a long handled, covered iron pan kept for that purpose, for it sometimes happened that there was no dry kindling to make a fire with. There was iron just east of us, a big furnace and smelter. Father often drew ore and took his pay in household utensils, kettles of all sizes, skillets, etc. We had a big round kettle with feet, which we used for baking bread. When the loaf was ready for baking it was put in the round greased kettle, with the lid covering it tightly, and the kettle was buried in the coals of the fireplace next to the back-log; coals were placed on the top of the cover, and ashes banked over all. We also had a big tin for baking. It was about four feet long and one and a half feet high, with two or three shelves. On the open side there was a big tin hood, and when the oven was placed on the hearth near the fire, the heat was drawn in and baked things nicely. CHAPTER II In the fall of 1844, when I was ten years old, the greatest event of my childhood took place. Fourteen or fifteen families from Lorain County, some of them from our own neighborhood, made up a company which decided to emigrate to Des Moines, Iowa. Uncle Carlos Case and two of Uncle Orin' s boys and their families were among this company, and father and mother decided to join the expedition. I recall none of the incidents of preparation, but the trip itself, what a joy it was! and every occurrence is as clear in my mind as if it were yesterday. It was adventure, the mystery of places and things unknown, with something new every day, and it thrilled my heart. Early in September we set out, twenty-eight covered wagons in the caravan. Uncle Carlos had two wagons, Alanson and Seymour Case and their wives each had one; then the Barber family had two wagons, and another carried Emily Barber and her husband, James Bunce, a carpenter and preacher. There was the Beebe family, and the Terrills, two or three families, with a whole lot of children - ten or twelve wagons of them. The others I do not remember. We had two wagons. Father, mother, and the children rode in one, and Miles and I drove a big team of grays on the other. Premila had recently been married to Charles B. Brush, and they remained in Ohio. We took with us great quantities of clothing and bedding, food, lots of dried peaches and apples, all our tools, candles, dishes, and some furniture, mostly the bureau and chairs Saxton had made. All the things not needed on the trip were packed in the wagon boxes, then the box was floored over, extensions built out on each side for about two and a half feet, making a floor of fully ten feet wide and sixteen feet long. Hickory arches were built up and formed the frame for the canvas covering. At the rear of every wagon hung a feed box from which the horses were fed each night. We started in the morning and drove to Elyria, three or four miles, and stayed there till about two o' clock. A company of scouts was organized and set out ahead to find a stopping place for the night. We drove seven miles the first day and camped. About every family had a dog, and every wagon carried a rifle or two. We had a dog named " Spring," nine months old, who rode with Miles and me, sitting on the seat between us. The first night on the trip " Spring" broke his tie-rope and was missing, Early in the morning before we started on Miles took a horse and rode back to the old home in the town of Ridgeville, a distance of eleven miles, found " Spring" there, and brought him along. Our route lay south of Oberlin, on the Sandusky Road, across the Maumee Swamp and River. The Maumee Swamp was forty miles across, and on the east side of the Maumee River. It lay directly across the main highway, which was sort of a trunk road from Ohio to Iowa, through Indiana and Illinois. Ohio was then a state and had obtained an appropriation from the Federal Government to build a macadam road through the swamp. In this forty miles there was but one building, a hotel. It took us two days and two nights to cross, and being in the fall of the year, the swamp was dry, and we found no trouble in getting camping spots beside the road, which was considerably higher than the swamp. This was the wildest bit of scenery we saw. It was a great dense forest of immense elms with a tangled thicket of underbrush and vines, and great quantities of wild grapes. The scouts used to go ahead each afternoon and hunt for a camping place with timber and water. All the wagons were so heavily loaded we couldn' t go very fast unless it was down hill, and I don' t believe we averaged twenty miles a day. When we camped for the night the wagons formed a big circle, with our fire in the center. Big kettles were hung from iron rods laid on upright crotched sticks, the tin ovens put in commission, and it was then we had our hot meal of the day. Whenever we struck a good level camp ground, we had a dance after supper; had three or four fiddlers in the crowd and a lot of young folks who enjoyed the exercise and fun after riding all day. Sometimes we camped a couple of hours before sundown, then there was a general good time, playing games and pitching horse shoes. If there was a settlement near the older ones generally went over and often the whole settlement would come over to our camp. We usually had to travel some on Sundays, but James Bunce frequently held services some time during the day. Although the weather was fine, we could not know what might be in store for us, and we had a long way to go. As a matter of fact, I do not recall any bad storms during the entire trip, and most of the time it was warm and beautiful. When we reached the Maumee River another experience awaited me. It was at Perrysburg and we crossed on a big ferry. There were great cables stretched overhead, and on shore an immense wheel with a team of horses which wound up the cable and drew the skow across. This was great fun. It took seven trips to get the whole caravan across, and the dog and I rode every time. It was here that I saw my first railroad - scrap iron rails laid on 4x4 scantling. I was disappointed at not seeing a locomotive and cars. From here we journeyed south and then west into Indiana, and then up over the line into Michigan. Father' s uncle, Charles Moe, lived at Sturgis, had been there some time, and owned several thousand acres of land which he had acquired by " squatter' s sovereignty" when Michigan was a part of the northwest territory along with Illinois, Wisconsin, Iowa and Minnesota. We stayed there three days - the whole caravan - resting and visiting. On his land was a lake about half the size of Eagle Lake, with boats which he had made. He raised stock extensively and drove it to Detroit. He had eight sons; the oldest was named Moses, and there was one about my age, named Norman, I think, with whom I spent most of the time there fishing on the lake. Uncle Charles was a carpenter, and he and the boys had built an immense log ranch house by the lake, also a great corrall for the stock. He employed a large force of help, and was pretty well fixed in every way. Starting on again, we got back into northern Indiana. It was a beautiful country as I remember it, peaceful and undulating. Here were the first prairies we had seen, with now and then a woodland. I often used to drive the team alone. Miles was one of the best of the scouts, and I was used to horses, and proud as a peacock to be trusted with those spanking big grays. There were a lot of girls among the Terrill families ahead of us, and Miles liked to sneak off and ride with them occasionally. Uncle Carlos Case had a boy about two years younger than I, and Anson and I were together whenever we could manage it. At every opportunity we would drop out of the line and have a side trip of our own, after wild plums and grapes. One of these trips proved to be quite an adventure. It was in Indiana. The scouts had told around that we would pass through a large hickory grove that day, so Anse and I got ready for it. Took a pillow case, and when we reached the grove we started off by ourselves. We found a lot of fine big nuts, and the pillow case was filling up fast. I was up in a tree with a club, and Anson was picking up the nuts, when four or five boys appeared from somewhere, rushed on Anse and tried to capture the sack, but he held on. I shinned down the tree and started into that bunch with my cudgel, telling Anson to run with the nuts. The boys were all fully as big as I, but I could fight, and had the advantage of a weapon and belabored them well with it, right and left, till I had them all licked, and they ran away. Anson was " legging" it down the slope when I caught up with him. The caravan was out of sight, but that didn' t trouble us as we always overtook it all right. But after going about two miles we came to a fork in the road - and no wagons in sight either way! Anse began to cry. He was sure he would never see his mother again. It was a hot day in late September; we were tired, warm, and hungry and lost, and night was coming on. Anson lay right down in the road and yelled. I was in a stew. I know we had to keep going, so I kicked him. It was pretty tough, but he went. We took the road that seemed to have the most travel, and soon came to a farm house by the road side. A woman was carrying the milk from the barn to the house, and seeing Anson crying asked what was the matter. " We belong to a company of movers and got left behind," I answered, " Did they go past here?" Why, yes they did, about an hour ago; a whole string of them," was the welcome answer. She gave us each some bread and butter and a cup of milk and we felt quite comforted. And after a bit of a rest we started on, quite briskly. I' ll never forget how good that woman looked to me. We soon saw a couple of horsemen way ahead, coming our way. "That' s Miles," I said positively, and of course it was Miles and one of the Case boys, looking us up. We hadn' t been missed till they struck camp. The horses had trotted all the way as it was a gentle slope for six or seven miles. Anson was taken up on one of the horses, but I refused to ride and Miles took the sack of nuts instead. I who had just licked a bunch of boys, wasn' t going to be babied. Consequently I was the last man into camp, and on foot, pretty well tuckered, but quite chesty. I can see mother' s anxious face by the fire side and remember the warm welcome we got. The whole crowd got hold of the story, and made much of me. We brought in the sack, and that is all I cared. It was in Indiana, too, when we came on a wild pigeon roost in the woods. Hundreds of thousands of birds, and we picked off several bushels of squabs from the branches. We had a feast of pigeon pie that day. One day we got seven wild turkeys and stopped half a day to cook them. There was most always plenty of wild game of some kind to be had. There was little danger from wild animals, as we saw none but wolves, and they feared so large a company. We passed through LaPorte, which was then a pretty village of abut 900 inhabitants. Miles bought a big watermelon, which had white seeds. We saved these and planted them next spring. From there we turned to the southwest to avoid the sand plains, then over into Illinois. Clara had been ailing, and by this time was pretty sick with bilious fever, and mother and father feared to go on with her. Uncle King Case had come out to Wisconsin the spring before, so we decided to quit the caravan and go up there till Clara was able to travel. Uncle Carlos, Alanson and Seymour Case, and James Bunce' s folks decided to go with us and visit Uncle King. At Blue Island Illinois, we parted with the rest of the crowd, and there was much hand shaking and good wishes exchanged. They expected to cross the Mississippi somewhere near Dubuque on a ferry. CHAPTER III After leaving the caravan we started north toward Chicago, entering from the west over a huge, low flat. It was a turn-pike road with a ditch on each side and was the only way into town, crossing the Chicago river over a pontoon bridge. The place was a fur-trading station of about 4,500 people at that time. On the way into town, one of uncle' s wagons got stuck in the mud across the turnpike. He unhitched his other team and put them on, but they couldn' t pull it out from the ditch. We had stopped directly in front of a cabin. The man came out and offered help, but Uncle asked father to hitch on his big greys. Father stepped down and surveyed the situation carefully. "All right," he said, "but take off your teams, I' ll pull it out alone." There was a pile of cedar fence posts nearby and the owner gave his permission to use them, so they put several posts across and in front of the hind wheels, which were down in the ditch, so there would be something solid to hold them when they were pulled over. The stranger suggested putting smaller posts through the spokes and lift up on them, so when the horses pulled, the men lifted, and the wagon was soon upon the road again. The man was much taken with our gray horses, talked of them a lot, and finally said to father, "Stranger, I own this house and forty acres of land here, bounded on the south by this turnpike and on the east by the river. I' ll give you the house and land for your gray team, the wagon and harness." It was a miserable day, a drizzling rain was falling, the first we had encountered; the children were all crying and the mothers scolding. Father stood up in the wagon and looked north. Not a tree nor house to be seen, just flat, low land, and at that time all mud. He wasn' t given to profanity, but the prospect was too much for him. "Stranger, I wouldn' t take all you blank land as far as I can see, as a gift if I had to live on it." It certainly didn' t look like a fair bargain to us. Today, Milwaukee avenue is laid straight through that forty acres. Truly, the scale of values is a sliding one. We camped that night just south of the present union depot. I remember going with father to buy a ham. I was at that age when nothing short of a tie-rope would keep me from seeing all there was. Seemed as if everybody in Chicago kept geese, there were so many squawking around the street. One old gander nipped me by the trousers, and I grabbed him by the neck, and we fought. I squeezed his neck till he couldn' t squawk any more. I expect I had been tormenting the geese, don' t remember though. In the morning we started for the Wisconsin line, going out by the Lincoln park road. We passed old Fort Dearborn, and camped once between Chicago and Southport (Kenosha.) These were the heaviest rides of the trip. Clara was so ill we were in a big hurry to get to Uncle King' s place. We reached Southport, October 16, 1844. It was just a little place, about as large as Kansasville is today. We found there the Graves family, parents of Uncle King's second wife. They had come out the year before with Uncle King and Mr. Graves had a cooper shop in Southport. His son Frank consented to guide us out to uncle' s farm. When we got as far as Tar (Paris) Corners it was dark and we dared not go further that night, as it was very easy to get lost on the prairies. There was but one house there, occupied by an old bachelor, named Stevens. I was so tired I went to sleep in the wagon without my supper. In the morning I was all bewildered and completely turned around, and I have never been right with the compass since. We were up before dawn, and as soon as the sun began to come up we started for Uncle King' s in order to get there before breakfast. Our great anxiety was to get help for Clara, so as soon as we reached Uncle' s place, (Which was the old D. M. Jones farm) Miles took a horse and getting the necessary instructions started for Dr. Munson Paddock, some distance south, who came at once. Uncle had four children by his first wife, Belinda, Melinda, Carlos and Jerome. The two boys were sent with Anson and me to get milk for our breakfast. The nearest place was Stephen Goldsworthy' s, where Herbert Gunter now lives, and we went across the prairies. We Knocked at the door and Mrs. Goldsworthy answered. That was our friend Gilbert' s grandmother, and all my life I have had a warm spot in my heart and memory for her. We asked to buy some milk, and she inquired if we belonged to the company of movers who had just arrived. There was a big round loaf of bread on the kitchen table and I must have been eyeing it hungrily, for she said to me, "Are you hungry? Haven' t you had breakfast yet?" Well, I never was backward, and I tell you I spoke right up then, "Yes, ma' am I am hungry. I haven' t had any breakfast nor any supper either. Nothing to eat since yesterday noon," and I told her about going to sleep before supper. The good soul was much distressed, and immediately cut a great thick slice from that big loaf, put lots of freshly churned butter on and gave it to me with a cup of milk. Then she filled our pail and we started back. That was my first meal in Wisconsin, and nothing has ever tasted better since. We stayed at Uncle King' s two weeks while Clara was so bad. The doctor came often, and in two week' s time the fever had broken up. We lived in our wagons, and uncle' s yard looked like a gypsy camp. In the meantime everyone of us was so delighted with Wisconsin that all plans for going to Iowa were abandoned and preparations were make for settling here. Uncle Carlos and Cousin Alanson took up land adjoining Uncle King on the east. It had a log house in which the two families lived. You see, Alanson' s wife, Eunice was the youngest sister of Aunt Melissa, Uncle Carlos' wife. Seymour had taken up land nearby and father had bought of John Goldsworthy eighty acres of land at five dollars an acre, with a log house only partially built. The property is now owned by John Lamping and is two miles south and west of here. He also bought 20 acres of timber land, and turned in one team of horses, a wagon and harness, all worth two hundred dollars, on the land; kept one wagon, and exchanged the grays for a cow and yoke of oxen. We dug turnips on shares for a neighbor, great big rutabagas, and fed them to the stock. One of the oxen choked on a big turnip and died before we could get to it. It was a serious loss in those days, but neighbors were kind in those days too. John Esmond started out on horse back, rode for miles around and collected money to buy another ox for us. Everyone had plenty to eat and burn, but very little money, and the lump some represented considerable sacrifice on the part of neighbors who had sympathy for the new comers in their loss. The log house had no roof, floors, doors, or windows, so we commenced work on it at once. James Bunce was a good carpenter and the work went on so well that in two weeks we were able to move in. The weather was wonderful, and continued warm and mild all winter. For ten days after our arrival we fed the oxen hay from the fields. Uncle King had planted sweet corn late in the season and it was just right for roasting and we enjoyed that, roasting it in coals of a big bon fire. We could eat anything, and plenty of it, after our out door life. About October 26 we had the first frost and quite a snow fell to the depth of two inches. It melted as soon as it fell, and was the only snow we had all winter. November was warm and delightful and we thought we had surely reached God' s country. That fall we broke the sod on a patch of ground about sixteen feet square, shook the dirt off, and carried away the sods, spaded up the ground and planted our seeds there, peaches, plums and apples. All grew well and later the trees were transplanted to the new orchard. Some of the apple trees are still alive. In the spring we planted our melon seeds from LaPorte, and quantities of other seeds which we brought from Ohio. Miles had wagon loads of melons from his patch. In the third year the peach trees bore well, but in the fourth year there was a wonderful peach crop. We gave them away to the neighbors for miles around, and dried great quantities of them. When we had threshers they filled up on those peaches. No one else grew any, and they were a great treat. The next winter every peach tree died. I saw my first Indians that fall we came. We heard that there was fine fishing at Eagle Lake, so father and Miles thought they would go out and try their luck. Of course, I didn' t want to miss anything like that, but they didn' t want to be bothered with me, so I teased mother, who said, "Better let him go, Edwin," and of course I went. All around the lake was a dense wood - a real wilderness - and only one house, that occupied by Martin Lavin. We got all the fish we wanted - the lake was alive with them - when we saw across the lake the forked tops of Indian tepees. We were all curious to see them, so walked clear around the lake, crossing to the island from the southwest. It really was an island, then. Father and Miles had high boots, I was barefooted, so rolled up my breeches, and we waded across. We found a camp of seventy-five Winnebago Indians there on a winter hunting trip; there was also a camp of about fifty near the Henry Swantz place. Their tepees were a curious sight to me, and so were the Red-skins themselves. There were a number of young lads shooting at a mark with bow and arrow. We watched them, and Miles several times put up a penny on a rock for a mark. The pennies then were big coppers about the size of a fifty cent piece. A squaw came out of a tepee near us and began making up to me, "Nice papoose, pretty papoose," and tried to coax me into the wigwam, but I didn' t like her looks at all and got around behind father. She kept coaxing me, so when father said he would go with me I went into the hut. I was really curious to see it, but a little afraid. She gave me some trinket of bead work. I can' t remember just what it was. The Indians were always friendly to us. There was no permanent camp here, but there were usually more or less of them around the country. The squaws made many baskets for sale, and the men sold furs extensively, trading mostly with Solomon Juneau, of Milwaukee. They often came to our place for flour and potatoes, and in return gave us venison and game, baskets and bead work. Often over night we would find that some one had carried off some of our vegetables or other stuff, but it always came back in the shape of a brace of ducks or partridges, or a string of fish. They mingled with the whites so much they talked some English and all had fine rifles. Kept a lot of dogs and ponies. I have often seen a pony carrying two baskets slung on his back, one on each side, holding a bushel and a half apiece, and two or three youngsters riding on his back. There was no school anywhere around us, the nearest being at Waite' s Corners, several miles north and the Salisbury school, several miles east, so the neighbors got together and built a log school house at White' s Grove, that fall of '44, father and Miles helped and school opened early in December, with Julia Bartholf as teacher. Miles was needed at home and Clara was too weak and ill to go to school, in fact, was not able to go until the next summer. Orin and Zelia were only a year and a half and three years old; Giles was eight, but was not strong enough to walk that far. When a year and a half old he fell down stairs and hurt his spine, then had the rickets which left hem weakly and deformed, although when grown to manhood he became quite rugged. So it happened that Stiles, soon coming eleven years, was the only one to start in at the school. It was about the coldest day we had all that winter, with a mean north wind blowing. Mother gave me my dinner pail, bundled me up good and tied my knitted "comforter" around my ears. I followed the trail across the prairie; knew the way as I was often with my father when they built the school house. School had just commenced when I went in - a cold and bashful stranger. Parley Foster was the only boy I had met so far, and it was hard work to face that strange roomful. A boy of my own age sat by the big castiron box stove. It was George Bartholf, and to my surprise he talked right out and asked me if I was cold. When I said I was, he replied. "Well, come and get warm you little fool." Because his sister was the teacher he thought he could act quite smart. That, of course, was the boy of it, to make friends in just that offhand way. Certainly I have had no better, truer friend all these years than George has been to me. I found I was well up in all my studies, and ahead in some and began to feel more at home. The room was square and pretty good size. Desks were fastened against the wall, on three sides of the room, with benches for seats, thus the pupils sat facing the wall. Other benches were arranged behind these, but no other desks, till the space was filled up to the stove, and leaving room to get to the door. We had a big school and there was not near enough room. Among those who came that first year I recall: John Ramsden, Parley Foster, Jim Harris, Dan, Aurin and Merton Collar, George Bartholf, the Sieverts children, Theodore Weed, Horace Blandin and his brother, the Lincolns, Pat Briody, William Crane, Barney and Bridget Lavin, Jake Brazee, the White heads, Nick, Joe and Henry Dale, Aaron Putnam and several of the Scotts. The second year the Whites and Moreys came. Julia taught a good school, but with so many older-pupils it became a heavy task for so young a girl. Giles and Clara studied at home all that winter with mother - had the same lessons we had at school, and kept up with the classes, too. As I said before, mother had a good education. Her home in Connecticut was in the Beecher community where the best of schools had been well established for some time. The old Beecher homestead was in the adjoining township and they went frequently to hear Dr. Lyman Beecher preach. Mother attended school in some good sized town. It might have been Hartford, but I do not remember. Although she wasn' t more than thirteen when they came to Ohio, she had acquired a good education, and was well able to supervise all our school work, Giles was very studious and made rapid progress. His affliction kept him from much of the more active life the rest of us led, and he spent a great deal of his time at his books. Those early pioneers were nearly all God-fearing, and Christian men and women, and the people of Union Grove and vicinity perhaps do not realize how much they owe to that fact. In September, a month before we arrived, the " Congregational church of Paris" was organized in the Salisbury school house, with fourteen charter members. It was called the Paris church because that was the only post office anywhere around. After the school house at White' s Grove was built the Sunday services were held there for two years, as it was more convenient for the greater number of families. We commenced going to church soon after we were settled - mother saw to that. She was of Pilgrim stock, and the Case family had long been allied with Congregational churches. Mother belonged to the Methodist church in Ohio as it was the only Protestant organization there. We walked across the prairie to the service on the Sabbath; it wasn' t far for us. Whole families came many miles with ox teams. The first preacher was Rev. Carlos C. Cadwell. I can remember those fourteen charter members perfectly. These was Albert Northway and his wife Alzina, George and Eliza Weed, Jeremiah and Ester Hulbert, Leander and Mahala Northway, Jared Collar, wife Rhoda and son Ornan, Mrs. Mary Wheaton, Phineas Cadwell and Ezra Beebe. The Cadwells were all good singers and some of them usually led the music. The Sunday school which had been started six years before was reorganized at this time. We learned from small pocket testaments. My first teacher was Miss Phelinda Cadwell, who afterward became Mrs. Homer Adams. Mother was much interested in the new church, and ours was a Christian home. I don' t know why it was that she didn' t get her letter from Ohio at once, but it stands on the old church record: " Mehitable Moe, by letter, 1852." It was thus we became established in the community of our new home. We were constantly finding something new and splendid in this country. In the spring the prairies were a most beautiful sight to us who were unused to them. Those great level stretches of land were covered with a grand carpet of marvelous bloom. It was one grand flower garden and seemed as if every flower that grew was there, with every color and fragrance. There were wild sunflower, black-eyed susans, great patches of gorgeous spotted tiger lillies, acres of wild sweet peas on the long grass, so fragrant one could detect them a long way off, and so many others of which I have never known the names. All these grew in what we called the "up-lands." Later in the season the "low-lands," which were wet and swampy, would be covered with wild strawberries, so much so that there was more red than green to be seen. Such sweet delicious berries. Father would come in from the fields and say, "I ran across a fine patch of strawberries today," and we children would hurry to get the clothes basket and start for the patch. The fruit grew so abundantly that we cut vines and all, and scarcely ever came home with less than the basket full. They were a great treat to us because we had none in Ohio, and while they lasted, we feasted on them. Then in the fall came the hazel nuts, another thing entirely new to us. I can' t describe that crop. There were acres and acres of hazel brush in every clearing in the woods, and so many nuts we used to put them through the fanning mill to shuck them. But after they ripened better we could brush aside the leaves, and scrape up the shucked nuts from the ground. It was nothing to take home a half bushel of shucked nuts. I remember Grandma Case came out from Ohio to visit us the third year we were here, and those hazel nuts were such a treat to her, she never tired of them. We liked the " prairie gum," too. It came from the gum-weed, which had a hollow stalk, and flowers much like a small sun flower. Would often find chunks of the hardened liquid as large as a man' s thumb, and it was the finest kind of chewing gum. This was surely a land of plenty in every way. The vegetation was rank and luxuriant and everything edible was abundant. The ravines were filled with wild plum trees and grape vines, and there was a wilderness of wild crabapple trees. The fruit was all fine, and quite free from worms. We found a great deal of honey in the woods, would bring home a dish pan full. Father brought in a swarm of bees that fall, and after that we had our own honey; sometimes had fifteen swarms. There was no need of anyone going hungry, for there was food on all sides to be had for the taking. The lake was full of fish. We used to spear a wagonload of them and salt down in barrels for summer. The prairie chickens often woke us at four o' clock mornings with their hollering. Sometimes as many as five hundred male birds would be hooting at once. I never saw sparrows as thick as those prairie chickens. Miles shot thirty-six one day, and we ate them till we were sick of them. They got so tame they would build their nests around the barn and house, and sometimes we kids put the eggs under our tame hens. When hatched the chicks would run off and the old hens would be frantic. Then there were the quails, our shy "Bob White," with their oft-repeated whistle, "more wet" we called it, and when the first note of it was sounded twice we said it meant " no-more-wet." Of course, rabbits were numerous, also. The dog Spring was a good hunter and was always out after game. Father brought some seventy-five pounds of bar lead from Ohio, and we made our own bullets in a mold. Carried our powder in an ox-horn slung over one shoulder. The Indians used to pester us for chunks of lead and for powder. The second Christmas day in Wisconsin Miles shot thirty-five rabbits - one a white one, which Robert Blackburn' s father stuffed and mounted for us. And raccoons! Every tree hole had a 'coon in it. They were fine eating, too. Squirrels, minks, beavers and woodchucks abounded. We made all our gloves and mittens of woodchuck hide. There were plenty of wild ducks and geese, too. Every farmer had a flock of tame geese, principally for the feathers, and we often set wild goose eggs with the tame ones. When hatched, the goslings would stay if the wings were clipped, and it made a hardy strain of fowl. One day of the second fall, Miles brought in two baby cranes. They were but a day or so old. We took care of them, but in a short time one died. The other thrived finely, grew to be a big fellow and a great pet of mine. He was of the Sandhill species and so tall that his back was on a level with the table. We called him Jack, and he stayed with us nearly three years. He grew very tame and would follow us everywhere. Often came out to the field with the dog where father was at work. Sometimes we would get out there ahead of him; pretty soon we' d hear him hollering and could see him coming, flying about five or six feet above ground, hollering every minute. I' ve often see Spring kill snakes for Jack to eat. He also liked toads, frogs, mice and fish, and found his own food in warm weather. In winter we fixed a box for him in the house. We went up stairs by a ladder, and between that and the wall we boarded up a place, put straw in it, and Jack and Springs slept there together. We often had hot biscuits and honey, as we all liked them. Jack did, too. He would watch his chance, and suddenly that long neck would dart over some one' s shoulder, and that sharp bill would jab into a biscuit, and off he would go, mother after him with a broom. Whenever he saw that broom he moved lively. He never knew his own kind until he was a year old, and the geese and cranes started south. The first time the cranes flew over and called, he answered instinctively, and sometimes he would fly up and join them for quite a distance, but he always came back to us. Mother told me I ought to clip his wings, else I would lose him, but I hated to do it, he so enjoyed using his wings. The third fall he finally flew up and joined a flock, and did not come back. I watched him till they were out of sight, and I watched for a week for him to come back, but we never saw Jack again. We were a great family for pets. We raised a Brown Thrasher, and had him three years. Got him before he was feathered out and I used to dig worms and feed them to him. His name was Dick and we thought a lot of him. We made a cage with slats to keep him in, and put sheep' s wool in for a nest. But he grew so tame we let him out; he used to fly around out doors and never offer to go away. He would light on our shoulders or sit on our laps, and was quite a member of the family. We had Jack at the same time, and besides Spring we had a little black and tan terrier, and mother declared the place was a "regular animal show." Dick liked to eat the crumbs from under the table at meal time, and one day he was there on the floor, eating so quietly we didn' t know he was there, and father stepped on him and killed him. I never saw father so worked up as over that. The little creature was so tame and friendly. When we first came here we were greatly annoyed by the rattle snakes. How Spring hated them, and how he did fight them! He had grown to be quite a big fellow, part mastiff, black and a tawny brown in color. He killed hundreds of rattlers on our farm, scarcely a day went by that he didn' t get a half a dozen, at least. There were many other kinds of snakes but he never bothered himself over them. He had a method all his own with the rattlers. Would dance around and around the coiled snake, dart in and out from it, getting it as mad as possible; sometimes his nose would come within six inches of the hissing tongue. He seemed to know exactly how far he could venture with safety. Then he would back off and wait - the snake would get ready to strike, and Spring would back off a little farther. The snake, fearing the dog would get away, would uncoil and run for him. The minute it uncoiled, it was a dead snake, for Spring then grabbed it and literally shook it to bits. He never was bitten by a rattler but once; was taken unawares, and he got it in the jaw. His face swelled badly and he was suffering a lot. We had him tied, and put on a poultice of home-grown and home-cured tobacco. But he whined and fussed, trying to get loose, so father said, "Let him go. I' ve an idea he knows better what to do for himself than we do." So we untied him, and he started straight for the mud hole where the pigs wallowed. Went right into the mud, threshed around, till he was completely buried, with just the tip of his nose out for air. He stayed there a day and a night, then came out all right and fine as a fiddle, tickled to pieces over it, too. It taught him to be more careful, but it didn' t stop him from killing every rattler he saw afterward, as long as he lived - and he lived to be nine years old. None of us were ever bitten by rattlers, but Cousin Esther Case, Anson' s oldest sister, had a bad affair with one. She was bitten on the ankle, and the flesh became spotted and swelled. We gave her all the whiskey we all had and one of the boys went for Dr. A P. Adams, the " Old Doctor" as he was called, who had come here after we did. As soon as he arrived he gave her more whiskey - all he could get. Everybody kept it in the house - had to whether they were temperance or not, as it was the only antidote we had then for snake bites. Esther got over it all right, but we nearly had a tragedy at our house soon after we came. We older children slept upstairs in the loft, and for lack of room, father made a trundle bed which was kept daytimes under mother' s bed and pulled out at night, and Zelia and Orin slept in it. One night the children woke and cried for mother, and as she got up to look after them, she stepped full upon a snake right beside the trundle bed. It wasn' t coiled, else she would doubtless have been bitten. She screamed for father and jumped upon a chair near by. Father yelled "Godfrey!" jumped out with one bound and ran for a big iron shovel by the fireplace. They couldn' t see the snake but they could hear it, rattling and buzzing, and knew it must be under the children' s bed, which stood not more than a foot from the floor. The first thing to do was to get it away from those babies, so father gave one swing with the shovel and swept it out from under the little bed - and the rest was easy. They made a light then and shoveled out the remains. The snake must have come in through the "cat" hole in the door. Father always said it never could have happened if Spring had been sleeping inside, but the nights were so warm that fall he liked best to sleep outside in the hay. We had few playthings, and most of these were home made. I remember a wagon I made all by myself. A few boards made the box, and I sawed out round blocks for wheels; made a tongue and "ex," and it was quite a stout little wagon - not so little either, as it must have been three or four feet long. I used to draw Orin all over the prairies, and it was fine to gather hickory nuts in. It had a horrible squeak, and mother would run for the soft soap when it got too bad. All of the boys had bows and arrows, and could shoot birds pretty well. We had some marbles, big agates, which we brought from Ohio. And then we used to make kites! How many hours I have spent flying kites on the prairies. The girls had dolls of various kinds, all home manufacture. Mother was a famous hand at that. She could do things to a big corn cob and turn out a fine doll. Then she often took clay and fashioned the head and body, using sticks for legs, with clay feet, bake it a long time and mark the face with pencil. Those were fine doll babies. One of my choicest possessions was a Jew's harp which traveled safe in my pocket from Ohio. I became quite proficient in its use and often played for the family singing. Now I daresay these simple toys appear not the least attractive or thrilling to the boy or girl of 1921, but when I consider my little great-grandson' s modern toys I wonder if he gets as much real fun out of them as I did with my Jew' s harp and squeaky wagon. Father worked the first winter for Richard Goldsworthy and John Esmond for our flour and pork. Money was so scarce it could hardly be reckoned as legal tender. A barrel of flour was worth about two dollars, or four days' work. We had known since early spring that we were coming West to live, so had plenty of time to prepare for it. Every bit of the abundant maple sap had been boiled up and made into cakes of sugar, and there was a lot of it. The dried apples we brought made such fine pies that we children were envied by all the others at school when our dinner pails disclosed such luxuries as maple sugar and apple pie, and we could trade our lunch for anything we might name, if we cared to. The country was too newly settled for anyone to have apple trees bearing, and cultivated fruit was almost impossible to get. We also brought much woolen cloth and maybe a hundred yards of home spun linen, and mother made our clothes from this, when needed. The next year we raised our own flax and she spun it, even spun all our thread, and took the wool to the carding mill at Burlington. Boys all wore long trousers, home made, of course. Gideon Morey was the only tailor here, and we got him to cut out all our clothes, and mother made them. Boys and men all wore boots. With his other useful accomplishments, father was a good cobbler - would buy a side of shoe leather, and do all the patching and mending for the family. The next summer after we came I drove the oxen on a plow, and "broke" forty acres of prairie land for Mr. Joseph Whitley, and in pay he gave father a milch cow, the second cow we owned in Wisconsin, and I earned it. I was pretty proud of that. We had such a good school, and such exceptional teachers that I want to pay them the tribute of a brief mention. The next after Julia Bartholf was Miss Philinda Cadwell, who taught two seasons. Then came a young fellow by the name of Milligan for one year - a pretty good instructor but he didn' t get on very well with the young men. This was Miles' last year at school, I think. It had grown to be a big school - pupils coming from all over, many on horseback, and lots of them over twenty years old. The next teacher was Jesse B. Shaw, doctor of law and of medicine, who came from York State and settled here. He taught the school for two years at this time and later filled the place again. He was not of the most agreeable personality, but he was a wonderful teacher. A man of many attainments he put the school on a high plane of excellence. Had large classes in astronomy and surveying, besides other higher branches. He did a good deal of surveying around the country himself. His nephew, George Campbell, succeeded Mr. Shaw for two years. He also was a York State college graduate, a fine young man, who maintained the excellence of the school standard. I took algebra, philosophy, and a complete course in bookkeeping with him. He gave us much mental drill, and spelling schools were a popular form of entertainment. I was fond of all my studies, but I especially liked the " spell-downs," and won the championship for our school in the contests around the country. The teacher for whom I had the warmest regard and admiration, both for his scholarship and fine character was George Wheeler, a graduate of a Michigan academy, who was here one year. He was only a lad of nineteen, just my age, and it was a big undertaking to teach and govern that big crowd, some of them twenty-five years of age. When he opened school he quietly stated that it was his custom and he believed it to be a right one, to read a chapter and have a word of prayer every morning. Well, that was something new, and there was considerable giggling and whispering which made it a trying ordeal to the new teacher. There was something so fine in his courage and grit that it called out every bit of my admiration and loyalty. As soon as recess came I went to him and told him I liked his courage in introducing the new custom, I was brought up to that sort of thing, and that I would back him to the limit. Then I went outside where the boys were already discussing the affair, and told them the same, adding that any one making trouble or disturbance over it would have to fight me. I was a big husky lad for my years, athletic and quick as a cat. I don' t know if that fact had any weight with them or not. They probably thought we were couple of "gritty" youngsters, and let it go at that. At any rate, there was never a whisper of ridicule attending morning worship that year. In fact, every pupil heartily liked and respected George Wheeler, and his influence was a fine thing. It was my last year at school, and one of the most valuable years to me in many ways. Miles had learned the carpenter' s trade of Mr. Hodges, of Racine, and after quitting school (and indeed, before that too) I worked with him and learned the trade, too. It was four of five years after we came that we built the new house. Premila was living on the old place on Butternut Ridge. She and mother were joint-heirs, so mother sold out her share to Premila and her husband, and the money was used in building our new house. Miles and father built it, and it was such an improvement on the old log house that we were much satisfied with it. It is still in good shape and is occupied. Soon after that Premila came to visit us, and brought little Della who was a year and half old. Father went in to Racine to meet them, and how we all enjoyed her visit. It was while Premila was here that we arranged to send Giles to school. He was the brightest of us all, and it was evident that he must make his way by some profession, as he was unable to do physical labor, although when fifteen or sixteen he developed new strength and became quite rugged. Miles and I talked it over, and we decided it was our privilege to give Giles his chance. I was eighteen, and earning money at the trade. Premila wanted him to come to her. So when he was sixteen Giles went to Cleveland and entered Bryant and Stratton' s Business College and was there two years. Every Saturday he went by stage to Premila' s for over Sunday, and she did his washing and mending. In addition to the business course he took all the higher branches, and came home well equipped for his life work. He was at once engaged to teach the school which is half way between here and Burlington, and gave such satisfaction that they kept him there four years. All this time our little church had been growing steadily, and in 1850 the members felt that they should have a building of their own. Rev. Charles Boynton was the new pastor and he was most enthusiastic over the proposed building. They bought an acre of ground for fifty dollars (a big price, then) of the old Joseph Emery farm, and the church was built on the site of the cottage opposite the Tile Factory. The building committee consisted of Ebenezer White, Harvy Northrop and Homer Adams, with Miles as contractor. Great labor and sacrifice attended to building of that church - trees were felled and hewn by the men themselves. I was seventeen, working with Miles. Boards came rough from the saw mill, and I planed every piece of siding that went on that building, and certainly I never labored harder, nor perspired more freely over anything since. The church was dedicated September 1, 1851. It was 30 ft. wide by 40 ft. long, with two doors on the front end, facing south. A box stove stood inside each entrance, and there were three sections of pews, the choir sitting in elevated pews at the rear of the middle section. In the northwest corner was a wing pew where the Deacons could keep an eye on any undue levity. It was in this same month of September, 1850 that the first break occurred in our family circle. Clara was married to Erastmus Cadwell, and they went to house keeping in a small house on what is now the Old Settlers' Park. 'Rast had a blacksmith shop just about where Englebart Hanson' s barn is located, and he did a very good business, was one of the best horseshoers anywhere around. Just across from the shop was a brick tavern, kept by a man named Beers, and Mr. Wm. Reed had a house and little grocery store right near where Clara and 'Rast lived. Two years after we came here a new school house was built at " Mildrums' s Corner," and it was called the "Union" school. A half mile to the west, at the Morey home, was located the postoffice. Gideon Morey had been postmaster since the establishment of the office, some time previous, and because of the beautiful grove of burr-oak trees growing to the west of the highway (our Main street) it was called "Union Grove" postoffice. So on that half mile stretch of road was established the very beginnings of our dear little village, with all the essentials: the church, school, postoffice, hotel, blacksmith shop, store and two or three dwellings. However, the very first settler was not in this immediate community. John E. Dunham came here in 1838, six years before we did, and bought a strip of land cast of the highway, and extending north to the present village limit. He built a house and barn just where Hotel Shephard stands, and it was not until the railroad came through, that the settlement began to grow in this direction. CHAPTER V We greatly enjoyed our family chorus; we all sang and mother taught us to read music almost as soon as we could read print. Clara had a good soprano voice, Miles took the bass and I the tenor. After Clara left home Zelia and mother would change off on the treble and alto. After a while Orin developed a good bass. Mother' s voice was fine with a remarkable range; she could take the highest notes or help Miles on the bass chorus. I can see her now as she stood up before us, beating time - " Ready now. One, two three! Sing!" She could compose music, too. I remember an " Independence Hymn" for which she had written the four parts and the words, and we all sang it frequently. She had a dulcimer on which we loved to have her play. But she most frequently used her accordeon, another thing we brought West with us. It was a Tyrolese instrument and very fine, and she handled it quite expertly. Mr. Joseph Whitley played the flute, his son-in-law, Mr. Blackie, from England, the bass viol, and Mr. Anderson the violin; these with mother' s accordeon formed a little orchestra which practiced once a week, usually at our house, and mother always led. They made fine music and sometimes played in church. Mother sang in the first church choir and we all did at some time or other, and I think since the beginning there has always been some member of the family in that choir. Dr. A. P. Adams led the first organized choir, and did the most excellent work, taught many of the singers to sing and to read music, and indeed spent much time and patience in this and other of the Lord' s work. A familiar and beloved figure he was, all over this country, as he jogged around on horseback, on his errands of mercy, carrying pills and powders in his leather saddle-bags. He was a lover of humanity, and especially of children. Always had a cheery greeting for every one, with a manner which was entirely individual. The following bit of dialog is characteristic, should he happen to meet the oldest man of the community: "Good morning, my boy." "Good morning, Doctor. It is a fine day." "Well, now that you mention it. I remember that a man down the road a piece told me so. Git 'ap Jane," with a dig of his heel in Jane' s rib. I' ll never forget one Sunday morning when I was nearly eighteen. The hymn was announced and the Old Doctor, instead of giving us the pitch, turned to the audience and made a speech, saying that he was growing older, his practice more exacting, and there were so many Sundays he was obliged to be absent, that it seemed best for him to resign, adding "and I cast my mantle on Stiley Moe" - turning, handed me his tuning-fork and sat down in the pew. Well, Stiley Moe was a very flabbergasted young fellow, it was so utterly unexpected. In those days, people did not think of refusing to serve. We were taught that to serve was the highest honor and duty so there was no thought in my head except to do my best. Just as I was about to " bite" the fork I remembered that the Doctor' s fork was B flat - my own was A. I should have come to disaster in my excitement if luck had not thus been with me, and I actually pitched the tune correctly. It was in this way that I commenced my work in the church choir which was such a source of pleasure to me. I did not at this time take the leadership regularly, as I was away working a good deal. After my marriage I became the permanent chorister and was privileged to train and lead a chorus for over twenty-five years - a choir I was justly proud of. I think it was 1854 which made another gap in our family circle, when Miles and Julia Bartholf were married. Julia' s folks had gone back to York State and she was making her home with Mr. and Mrs. George Robbins, and was married from their home, the place north of town called the "old Bremner place," and later owned by George Hardie. Miles had bought a farm with a small house just across the road from father' s and they lived there, with the exception of one year spent in Iowa, until they moved to the Grove in '59 and later went back to the farm for a few years. Bellle was born there and so, I think, was little Willie, who died in infancy, and also Ada. When Belle was big enough to walk, she almost lived at our house with "Grandma." She had a pet lamb which was her constant companion, and a perfect nuisance to her mother and grandmother. He always came with her, and would go all over the house, even upstairs. Would steal everything from the pantry he could find to eat, and was always up to mischief of some kind. I' ve seen him stick his head around the door and peek in. If the coast was clear, he would make a dash into the house, and jump on the bed. He was so blamed cute we couldn' t help laughing at him. It was about the time Miles was married that I met Grace Mather at a party at Sylvania. Her father was keeping the Ives Grove tavern then. She was just a slip of a girl, pretty as a doll, and was at the party with her sister Mary Ann. The fiddler stopped playing, couldn' t get the tune, so I finished it out, whistled it as I danced. This amused those two girls. Mother didn' t approve of dancing, however, and I soon came to feel that she was right, and I quit it. Along in '55 the Janesville and Mississippi Railroad began work on the road which was finished as far as Union Grove in the next year, and on June 19,1856, we held a big celebration here when the first train brought its load of passengers from Racine to the Grove. I had invited Grace down for the occasion and we were on hand in time to see the train arrive at 9 a. m. There were two passenger coaches, in which rode the officials of the road, and Mayor of Racine, with their families. Twenty-four flat cars carried a crowd of citizens. These cars had long stakes erected at the corners and sides, to which green boughs were fastened for shade, and board seats were placed across the cars. Among those who came on that trip, the following well-known names are remembered: J. I. Case, Stephen Bull, A. P. Dutton, Mr. Van Pelt, Hugh Garton, John Elkins, John Carswell, J. Tomlinson, Mayor George Wustum and the father of the late Judge John Winslow. After their arrival the officials invited the country people to ride into Racine and back. Grace and I were among the many who accepted. On arriving at the Racine depot, which was situated where the freight yards are now, we were met by hacks, 'busses, and even drays with temporary seats, and given a ride around the town, which was then but a good sized village. Among the chief points of interest were: Racine College, Congress Hall, Woolen Mills, J. I. Case Threshing Machine Works, Tomlinson Furniture Factory, Huggins Monument Works. The cemetery was along the southern lake shore line, and has since been washed into the lake. Returning to this village, visitors and hosts together enjoyed a bountiful dinner. Two tables, each one hundred feet long, were set at the present location of the graded school building among beautiful oak trees. In the center of each table stood upright a roast pig, flanked by sides of beef, prairie chicken pies, great pans of doughnuts, etc., and wild strawberry shortcake for dessert. Vines and flowers completed the pleasing picture of country hospitality. An address was made by Mr. Winslow. Music was furnished by the Racine band, and " Colonel Lincoln," a famous singer in his day, sang a patriotic solo, unaccompanied. In the afternoon games and athletic contests were held north of the railroad on the flat near Wm. Willmore' s home. The return trip to Racine was made late in the afternoon, and the celebration concluded with a dance at the Union Grove Hotel. Just before this, in January, 1856, a Land Company, of maybe a dozen men, was formed to lay out a village. C. M. Sprague made the survey and plat, and in March the Union Grove Company was incorporated by law, with an authorized stock of $50,000. The plat took in the land up to the new railroad on both sides, and lots began to sell and its first proprietor was N. R. McFarland. The first survey was incorrect and in 1859 Sayres G. Knight and John M. Jones made a new survey. They were working on the street that runs past my place and the church - having trouble, too. The stakes were wrong, and lines varied as much as two or more feet in a block. John Ramsden had been in Dr. Shaw' s surveying class at school, and had done some practice work, so Knight sent for him. I was running a gang of carpenters on my own hook, and John was my best hand. He came down and the three studied over those lines quite a bit. All at once John grabbed Jones by the arm and shouted, " I' ve g-g-g-got it!" he always stammered badly when excited. "We didn' t f-f-f-figure on the variation of the n-n-needle - the attraction of the iron r-r-rails!" "Ramsden, you' ve hit it!" said Knight, and after that it was easy to correct the false lines. It was this land company that donated the lot to the Congregational Church, when the building was moved, and on which our church now stands. It was that fall of ' 56 that I cast my first ballot, for John C. Fremont. A life-long Republican am I. In the spring of 1859 we received the sad news of sister Premila' s death. Her husband died a short while before, and she left six little orphan children. It seemed best for mother to take some of them, father was very willing, so Miles and I shared the expense with mother and father, and Miles made the trip to Ohio and brought home Leonard, about fourteen, Idella, and Mary, a little over three years old. Uncle Nun Lent kept the other three, Elden, Frank and Charlie. Father and mother gave those little ones a good home and they were like their own, and Mary really knew no other mother than Grandma Moe. Among all her children and grandchildren there are none of them that look so much like mother as Belle and Mary do. Grace and I were married that coming fall. Miles had come to town to live and our carpenter shop was situated where Dixon' s store is, with a lumber yard on the lots to the west. I had traded with Lyman Herriden forty acres of land I owned near Independence, Iowa, for the house, barn and lot where I now live, and sister Zelia came and kept house for me while she went to school. Giles was teaching the Grove school then, across the street from us. As near as I can remember, the school house was put up that summer, so Giles must have been the first teacher, if I am right. "Mari' Hayes" was the nickname I had long ago given Zeal, and we had some merry, good times together. Grace' s folks were living west of Vyvyan' s corners, and we were married there in a log house, on November 19, 1859, by Rev. Lucius Foote. It was on Saturday, and we came right here to our new home. That evening some of the boys, headed by Dave Lincoln, came and serenaded us, with flute, violin and quartette. It was fine music, and the only "chivari" he had. As the next day, Sunday, was rainy and miserable, we did not get out to our own church. The Primitive Methodists held services in school houses and vacant dwellings around the country and Gideon Morey had arranged to have a meeting that afternoon in the house right north of us. Grace suggested that we might go over, so we did. We hadn' t been seated long before Mr. Morey came to me in some distress, saying there was no one to pitch the tune and lead - would I be willing to do it for them? Grace thought it quite a joke on me, but I was usually game for anything, so I fished out my fork, which I always carried, and went up front; pitched the tune - it was Ortonville - and led the singing. Our house as it was then, was small - living room, two bed rooms and a shanty, and our furniture consisted of six common chairs, a table, cook stove, rocking chair, two bed steads, two feather beds, a clock, and a lounge I had made. It was small and plain, but there was somehow room for all who came, and it soon became the gathering place of both families and of our friends, and for over sixty years it had been "open house" to all. My dear wife, who passed to her reward three years ago, has made it a home blessed beyond telling, to me and our three children, Earnest, Newton, and Stella. The coming January Miles and I gave up our trade and entered the mercantile business. Whitley had built the store for us on the corner where Savage now is, with living rooms above. It was not until 1876 or 7 that we put up the brick building now in use. The Cases had scattered. Uncle Orin had come out from Ohio, and he and Uncle King moved up near Sheboygan, and Alanson and Seymour went with them. James and Emily Bunce went up in the northwest part of the state where he had a church. Uncle Carlos remained here, died on the farm, and Anson married Libbie Gibbs, and they lived on the farm till Anson' s death. His two brothers, Hezekeiah and Carlos, and sister Esther went back to Ohio and settled there. The February after we were married, Giles died from pneumonia and overwork, at the age of twenty-two. Zelia finished out his term. She was a very good scholar, and taught several terms of school. Of course the Civil War came on soon after, and a big company went from here. Leonard Brush went out with Company A, of the 22nd Wisconsin, in ' 61 and was gone three years. Elden, who had come up from Ohio some time before, was also in the war, but not for so long a time. 'Rast Cadwell went in ' 63, died at Chattanooga, leaving Clara with four little children, Julia, Edward, Minnie and Fred. Then early in ' 64 our "Steve" went. (It was I who had nicknamed Orin this, a name by which he has always been known) and was in the service until the general discharge, in June, '65. Mother had been ailing for some time, with a pain in her side and breast, and when the doctor pronounced it a cancer, she seemed to just droop away, and died very shortly afterward at the age of fifty-eight years, on May 31, 1865, just before Orin' s return from the army. Zelia was married to Alonzo Bartholf, Julia' s cousin, and they established a home on a farm near Burlington. Their two children, Bert and Mabel, were born there, and they lived most of their life there. In November after his return home Orin and Lucinda Clark were married at the Union Grove Hotel, of which Nathan Clark was the proprietor, and they went on the farm with father for a while, later lived in Iowa for some time, where most of their children were born, six of the seven are now living: Linnie, Alan, Clifford, Zelia, Edwin and Ray. Father afterward married Aunt Melissa, and they moved to Boscobel, and after her death he lived with Zelia and then with Clara, and died at the ripe age of eighty-nine. Here I will end this little tale of family life. It contains nothing of distinction, nor any great thrills. It is just a story of simple, honest living and of brave and cheerful pioneering, and I have told it especially for my grandchildren, and my nieces and nephews with the hope that it will be of interest to them, and that they will be better able to appreciate their heritage of family, from knowing the struggles and privations which their parents and grand parents endured in making a new home in a new country.