HISTORY OF PARKER.

IT has been impossible to trace the ancestry, or nationality, back of Edward Parker, who first appeared upon the records of the New Haven Colony January 4th, 1643, at which time he and seven others were fined 3s. 4d. each "for totall defect in armes." At a general court held the July previous, "Itt is ordered thatt every male, fro' 16 yeares olde to sixty, wthin this jurisdicto' shall be forthwth furnished of a good gun or muskett, a pound of good pouder, 4 fathom of match for a match lock, and 5 or 6 good flints, fitted for every fyre lock, and 4 pound of pistoll bulletts fitted to their guns, and so continue furnished from time to time, vnder the penalty of 10s. fine vpon every defect in any of the forenamed perliculars."

From the difference between the legal fine and the amount assessed, I infer that Edward and party had but recently arrived in the colony. The next record of him is July 1st, 1644, when he took the "oath of fidelity," with all the members of the colony. According to the reckoning, then, this was six months after the fine was imposed, as the change from one year to another was in the spring.

John Potter and wife were members of the original company which, under Davenport and Eaton, settled New Haven, Conn., in 1638. John died, and about the first of July 1646, his widow--Elizabeth--and Edward Parker were married. From the Colonial Records of New Haven it appears that she had three children by her first husband-two sons and a daughter-so it would be natural to suppose that Edward was not a 1young man at the time of his marriage. At his death John Potter must have possessed some property; for though no record of a will or appraisement of his estate is found, a record of court, under date of July 7th, 1646, says: "Edw Parker & his wife prsented their desires to the court to invest JnO Potter's two sons in the right of their father's land & howse, and declared themselve willing to bestow a heyfer of a yeare old on Hannah, & deliuer it presently for her vse, & so to be improved as a stock for her, &c, as P a perticular writting in the hand of the secrettarie made and signed by both of them before the governour, deputy governour, & magistrate."

"At a Court held at Newhaven the 7th Sep. 1647 Edward Parker being warned to the court for rates dew to the treasurer, some pt before he marryed the widdow, and some part since, Edw Parker promysed pay for what is dew since he marryed the widdow, in corne shortlye, & for that before John Potters death dew, it was respitted."

Edward Parker seems to have been employed as a planter, as well as a butcher, and he must have had some influence in the colony; for the record shows that he was one of the two men representing New Haven, who arrested the notorious Thomas Baxter at Fairfield, and conveyed him with others-who opposed the arrest-to New Haven, in 1653. He was also cognizant of and aided in keeping secreted the Regicides Goff and Whalley, who were secreted near New Haven from May 15th to June 11th, 1661.

That he was a man of thrift is evident from the inventory of his estate, taken the 27th of June, 1662, and which was returned to court on the 25th day of May, 1663, and amounted to the sum of 124 lb, 00s, 00d.

John Parker was Edward's second child, and eldest son. In 1670 he, with his brothers-in-law, John Hall and Samuel Cook, were members of the company of about one hundred persons - men, women and children - that made the settlement at Wallingford. This new settlement was some twelve miles from New Haven, and was situated on land that belonged to the New Haven Colony. It was established in April; and as John was not married until November, he probably made it his home during the summer at one or the other of his sisters. Years passed on, and we find his name prominent in the management of church and colonial affairs. In 1693 he was one of the two who were chosen to oversee the educational interests of the colony, and employ a teacher. In 1697 he was chosen as one of a committee of two to locate and establish highways. In 1707 and 1708 he represented Wallingford in the General Assembly. In 1708 his name appears as one of the committee who called and settled the Rev. Mr. Whittelsey as pastor; and it is a matter of record that the success which his ability and industry achieved caused the locality where he resided, which was about two miles from the present town, to be called the Parker farms.

Eliphalet Parker was John's seventh child and third son. His family consisted of eleven children, ten living to maturity and marrying. His youngest son, Benjamin, bought three acres of land with "house, barn and orcharding thereon" from Timothy Moses of Simsbury, March 27th, 1751. In the deed Moses calls it "my home lot." As Benjamin was married the following June, and the record says, "removed to Simsbury," he probably commenced housekeeping at once on the property bought from Moses, which was on the east side of the river in Simsbury, near the hamlet of Weatogue. Subsequently he purchased more land, until he possessed thirty acres. In 1769 he sold and removed to Hartland, where he purchased 101 acres from James Smith. The deed to this purchase bears date of April 10th, 1769. The church records at East Hartland show that "Benjamin Parker and wife were admitted to the church by letter from Simsbury March 12th, 1775." It was while residing here that he served in the Revolution, a record of which appears hereafter; and his son, Benjamin, Jr., went from, and returned here and died. In 1778 he removed to Barkhamsted, where he passed the balance of his life. Barkhamsted records show that "he presented to the church, March 1st, 1787, a pint cup to be used and improved by the church at the communion; for which he received the thanks of the church." October 22d, 1795, he was appointed deacon. He held this office until March, 1801, when, on account of failing sight, he resigned, and his son, Lovel, was appointed to fill the vacancy.

I have wondered many times how our ancestors achieved the success they did, when I realize the obstacles they had to meet and overcome. With the knowledge and conveniences we possess, one would in this day feel like giving up in despair; and I think we are prone to give them too little credit for what they did accomplish, and criticise them too harshly for what now seems to us like superstition, egotism, and religious intolerance. When I visited the spots where had been the homes of my ancestors, partially realizing what they had done to secure a competence, and hand down to posterity an unblemished reputation, I felt like repeating the scripture recorded by Moses, "Put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground." It is a pleasure to venerate all who have lived useful lives in this world; and this feeling, when coupled with the affection we naturally bestow upon our ancestors, gives almost a sacredness to their memories. We now have almost nothing by which to cherish them except abstract memory and an opportunity to occasionally view the places which once "knew them;" for imagination can furnish no satisfactory substitute for a portrait. We little realize the advantages we possess, and can only partially do so when we have an opportunity to contrast them with what were attainable one hundred years or more ago.

Could our own fathers have stood looking at "the old home in Barkhamsted," as Cousin Rufus and I did, on a beautiful June morning, they could have voiced Cowper's lines:

"Where once we dwelt, our name is heard no more;

Children not thine, have trod my nursery floor:

* * * * * *

Tis now become a history little known

That once we called this pastoral house our own."

Our fathers threw the weight of their influence in the balance on the side of freedom during the Revolution, and handed down a noble record, sealed with their blood, which bore fruit. Their children became active abolitionists, and it is now an open secret that Linus Parker maintained a station on the underground railroad. James Truesdale, who married Orpha Parker, was mobbed by his own townsmen for encouraging and supporting abolition principles; while the other members of the family, each in his own way, aided what he considered a righteous crusade against Human Slavery. When civil war endangered the government, many sons of these noble sires, emulating the example set by their fathers, responded to their country's call. Faithfully they served, supported and encouraged by loved ones at home; until death released them from duty; broken health compelled the acceptance of a discharge; or bright winged peace again hovered over our country.

My father, Lovel Elon Parker, was a man of but few words, yet was excellent company; for he possessed a well balanced mind which he had stored with useful information. For many years he served the people of the township as a Justice of the Peace; and commanded the respect of all for his ability, and quiet, but fearless integrity. As a Deacon of the church to which he belonged, his record is one of faithfulness in the performance of every known duty; and no man in the community was more respected for religious consistency. In build he was tall and spare; but with a wiry make-up which gave him great physical endurance until middle life, when as a result of exposure, and over work, he contracted chronic bronchitis; which eventually was the cause of his death. His later years were years of industry, but the labor was light.

In early life, my mother had improved unusually good advantages for that day, in securing an education; had prepared herself for, and for several years before her marriage had taught at Kinsman, a select school for young ladies. In many respects she possessed a remarkable mind; for in her old age she would for hours repeat from mem1ory, poetry, and other literature, which she had been familiar with in early life. She was proud for her children; and labored hard to secure for them the opportunities for obtaining good educations.

In build she was of medium height, and solid in appearance, though not large. Father and mother were both close Bible students; father devoting his attention mostly to the New Testament; while mother delighted in the histories and denunciations of the old.

After father's death she chose to live with her only surviving daughter - Louisa who resided in Cleveland, Ohio; but returned to her old home again in July, 1890, and remained there with me until her death. She died November 9th, 1892, and rests by father's side in the Hayes cemetery, in Wayne.

IN MEMORIAM.

CLAUDIUS LOVEL PARKER, the subject of this brief memoir, was born December 30, 1845. His father's name was Lovel Elon Parker; his mother's maiden name was Lucy Caroline Andrews.

His early life was spent on the farm, with such opportunities as were afforded by the district school and academy. When eighteen years of age he united with the Congregational Church in Wayne, which was then under the pastorate of Rev. Heman Geer. Being very ambitious to excel in his studies, he commenced a preparatory course for college under the teaching of Rev. J. Wright, of Gustavus, O. He was an ardent, hard-working, successful student, showing a mind of more than ordinary intellectual ability. Completing his course at Gustavus, he proceeded to Hudson College, where he spent one term.

It was during his stay in Hudson that "our boys in blue" were homeward bound, and he let no opportunity pass to greet their return, for he was loyal to the core.

His brother Newton's return, after three years of army life at the front, enabled Claudius to carry out a long cherished wish; a college course at Oberlin. He graduated with honor in 1870, after five years of study and teaching. Some eighteen months were then spent at the Observatory in Allegheny, Pa. During a part of this time he was in charge; and while so communication was established between the Observatory and railroads by which the time was furnished regularly for railroad use. The observations and computations necessary for obtaining the correct time were made every day, and to anyone familiar with this matter the responsibility is apparent. The next two years were occupied mostly in mechanical work.

September 12, 1873, he was married to Miss Jennie E., daughter of Horatio Woodworth of West Williamsfield, which union proved a happy one in every respect. One year later he established himself at Allegheny, Pa., where he spent two years in the law office of his cousin, G. H. Christy, of Pittsburg, when he was admitted to the bar.

He continued in this office until Thursday, July 26, 1883, when he was violently attacked with fever, and four days of intense suffering closed his earthly career. On Sunday, when told by his physician that if he continued to sink so rapidly he could not live till morning, he exhibited calmness and composure, bade an affectionate farewell to the dear ones around him, and to all friends and acquaintances he said: "Tell them I die a Christian."

To show the esteem in which he was held we subjoin the following brief letter from the Professor of Pittsburg University:

To George H. Christy, Esq.,

My Dear Sir: I have this morning read in the Dispatch a notice of the sudden death of my greatly esteemed friend, C. L. Parker. Nothing could be more unexpected. More than twelve years I have known and highly esteemed him for his superior intelligence, his sharp, discriminating mind, his frank nature, and his amiable disposition. He was no ordinary man. On my return I shall miss his kindly face and his genial greeting. Please extend to his deeply afflicted widow my warmest sympathy, for a kind, loving husband, and devoted father, has been taken away.

Most truly yours,

GEORGE WOODS.

.His remains were brought to West Williamsfield for interment. A large number of sympathizing friends were waiting at the depot, where a procession was formed and accompanied him to the cemetery where appropriate services were conducted by Revs. Dickinson and Vance.

The above was printed in the Jefferson Gazette of August 17, 1883. Rev. Dickinson was the resident pastor at West Williamsfield, Rev. Vance at Kinsman.

Photo of C.L. Parker (NOT SHOWN)

Photo of L.E. Parker (NOT SHOWN)

RECOLLECTIONS.

DEDICATED TO CLAUDIUS L. PARKER, BY HIS FATHER, LOVEL ELON PARKER.

WAYNE, Nov. 23, 1877.

It is because you have requested it that I write, not to perpetuate my memory; for I feel like adopting the language of the poet:

"Let me live, unseen, unknown,

Unlamented let me die;

Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie."

You cannot see the surroundings of my youthful days, that make them interesting to me, as I can; nor can I present them to you. The old school house; my youthful companions; the house in which we lived; the river, running nearly south by our house, on the west; the gristmill, sawmill, and button factory one-half mile south.

Our house was eight or ten rods from the bank of the river, opposite the dam that turned the water to the mills; two story in front, running back to one story, and fronting to the west. If I get time I will make you a draft of the house, and its surroundings. There used to be a pond of water, south and west, on which we took much pleasure in the winter, sliding. We filled it up by plowing and scraping, some years before we left the place. My personal recollections go back to 1803. I was then three years old. The schoolhouse was about one-fourth of a mile north from our house on a hill, in plain sight. I thought it would be nice to have a play with the children, so I stole away and had a good time until they were called in for afternoon.

I got over the fence and went east through the lots, turning south into a meadow we called "the Roberts meadow," thence around into our "south lot," thence west into the blacksmith shop, and, lying down on the forge, went to sleep. I was missed in the afternoon, and search was made. They sent to the schoolhouse; the scholars told them where I was last seen; they went through the lots, but no boy was found, nor heard to respond to their calls.

About sundown someone went to the shop, and there I was on the forge, and fast asleep. They awoke me and took me to the house rejoicing over the lost sheep, found safe. I can recollect many things that took place as time passed on. The total eclipse in 1806. I was at school; it was so dark we could not see to study, so the teacher let us go out to see it. I can now see how it looked, and then I compared it to Miss Naomi's umbrella, and I can now think of no better comparison. The circumference was brighter than the center, giving it a hollow appearance; hens went to roost, stars shone and dew fell. It was after one p.m. when it came on, and some going to work in the fields, without extra clothing to protect them, took colds which caused sickness in some cases. Mother, having no daughter to help her, one of the boys was left on Mondays, and at other times when needed, to help her, and carry the dinner to the field when work was being done on the north farm. Living near the schoolhouse, we were sent to school summer and winter, until we were old enough to help in the field. Reading and writing were the principal branches taught in our district schools then. The winter of 1815 our teacher wanted me to study arithmetic. We were to have a three months' school, and one or two weeks had already passed. Father gave his consent, and, not knowing how to add correctly, I commenced with "Daboll." At the close of the school I had got to "Double fellowship," receiving the applaudits of teacher and visiting committee. To supply ourselves with hats, we trapped and caught fur, with which we bought wool hats for winter, braiding straw ourselves, which mother sewed together for our summer hats. We fished in the winter considerable. The ice on the frozen-river would be as clear as glass, and when of sufficient strength to carry a man, we cut holes in the ice about eighteen by thirty-six inches in size, making three or four, across the stream, depending on its width. The hooks which were used were fastened to the end of a pole eight or ten feet long. Two, or four such hooks were welded together, and drawn down some six or eight inches long, with their backs together, so a fish could be hooked out with either side. Placing one person at each hole with a hook, the others would go above, or below, and drive the fish toward the holes, when the men at the holes would hook them out onto the ice, sometimes catching a bushel basket full in a little while.

The morning of the memorable "Cold Friday," father, with three of us boys, went for fish while mother prepared the breakfast. The cold was so intense we soon returned, and stopped a little while at the shop to recover from the stupor and numbness, caused by the cold. Once I helped cousins Benjamin, and Moses Brown, drive a flock of sheep from Barkhamsted to Wintonbury (now Bloomfield), their home.

I walked the entire distance both ways. They were to pay me for helping them, but made no move to do so until I was starting for home, when I asked for it and then Benjamin gave me a shilling. We drove the sheep on Friday; I stayed with them Saturday and Sunday, and returned Monday. In returning I lost my way once, and had a mile or two extra traveling to get right.

I got home about two p.m. and found that father and brother David had gone fishing up what was called Roaring brook. I started out, but went up "Uncle Medy's brook" and fished. I went up the brook quite a ways, and caught nearly as many fish as father and David did. When I got back home that night, I was sick, and tired enough.

Our home was quite pleasant, good society, and kind neighbors. I love to think of those kind friends; those steep hills I used to walk over after the cows; the pond opposite our house; and, in the dark spring nights, listening to the thundering noise, made by the cakes of ice as they tumbled over the dam, breaking, and falling into the waters below. This is no fancy tale; those scenes are written in Memory's book, and are as plain in my mind as though witnessed but yesterday. My grandfather, Benjamin Parker, exchanged his farm in Simsbury for land in Hartland, I think, about the time of the Revolution. After a time, the title to his land was disputed, and was settled at law, the title being secured to him; but, you know something of the effect on a man's pocketbook facing a law suit produces, so he thought best to exchange again for lands in Barkhamsted Hollow, joining Hartland on the north. Losing his eyesight, he gave up the management of business to father and Uncle Joel. Grandfather was about medium height and heft, somewhat round shouldered, but of stout frame. His features were fair, and his disposition pleasant and agreeable. He was active and industrious, and after losing his sight, he and grandmother made their home with father. Grandfather was a blacksmith by trade, and his principal employment after he became blind, was making horseshoe nails in the shop.

He had worn a place in the face of his anvil where he plated the nails. He would forge one out, cool and feel of it until he had succeeded in making one to suit him; then would go on making others almost exactly like the sample as long as he could work. Father used to say that grandfather in this way made better nails than he himself could. I remember well the last work grandfather did. It was carrying water for butchering, from a brook some rods away. By a neckyoke he carried two pails at once, and persisted in carrying after he was told there was water enough. That night he was taken sick, but if I remember correctly, lived about two weeks. He died in 1807, and was buried in the old burying ground in Barkhamsted. He had been a deacon of the church, but when he had lost his sight he resigned, and father was elected to serve in his place.

Mercy Parker, my grandmother, was, I think, a little under medium height, and rather spare in old age; but in middle life she might have been more fleshy. She was fair, agreeable, of pleasant address, cheerful, prudent, and economical. After grandfather's death, she went to live with uncle Joel; and dying a few years after, was buried by the side of grandfather.

Father and uncle Joel held and worked their lands in common, dividing crops in the field. Each managed for himself and was responsible for his own debts, only. They bought more land; a farm of fifty acres, one mile south from the old farm. Uncle Joel lived on the north farm, and father on the south farm. Three or four years before they emigrated to Ohio, they chose men to draw lines, and say how they should divide. These men gave father the south farm, and a portion of the north farm; uncle made some complaint-thought he should have more. Father told him he would give him one hundred dollars if he would exchange places with him; but uncle said no. Father's part of the old farm was west of the river and included, I think, the most of the sugarbush. When I was quite young a company was formed in Granby, about twelve miles from where we lived, to come to Ohio. They exchanged their lands in Granby for land in Tallmadge, Ohio. Father went to Granby to see them, thinking some of going with them: but did not like the prospect, so did not join the company. After he and uncle Joel had divided, there was a chance to sell what they both owned of the old farm, so they sold it; father receiving, I think, one thousand dollars for his share.

In 1815, after the old farm was sold, uncle decided to come to the Western Reserve and see "The Far West" as it was then called. Uncle had talked of it for a long time. Father had talked with others and felt satisfied to try the new country without the expense of a trip with uncle, who made the journey on horseback, and visited Vernon, Hartford and perhaps Hudson, Ohio. He returned well pleased, brought back samples of the soil, and made a favorable report. Soon after his return they decided to try the new country. Father went to Hartford, Conn., and, stopping at a public house on his way home, met there a man by the name of, I think, Oliver Phelps, who asked him if he knew of a small farm in his section for sale. He did; his was for sale, the man came, looked at, and bought it for twelve hundred dollars; then we made preparations for moving.

Father fitted up a wagon, by taking cart wheels for hind wheels, getting grandfather Hart to make forward wheels, and gearing to match, doing the ironing off himself. Two yoke of oxen, with a horse for leader made the team, nothing breaking nor giving way in all our journey. We also had a one horse wagon with a seat hung on wooden springs, in which father, mother and Orpha rode, carrying provisions, &c. We boys took turns driving the team, while those not thus employed amused themselves in various ways, often hunting in the woods along the road, thus supplying us with fresh meat.

Our family consisted of father, mother, Orpha, Linus, Benjamin, David, Rufus, and myself. Noyes did not come until the next year. Uncle Joel had two yoke of oxen, a wagon not as heavy as ours-it was broken several times-and a one horse wagon. Uncle's family consisted largely of girls, so he hired Gamaliel Wilcox to drive his team. Both families together numbered eighteen in all. We started August 8th, 1816. Many friends and neighbors gathered to bid us a last goodbye. We were full of hope, but warm tears were shed as we said farewell to those loved ones, and turned our eyes forever from our dear old home. They tell me that time has made but little change: the same old house where we were born, and raised to manhood, nearly; the same fields and rocks over which our boyish feet clambered; the same old hills, valleys and streams are all there as we left them. In my memory, every rock, field and hillside is as near and familiar, as real and lifelike today, as it was that summer's day a half a century ago. All the memories and associations of my childhood home are cherished as sacred; for they seem to me a part of my youthful self and my parents. It was afternoon on Thursday when we started, but we did not get out of Barkhamsted until the next day. We took "the north route," passing through Springfield, Mass., Albany, Rochester and Buffalo, N.Y.; down French creek, to Meadville, Pa., through Greenville, Pa., to Vernon, Ohio; arriving there Sept. 20th, 1816. Mother was fifty years old the day we landed in Vernon.

We went into an old log house one mile east from the center of Vernon, which was owned by Eber Clark, father of Ralza Clark, where we remained five weeks; during which time we cleared about five acres of an old windfall which had grown up to briars and elders and sowed it to wheat; cut some rowen for hay on Clark Giddings' farm in Kinsman, and some in other places. While we were doing this, father was looking for a place we might call home. He thought most favorably of Kinsman and bought eighteen acres of Mr. Kinsman which was located on Stratton's Creek, and had been reserved for a "water privilege." It was this privilege that induced him to buy and locate in Kinsman. Adjoining this privilege was a farm of fifty acres, partly improved, having on it an old log house, barn and stillhouse, which he also bought. The stillhouse was run for a time after we took possession, we having nothing to do with it; however. The farm was purchased from Aleck Mathews and is situated in the north part of the village of Kinsman, on the west side of the north and south center, or Meadville road and nearly opposite the junction of the center and Jamestown roads.

At this point the center road dips into the hollow, or basin of Stratton's creek along its west bank, or hill. The log house was on the brow of this hill overlooking the road. The hill was quite steep and a dugway wagon road led down the hill from the house to the main or center road.

The house was a few rods north from the one now occupied by Rufus H. Parker. The Jamestown road leads from the center road across the hollow of Stratton's Creek; up its east bank in a northeasterly direction until it strikes the center line of the town1ship; thence due east into Pennsylvania. The mill privilege which father bought, was located on the Jamestown road where it crosses Stratton hollow. North of this road the banks or hills on either side of the stream are high and approach near enough together to afford a desirable position for building dams for water power. The farm, and water privilege of eighteen acres, were near together and very conveniently located.

On a cold, wet, uncomfortable day, late in October, 1816, we again took up our line of march. Leaving our stopping place in Vernon, we came up the east side of the Pymatuning creek, halting for a few minutes at the store of Esquire Andrews, thence down the hill, across Stratton's creek to the center road; thence north about a mile to "our home in the new world." In appearance it was most unhomelike. It was three p.m. when we arrived, and the occupant - a Mr. Brainard - had made no move to vacate.

Things were tumbled up and tumbled out. Brainard sent for Mr. Gillis, who came with a wagon and team, and we helped to load up and send them off as quickly as possible. It was cold and wet; the floor of the house was covered with mud and water, which we cleaned out as well as we could. Father, mother and Orpha accepted an invitation to pass the first night at Esquire Allen's.

Brainard was too lazy to provide wood for fuel, so he would bring in rails, put one end into the fire, and push them up as they burned. There had been a porch floor in front of the house, which he had burned for fuel, leaving only the logs on which the floor was laid, and the hogs had made their bed between the logs. Mr. Brainard said he never before lived where it was so hard to get wood as there. While they were getting away, some of us took our axes and chopped down an oak tree, the top falling into the door yard and breaking up so that with very little chopping we had good wood enough in the door yard to last us for a week. It was a dry, girdled tree, and there were enough more like it near by to last several years. The next day we began to fix the house inside and out. We split puncheons for the porch floor, making it comfortable getting in and out. Access to the loft, or chamber, was by a ladder on the outside, and through a small hole. We stopped the hole and moved the ladder inside; made a trap door through which we went into the chamber, and found it a much more comfortable arrangement on a cold winter's night. After putting the house in habitable order, we proceeded to fix up a shop to work in.

There was an old spring house south and west from the house, about ten by twelve feet in size, which we rigged up and went to work. House furniture was scarce. Father bought from Mr. Brainard for one dollar the arm chair which we call "mother's chair," and we have it yet. Benjamin, Linus and I made chairs for ourselves. Before we left Connecticut, Linus worked with a Mr. Cannon - who was a noted edge tool maker -making axes and other edge tools, so he had some knowledge of working and tempering steel. I had to blow the bellows and strike, and soon we had plenty of work, receiving for our pay anything that helped us in living. Provisions were high; wheat two dollars per bushel; pork, twenty dollars per barrel. There was a light fall of snow the Sabbath after we came to Kinsman. Esquire Andrews called; he, with two of his daughters -one of them was afterward your mother - had started for meeting up north. Father, Benjamin, Linus and I accompanied them, and when we came home the bushes were loaded with the falling snow. Our first experience in hunting deer was during the following week. Benjamin, Linus and I went to the woods, and in a favorite resort for deer, southwest from the old meeting house, Benjamin saw two deer in their beds. He fired at one; it jumped and ran about half way around him and fell. Benjamin was soon there. The deer was still kicking; so he closed in and cut the deer's hamstrings. On being asked why he did so, he replied with a merited air of importance, "It is the old hunter's rule." He had shot the deer through the heart. and how to get it home was the question. It was decided that I must go for the old mare and wagon, while they got the elephant-it looked in our eyes nearly as large as one - up to the State Road. I started at my best speed, found father at home, who helped me hitch up and went with me. Just where the town hall now stands at the corner made by the center road and the one leading to the old meeting house, we met Benjamin and Linus. They had cut a pole, tied the deer's legs together, run the pole through, and carried it so far-more than a mile-on their shoulders. Benjamin, as well as the rest of us, learned afterwards that "the old hunter's rule" was much the best way, i.e., drag it on the snow or ground by the head. We loaded it into the wagon and took it home. It proved to be a fine, fat doe, one year old, and helped us much in the way of meat. Father hired Young Butler, a half blood Indian, to kill some deer for us. He came to the shop about noon one day dragging a deer, ate some dinner, went out between the Meadville, and State roads, and before sundown had killed five deer for us, besides the one he had dragged in. We dried the hams, and salted the rest, thus supplying us with meat for the first winter. Deer were plenty then, and often came to the barn at night to eat hay with the cattle, for we could see their tracks in the morning. Brother Linus and I worked in the shop. We were awakened one morning the last week in December by the roaring and crackling of fire, and found our shop in flames; an ax standing by the door was all that was saved. Brother David had five hens and a rooster occupying the loft of the shop. He started from his bed at the alarm of "fire," came out but half dressed crying, "My hens are all burned up!" Soon the rooster called out, "We're all here," and you may judge the change it made in David when he found it true. The winter was so mild, compared with what we had been accustomed to in Connecticut, that we thought it very nice. Pleasant weather continued through the early winter, then snow fell about eight or ten inches deep. We built a new shop at the foot of the hill, nearer the road; sent to Pittsburg for a bellows, which cost us thirty dollars, and in four weeks after the fire were ready for work again. Esquire Allen and Dr. Peter Allen helped us much by bringing us work from Pennsylvania. When the ground was dry enough we started the plow. As we were plowing one day one of our oxen showed signs of sickness; his eyes were swollen, and discharged blood. We turned him out, and the next day he died. Father held a note against Eber Clark of Vernon. Clark had a yoke of black oxen, handsome, and good, which he offered to father, but at an extravagant price, considering father's loss and necessity his opportunity. Father took them as the best he could do to realize on the note; but I do not now remember the price. At times we went to the woods, but could not take much time for hunting, for we had to work for a living. Benjamin was the best shot, and his skill with the rifle was soon known far and near. Some of us would take a circuit around a deer - we knew their regular runways - and, following on its track, would drive it up to Benjamin, who was stationed where the deer was expected to pass, and when it appeared he would shoot it. We got a good many in this way, but I was not a lucky hunter, and never killed a deer in my life. I think father killed one with "the old gun," but Benjamin and Linus used rifles.

I can say but little about "the old gun." It was reported to have been made by a man by the name of Hill, in England, and that it was brought to this country by some of the first settlers. I do not know how it came into father's possession. We were told that father's brother Benjamin carried it while serving in the Revolution. Father also served in the war about three months and carried this gun, and he gave it to me because I was named "Lovel" for him. I can give you but a brief sketch of our beginning in our new home. The chairs we made were bottomed with splints; they have gone with the days that have passed. We thought them a luxury, and they were, as compared with a board placed on a block, which we had been using. Our losses were severe; so we had to practice economy in every way. The horse we drove to lead the oxen died soon after we came; the five acres of wheat we sowed in Vernon were not worth harvesting. We all went down there the next summer to cut it, but returned without striking a blow, so we lost our labor in clearing off the brush, fencing, plowing and seeding. We had good health, however, and a will to work, so we did not suffer as those who were sick, and scant of means. Brother Noyes remained in Connecticut one year after we left, to perfect himself in the making of scythes and other edge tools, which he was learning with a Mr. Pierce of Enfield. He came in 1817, driving a one horse wagon, and the last day of his journey was in company with Judge Asa Haynes, all landing at our house. After Noyes came we commenced building the trip-hammer shop. A dam was built across the hollow, north of the Jamestown road; the race followed the west hill or bank, and emptied into the channel of the creek, south of the road. The shop stood just north of the Jamestown, and a few roads east from the center road. When the shop was finished and in operation, father gave the land and privilege, with what he had put into the building, to Noyes, Benjamin, and Linus, as their share of his estate. They worked in company, and at one time had five forges in blast, supplying people in Western Pennsylvania and the Reserve with edge tools.

Each of the boys had in time a dwelling near the shop, were married and raised sons and daughters. They kept journeymen and apprentices, besides giving employment to many more in various ways. The names of some who learned their trades there I can remember: Joshua Fobes, James Truesdale, Henry McKinnie, Eli Bushnell, William Webber, Solomon Dilly, James Fletcher, Lucius Gillett and others I do not now recall. C. Herrick was teamster; he would load with cheese to Bell Font, bringing back iron. Such times as they had repairing the dam, after a freshet! Those were busy days, and by sunrise you might hear the rapid strokes of the triphammer for miles away on either side. There was some courting and coquetting: John Christy ordered a hay knife; several times he went for it and called to see Orpha, so the boys had it very trite that "John had cut James Truesdale out with a hay knife." In the spring when the fish were running, the boys would open the gates and let the water run in the race below the shop for two or three hours at night; the fish would swim up against the swift current and when they thought enough fish were in the race they would shut off the water and gather up the fish by the basketful. In time, Noyes thought that as he had a family growing up, he had better go for himself, so they agreed to dissolve partnership. Benjamin and Linus continued to work in partnership for some time longer, when Linus retired, leaving Benjamin sole owner. Linus commenced building what is now called "the lower grist mill." A saw mill had previously been built by father and the boys, which was burned in the night by catching fire from fishermen's torches. This also was located on Stratton's creek. In the fall of 1839, I went with brother Linus to Cleveland to buy gearing and machinery for the grist mill, and the next Monday after our return he was taken sick with a fever, having been exposed in Cleveland. One week later, I went down to work on the mill - my home being then in Wayne - feeling not at all well. At night I felt so much worse I returned home and had a run of fever. I was restored to health; brother lived three weeks and died, Oct. 3rd, 1839, aged 41 years.

I did not recover sufficiently to see him again before his death. Brother Linus was a man of marked ability; the business man of the family, and the principal one in making the work move on successfully. As a son, a brother, and a Christian man, too much cannot be said in his praise, his powers, both of his mind and heart, were in many respects remarkable; he was a leader in church and society; a man to be followed and imitated by all who would strive to live noble lives in the sight of God and man; and the most fitting tribute I can now pay to the memory of my brother, is my prayer that my children may be like him. His death caused a great change, and was the breaking up of our family in Kinsman. But few are left to tell the history of what was done. The mill was finished by the administrator, and stands today, grinding for those who wish without telling who was its originator. If this life is all; if death is all there is to the hereafter; what profit is there to man in life, or glory to God in his death?

Brother Benjamin continued to do some work in the shop, but it was little, when compared with what had been done before Linus' death.

Faint traces of the barn remain, and the channel of the race may still be traced, but the shop, with its scenes of industry and activity, are of the past and will be soon forgotten.

I will now go back and speak more particularly of my own employment, as you have requested me to do. Sometime after we came to Ohio, uncle Jerry Hart - mother's youngest brother - came with his family, and settled in Wayne, on the creek road, one mile north of the east and west center road. He was a carpenter and joiner by trade, and early in 1821-I think February-was doing some work on brother's house. I thought I would like building houses better than making axes, so I agreed to work with him two years for one hundred dollars. He wanted me to commence about the middle of April; I would not be twenty-one until the fourth of June; he said he would choose to have me commence in April, and go home during haying to make out my time. Father agreed to this, so I went to work with him April 16th, 1821, and when our folks were ready for haying I went home, working there until haying and harvesting were finished, when, there being one week's work more for me to do to make out my time, father gave me that, and I returned to my carpenter work with Uncle Jerry. Our work was mostly building barns. We would put up and inclose the frames before haying and finish them off afterwards. Winters we worked in the shop, and when my time was up, uncle was owing me sixty dollars. I had in the two years spent but forty dollars for clothing and incidentals.

I then hired to a Mr. Smith who was living in Kinsman, for ten months at twelve dollars per month, building a house for Daniel Allen. With him I had a good opportunity for studying drafting and doing good work, which I diligently improved, perfecting myself, both in workmanship and the principles of my trade, and I afterwards found this experience of great benefit to me.

After this, I went to work again with Uncle Jerry building a house for Esq. Jonathan Tuttle, and a barn for Samuel Tuttle, in Williamsfield. My first earnings were spent for tools and clothing. I had some money to spare however, which I invested in notes drawing interest. Father and mother wanted me to take the management of the farm, and provide for them. I consented, hired a man to work the farm, and continued my work at my trade.

I was working for brother Noyes in Bloomfield, building a triphammer shop there, when David came over and said that father and mother wanted him to make some arrangement with me, so he could come home to live.

David was reticent, I knew not what to think of it, so the next morning I went home. My parents said David had been talking with them, making proposals that he would get married and come home and work the farm. They had told him if he could make arrangements with me, they would consent. This let new light on the matter; David made me an offer; I accepted and was by myself again. David married Lucy Perkins and lived with father and mother two or three years, when he sold out to brother Linus and his family still own and occupy the place. Father and mother lived with them until father's death, when mother came to live with me in Wayne.

After finishing brother Noyes' work, I engaged to work in company with a man whose name was Clark, making plows. We built a small foundry at the center of Bloomfield and did our own casting. By acquaintance I found him to be a man I did not care to continue in business with, so after one year I sold out, taking my pay in plows. I then made a pattern, went to Eaton's furnace in Wethersfield for my castings and put the wood to them, making my home with brother Linus in Kinsman. After finishing my plow business, I worked with Abram Griffin one year, building a house for Seth Perkins and one for Esq. Beman. While at work in Bloomfield, I bought seventy-five acres of land from Esq. Brown, in the northwest part of the town and was to pay for it in part with cows. We took cows in part payment from Mr. Perkins and Mr. Beman, and my share I turned to meet my obligation to Esq. Brown. August, September, October and a part of

November, 1828, I worked on the court house in Warren, Warren County, Pa., receiving one dollar per day. Returning from there to Kinsman, I walked the entire distance in one day; there was a wet snow on the ground, which with the mud made walking bad, so I got very tired. While working in Bloomfield, I repeatedly walked from Kinsman to my work - some fifteen miles - and hewed three hundred feet of timber for my day's work. Those were days of hard labor.

The summer of 1829, I worked for Elam Jones at the center of Hartford. January 21st, 1830, I was married to Miss Statira, daughter of Samuel Jones of Wayne. The Jones family had formerly been neighbors of ours in Barkhamsted. The spring of 1830 we commenced keeping house, in a house belonging to brother David. Sometime after selling out to brother Linus he had bought this place, which was east from father's, on the Jamestown road. I had bought seventy-five acres joining David's which was wild and unimproved. It was land that Mrs. Kinsman had given to the Presbyterian society of Kinsman and I was to pay for it by work on the new meeting house.

During the summer of 1830, I worked on a house for Esq. Burnham and one for brother Linus. In 1831 I built a small house for myself, buying a small corner from brother David on which to set it, as my land was all unimproved, and, also had five acres of my land "chopped."

The summer of 1832 I worked on the meeting house in Kinsman, moving into a small house near by and boarding hands who were at work on the meeting house. I sold my land in Bloomfield and in Kinsman, and after I had finished work on the meeting house, we moved to Wayne. The summer of 1833, I worked for Esq. Andrews, who was afterwards your grandfather. In 1834 I bought fifty acres of land from Alvin Fobes in Wayne, on the east side of the Hayes road and one mile east from the center. There were no buildings on the land, though considerable of it had been improved.

I bought a small house, moved it onto the land, fitted it up comfortable to live in and afterwards built a barn. I also built a house for Flavel Jones, who was my brother-in-law and a barn for Horace Giddings.

The summer of 1834 I worked for George Hezlep, at the center of Gustavus. This was the best lob I had ever had.

In May, 1839, my dear wife was taken sick. All was done that skill and attention could do. The ninth day of her sickness, May 23d, she was taken from me. The nine years we had lived together were pleasant years, for her aim was to make all happy. Small in stature, a mind to meet the wants of all about her so far as she was able, her loss caused sorrow and mourning that none know, save those who have experienced it. In 1835, I think, we made a public profession of religion by uniting with the First Congregational Church of Wayne. She died the death of a Christian and lives with the redeemed. In June, 1839, I commenced work for brother Linus, putting up a frame for a grist mill in Kinsman, making my home with Father Jones in Wayne. I worked the best I could. At times I would become insensible to all that was passing around me, 'till there would be a prompting to move, I then would go to work again. At length the frame was put up and inclosed. Mr. Bailey, the millwright, commenced fitting the mill, and I worked with him as under-workman. In September, as I have stated, brother and I went to Cleveland to get castings, etc. Brother's death stopped the work on the mill for that season, but it was finished the next year by the administrator.

June 24, 1840, I was married to Lucy Caroline, daughter of John Andrews of Kinsman. I have spoken of him several times as Esquire Andrews, and we commenced keeping house soon after on my farm in Wayne, where we have since lived. After my second marriage, my work was mostly small jobs away, or at home in my shop. I built the house we now live in, and worked the farm mostly with hired help. In 1850 a neighbor hired a man to do some mowing for him with his Ketchum machine. Seeing it operate I conceived the idea of a two-wheeled machine with a jointed, or flexible cutterbar. I went to work and built one with wooden power wheels. The wheels were not heavy enough to give sufficient power to the machinery, but, by putting weight on the frame, it would mow, I then made a pattern for cast wheels and built a machine that mowed well. Not understanding the patent laws, I did not secure the right. Others afterwards did. Altman & Miller, and George Dolph secured patents for certain features of my invention. Time has passed on; you are acquainted with the events of later years and I will not repeat them. If I live until the 4th of June next, I shall be 78 years old, living where I first bought in Wayne. I have added more land to my first purchase, so in all there are now 95 acres. I am enjoying comfortable health and have the comforts of life.

Since writing what I have you request me to write more particularly of my parents. My father was of medium height, weighing, I should think, 160 pounds in middle life. He was a blacksmith by trade, quick in motion, and to understand and execute. He was quite sensitive, yet had such control of himself that he rarely got angry. When he was about 40 years of age he was severely hurt while shoeing a horse, so he was never able to do much hard work again. He told the man when he had finished the shoeing that he had better have killed his horse and paid him for it than have done the job. After that he did but little custom work. In the winter, as he was able, he would make hoes. Uncle Joel would help him plate them out, and when the roads were good he would sell them, mostly in Canton and Simsbury, leaving some with merchants to pay for needed groceries and dry goods. Others he sold to farmers, taking rye or other grain. He was a good manager and supported his large family without incumbrance or debt. Grandfather, also, was a blacksmith; a mechanical genius is in the blood of the family. Father's sons were all mechanics; Noyes, Benjamin and Linus blacksmiths; I chose to work in wood; David, stone and brick. Rufus worked at blacksmithing a while, but feeling it to be his duty to work more directly to save the souls of his fellow men, he prepared himself and was licensed as a minister of the gospel by the Methodist denomination.

We had but one sister, Orpha, who had to stay at home the most of the time and work, but used what advantages she had for education, so that when she was old enough she could teach a common school. She has been married twice, and is now a widow. Her first husband was James Truesdale; the second, Elijah Bond. After the death of her first husband, she sold out in Canfield, O., and bought the house next north from ours in Wayne, where she lived until her second marriage, when she returned to Canfield. My mother in middle age was quite fleshy, of medium height, energetic, managing her house well, not much given to trade, but on one occasion a peddler came along and, taking a liking to the large dog we had, bid her for a trade. He had a small dog, and offered mother a tin tea canister to swap dogs with him. Mother traded dogs; the one we got proved to be a good one, the one she let go was good for nothing.

After a year or two her dog took sick and died. There was mourning for that dog, and I think father nor mother never owned another. Father trapped considerable, and his fame for trapping foxes was known far and wide. He died in Kinsman, July 3, 1842, aged 80 years, and was buried by the side of your uncle Linus, in the burying ground by the Presbyterian church. Mother died at our house in Wayne the same month and day of month as father, July 3, 1850, aged 84 years, and was buried by the side of her husband. Of grandfather's family I must speak briefly. The children were: Olive, Abigail, Sarah, Eunice, Lovel, Benjamin and Joel. I cannot name them in the order of their ages. Olive married Oliver Hitchcock, a Congregational minister, who was settled as pastor in a town toward Litchfield, Conn. They moved to Truxton, N.Y., about 1808, I think. Before they moved they sometimes visited us in Barkhamsted, and when we were coming to Ohio we stopped with them at Truxton, I think, four days. Abigail married Benjamin Brown. His sons, Benjamin and Moses, were drum makers, and often came to Barkhamsted for timber, and sheep for pelts. I once helped them drive some sheep, as I have written before. Their drums were in good demand in 1812. We made their home a stopping place going to and returning from Hartford.

Sarah married Daniel Rose of Granville, Mass. He was a butcher by trade, and they lived perhaps a mile and a half south from us in Barkhamsted, on the west side of the river. She raised a large and respectable family, and did a noble work. Some of their descendants are now prominent in society. We often visited with them. Their children were: Marquis, Lovel, Sarah, Abner, Francis, Parker, Daniel and Loren. Daniel came to the Reserve to visit and see the country a year after we came. He returned and came again with Abner and Loren, ready for work. They located on what is now the Spellman farm, on the creek road, north of Uncle Jerry's, in Wayne; built a double log house and made ready for their parents and Abner's family, who came in the spring of 1819. They lived on the creek road for some time, but eventually settled north and east from the center of Williamsfield. Parker Rose came to Ohio some years later, and finally settled in Pennsylvania.

My aunt Eunice married Stephen Parker; we were never able to trace any relationship between his family and ours. He lived in Smyrna, N.Y, and we stopped with them a week, on our way to Ohio. We were there the night of August. 20th; there was a heavy frost that night, killing corn, potatoes, etc. During the day some flakes of snow were flying, but it cleared at night with a heavy frost.

Benjamin Parker, father's brother, was in the Army of the Revolution and died soon after coming home, aged about 20 years. Uncle Joel Parker married mother's sister, Abigail Hart and lived on the north farm, the one first purchased by grandfather in Barkhamsted. This farm of about 100 acres, was taken by grandfather in a wild state and cleared, leaving perhaps 30 acres unimproved. The south farm where we lived, was mostly cleared when we bought it. Uncle Joel's children were Moses, Loly, Abigail, Caroline, Joel, Hannah, Harriet and Levi. The first year in Ohio, uncle rented and worked the farm of Dr. Jeremiah Wilcox, about one-half mile below the center of Vernon, O., on the north and south center road.

I think the next September they moved to Wayne and located on the creek road between uncle Jerry Hart's, and the Rose's; their house stood a little north from where Morris Spellman now lives, on the west side of the road. The house was built of logs, perhaps before they went there, but I think they commenced the "clearing" and improved several acres.

We often visited back and forth, for before coming to Ohio, we had been very much as one family. They came to Gillis' mill for grinding and to our shop for blacksmithing. They lived on that place for eight or ten years and from there they went to Andover, O., one mile south and one mile east from the center. Uncle died there May 29, 1845, aged 77 years and was buried in the yard at Andover Center. After his death, the family removed to the east part of Kinsman and stayed there awhile; I think they then went to Pennsylvania, where aunt Abigail died February 27th, 1866, aged 87 years and was buried by the side of her husband in Andover. Some of the family are now living in Kinsman; and of their family, Loly married Wilcox Akins and settled at Burghill in Vernon. Moses married Catherine Christy and settled in the east part of Kinsman. Abigail married Andrew Christy, who was a brother of Catherine and John, and settled in Kinsman. Caroline married a Burchard and settled near Meadville, Pa. Joel married and went west, also Levi. Hannah married a Mr. Root and settled near the center of Andover. Harriet married and settled in Pennsylvania.

Of our ancestry prior to grandfather Benjamin, I can say but little. Father told us that it was handed down in the family that "three brothers came from Wales, two went north, he thought to Maine, while one, our ancestor, stopped in Connecticut. All trace of the two brothers who went north has been lost.

The record of our fathers which you sent, came last evening, also a picture. It's value to me cannot be estimated, for kindness from our children is like water to a thirsty soul. I am filled with thoughts of my childhood and of our old home in Barkhamsted. I never expect to visit the scenes of my youth; it is the memory of my dear father and mother that remains most clearly in my mind and I look forward with hope and joy to the time when I shall be with them again, in the home of the redeemed, which our Savior has prepared, where there will be no more parting and no more death.

Your father,

LOVEL E. PARKER.

"The Old man sat in his elbow chair;

"His locks were thin and gray;

"Memory, that faithful friend was there,

"And she, in querulous tones did say,

"Has't thou not lost with careless key,

"Something I had intrusted to thee?

"His pausing answer was sad and low;

"It may be so-it may be so;

"The lock to my casket is worn and weak,

"And time, with a plunderer's eye doth seek,

"Something I miss, but I cannot say,

"What it is he has stolen away;

"But the gems thou didst give me when life was new,

"Here they are all told and true,

"Diamonds and rubies of changeless hue."

Mother.

These lines by Mrs. Sigourney, were written by mother, at the foot of father's manuscript. I will add a few pages written by my mother, for me, of recollections of herself and others. She has written much more than father and embraced a larger range of subjects. I add these pages principally because of what she says of grandfather and grandmother Parker.

CLAUDIUS L. PARKER.

We were married June 24th, 1840. Quite a number of friends from Ashtabula county were invited and they all came except grandpa and grandma Jones. There was uncle Calvin Andrews and his wife aunt Eliza: Linus H. Jones, who was groomsman, Flavel Jones and wife - she was uncle Jerry Hart's daughter, Anson Jones and lady, Albert Hayes and Sarah Parker-she was attending school at Hartford at the time; brother Lyman was in Hudson, Claudius had two students and they devoted the forenoon to gathering wild strawberries; we had three broad platters of the fruit on the table. Sister Hannah came early bringing George and Lucy; most of my home pupils had invitations of long standing and were on hand.

When the company broke up father remarked, "Well, it's been pretty much of a Harrison meeting." Mr. Eldred was the officiating clergyman. That evening we walked to the Thursday evening prayer meeting; the next morning a load of goods and furniture preceded us. We called on mother Parker, as she had not felt well enough to come to our wedding. Father Parker came, also Mrs. Linus Parker, (whose husband died a few weeks previous to sister Fanny's death), Benjamin and wife, David and wife, Truesdale and wife (Orpha), Dr. Best and wife, besides a raft of cousins and school girls. David's folks lived in Wayne, but had stayed over night in Kinsman, so we had them for company.

When we came on the Hayes road we caught sight of the load of goods. Brother Claudius was the driver. Soon it commenced to sprinkle. Aunt Eliza had prepared dinner, but we declined on account of the threatening weather. Dr. Best had vacated the house only a few days before, was on hand when we drove in and assisted in unloading before the heavy rain. We had a powerful flood, rained hard nearly all the afternoon. Just before dark it held up and Claudius drove home. David's folks stayed some hours and Abigail helped me in arranging things. The house was "empty, swept and garnished." It was an easy task to set up a bedstead, spread a carpet and get supper for two. Albert Hayes came the next morning making three. Only two weeks till we made our first visit home. It was the 4th of July. The celebration was in the church and all the family had gone save Louisa and little Fanny.

We drove home by Noyes Parker's and brought Henry-then seven years old-with us. He and Le Mira had lived here before Statira died. After haying Mr. Parker hired Erastus Foster to help quarry stone for the new house. I took Lucy Andrews-cousin Mary Ann's little girl- the first winter for company.

Our men were in the woods getting out lumber for building. Louisa was married the last day of October, 1840, and the next morning brother Claudius left to commence his theological studies at Lane Seminary. Mr. Parker and I accompanied him to Youngstown. He left us there and we went on to Canfield. On our way back we called at father Andrews', but stopped for dinner at Dea. Parker's. Grandpa had brought in string beans, grandma wanted more, so I went to the garden with him and Elon visited with his mother. Of course they were glad to hear from Orpha. Mr. Truesdale could only move about with the aid of crutches. The next season they came to Kinsman and also to Wayne, father and mother Parker coming at the same time, so our house was full that night. David and Rufus with their families were here in the afternoon. In the spring of 1841, we hired a man for the summer, also Aunt Harriet sent Rufus-uncle Linus' only son-to live here. Emily Rayn came to live with us and I gave her lessons in grammar and arithmetic.

She helped me for her board. From that second summer we averaged eleven in the family daily. The summer of 1842, father Parker died. David was plastering our house; word was sent from Kinsman that father had been failing for nearly a week; brothers went down together and did not return till their father had left them. Newton was six months old. Sabbath following was "communion" in Kinsman. The hour of funeral service was 5 p.m. Many relatives from Williamsfield and Wayne had gathered at the residence of the deceased at an early hour. As the day was declining, there were tokens of rain. Mr. Eldred came at length and delivered a discourse from the text "All the days of my appointed time will I wait till my change come."

Before the service closed the heavens grew black, everyone was in haste to find shelter. As the procession was passing my father's house, mother sent out a big shawl and an umbrella by Mary Reeve, who took the baby into the house. When we reached the church it poured in torrents. John Kinsman and brother Lyman were there, and we all sought shelter. After waiting in the vestibule till nearly dark the rain subsided, so those few accompanying proceeded with the interment. The next morning the sons met in Mother Parker's room. She produced the will, asking to have it read in the presence of the family. All seemed to be satisfied. Mother was henceforth to have her home with us; she came soon after and lived seven years, departing this life the same month and day, July 3d, that father did. There was the same drenching rain on Monday, July 4th, but the funeral was to take place the next day, July 5th. Aunt Orpha and her children rode down with Mr. Lord, our minister. Father Andrews and Auntie Perkins were the only ones in waiting at the burying ground, and I accompanied them home. Maria Reeve was with us that summer; she and Aunt Orpha relieved me of much care.

Hannah, our youngest, was six months old and was a lovely child. Her grandmother was proud of her; said Hannah looked like her little ones. Mother was very fair in her old age; no doubt she was handsome in early life. When Lovel Parker went to hire her to help his mother Mr. Hart said, "Why don't you take her for life?" so when it was settled in their own minds and consent was asked. "I did not think you would take me up so soon," was the reply.

One evening grandma had come from her room and was conversing about early times and old acquaintances, when your father put in, "Yes, many a time I've seen you and father stealing up the mountain on the old mare, on your way to Mr. Eells' to get the knot tied." In a moment she assumed her sternest tone in reply, "You were not there, how should you know anything about it?" Once when her father had made an evening call and the boys had been having their own fun, as he was leaving he paused to say, "Hannah, I think you are the crossest spoken woman I've seen this many a day." There was nothing silly or foolish about mother; she was kind, but stern at times in her address. Orpha said, "Mother always would have good victuals." I can see more resemblance to her in the family than to her husband. As she rested on her staves, bending over the coffin that Sabbath afternoon, she said, "You have been a good husband to me," and she was a good mother.

Always, in every prayer, she made especial mention of her grandchildren. A weekly prayer meeting for females was sustained in her room in Kinsman. As a deacon and a delegate Father Parker was often appointed to represent the church when his home was in Barkhamsted, and he was always happy when mother could accompany him. He said they were sure to assign him a good place if his wife was with him. She, too, could appreciate the good cheer, especially the unclerical boyishness of ministers off duty.

When I was eight years old, my father, coming in of a cold morning from the north barn, would speak of seeing Dea. Parker out examining his fox traps. Once, coming from school in the autumn, mother had a pailful of pigeons, neatly dressed, a present from Dea. Parker.

Grandma Andrews died just six months before Grandma Parker. Your father's and your mother's parents sleep in the same graveyard; they worshipped in the same sanctuary. Their influence has been far reaching, not only at home but in distant places. If you could have known Linus as my sisters, Fanny and Louisa, knew him. He taught a Bible class for years, and was an able and acceptable worker in all our religious gatherings.

Lucy CAROLINE PARKER.

NOTE.- By my father's first marriage he was brother-in-law to Linus, Flavel and Anson Jones; also Dr. Best and H. F. Giddings.

L. N. PARKER.

Residence of Linus Parker, Kinsman, Ohio, Taken 1854

AN EPISTLE TO POSTERITY.

BY RUFUS H. PARKER.

SEVERAL years since, C. L. Parker, a son of Elon Parker, compiled a genealogy of the Parker family up to the time they emigrated to Ohio. This paper was lost. My cousin, L. N. Parker, and myself bent our efforts to reproduce the lost history. Reliable material proved to be very limited, but from what we could secure we have compiled our lineage.

Not long after completing this part of our work, the Claudius Parker record was found. The two records substantially agree.

In our researches we found a paper written by Elon Parker, which afforded us a reliable connecting link and was very valuable and interesting.

Could our progenitors each have left a similar record, their value to us would have been incalculable. They were a brave, patriotic, religious and virtuous set of men, and to let the memory of such people die is an injustice to them and an injury to their posterity. I am the only Parker living who can, from memory and personal observation, give an account of the early history of the family after their coming to Ohio.

Taking this view of the matter, in connection with the urgent solicitations of Cousin L. N. Parker, I will relate a few incidents which are graven on my memory and may possibly be of interest to others long after I have crossed "the silent river." My earliest recollections are of the double log house in which we lived, and of the framed "lean-to" in which grandfather and grandmother Parker lived. A part of the log house was the one in which the family first settled when they moved to Kinsman. It stood on the north bank of a ravine, a few rods from my present residence, and no trace of it is now left to mark its location.

In it was the old-fashioned fireplace, not less than five feet in length and three in depth, built of brick and stone into the second story, or loft, of the house and topped out with sticks of wood, which were about three feet long, and split to about two inches square. These were built up like a pen and plastered inside and out with clay mortar. In the fireplace was the long, iron crane, with its hooks and trammels, the andirons upon which the fire was laid, and by its side the long, iron shovel, tongs and toasting iron, with the hand hook that hung on the wall, all manufactured in our own shop. The broad stone hearth, the huge back log, with a smaller one on top, a large forestick on the andirons, with the three sticks of green wood above and a dry wood fire between. A pile of dry wood occupied the space at the right of the fireplace, while at its left was a bench for the water pail, with the extra pots, kettles, etc., underneath. The cast iron bake-kettle with its iron cover, in which was baked the delicious rye and Indian bread, the roasted Neshannock potatoes, raked from the hot ashes, the long handled frying pan, the large round griddle, on which buckwheat cakes were baked; the cloth holder, that hung by a loop from a nail; the broad mantel, supported by the front stone of the fireplace, on which stood the tallow dips in high iron candlesticks, and the wood splinters with which to light them; the hand bellows; the large brick oven to the left of the fireplace, capacious enough to supply the wants of twenty men, and men enough around the house at meal time to consume the supply. Later came the "tin reflector," which was then supposed to be the ne plus ultra of human invention. (Note. A tin reflector was a tin oven placed in front of the fire in the fireplace.) Underneath the floor was a hole in the ground which was used for a cellar and was entered through a trap door and down a ladder. Outside the house was the V-shaped ash leach, with its dugout trough to catch the lye, from which was made the soap for family use. All these scenes are indelibly stamped upon my memory, and many of the articles mentioned were luxuries and possessed but by few families at that time. Very few of them are now in use, and it will not be long before all of them will have passed from the memory of the oldest inhabitant.

My father was a manufacturer of edge tools and had in his employ a number of young men who lived at our house. The party was a jolly one as it circled around a huge fire in the wide fireplace on winter evenings. Sharp jokes were given and taken, without malice or mercy, and woe be to the one who could not keep up his end.

My position was sure to be on the knee of William Webber, who would point out to me objects to be seen in the fire and never seemed to tire of answering my numerous questions. It was on his knee I was taught to whistle, which fact my friends have never ceased to regret. He whistled out of one corner of his mouth, and I learned to whistle from the same corner of my mouth. He taught me also how to take the advantage in lifting heavy bundles of iron, run in foot races, wrestle and perform other feats of skill and strength, in all of which I excelled, and won for him many a wager. I have often heard my mother say, "The water bucket was never empty, the fire never burned low, nor was she allowed to lift heavy pots and kettles when William was in the house," and it was such acts of kindness that won my mother's gratitude. If he had a failing it was in his rollicking, jolly, don't care disposition. After leaving my father's employ, he got into bad company and was led astray. He sent to father for assistance, and without knowing that father had already decided to go, mother urged him to hasten to William's relief. He was saved, went West a changed man, became an influential citizen and served his State in the Legislature with credit. Before the evening circle was broken, father would read a chapter from the Bible, sing a hymn in which all joined, and thank God in earnest prayer for all his blessings. Mother then put me into my trundle bed, and kneeling by its side we would repeat the child's prayer, "Now lay me down to sleep." Calvin Smith was the farmer. I can see him now as he would go out to work with the oxen hitched to the cart, in which was the wooden mould board plow and a < shaped harrow. He became a man of influence in the religious world. North of the house stood the double log barn, with a threshing floor in the center, where the cart, sled, plows and other farming tools were housed when not in use. Grandfather always insisted that tools not worth housing were not worth having, and he had a place for everything and everything must be in its place.

In the east end of the barn was the stable. It was so low that a horse could not enter without crouching, and the feeding was done from the threshing floor. The roof of the barn, as well as that of the house, was covered with oak clapboards, split and shaved by hand and held in place by long logs fastened lengthwise of the roof and crosswise on the shingle. In 1830 this barn was torn down and used for firewood after a 30 by 40-foot modern structure had been erected on the hill, about ten rods west from my present residence. This barn also has been torn down and the timbers worked into the one now in use. Grandfather and I worked the old house up into firewood, and I think I never disliked any work I have ever done as much as I did chopping those dry, hard logs into stove wood. The well, or spring as it was termed, was in the upper end of the ravine, not many feet west of the log house. It was then 13 feet deep, and an abundance of water flowed over the top at all seasons of the year. Since the adjoining lands have been cleared, the well goes dry in summer and has gradually filled with stones and mud, so that but for my recollections all trace of it would be lost. Twenty feet down the ravine, where some large willow trees now stand, was another spring, over which was built a spring house that was aristocratic in proportions and architecture for the times. The roof all sloped one way and nearly touched the bank into which the spring house was set. This roof afforded me an improvised toboggan slide, on which I spent many happy days before the origin of numerous scratches on my hands and face, and holes in my clothes was discovered. I had observed my father moving huge grindstones by placing a roller under one edge, so I experimented with a roller under one end of a plank and the experiment proved a success. There was just enough danger in this rattle te-bang descent to make the sport exhilarating to a boy of my age, 4 years. I was admonished with the rod to discontinue these exploits, and it is unnecessary for me to say they were discontinued promptly. I have but slight recollections of my father further than that he was very fond of his family, particularly of his son, of whom he had great expectations, and no time nor pains were spared in teaching me that obedience to my Heavenly Father as well as to my earthly parents was necessary if I wished to be happy, and now in old age, I have reached threescore and ten, as I look back to those happy days, there never arises a doubt in my mind that those early instructions, tempered with love and fervent prayer, have kept me from yielding to many of the temptations which surround every young man. My father had extensive plans by which his family would have been benefited, had he been permitted to live, and not the least was the education of his son. He died when I was but eleven years old, and well do I remember his last words to me. "Rufus, you will be a good boy and take good care of your mother and sister. God bless you; good-bye."

He exacted no promise but the trust he reposed in me has been the guiding star of my life. The most vivid recollections I have of my father are connected with a journey I made with him to Meadville, Pa., when I was four years old. We started one afternoon with Gaff and Bill, a pair of fine sorrel horses hitched to a wagon load of axes. We reached Hartstown before dark and put up for the night at the Martsall House, then one of the leading hotels of the country, but now a dilapidated tumble down building with no indications of hospitality. After supper we crossed the street to Benjamin Ewing's store. Father had given me a boy's ax and suggested if I wanted some pocket money, I might sell the ax to Mr. Ewing; I did, receiving 62 1/2 cents for it. This was my first business transaction, and also the first money that I had to call my own. I felt richer then than at any other time in my life since, and Mr. Ewing was my hero. Father sold several dozen axes here and more to a Mr. Farr, at Evansburg, where we took dinner the next day, arriving at Meadville late in the evening and putting up at the Barton House. One of Mr. Barton's sons-Link Barton-afterwards learned edge tool making with father. We spent the evening at Mr. McFarland's store, where the remainder of the axes were disposed of, father receiving in payment part money and the balance in groceries. This store was so vividly pictured in my memory that when entering it sixty years later, everything seemed as familiar as though I had been there every day during that time. On this trip father bought a set of green Windsor chairs, that were very aristocratic for the times; they are still doing service.

Another impressive recollection is of the infant school taught by Miss Betsey Cowles, in the old school house that stood on the ground where Rankin's drug store now stands. The same building is occupied by R. K. Hulse as a dwelling house. Our first lesson was in astronomy and the solar system was marked out on the floor with chalk. Jedediah Burnham represented the sun; my sister, Sarah, the earth; Essington Gibson, a comet; I represented Mercury; I do not recollect who represented the moon and other planets. As we followed the lines marked for each one, it conveyed to our minds a good idea of the solar system. For a fuller and more interesting description see "Miss Gilbert's Career," by Dr. Holland. Miss Cowles also taught us the multiplication table by singing it to the tune of Yankee Doodle. Miss Maria Webber was our next teacher, whom we all loved and obeyed; she was followed by a Mr. Brown, who was a tyrant, disliked and disobeyed when possible without fear of punishment, which was not often. Then came Mr. Morse another tyrant; but not long after this a new school house was built on top of the hill, as you go to Hamilton Bros' mill from the west. Uncle Rufus Parker was my first teacher in the new house. I was named for him and received a drab colored beaver hat for that honor. Next came Dwight King, now Rev. Dwight King; Benjamin Allen Jr., and others. My opportunities for acquiring an education were limited and those I did have were not all well improved. My labor was necessary to aid in supporting my mother and sisters. Like all the Parkers, I excelled in arithmetic and geography; could repeat pages of history after reading it twice, but alas, my memory has fled. I was "the best boy in school" under some teachers and a very bad boy under others. The house in which I now reside-1897-was built in 1831-32 and my uncle Elon superintended the work. I was five years old at the time and had made great calculations on seeing it raised; but mother being afraid I might get hurt sent me to school that day as usual. I have never been more disappointed in my life than when I returned from school and saw the building standing to its full height before me; to say I was out of patience would be putting it mildly. Father had intended to finish the house from top to bottom before moving into it, but was prevented by a fire in the dry house. His lumber, as well as considerable of the lumber designed for the C. and P. church was consumed.

New lumber had to be sawed and seasoned. It was late in December when we moved in and then the front rooms were not finished off. The work had been hurried on account of mother's illness; she was not able to sit up; everything from the old house had been moved and put in order in the new one before mother came; four men, one at each corner of her bed carried her to the sled at the door and father carefully drove the oxen up the hill. She was soon in her new home where she spent the remainder of her days and died there June 8th, 1889.

The house remained unchanged until my return from California in 1857, when the front entrance was changed from the east end to the center of the building in the south side. The large chimney stack, which was erected before the days of cook stoves, with its three fireplaces below, two above, and three large ash pits in the cellar connected with the fireplaces above, was taken down, leaving room for a hall. The unfinished rooms were done off, giving us four rooms in the place of two, as before. The west end, or wing, was but one story high and In it was another large chimney stack, with a fireplace nearly as large as the one in the log house, and a brick oven on the right. In the southwest corner of the wing was an entry from which we went into the cellar, which was under the whole house. Stairs to the attic were back of the chimney. On the north side of the large kitchen was a pantry, sinkroom and mother's bedroom. Grandfather and grandmother occupied the room we now use for a sitting room. The inside of the house has been so remodeled that but few would recognize it, but we have made an effort to preserve in a general way the outside appearance as father originally designed it. In all my traveling I have never seen a place quite so pleasant, nor quite so much like home to me as this.

The old ax factory was built in 1818 by Noyes, Benjamin and Linus Parker. It stood on the west bank of Stratton's creek, about five or six rods north of what is now the Jamestown road. The main building was about forty by fifty feet square, ten to twelve feet high, with a long steep roof sloping north and south. The only entrance was by a large, wide door near the center of the west end. On opening the door you descended five or six feet to a platform, which was about twelve feet square, where stood a forge and bellows, anvil, etc. Repairing was principally done at this forge, and here apprentices experimented and gained confidence in themselves. Two feet below was the main floor. To the right, on the south side, was Uncle Benjamin's forge, the most convenient one in the shop; and a description of one will answer for all. These forges were very like those now in use by blacksmiths, only much larger. On each forge was room for the charcoal, and connected to the right end was a wooden trough into which ran a stream of water to keep the tongs cool, which stood in one end. It was into this trough that Uncle Benjamin plunged Truman Phelps, when he boasted that no one in the shop could handle him. The first duty of an apprentice was to blow the bellows, stoke and keep an ample supply of coal on the forge. On a flat stone in front was a small pile of clean sand and occasionally a handful was thrown into the fire, for what purpose I never knew.

A box on the front side of the chimney contained stamps, punches, etc., and a little higher up was a box with a drop cover, where borax for welding purposes was kept. The boss's leather apron, when not in use, hung on the back side of the chimney, and a half barrel of salt water, in which edge tools were plunged after being brought to a desired heat to receive temper, stood between the anvil and the water trough, convenient to both. In front of the anvil stood a heavy, iron sledge with a long hickory handle. Two taps of the boss's hamm'er on the anvil summoned the apprentice, or striker, who must be there ready to strike while the iron was hot. One tap of the hammer gave notice when to begin striking and another when to quit. Wherever the boss's hammer struck there the striker must put his sledge, and it required no small amount of skill to always keep the sledge out of the way of the hammer, especially when quick blows were required, which was always the case when drawing an ax to an edge. In the east end of the building was the waterwheel with its large shaft twenty feet at least in length and three feet or more in diameter. Weight was necessary to prevent the triphammer from throwing the shaft out of its boxing. The triphammer was tilted by iron pins morticed into the shaft at equal distances apart, and as, the shaft revolved, these pins would strike the opposite end of the lever from which the heavy iron hammer was mounted, thus raising the hammer, and the interval between the striking of the pins was sufficient for the hammer to deliver its blow. The more rapidly the shaft revolved the more frequent were the blows; in brief, it was a machine hammer and could do the work of a dozen men. It was the curiosity of the times, and people came from far and near to see Parker's triphammer work. One old lady congratulated herself that "she would no longer have to go over the hill to Mr. Tommy Gillis's mill to get her corn ground." Back of the triphammer was the grindstone, which was also run by water power. The first grindstones used came from Vernon or Hartford, and were five or six feet in diameter. The door of the shop had been made very wide on purpose to let the stone in flatwise, and after they had been placed in position they were made true, and brought to the desired size by a process similar to that used in wood turning. One of the largest stones, while being run at high motion, split in two and fell from the shaft. The grinder had a narrow escape for his life. One-half of this stone is in use as a stepstone at my kitchen door. Later, stones of a smaller size were brought from Cleveland or near there. Quite a number of edge tool makers, who had learned their trade with the Parker Bros., would come with a load of axes once or twice each year to grind, polish and fit them for the market. After grinding, all edge tools were stamped "L. Parker, Cast Steel, Warranted, Ohio," and were taken to the polishing room in the second story, which was reached by a flight of stairs outside, where they were polished, blacked and boxed ready for market. Over-production had not been invented and, strive as best they might, the supply was never equal to the demand. Father's forge was on the north side of the shop, directly opposite Uncle Benjamin's, and near by the triphammer, and at his forge all the fine work of the shop was done. My father was an expert and rapid workman, as was William Webber, who had been taught by father. When it became necessary to fill an order quickly, William would be called from his forge to blow and strike for father, and they worked together as though parts of the same machine. The moment William was not required at the anvil he was at the bellows, and by the time father had finished one ax another was ready. Thus they would work for weeks together, turning out more work than the five other forges combined. Father tempered all edge tools when he was in the shop; at other times Uncle Benjamin did this part of the work with equal skill.

As the trade increased, an addition with two forges was built on the northeast corner. Uncle Eli Bushnell came from Austinburg and occupied it for a time, but it was not many years before he established himself in business in Hartford, Ohio. William Webber's forge was in the north west corner of the main building near father's. On the west side near William's anvil, was a plank bench with the large iron vise attached and on this bench-or table-the drills, dies, taps, &c., were kept. An addition was built in front at the northwest corner, for horse shoeing and other custom work, which was done by a journeyman, but it was not profitable and was soon discontinued. A few feet south of the factory was a large coal house, and once each year this building would be filled with charcoal for general use. No "stone," or bituminous coal, was used by blacksmiths at that time. Uncle Benjamin built a coal house for his own use northwest of the factory; this building is still in use-as a barn-which with the bank of the dam and the tail race, now nearly filled up, is all that remains, except myself, to tell the tale of the largest and most famous works that have ever been established in Kisman township. Long before father's death uncle Noyes had withdrawn from the firm and moved to Bloomfield, Ohio, where he built a similar factory on Grand River. Father was the acknowledged business manager of the works and his ability was never questioned.

He was systematic and decided, and one of the first lessons he taught an apprentice, was, that there was a place for everything and everything must be in its place. He was loved, respected and obeyed by everyone about the shop.

"Uncle Jim Smith," as he was called was a character. Tall, slim, thin and very confident in his own ability; his principal object in life seemed to be to drink whiskey, smoke a pipe and chew tobacco. He was uncouth and repulsive in his appearance, but was necessary to the successful operation of the Parker Brother's ax factory. No one could excel him in burning a coal pit, so once each year he was sent for. He would soon appear and would be sent to the east woods with teams enough to haul the wood that had been cut and dried, and was about four feet long. Smith would not allow any one to assist him in building a pit, for every stick had to stand to rule. He would first build a pen about two feet square and four feet high; then he would set the wood upon end around the pen, carefully leaving openings from the center, or chimney, to the outer edge, placing one tier upon another until the pile was at a proper height, leaving it conical in shape and generally containing thirty or forty cords of wood. Leaves or straw would then be spread over the pile to even the surface, then a layer of strong turf; after which dirt would be thrown on until it would be as near airtight as possible, excepting at the openings. The pit was fired at the openings and center, and in a few hours it would be thoroughly on fire, when all the openings would be closed. If smoke issued from all parts of the pit alike it was an evidence that the pit was evenly fired; if not, openings would be made to draw the fire into that part from which no smoke issued and when evenly fired all openings, except the center chimney would be closed and kept so, for eight or ten days, when the center also would be closed. As holes would occasionally burn through the covering of earth, they were immediately stopped with mud and leaves. Smith would not sleep from the time the chimney was closed until the last bushel of coal was "drawn." A light blue smoke issuing from any part of the pit gave notice that the wood was sufficiently charred. The coal was generally "drawn" at night so any remaining fire might easily be discovered and extinguished. Two or three days would be spent in "drawing" the coal from the pit, after which Smith would disappear with a jug in one hand and a package of tobacco in the other.

Not long after the ax factory was completed a sawmill was built. It stood about thirty feet northwest of where the Fobes and Gunderman flouring mill now stands and water to run this mill was brought from the ax factory dam by a race, traces of which still remain. This mill was burned about 1828 or '30. A larger mill with later improvements succeeded the old one and was supplied with water from a race which was dug on the east bank. The dam to turn the water into the new race-known as the "upper dam"-was built a few rods southwest of the north and south center line of the township. This was the best saw mill ever built on Stratton's creek and of the five formerly operated, not one now remains. In 1838, father and uncle Benjamin dissolved partnership; uncle taking the ax factory, father the water privilege on the east side of the creek. He immediately began erecting what was then called a "grist mill." Uncle Elon Parker superintended the work.

The two brothers went to Cleveland to purchase mill irons and while there they contracted typhoid fever. Father died soon after and the mill was completed the next season by the administrator of the estate and sold to S. A. Potter. As it would be natural to suppose, a strife between the "upper" and "lower" mills occurred. The Gillises owned the "upper" mill and had the advantage of long experience, extended patronage and a reputation for honesty. The "lower" mill had its reputation to earn; and their theory of making flour also differed. The Gillises dressed the face of their stone quite smooth, thus rubbing the grain into a flour which had a soft springy feeling; the "lower" mill stones were kept sharp, which cut the grain into small particles that could easily be felt when rubbed between the fingers. I could never distinguish any difference in the bread made from the flour of either mill, but the Gillises had the better of the contest.

The roller process has superseded all others. Since the timber has been cut away from the banks of the creek the supply of water for mill purposes has diminished the business activity, and the successful hum of machinery will never again be heard in the valley of Stratton's creek, unless the power is created by steam or some other power than water.

Aunt Orpha was an only daughter and the pet of the family. She was affectionate, kind and respectful to everyone, always sympathizing with them in trouble and ready to help. I have often heard my mother say that when she had gone to the extent of her strength and ability, Orpha was sure to come in. She always knew what to do and would do it so cheerfully that mother would soon forget her own trouble. You would scarcely expect to find a coquette in one so kind hearted, nor was she according to the general acceptation of the term; yet she was quite up to the coquette of the present day. The hay knife episode, as related by Uncle Elon, was undoubtedly one of her flirtations, and I will relate another that was no more successful to the suitor. A small, pompous young man of unknown antecedents and doubtful reputation whose name was Gale, came to work for father. He soon became smitten with aunt's charms and asked her to keep company with him. He had planned for this by coming in late to supper and at the time of the request, aunt was picking roasted potatoes out of the hot ashes. She without saying a word hurled a hot one at him, which struck him square in the face and as it struck it flew to atoms covering his face and whiskers with the hot potato. He was very angry and in relating the incident to the boys he said; "I would not have cared if she hadn't thrown that danged hot pertate at me." Mr. Gale made no further advances, and we afterwards learned

Photo of Mrs. Orpha Parker Truesdale Bond. (NOT SHOWN)

that he had a wife and children in Massachusetts. The verdict was that his impertinence received proper treatment. She afterwards married James Truesdale and no man ever had a more devoted wife. After his death she married Elijah Bond, but in a few years was again left a widow. She died at the age of 91 years, esteemed and respected by everyone. Uncle Elon Parker often told me that she was more like my father in disposition and temperament, than any other member of the family.

Uncle James Truesdale and my father were "agents for the underground railroad," and uncle was once mobbed and nearly killed by citizens of Canfield for his abolition proclivities. In another part of our family history it is stated that Grandfather and Grandmother Parker were good, Christian people, influential in church work and other society matters. From personal knowledge I can indorse all that has been said, and with pleasure and pride add some interesting facts to the history. My grandfather was always just, but at times a little quick tempered. He did not exhaust the supply, and there is still some of it remaining in the family. Many a time did he raise his cane over my provoking head, but never once did he strike. My neglect of duty and mischievous tricks would try his patience almost beyond endurance, but his affection for the memory of my father, and the feeling that I was left in his care, influenced him to be more patient with me than I deserved. He had willed all his property to father in consideration of having a home provided for himself and grandmother during their lives. Death prevented father from carrying out the contract, but grandfather's sense of right induced him to make a second will, leaving his property to mother and her four children. The remaining three or four years of his life were devoted to our protection and support, and it is no wonder that with such an example not one of his descendants has ever been convicted of crime or reduced to poverty. I love to sound his praise and relate his exploits. So intent was he to do something to help us that he often went beyond his strength. I can relate many incidents to corroborate this statement, but one will suffice. We had but one horse, Pete by name and, rather than hire another, grandfather attempted to plow the orchard with him alone. My barn stands near where the center of the orchard was; it was long since cut away. Pete was contrary, and grandfather too feeble to bring him to time, so I was put up on to his back, and with a good long apple tree sprout succeeded in making him work. Long before night we all were ready to quit, and grandfather was so completely exhausted that he could not stand without something to support him, so leaning on his trusty thorn bush cane, which was probably a foot longer than those now in use, he hobbled to the house. Three days of such work finished the plowing, and nearly finished grandfather. I think it was the last hard labor he performed, for he died in July of the same year.

I have no vivid recollections of my Grandmother Parker. In her old age she had fallen and injured her hip, from which she never recovered, and was thereby mostly confined to her room. After grandfather's death she lived with Uncle Elon. As far as we have any knowledge, grandfather was the most renowned hunter in the family. I should feel that I had not done justice to his memory if I did not record some of his exploits, and I can speak from personal knowledge, having accompanied him on many of his hunting excursions. He did not hunt foxes with dogs and gun, as is done at the present day, but caught them in traps, using scraps of freshly dried lard or tallow for bait. The revenue from the sale of fox skins supplied him with ammunition and tobacco. I recollect one sly fox which came near outwitting him. We went out one morning to examine the traps and found one of them missing. We followed the trail for two miles or more, when we found the trap fast on a little stub. The only chance the fox had to escape was by amputating his leg, which he did by gnawing it off, and there was a trail of blood where he made his escape. Several years after grandfather caught the same fox again. During this time he had been more than a match for grandfather's cunning, often springing the traps and eating the bait. We knew him by his tracks in the snow, but he was at last outwitted. One trap was set and baited as usual, while others were set around this one in a circle, but without bait. This game was too new for the fox to understand, and early one morning not long after I saw grandfather slowly coming in from the direction of the traps excited and happy, but very tired. I ran to meet him, and found he had the three-legged fox on his back. Grandfather was never tired of telling this story, and if they tell fox stories in Heaven, he is still telling it there. Squirrels were abundant in those days. Often we would go to the woods, and with the gun that he had carried in the Revolutionary war he would not be long in bagging all the game we wanted. He was a fisherman of renown; was also a noted bee hunter, and no one could excel him in catching pigeons, which he did with a net. He would level and mellow a piece of ground, set a long net, which was attached to a spring pole, along one edge. A rope from the pole led to a screen of bushes twenty or thirty feet away. He would sprinkle the mellowed earth with wheat and bait the pigeons for two or three days. The pigeons would become accustomed to the surroundings, and when everything was favorable grandfather would secrete himself behind the screen. Soon a flock of pigeons would settle; he would pull the rope, and hundreds of pigeons would be imprisoned under the net. In this way grandfather furnished material for many a luxurious pigeon pie. These birds, which once were so numerous that many times their flight darkened the sun for hours, have become extinct, and the government has a standing offer for a live specimen. One of the most vivid impressions of my youthful days is of the sugar camp. At that time it contained about forty large, fine maples dotting the valley along the brook to my north line; no more than five or six of them are left to remind us of their usefulness, and, like myself, the time is not far distant when all will be gone. It is a singular circumstance that these trees were all-or nearly all-destroyed by lightning. Every heavy thunder shower near by was sure to claim one for its victim.

The old log house stood on the brow of the hill, overlooking the valley. In early times Jane McLaughlin lived at our house, and her fear during a storm was so great that she would lose all control of herself. Henry McKinney-one of father's apprentices-happened to be in the house during one of the worst of these storms, and seeing how frightened Jane was, he stepped up to her and putting his arms around her, said, "Steady, Lord, my wife don't like thunder." He seemed so willing to protect her that she afterwards consented to become Mrs. McKinney. Grandfather took pride in making a little more sugar from his trees than anyone else did from the same number. It mattered not how attentive I was to business, I was unusually so about sugaring-off time. Grandfather would never allow me, nor anyone else, to taste his sugar until after it was weighed; then

Photo of Harriet Byron Jones Parker (NOT SHOWN)

he became liberal. This was before the day of sappans, and the boiling was done in large kettles hung over a fire which was made between two green logs. The sap was gathered in buckets suspended on a wooden hook, which was connected to a sap yoke; this yoke was fitted to the neck and shoulders, and from each end suspended the hook which carried the bucket. This, with many other conveniences of that day, has passed out of existence, and probably out of the knowledge of most of the present generation. It is an old saying that blood tells, and I fully believe in the theory of "inherited tendencies." We prefer to achieve our own success, and no man ever became very successful in life without having the elements of success within himself. The young man who has his letters of introduction indorsed by a respectable ancestry, is a long way ahead in the start of the one not so fortunate.

I was surprised when traveling in Western Pennsylvania to find so many people who had known my father, and it was a passport to their favor to know that I was a son of Linus Parker. Nearly everyone of the old settlers had an ax, scythe or some other edge tool which was made by father, and had been in use for more than half a century. It was often said to me, "If you are as good a man as your father was, you will succeed." This stimulated my efforts, and I can truthfully say that I have never intentionally wronged anyone. My father grew up in the atmosphere of a large family, and to this fact I ascribe, to some extent, his choosing a business in which there was room for growth. It did grow, and thus drew together a large family, never less than ten persons, and frequently double that number when he found it necessary to the successful operation of his business. He was particularly fortunate in selecting young men of ability and good habits. Nearly all of them became influential citizens, though some of them had a large amount of wild oats to sow before they reached that point. With this class my inclinations ran, and I found more fun with going out with the boys than when I was attending church with father; and was I in this unlike other lads? The wonder is that I should have escaped the evil tendencies that so often follow such a course. Father was influential in all religious work, and was tuneful to a much larger degree than any of his children, unless it should be his daughter Hannah, whom I have been told was quite musical. He was a chorister in the old meeting-house that stood in the grove on the State road, pitching the tune with a pitch pipe, and later with a tuning-fork which he manufactured himself. He was peculiarly gifted in prayer; a very successful Sabbath school teacher, and was one of the charter members of the C. and P. church. He bought the 475 acres of land donated by Mrs. Kinsman to the C. and P. society; also furnished most of the sawed lumber for the new meetinghouse. The land which was donated to the society is that which is now owned by John S. and Fred Allen and Sylvester and John Gillis.

My mother was the third daughter of Elam and Sarah (Hyde) Jones, of Hartford, Ohio. Early in life she was taught to knit, sew and mend. She became so expert that but few could excel her in this line of work. As long as she remained at home her work was to knit, darn and patch for the family, helping her father in the field when needed, while her sisters did the housework. At the age of fifteen she came to Kinsman and attended a school that was taught by Miss Irene Hickcox, in the dwelling house of John Andrews, Esq., boarding in what at that time was known as the Kinsman boarding house. It stood on the Greenville road, about half-way between the Kinsman National Bank and the residence of G. W. Birrell. It was during her school days in Kinsman that she became acquainted with father. She taught a term of school in Vernon, one mile east and one south from the center, on the Kinsman and Orangeville road. At the age of seventeen she married, and immediately began keeping house in a log building which stood a few feet north of where Uncle Benjamin afterwards built a house for himself, and which is now occupied by William Lillie. In this house sister Sarah and I were born, but soon after my birth we moved into the house with grandfather and grandmother, where we lived until this house was built.

The four years spent in the log house were the most unhappy years of her married life, and had it not been for father's love and affectionate care, coupled with the devoted helpfulness which Aunt Orpha rendered, I really believe she would have lost her mind. The large family my father had around him would almost have discouraged an experienced housekeeper, so it was doubly discouraging to mother, for up to the date of her marriage she had never made a loaf of bread, and to add to her discomfiture was the fact that Aunt Susan, Uncle Noyes' wife, who lived just across the road on the bank of the dam was an experienced housekeeper. * * * * * It was during these days of tribulation that William Webber by his kindness won mother's gratitude. Some time after my birth she lost her health and was confined to her bed for, at least, a year. Gradually she gained strength and in course of time resumed the responsibilities of housekeeping. I well recollect the morning Aunt Abigail Parker called me into mother's bedroom to see a little sister "the doctor had brought me." I was disgusted. "I did not want another sister, I wanted a brother." Little did I anticipate that this six or seven pounds of humanity was to go hand-in-hand with me through life, yet such has been the case, and the one aim of her life has been to ease and cheer our mother's declining years. In time another sister, Hannah, was born, after which event mother never again regained her health. For a year at a time she would be confined to her bed, but the vitality she inherited from the Hyde family would assert itself in spite of disease and drugs, so she would again and again be on her feet, anxious and determined to do what she could for her children, for they were all she had to live for. Father's death left her prostrated, and the doctor's visits were a daily occurrence, but her anxiety for her children was a greater restorative than any medicine the doctor could give, and she would soon again be at work. It is strange, indeed, that a boy 11 years old should have no recollection of a sister who was two years older than himself but such is the fact. As I was a romping, blustering boy, and the most of the time out of doors, she did not enter into my life as Uncle Benjamin's boys, Oliver and Hiram, did, who were congenial spirits, and either by consent or stealth we were together the most of the time. Soap-making was another family event and usually came during sugar-making time. Sisters Hannah and Le Mira were little tots of two and four years. The soap maker had carelessly left a bucket of strong lye standing in the pantry, and the children supposing it to be syrup helped themselves. Le Mira discovered the mistake and ran to mother, who was ill and in bed at the time, and gave the alarm, but before anyone could reach Hannah she had swallowed considerable lye. Fortunately Dr. Peter Allen was in the house. He called for vinegar and, by forcing it down the child's throat,

Photo of Hannah P. Parker (NOT SHOWN)

weakened the lye and saved her life, but her throat contracted in healing, so it was some years before she could swallow like other children. The life thus saved developed into one of rare usefulness, not only in educational but religious matters.

She was the light of our home and the pride of our family. By nature she was kind and sympathetic, and no one ever came to her in the hour of their trouble without going away comforted and with a feeling that Hannah Parker was one of God's own children, and her whole life, though short, was worthy of imitation. She was but 14 years of age when I left for California, and the effort she made to secure an education caused her death before my return. I recollect but little of any importance about either of my sisters until after father's death in 1839. Mother was in such poor health that it seemed almost impossible for her to keep the children together. Le Mira went to live with Aunt Sarah Gates, mother's eldest sister, in Hartford, and returned to Kinsman only a short time before I started on my California trip. It was not until after my return that I learned that she was one of the best of sisters. She remained single and we all, especially mother, had reason to be thankful for it, for her kind and affectionate care made mother's last years among the happiest of her life. No daughter could do more for a mother, and no mother could better appreciate such kindness.

I wish to say a little more about the manufacturing and milling interests that have been located in the valley of, Stratton's creek. The busy hum of machinery set in motion by this stream could be heard 313 days in each year. It has been said of this creek "that it stands on end," and one could almost think so in time of high water. Within a distance of less than two miles there have been nine factories and mills, seven of which used the same water before it made its escape into Pymatuning creek. All the necessities of life from the cradle to the grave were produced in this community and the outside world was not necessary to its comfort, but it was a necessity to the outside world. The two grist mills are all that remain of the former activity and they are fast going to decay. In all probability they will never be rebuilt, and from the time they go out of existence to all eternity Stratton's creek may run unmolested until its identity is lost in the ocean.

The men who were at the head of these industries have long since gone to their long home, where they meet neither toil nor trouble, and I alone of all who grew up in the shadow of these industries am left to tell the story of their success and usefulness.

In 1851 I was employed by John Henry of Wayne, O., to sell pumps in "the black swamp," Wood County, O, and while there I became acquainted with several gentlemen who had lately returned from California. Appearances indicated that they were very wealthy and their California stories impressed me with the idea that I, too, might go there and get rich. This new idea took entire possession of me and I began to plan for the trip. I returned to Kinsman in November. Previous to this, in 1850, David W. Gillis and Sheldon Moore had sailed around "the horn" to California, and before the new year came in six of us, viz., David T. Gillis, Joseph Knox, Henry Mathews, John S. Gillis, Uncle Benjamin's son, Hiram, and myself were pledged to make the long journey and stand by each other to the end. Mother was nearly heartbroken when I announced my intention. The story of her struggles to keep the family together until I was able to care for it had no effect in changing my plans; the gold fever would have to run its course, and my arguments that I could make money so much easier and faster there, and my promise to send home money as fast as I made it, did not relieve her anxiety. I really thought I was doing what was best for us all, and to get the money to go with I sold six acres of land to Deacon Allen. In January, 1852, Hiram Parker and Henry Mathews went to Cleveland to secure passage from an agent of the California Steamship Company. No tickets could be had on which we could sail before March 15th, and as we had decided to start February 1st no passage was engaged. Capt. Jones, an old sea captain, who was then residing in Kinsman, gave us letters of introduction to Capt. Briggs of New York, who was his brother-in-law and a shipping agent, and advised us to do whatever Briggs thought best. We also were in correspondence with a son of Capt. Jones, who also was a captain and resided in New York, and who knowing all the circumstances had secured tickets for us, subject to approval, on the Greyhound, a sailing vessel which was to go around Cape Horn. We made a mistake in not accepting his advice, for the Greyhound made the trip to San Francisco in 93 days, while we were more than 200 in getting there. On the 2d of February, 1852, we started in a two-horse wagon for Erie, Pa., the nearest railroad station. Oliver Parker and Thomas Webber went with us that far to drive the team home. I bade my friends good-bye without shedding a tear, so bright were my anticipations. I thought that I should return in less than a year with gold enough to make us all rich and happy, and I could see no cause for sadness. We landed in New York February 6th, and I suppose a greener lot of boys never arrived there. Picture to yourself six young men in a strange city, without an acquaintance and with no knowledge of where they wanted to go, surrounded by hackmen and hotel runners, who pulled and hauled at their baggage determined to have them go with them, and you will see us as we arrived in New York. We were fortunate in meeting a gentleman who piloted us to Capt. Briggs' office, where we presented our letter of introduction.

The Captain sent us to the Sailor's Home to pass the night, with instructions to call again in the morning. Our innocence was ripe; Capt. Briggs saw that he could reap a harvest from it and proceeded to do it in a way that was no credit to his integrity, nor a security to our lives. I was not surprised when I learned that his sons turned out badly, for as I have said before, I believe in "inherited tendencies." We took the advice of Briggs and secured passage on the Sierra Nevada, a new steamer that ran to the Isthmus of Panama. He pointed out to us on the map, the long distance around the Horn and the short distance by the isthmus route; said that we could easily get passage on a sailing vessel at Panama, but he did not say a word about the scarcity of wind on the Pacific coast for propelling sailing vessels, nor of the kind of vessels we would be compelled to sail in; so we trusted in him and took the isthmus route. We sailed from New York on the 12th day of February at three o'clock p. m., on the steamer Sierra Nevada. We had heard that Americans were often assassinated while crossing the isthmus, so we provided ourselves with firearms as a means of protection. We each bought an Allen revolver, or six shooter, to carry in our side pocket. California boys called them "pepper boxes" which was a very appropriate name. The first two or three days out it was very rough, especially so while we were in the Gulf stream and I was the only one in our party who escaped sea sickness. David T. Gillis did not come on deck until the morning of the seventh day-just before landing at Chagres. If a long face and disconsolate look are indicative of sea sickness, he must have been very sick indeed. Thirst accompanies the first days at sea and the second night out we sent a request to the Commodore for ice water. In a few minutes the assistant steward came into the steerage where we were with a pitcher of water. We could here the ice jar against the pitcher, but he charged ten cents a glass, which had to be paid in advance or no water. There was no ice in the pitcher and the sound was caused by the jar of the glass against it. We appointed a committee of two, to enter our complaint to Commodore Wilson in the morning. The Commodore was furious, discharged the culprit who had defrauded us and set him ashore when we landed at Chagres. From that time on we had ice water brought to us every night. Our steamer anchored at the mouth of the Chagres river February 19th, and we were landed in small boats at Chagres, where we were not long in securing passage up the Chagres river, towards Panama, on a boat called San Lorenzo. Bloodthirsty looking natives with oranges, bananas, &c., for sale surrounded us, but we thought our judicious display of revolvers kept them from attacking us.

The San Lorenzo was not unlike other small river steamers, very slow, but safe. We were soon steaming up the river and were delighted with the tropical climate and scenery. The immense growth of vegetation, impenetrable thickets; parrots and monkeys in the trees; alligators in the river; all lent enchantment to the view, for it was all so new and unexpected to us. Seven days before we had left a climate where the thermometer showed ten degrees below zero; here it was 80 above and if a register could have been attached to our delight, it would have marked a still greater change. At dusk the boat was tied to a tree for the night.

Since that time I have traveled, considerable, but never have I experienced so much pleasure from any trip as I did that afternoon on the Chagres river, February 20th. At daylight we were on our way again and at noon were transferred to barges. They were a flat bottomed boat, from twelve to twenty feet long. Runways on each side of a boat furnished room for three or four natives on each side, who with poles propelled the boat up stream and the rate of speed attained was greater than that made by the little river steamer. David T. had learned in New York that it was great sport to shoot alligators in the Chagres river and he boasted much of what he would do when we got there, would shoot them in the eye or some other vulnerable place. Alligators were plenty and he embraced every opportunity to shoot at them, but with disappointing results. One huge fellow lay on the bank near the water sunning himself; David stepped to the bow of the boat and fired; as the "gator" did not move David was sure he had killed him and asked the boatmen to stop; they laughed and talked with both hands and mouth; but let us ashore when we found the "gator" had been dead for several days. David was disappointed but insisted that he would have killed him if he had not been already dead. It is scarcely necessary to say that it was a long time before he heard the last of the "dead gator." In the morning of the second day on the barges, the boatmen asked the men to go ashore, where they marked in the sand that there was a long bend in the river and a short distance across by land to the river again; so leaving one man with the barge to guard our baggage, we started across on a trail cut through the thicket. It was impossible for us to lose our way for we could not penetrate the thicket where no path was cut. On this trail we found the advance gang clearing away the jungle and timber for the Panama railroad. Two white men were superintending a lot of natives; two more were sick with climatic fever in a cloth tent near at hand; and a little further on we counted fifteen or twenty newly made graves. One of the sick men said he expected to join the "silent throng" in a day or two. We learned that not more than one white man out of twenty-five ever got away from the isthmus alive; and these newly made graves, coupled with others soon to be added, caused my first serious reflections since leaving home. I too might become a victim to climatic fever before we got away from Panama. The next morning, February 23rd, we arrived at Gorgona, the head of navigation on the Chagres river and had soon contracted to have our baggage carried to Panama on mules for twenty cents per pound. We decided to walk rather than pay $10 for a ride on a broken down mule; and that night we camped on one of the highest mountains of the isthmus. There were so many natives in sight that we thought it best to display our revolvers, (for we had not reached the point of calling them "pepper boxes") so I was the first one to fire at a mark, which was placed on a large tree, and loud was the laugh when no scratch could be found on the tree as the result of my effort. John Gillis was sure he could hit the mark, but scored failure number two; four others fired with the same result. Years after we learned that the Allen revolvers would not throw a ball with sufficient force to mar the bark on a tree twenty feet away; but we then went to sleep with a consciousness that no one would dare molest us after such a display of firearms. In the morning we were on the road early and when almost half way between where we had camped and Panama, we met the "Betts party." They had left home eight or ten days in advance of us and like us had tickets to the isthmus only. They had listened to discouraging reports at Panama, become disheartened and homesick, and were homeward bound, expecting to catch the steamer New York which lay anchored at Chagres when we arrived there and was the same boat they came on. Every effort was used to induce us to return with them; two of our party were willing to and others undecided, when my opinion was asked. I said no, with a capital N. I had started for California and would go there, or die on the road. David first, next Hiram and soon all joined with me. Here I had serious reflections number two. We made short work of a good-bye hand shake and started on a run, soon catching up with our pack train and arriving at Panama at 12 o'clock February 24th, where we learned that no tickets could be had on a steamer at any price. We also learned that an office would be opened the next morning by Garrison & Co., who would sell tickets on the bark Emily, to San Francisco for $150. We interviewed the agent, who told us that the Emily was a staunch ship and a good sailer; would be provisioned for ninety days and no effort would be spared to make it pleasant for the passengers; and that they expected she would make the trip to San Francisco in forty days. We were elated by the prospect and early the next morning we were on hand to secure our tickets. We found a long line of people ahead of us and were among the last to secure them. There were thousands of people there awaiting an opportunity to get to California; many without money, expecting to work their passage; others with partly enough to pay their way.

This class would eventually return to the States if they lived long enough to get away. A few had money and were awaiting a better opportunity; but so eager were people to get away, we could have sold our tickets for $200 each. We were not billed to sail until March 7th, so we found rooms in the second story of a large unoccupied building where we could board ourselves. The next day after we had secured our tickets and lodgings, we spent in viewing the city. I recollect it as dilapidated, musty and exceedingly filthy. The natives were villainous looking and in appearance nasty in the extreme. The balance of the time until we sailed hung heavy on our hands, which gave us plenty of time for reflection; for we learned that the Emily was an old English bark, heavily laden with coal and had put into Panama hoping to sell it to the Pacific Steamship Company, which she was unable to do; so Garrison & Co., had chartered her to carry 280 passengers to San Francisco. Soon the Ann Smith was chartered by Garrison & Co., and billed to sail four or five days after our departure, tickets $175; and soon another old vessel followed her. Every old vessel on the Pacific coast that could be brought into Panama bay, was chartered by Garrison & Co. and overloaded with human freight, they knowing full well that they had not provisioned them sufficiently to keep the passengers from starvation. Thousands of their victims died and were thrown into the ocean.

When the tide was out Panama bay was one vast sea of mud and rock, miles in extent. We went out one day to gather oysters, not knowing how rapidly the tide came in and were caught by the flood. We were fortunate in getting onto a high rock some 10 or 15 rods from shore, where we were discovered by some native boatmen, who demanded 10 cents each for taking us to shore. We did not accept the proposition, and as the water grew higher their price increased. We grew frightened and were about to close a bargain at 25 cents apiece when an American came with a boat and set us ashore free. We learned later that he was employed to rescue just such fellows as we were who had been caught out. When he reached us the water was up to our knees. Many Americans were daily in the city, and we were very anxious for the 7th of March to come. At the time appointed we went on board and at a glance saw that we had been victimized, but it was months before we had experienced the full extent of the swindle. That afternoon we ran down the bay to the island of Taboga, where several stowaways were put ashore. We felt sorry for the poor fellows, but their condition could not have been worse than ours proved to be. The next morning found us out of sight of land, and it was 90 days before we came in sight of it again at Manzanillo, Mexico. The sea was as smooth as glass, and there was not a breath of wind to ruffle it or a sail. Occasionally a light breeze would spring up to encourage us, but we drifted with the current slowly toward the equator. We judged this from the fact that it grew a little warmer each day. Perhaps you know that there are winds near the land which are called Coast winds, while far out to sea are the Trade winds. Our captain ran nearly south, hoping to catch the trade wind, but, instead, he got becalmed between the two near the equator, where we lay for 13 days. I do not now recollect how high the thermometer registered, but I do recollect that it was the hottest weather I ever experienced. We chafed from head to foot. My skin became dry, hard and cracked. Dr. Allen, a physician furnished by the company, had no remedy for this nor, as we learned later, any other disease. I often wonder why my face, hands and feet were not permanently affected, for it was weeks before I could stand, sit or lie down without suffering excruciating pain. In time the cracks healed, but I do not believe that I ever fully recovered from their effect. During this time the "Panama fever" made its appearance on board, and those who were discouraged and homesick were fit subjects, and the first to die from it was a large, strong man from Connecticut, whose name was Burnham. In less than 36 hours from the time he was taken sick he was dead. All were alarmed, death was facing us, many were panic stricken, prayers from every part of the ship were heard and from men who but a few hours before were profusely profane. Several times during the voyage, while we were in great danger, these same men would humble themselves before their Maker, only to forget their promises as soon as the danger was past. A profane, loud mouthed infidel, whose name was Plank, was the first one to ask God to save his life. So even the most wicked at times look to God for protection. The second death on board came soon and five occurred before we got out of that "hot hole," and in all there were 68 before we reached San Francisco.

As I look back upon those perilous days, it scarcely seems possible that we became heedless of our surroundings and to death even, but such was the case, for death lost its terrors for us. By degrees we learned that our boat was a slow sailer. The Ann Smith came in sight one morning and was not long in overhauling us. She came so near that we exchanged greetings and bade us good-bye as she forged ahead. Long before night she left us in the rear out of sight. We were heartsick and wished ourselves aboard the Ann Smith, but how little we know of what is for our best good, for the fate of her passengers was worse even than our own and her death list was longer. Her passengers were only rescued from starvation by a friendly vessel that responded to their signals of distress, and we landed in San Francisco weeks in advance of her passengers. Our medicine chest got empty and the sea biscuit mouldy, the supply of vegetables gave out, in fact the company had cheated us in everything. Long before the forty days had expired our water supply ran short and our rations had to be reduced one-fourth. Early in the voyage we had been divided into messes of eight. Each mess chose a captain, whose duty it was to draw our rations once each day and divide the whole into eight equal parts, when some one of the men would turn his back to the piles and as the captain asked, "Whose is this?" would call a name, thus avoiding anything like partiality. Our rations were dealt or weighed out to the mess captain by the stewards, and consisted of one pint of hot coffee, in the morning, boiled pork or beef, vegetables and sea biscuit, with vinegar, salt and pepper when needed and two quarts of water. When we drew full rations the quantity was sufficient, but the quality was always poor. Many could not eat it, and at first we refused to accept wormy biscuit and rice that smelled strong of cat, but later on we would have been glad of anything, even the cat would have been acceptable. We got very anxious to know where we were and how long it would probably be before we would reach our destination. The daily reports of progress promised us by the company had never been made to us, so we made a demand on the captain for this information, and he consented to make a report the next day at noon, but told us we would be better off without it. When it came we disbelieved it. We could but think he was purposely deceiving us to save provisions and bitter became the feeling towards him. He was called on deck to explain. He came with fear and trembling, and rightly concluded that a true statement of our condition was the best way out for him. He brought out his charts of the Pacific coast and showed us that we were about 500 miles due west of Acapulco, Mexico, and had covered only about one-third of our journey. The forty days in which we had expected to be in San Francisco had expired and our rations reduced one fourth. The captain submitted two propositions for our consideration. First, that we sail west hoping to catch the trade wind, which he had been trying to do ever since we left Panama. If we succeeded in this and had ordinary success thereafter, we could make San Francisco in thirty or forty days. If we chose this course our rations would have to be reduced one-half in everything but rice and pork, of which we had plenty for one hundred days at least; that we appoint a man to assist the steward in taking account of provisions and water on board before we decided on either course. Second, that we sail for the most available Mexican port, which would consume nearly as much time before getting back to our present posi1tion as it would to get to San Francisco.

The uncertainties were about equal on either route, and we had ample time for consideration while the committee was taking stock. The report verified Captain Harvey's statement with the exception of the water supply, for some tanks that were supposed to be full were only partially so. No blame could be attached to the captain, as the tanks had not been opened since they were filled at Taboga. A vote was taken, and by a large majority we were in favor of submitting to the judgment of the captain, accompanied with a request that he would keep us informed as to our surroundings. The captain's straightforward way had restored our confidence in him. He decided to stand out to sea for ten days. We had a fair wind the most of the time; deaths were less frequent; we did not miss very much the reduction in rations, and our hopes grew more buoyant. Sad, indeed, was our disappointment when we learned that we were only seventy miles nearer San Francisco. We had beat against a strong headwind and had sailed miles enough to take us half-way to our port if they had been in the right direction. The Emily could not sail close to the wind, and the ocean current was against us. An old sailor let us into the truth of the matter. Our faces grew longer day by day, and as our supply of water decreased we began for the first time to despair of ever seeing land again. A kind Providence came to our relief by sending us a heavy shower of rain, the first since we came aboard. At the time it began the sails were hanging limp and not a wave ruffled the sea; the sky was cloudless, when all at once it began raining as hard as it could pour. A small black cloud, apparently not larger than the vessel itself, hung over us; it was but the work of a moment to attach the hose to the scuttles and turn the water which fell upon the deck into the tanks. The deck was washed every morning, but the invalids and tobacco chewers had by this time-2 or 3 p. m. literally smeared the deck with spittle. As we could not afford to lose a drop of water, filth and all was turned into the tanks. The shower lasted for more than an hour, and the cloud disappeared as suddenly as it came, but had left us several tanks full of water. Every man who had a bottle, cup, pan, or anything that would hold water, had it full, and no rations of water were necessary for several days. Without this shower I am confident we should have perished. The wind again failed, and for seven days the sails never fluttered. The second ten days' report showed we had lost thirteen of the seventy miles we had gained during the first ten days, and we were fully one hundred miles further away from shore. It was at this point that the captain informed us that he had now no hope of reaching San Francisco with what provisions we had, and would make sail for the most available port, which port depended on which way the wind blew. We were between the route taken by the steamers and the one taken by sailing vessels, consequently could not expect relief from either. We trusted Captain Harvey more implicitly than ever, but we had nothing to eat but rice, pork, and occasionally a small allowance of flour, and the water we caught during the shower had begun to work in the tanks. After the water had been used out of the tanks they had carelessly been left open so that rats had gotten into them, and as they could not get out they had died there, There were thousands of rats on board burrowing among the coals in the hold, so the water we were compelled to use for cooking was filled with decomposed rats until it became nearly as white as milk. Of course the water was strained before using, but the fact could not be disguised that we were consuming dead rats. We called it "rat soup," and so great was our hunger we relished it.

The captain estimated that it would take us fifteen days to reach a port, so one fifteenth of the water on board was issued each day for five days. We were still fifteen days from port, so water was again diminished and all given to the mess instead of using a part for cooking, as had been done before, which gave us one quart each. Rice was dealt out without stint and we abandoned the use of pork, as the salt it contained increased our thirst. What little flour was left was saved for extreme occasions, so rice was our only food, and we ground it in a coffee mill, which was kept running from daylight until dark. This meal, or flour, we dampened with salt water and baked it on a griddle, as our mothers baked buckwheat cakes. The rice was not cooked, simply crusted enough to hold together if we ate it while it was hot. Thus we lived for thirteen days, eight of which just before we landed we had but one-half pint of water each per day. The sick list grew rapidly. A lady with three children suffered the most, for the children were too young to understand why they could not have all the water they wanted, and cried from morning until night, which only tended to increase their thirst. Mr. Knox had been seasick all the way and could neither eat nor drink but little, so he and one or two others divided their ration of water with the children, while death stared us in the face. Self-preservation became the object of our lives; hope had dwindled to a very small point, and we were not certain that we had ground for any. Sixty men were added to the sick list, and the day before we made land the steward reported but two quarts of water per person left. During the night a strong wind sprang up and the old ship was tearing through the water more rapidly than before, we hoped toward shore. At daylight everybody who could get there was on deck looking for land; none in sight. The captain was on deck with his glass and seemed undecided what to do, for the course of the boat had been changed several times since daylight. We learned later that his chart of the coast was an old one and incorrect. Soon he ordered the mate to launch a rowboat; six sailors and the mate got into it and pulled away from the ship.

There was a dense fog at the time, which was soon dispelled by the sun, and land was in sight. The change from desperation to a certainty of relief was instantaneous. The sick became strong and the strong weak, while all shed tears of delight. It was not long before we saw the boat returning, and as she drew near, the mate held a bucket to his mouth and drank from it. All restraint was cast aside and everyone cheered to the extent of his ability. The sailors reported a good harbor and plenty of water, and in less than an hour we had cast anchor in the little harbor of Manzanillo. The long boat was launched and all that wished were set on shore. A few hours before any of us would willingly have paid $1.00 per pint for water, and now when it was free and plenty we did not touch it, for the land breeze had quenched our thirst. The steward was first ashore and soon returned with the report that no provisions were to be had. The supply of water came from a well that was not more than thirty feet from the shore, and I could never understand why the water should be fresh and not salt, for it was dug in a loose, gravel bank. Hogsheads were thrown overboard, towed ashore, filled, returned, hoisted on board and emptied into the tanks. This process continued all day, and as no provisions could be obtained here, Capt. Harvey notified us that he would be obliged to run up to San Blas, which was 180 miles up the coast, where provisions could be secured. He said the trip could be made in three or four days, and we should have all the water, rice and pork we wanted. All were satisfied and willing to sail except one man, who said he would not trust his life on that old tub again, and before night he had hired a native with two mules and was on his way to Mazatlan, where coast steamers often touched, and we never saw nor heard from him again. The Kinsman boys all went ashore in search of food, but found nothing but tomatoes and onions, and these in small quantity. We stripped the market and held our supply for future use. Cooked together they made a palatable dish and the other passengers were permitted to inhale the odor but not to taste the stew, so we were objects of envy as long as our supplies held out, which was for several days. After getting a corner on tomatoes and onions, we entered the house of an old Mexican lady-it was hardly more than a shed thatched with straw or palm leaves-and our interrogations amounted to nothing until a large rooster walked into the house, when a bright idea flashed into my mind and I became purchasing agent for the party. By signs and a display of cash I soon negotiated with her for the rooster and a pot of soup, with as many tortillas as were necessary to round out the feast, for 75 cents. It was but the work of a moment for the old lady to dress the fowl and put him in a pot over a hot fire, and while the feast is in preparation I will tell you how the tortillas were made. First, corn was soaked until it was perfectly soft, when it was rolled out very thin-much thinner than pie crust, the old lady used a bottle for a rolling pin-and cooked on a piece of very hot sheet iron or a flat stone. To prevent burning they must be turned instantly and taken off, and so expert was this old lady that she baked them as fast as six hungry men could eat them. The chicken was young and fat and took but a short time to cook. When it was done, I motioned to fill the pot with soup. I never knew what seasoning was used more than Chili pepper, but I do know that no man need be ashamed to hold up such a soup-making mother to his wife as an example. The pot was placed in the center of the table and we gathered around it. The chicken had been well cooked and the meat slipped off the bones and down our throats rapidly. Astonishment and perspiration appeared on the old lady's face at the rapidity with which provisions were disappearing, but she did not fly the contract. So it was not long before chicken and soup had all disappeared, and the tortillas nearly so. Other passengers had gathered around with longing eyes and appetites, but we were so hard-hearted we did not offer to divide. After we had left the table a man who belonged to our mess on shipboard asked for the bones, and by giving the old lady 25 cents another pot of quite eatable soup was produced. Before leaving, to show the old lady that we appreciated her kindness, I pointed to our rounded-out proportions. She in return smiled and pointed to her 75 cents to show us that she, too, was satisfied. I do not believe that any party ever got up from a meal, no matter what its cost may have been, better satisfied than we did from ours that had cost us twelve and one-half cents each.

That evening we sailed for San Blas expecting to make the trip in three or four days, but were twelve getting there, with nearly the same experience as before. The supply of water for four days had to be stretched to cover twelve. This was without excuse, for the water cost nothing at Manzanillo; however our worst anxieties were at rest for land was in sight all the time. We landed at San Blas May 28th, having been eighty-three days on the ocean and had not accomplished more than half the distance to San Francisco. David T. had a letter ready to mail home as soon as we landed and as we expected to be there several days, I was to write later. The next morning we went ashore expecting to see a fine city; but instead saw only a promiscuous lot of low, flat, houses, mostly built of bamboo and thatched with straw. The inhabitants in appearance were lazy, villainous and treacherous; poorly clad and dirty to the extreme of nastiness.

In every public place gamblers had layouts ready for victims and they caught a few of our boys. Many were discouraged and undecided as to what it was best to do; for we did not like to trust ourselves again to a perilous ocean voyage on the bark Emily, and to remain at San Blas was equally hazardous. On the morning of June 1st, Capt. Harvey announced to us that he had been unable to secure provisions to complete the journey; he had no money and no one would advance any on his vessel and cargo of coal unless it remained in port. This announcement struck terror to the hearts of all but the few who had a little money laid aside for emergencies.

David T., Hiram and myself were among those few; plans were matured to charter some small coasting vessel-provided one could be found-and we hoped to get something from Capt. Harvey, but hardly expected that; consequently great was our surprise when he offered us fifteen dollars each to release him. It is needless to say the proposition was accepted with the proviso that we were to remain on shipboard until otherwise provided for. The brig Condor, engaged in the hog trade between San Blas and San Francisco, came into port that morning and from an English merchant we learned that she was one of the fastest sailers on the coast, frequently making the trip to San Francisco in less than thirty days, and that possibly she might be chartered. Here was our opportunity and before night the captain had agreed to carry fifty passengers to San Francisco for $3,000, with necessary water and provisions for sixty days included. An account of stock showed that I had fifty-five dollars and a revolver which I sold-as did all of the party. I received seven dollars for that, which after deducting my fare-sixty dollars-left me a balance of two dollars for future necessities. David T. had ten dollars, five of which he gave to John; Hiram had five dollars; Mathews, Knox and John did not have more than ten or fifteen dollars each, therefore were obliged to remain. With heroic intentions and tears, they urged us to go on, for if they had to die it was no reason why we should. One hundred and seventy men left on the bark Emily, sixty had already died-eight others later. The English merchant had a cheese that was branded "Geo. Hezlep, Gustavus, O." It was like meeting an old friend and I resolved to take it with me when we sailed; but alas! two dollars would not pay for a twenty five pound cheese at fifty cents per pound, and I could not buy it. After selling our pistols some of the passengers held an indignation meeting to prohibit the further sale of firearms, believing it to be a scheme of the natives to first disarm and then rob, or murder the whole party. I explained that so far as my pistol was concerned it was as harmless as any other "pepper box" and would not kill a louse; that there was no cause for alarm from the natives for they were objects of charity, rather than fear. Our experience on the bark Emily had taught us to be cautious; so an "ironclad contract" was drawn up and signed by the captain of the Condor and our committee, which enumerated the quantity and quality of all supplies. A cask of water was to be placed on deck, where all could drink without stint; our committee was to examine and see that a full supply for sixty days went aboard; and last but not least, the steward whose duty it was to issue rations should be chosen from among the passengers. The contract was apparently complied with and we sailed June 4th, having spent seven days at San Blas-and with tears in our eyes, but with bright hopes in our hearts, we bade the boys we had to leave behind good-bye, never expecting to see them again. Not many days after another vessel, unfortunate like ourselves, put into San Blas short of supplies. Those who could followed our example and chartered a coast sailer. Capt. Harvey, intent on doing all he could for the men, arranged to put all his passengers aboard this vessel, which sailed in a short time. Henry Mathews told me that the suffering on the old Emily was nothing in comparison to what they suffered on this boat; yet they were not more than fifteen days later in landing at San Francisco than we were. Years after I learned that the old Emily still lay in the harbor at San Blas; the sailors deserted and the captain being unable to reman her had left. Contrary to the old adage that ill gotten gains takes wing, Garrison & Co. became millionaires; they should have been hung. For several days everything seemed favorable, we had fair winds and the Condor proved to be a speedy boat; our hearts were light with bright anticipations of soon ending our journey. Our captain was a French Catholic and when not under excitement, could in broken English make himself understood. The crew were Americans and foreigners and could all speak English fluently-they were mostly from the bark Emily. The captain was a very passionate man and the most bigoted Catholic I ever saw, so trouble came on us like a whirlwind. One barrel of sea biscuit had been burned to a coal in baking and some one injudiciously threw a piece of one into the sea; the captain saw it and reprimanded him; mistaking the man's explanation for a denial that any had been thrown overboard he became frantic with rage, and gave orders to have a boat lowered, when he with two sailors got into it and pulled back in the wake of the vessel in search of the piece. After a long time they came back empty-handed and the disappointment having added to his frenzy, he ran to his cabin and almost instantly returned with his quadrant, which he dashed to atoms on the deck before our eyes. We were horror stricken knowing full well that a vessel at sea without a quadrant is nearly as bad off as though she had no rudder. The captain, determined on revenge, ordered the man who had thrown the cracker overboard to be put in irons; when as quick as thought dozens of pistols flashed in sight, though probably not one was loaded. A Scotch Presbyterian deacon came to the front and calmly informed the captain, that to execute that order meant death to him; so he countermanded it and sneaking below did not appear again for twenty-four hours.

Fortunately one of the passengers had a quadrant, which he loaned to the captain. Gracious treatment was extended for a few days, but all could see that trouble was in store for us. In two or three days an order was issued that all firearms must be turned over to the captain for safe-keeping, but it is needless to say the order was not complied with, nor could it be enforced by threats that he would have us arrested for mutiny when we got to port.

Mutual hatred now existed, with fear on both sides. Bibles were often read on deck, and our Scotch deacon, preached to us every Sabbath, which exasperated our Catholic captain so much that he issued an order that Bibles should no longer be read on deck. The next day more Bibles than ever appeared, which made him so furious that he loudly proclaimed that the first man who brought a Bible on deck should be strung up to the yard arm. Again the Scotch deacon stepped to the front with determination in voice and eye and pistol in hand. He told the captain that we had borne his insolence as long as possible, and if he valued his life he would recall that order; also, if he exhibited any more of his insolence to us, we would hang him to the yardarm or cast him overboard. Three cheers satisfied the captain that the Scotch deacon's threat had struck a responsive chord and would be enforced. No further trouble was experienced; a lesson was necessary and had been given; his experience had been with Mexicans, and his mistake had been in supposing Americans would submit to the same treatment, and in make-up his wrath was too quick for his judgment. At any time he would have sent us to the bottom of the ocean, if he could have done it without endangering his own life, and his course made our Scotch deacon our hero. We had escaped death by Panama fever, by starvation and by the yard arm, only to be devoured by a pestiferous insect called a grayback. The Condor had been used to carry hogs and Mexicans-synonymous terms--from San Blas to San Francisco, and thereby had become a home for the largest breed of graybacks I ever saw. I had discovered them on my person soon after sailing, but said nothing, supposing that I was the only one afflicted. It was not long, however, before I learned that every man on board was in the same condition. A taste of fresh, Yankee blood was so much superior to what they had been accustomed to that it made them ravenous. The grayback is a prolific "varmint," and in his new surroundings he multiplied so rapidly that something had to be done to check his wild career. A war of extermination was declared and a resolution passed that every man on board must pick and kill every louse he found on his person or his clothes every day. A committee was appointed -we appointed a committee for everything-to see that the work was thoroughly done; and it was a ludicrous scene, that of ten or fifteen men seated around an open hatchway, where the light was brightest, picking and killing lice until their fingers were covered with blood. One poor fellow did not pick his clothes and the outside of his coat was literally alive. The "varmints" seemed to have set apart his collar as a pleasure resort or park, where they congregated for recreation and fresh air. He was brought before the committee and asked to explain, which he did by saying he was so near-sighted he could not see a louse. The explanation was satisfactory, and after that we took turns in picking his clothes. With all our efforts the increase exceeded the death rate, and I believe for one we killed ten came in its place. David T. had brought a large, nice, buffalo robe from home, and by many it was believed that this robe was their breeding place. The committee decided that the robe must go overboard. David asked that an examination be made first, which developed the fact that the robe was the only thing on board that was not infected with lice.

It was months after landing before we saw the last of the blood thirsty villains, for boiling our clothes did not kill the nits. Time hung so heavily on our hands that this elephantine louse was really a blessing in disguise, for it occupied our time and diverted our attention from more serious trouble; besides, it brought out many witty and amusing remarks. Even the captain smiled complacently when he occasionally looked down the hatchway, no doubt enjoying our discomfiture. One dark, stormy night we came near being dashed to pieces on a small island. We were standing out to sea under full sail, and only the watch was on deck, when we were alarmed by the cry of "Land ahead." The captain rushed on deck and attempted to give a command, but was too excited to be understood. Joe, a Swedish sailor who had been with us on the bark Emily, took in the situation, and immediately gave the order to "Bout ship." The man at the wheel did not swing the ship around far enough to have the wind catch the sails on the other side, so the ship was soon in her old position rushing onto the rocks. Joe's voice sang out in despair, "My God! it is a misstay," but in the same breath gave a second command to bout ship. This time the ship stayed, and as she swung around the helmsman said he could have thrown his hat onto the island. The moment the alarm was given I went on deck, but kept well out of the way of the sailors. By the headlight I could see the island as its rocky shore towered above us, and it did not seem possible that we could escape destruction, but it was ordered otherwise. About this time our supply of provisions ran short, so as soon as possible we ran into San Pedro in distress. A steer and one barrel of sea biscuit was all that could be obtained-so the captain reported-so we made for Santa Barbara. From there we went to Santa Cruz, after which we hailed a sailing vessel. We were always in distress; had spent the most of the time for two weeks sailing into and out of port, but at last we reached San Francisco, where we filled up on hash, etc., and the wonder is that we did not kill ourselves with eating, for it was the first time in two hundred days that we had not eaten all that was before us. The same evening we took passage on a small steamer for Stockton, where we arrived the next morning at daybreak. When we landed in San Francisco I had $1.25, 50 cents of which soon went for food. D. T. Gillis and Hiram each had enough to secure their tickets on the Stockton boat, but there was not money enough in the party to buy three tickets, so I applied to the captain for a chance to work my passage, and he agreed to carry me if I would help unload the cargo at Stockton. The trip up the bay was delightful. Dark came on before we entered the Sacramento river. We steamed up the Sacramento and San Joaquin rivers, arriving at Stockton at daybreak. D. T. Gillis and Hiram went uptown, where they found D. W. Gillis and Charles Mowrey, while I remained to assist in unloading the boat. All knew that I was a "greenhorn from the States," and it was fun for them to load the heaviest packages onto my back, but I took my regular turn with the old hands until the last bag was on the wharf.

I had had no breakfast, consequently was hungry and very tired. The captain had been uptown while the boat was being unloaded, and when he returned I asked him for something to eat. "You here yet!" he replied. "Well, you are a greenhorn sure enough! Why, I did not expect you would stay a minute after the boat landed, they never do; you are too honest for this country; come in and we will see what the cook can do for you." It was then 10 o'clock A.M.; breakfast had been over for four hours, but the cook set out a lot of scraps, and I let my appetite loose. Quantity with me just then was of more account than quality. As I started away from the boat the captain called me back. My feet were so blistered and swollen that I could scarcely walk, and I presume he noticed it. He said, "Here, Yankee, is a dollar; you say you have no money." I hesitated, for I did not wish to be considered an object of charity, and before I had decided to accept it he threw it at me, saying, "You won't be so particular how you get your money before you have been here six months." It is proverbial that a Californian would divide his last cent with a needy stranger and rob his best friend of his last dollar if a good opportunity presented itself. I found the boys in town with D. W. Gillis and Charles Mowrey, who were keeping bachelor's hall, as did nearly everybody in those days. D. W. was getting $5.00 per day in a wagon shop and Mowrey was drawing the same pay in the blacksmith department. He had learned his trade from Uncle Benjamin. In Ohio he had been the most profane man I had ever known, but in California he very seldom, if ever, uttered an oath. In answer to my inquiry as to what brought about such a change, he said when he first came here he found that Californians could swear so much more wickedly than he could that he got ashamed of himself and quit.

At one time Mowrey was worth considerable money; but an unfortunate marriage coupled with bad investments, consumed his property and he died a poor man. We were so anxious to try our luck in the gold mines that we stayed but three or four days in Stockton. My feet had not recovered from my steamboat experience and were too sore for a seventy-five mile walk; but sore feet were no antidote for the gold fever. D. T. borrowed a few dollars from D. W., which we divided between us; filled our grips with crackers and cheese, bade the boys good-bye and started out to seek our fortunes. We walked twelve miles the first day and learned that crackers and cheese will fill, but do not satisfy hunger; so we went to bed hungry. Our bed meant blankets spread upon the ground.

It was late the next morning before we were ready to continue our journey. A teamster noticed my plight and gave us our breakfast at The Twelve Mile House; after which he offered to let us take turns riding-one at a time-until we reached the mountains. At every road house he insisted on our dining with him and we supposed that he paid our bills, until we learned later that it was a custom among road house keepers to feed all, whether they had money or not; but this did not prevent us from feeling grateful to that teamster. After an excruciating journey of four days, we arrived at Montezuma Flat; the objective point of our trip. We were sore, lame, ragged and hungry; but our hopes were bright and in our imaginations the mountains were filled with gold that was only waiting for an opportunity to slip into our pockets. Montezuma Flat was a new camp and the mines were supposed to be very rich, but they could not be successfully worked until water could be obtained. A ditch was being dug for that purpose, but it could not be completed for about three months; so we concluded to make the Flat our headquarters and wait for water. D. T. got a situation as second cook in the hotel; but was soon promoted to first cook and became an expert, so said the patrons of the hotel. Hiram got a job on the new ditch and I went to Jamestown, a mining camp on Wood's creek, to look for work. The creek was dry; the town full of idle men mostly dead broke, and it looked dubious; but I had not yet reached the point where I was willing to have the hat passed around for my benefit. I found one boarding house keeper who would board me and take his pay in cord wood. Here was my opportunity; I went to work and soon found I could sell all the wood I cut at from eight to twelve dollars per cord. Miners would not stoop so low as to cut cordwood, so I had a corner on the wood market. I was so anxious to make money that I did not take time to toughen my hands by degrees but blistered them so badly they ulcerated and became so painful that I had to give up this kind of work; but in the two weeks I had earned one hundred dollars over and above expenses. I soon found a job at driving a team at seventy-five dollars per month and with this man I had an unusual experience. I had not been with him long before he was taken with smallpox. The doctor could find no one to take care of him, so with every assurance that I would be well cared for if I should take the disease and, too, that there was not much danger as I had been vaccinated and it would not be necessary to stay in the sick room only a few moments at a time, I agreed to take the chances. The man got well and I did not take the disease. While he was sick I took charge of his livery stable and other business, expecting more than the seventy-five dollars per month; but I did not get it nor a thank you even for my extra risk and work. I was quite overjoyed one evening on returning from work to find Henry Mathews at my boarding house. We had about given up as lost the boys we had left at San Blas; but after a long and dangerous voyage they had landed at San Francisco and Henry had followed us to the mines. He was thin, weak and ragged, and the only healthy thing about him was his appetite, which was equal to mine; and in that respect we made a full team at the table. Henry profited by my experience and tried to do nothing more than earn his board until he became acclimated. Our evenings were spent in recounting our adventures and eating pie at a bakery. We talked too, of home and the dear ones there and occasionally we went down to see the boys at the Flat and assist them in building air castles; for we fully expected to make our pile and to return to the States in less than six months. Anticipation was our great pleasure for as yet the reality had brought nothing but disappointment. It had previously been arranged that Hiram and Henry would cast their lots together; and D. T. and I would do the same. D. T. and I bought a claim that turned out to be the richest one on the flat. When water came we bought mules and carts, to haul our dirt to the ditch, which was below our claim. The roads were unusually bad that winter and before provisions could be brought from below, the stock in the mines was nearly exhausted; prices went up until we had to pay a dollar a pound for everything we ate and the hay' and grain for our mules was a big item of expense. Many went to the valley; so when provisions began to arrive prices declined seventy-five per cent in one day. Later I profited by this experience, as we shall see in due time. Before we had realized anything above expenses our claim "played out," so we sold our entire outfit, claim and all, to some "new comers" and the next morning I took the stage for Stockton. The new comers soon found that the "pay dirt" had been worked out; and greenhorns as they were, began picking up the soap stone ledge that we had stripped supposing there was no gold in it; for experienced miners had learned there was nothing in a soap stone ledge. This proved to be an exception; it was only a narrow strip but before it was worked out they had taken out as much money as they had put into the claim.

When I mounted the stage that pleasant morning in July, my feelings must have been akin to those of the fellow who had picked a fight with a better man than himself and had got the worst of the encounter. Hope had buoyed me through a long and dangerous sea voyage, only to be dashed to pieces by actual contact with reality; for I had learned that the average cost of mining gold exceeded the value of the gold produced, and that not more than one in every hundred succeeded; that one got what the ninety-nine lost. What little faith I had had in "Luck" was all gone and I must resort to hard work and economy if I expected to succeed; for succeed I must.

We had owned the richest claim on the flats, were called "the lucky dogs of the camp," and when we sold out it was generally believed we were going back to the States with a "pile." We had studiously concealed the actual facts. I left home eighteen months before with $375.00, and left a promise to send money to my mother with which she was to educate my sisters, but as yet no indorsement appeared upon that promise, nor was there money in my purse to make one. I was forced to the conclusion that gold-digging was not my forte, so I abandoned without hesitation a business in which I had accumulated nothing but disappointment and experience. I pledged myself that never again should my name appear on a list as a gold digger.

In relating these events - in many respects the most important ones in my life - I have endeavored to be brief, but have found it hard work to keep within the limits of moderation. The driver of the stage coach that morning was Monroe Salisbury, afterwards known in the trotting world as "the veteran horseman." He landed us in Stockton in six hours, a distance of 75 miles, three hours ahead of the competing line. I sat on the outside with the driver, and as we flew over the mountains I had all I could do to keep my position by holding on with both hands. It is probable that in those rapid flights over the mountains he acquired his love for fast horses.

After we sold out at Montezuma Flat, D. T. Gillis went to Murphy's camp, Hiram and Henry went to the Northern mines, and I did not see them again until after I had returned to Ohio. D. T. soon went to Stockton, where he was needed to take care of John Gillis, who was sick and confined to his bed. Knox never fully recovered from the effects of the sea voyage. I saw him but two or three times in California, for he soon returned to Ohio, and from there went west, where he died. Henry Mathews returned to Kinsman in 1857, went West, where he married and died. Hiram Parker settled on a ranch near Sacramento City, California, married a Miss Wilcox of Burlington, Iowa, was killed by a runaway team, leaving an only child, Frank, who still owns the ranch where his father settled. D. T. Gillis located near Stockton, married a Philadelphia lady, who died leaving two sons, who are now living with their father. John Gillis died in Sacramento, California. Of the six who left Kinsman for California together on February 2d, 1852, D. T. Gillis and I alone survive.

A few days after my arrival in Stockton, I engaged to work in the harvest field for Major Stemmens from Pike county, Mo., a man of vast importance in his own estimation, and whose particular hobby was in ridiculing those who believed the world was round. "He knew it was flat, because he had crossed the plains and saw it." The major was elected by the Democrats to the State Legislature, but they found him out before his first term expired and did not re-elect him. Withal, he was a good fellow, and the most intelligent Pike county man I ever knew. At that time, three fourths of all the ranchers in San Joaquin valley were from Missouri; a clannish, indolent, live from hand-to-mouth set, believers in luck, always waiting for something to turn up, but never willing to take hold and turn it up themselves. While I was with the major, I learned of a vacant 160 acres of government land that had been overlooked by settlers, so I decided to take up this land and see what I could do farming. I had money enough to build a small, cheap house, and lay in a light stock of grub. Before the ground became wet enough to plow, I had split posts and rails enough to fence my ranch, and had cut the tops of the trees into wood. During the winter, from December, 1853, to March, 1854, I managed to put in fifty acres of barley. I had to run into debt for help and seed until after harvest, when I paid all in full, leaving seed and feed for another year. I sent mother $100.00, bought a pair of horses and had a little left for incidentals. This year I improved on the proverb that "he who by the plow would thrive, must either hold himself or drive," for I did both. Before time to plow I had harrowed the fifty acres put in the year before and left it for a volunteer crop, thus getting two crops for once plowing. I also bought 100 cords of wood and hauled it, with what I had cut on my own ground, to town, by it making money enough to harvest my second crop. During the winter of 1854-5, I put in twenty-five acres of barley and twenty-five acres of wheat without hiring a day's work. I was out at daybreak and worked as long as I could see at night. The remainder of the time before harvest was occupied in making grain sacks. All grain went to market in one hundred pound sacks. I bought the drilling by the bale, made the sacks myself and by so doing I had better sacks than machine-made ones, and at about one-half the cost. I harvested 4,000 bushels, or 220,000 pounds. Bushels are not known in California, as everything is sold by the hundredweight. On ten acres of measured ground I harvested 750 bushels of wheat. The straw was taller than my head and solid all through, and in a double handful of heads I could not find one with less than 113 grains, and it is recorded in the archives of the State that 125 bushels have been grown on one acre. I am confident that I had acres that would have turned out more than 100 bushels each. I was in a condition to hold my crops, while my Pike county neighbors were obliged to sell at one and three-fourths cents per pound to pay their debts, having nothing left to live on except their credit until the next year's crop should be harvested.

I now owned four horses and a wagon and had nothing for them or myself to do on the ranch until seeding time, so rather than remain idle I began hauling my grain to the mountains. Two and one-fourth cents was all I could get for it in Murphy's camp, but even this was better than idleness at home. My experience with high prices while in the mines led me to believe the same thing might occur again. I decided to store it with a reliable merchant and hold it until February, if I could not get five cents for it before; so I made a trip each week for twenty-five weeks. I happened to be at the mines when the first heavy rains commenced and there was an incessant down pouring for three days and nights. When the rain was over, teams could not move a load on account of the deep mud. I had the only grain in camp, consequently got my price, five cents. The merchant could not pay me until the stage came in with express from San Francisco, so it was 4 p.m. before I was ready to start for home, and as it was ten miles to the nearest roadhouse-which by fast driving I hoped to reach by dark - I started, arriving there at dusk. I made "stage time," and it was well I did, for as I was rounding a dugway on a steep mountain, I saw two men coming towards me on the full run, one of them beckoning me to stop, as though he wanted to ride. I recognized them as two men I had seen at the express office when I received my pay for my grain. The money was gold coin, in four bags, $1,000.00 in each. They, no doubt, saw me throw the money into my wagon, which was a risky thing to do, and had taken a shorter route over the mountains, but had not calculated on my fast driving. I was alarmed and put the whip to my horses. One of the men made for my horses' heads, but dare not jump down into the roadway in front of them, for fear of being run over. The other one made for the wagon, but before they could get into the road I was out of their reach. My horses were in a dripping sweat when I reached the roadhouse. I gave my bags of gold to the landlord for safekeeping, who buried them in a pile of barley which was in the corner of his house. Other teamsters soon arrived and I felt safe. I did not mention my escape, thinking they would laugh at me and say I was unnecessarily alarmed. A belated teamster came in and reported that he had been robbed of $80.00 by two men; then I told my story, but was careful not to mention the fact that I had so much money hid in the barley pile. The next morning I started in company with other teamsters, but did not feel entirely safe until I had deposited my gold with a reliable business firm in Stockton. One of my Pike county neighbors said to me not long after that I was the luckiest man he ever saw, for everything I touched turned into money. He gave me no credit for good management and hard work. His opportunities were as good as mine, but he was too indolent to improve them. Success stimulated me to greater exertion. I resolved to do business on a much larger scale, and with this in view I leased land and put in 450 acres of grain. I bought a reaper, and with the help of a hired man cut, hauled, stacked and made ready for the threshers the entire 450 acres. The threshers were with me thirty days, and charged me for cleaning up 16,000 bushels of grain - an average of thirty-five bushels per acre - for which I paid them $400.00 in cash. It required a gang of twenty men to successfully operate the machine and dispose of the grain and straw. I did the cooking for these men, and did as much work in the field as any of them besides. Our day was from sunrise to sundown, and one day we cleaned up 1,000 bushels of barley. We never succeeded in getting more than 600 bushels of wheat in one day; the straw was too heavy to do more, but the average per day was about 600 bushels. I look back with astonishment at the amount of labor I performed that year. I was determined to make money and succeeded beyond my most sanguine expectations. I had reached the point were it was not necessary for me to both "hold the plow and drive," and I pledged myself to never again work so hard. I forgot this pledge years later-but I anticipate.

It was in November, 1855, that my sister, Hannah, died, and the same letter that brought the sad tidings also informed me that mother had not, and would not, use the money I had been sending her, her excuse being that I might need it when I came home. The girls were educating themselves as best they could by teaching, and Hannah's life had been sacrificed in the effort. I have never succeeded in satisfying myself that I did right in leaving them. Father's dying admonition had not been complied with, and I realized more than ever that she had been a dear, good sister to me, and that, perhaps, her life might have been spared had I done differently. Letters from home had been the bright spots in my solitary life; hers had been a little longer and more frequent than others and were full of love and a longing for the time when we should all be together again in "the old home." Now all was changed, but I could go home and help those who were left, so with this object in view I shaped my affairs for a year's absence; determined to go home, place mother and Mira in easy circumstances and return to California, where I would spend the remainder of my days.

I disposed of my ranch and other property to advantage, loaned my money, as I supposed, to a good party at two per cent per month-a very low rate of interest at the time-and securing a one year's option on 480 acres of land, a Spanish mile square, over which I had many times cast a wishful eye, on the first day of April, 1857, I bade my friends good- bye and started for the States. I arrived at William Gillis's in Kinsman April 27th. The time coming home was 173 days less than in going out. Mother was sick in bed at Hartford, but my return proved an antidote for all her ills, and we were soon settled in our old home, which was an agreeable contrast to my bachelor home in California, although bachelor life has its good points.

An incident occurred in connection with my return which made a deep impression on my mind and satisfied me that a "Power greater than human" watched over and protected me. Henry Mathews and I arranged by letter to come home together, and had we started at the time agreed upon we would have been on the Central America, which was lost at sea between Aspinwall and New York, with all on board. Henry could not get away at the time set; I did not wish to wait, so came two weeks before the set time; thus we both escaped. On my journey home I enjoyed for a brief time the title of Commodore. It was generally understood that we were to stop at Manzanillo to take on silver bullion. As we neared that port, I at once recognized it, and to my surprise we sailed by. I was standing at the time near the Commodore and noticed that he appeared perplexed. I remarked to a fellow passenger that I supposed we were to land at Manzanillo, but I see we are passing it. The Commodore heard the remark and asked me if I was acquainted with the coast. "Yes, I knew that was Manzanillo; on our voyage up we had put into that port in distress and I could not mistake the place. "The Commodore immediately gave command to "bout ship," and we retraced our steps only to find out that Manzanillo was twelve miles down the coast. They gave us the laugh, and neither the Commodore nor I felt elated over the blunder. I apologized, and remarked that there was a striking resemblance between the two places. " Yes," he said, "there was; but a commander that did not know enough to run his own boat without consulting passengers ought to get into the wrong port." From this until we landed in New York I was dubbed "Commodore," and many amusing questions were propounded to me about the boat and coast.

I was in California during the operations of the Vigilance Committee of 1856, and I want to say a word in its justification. I know it was condemned, in the minds of many, but in California the greater number approved of it. It was a necessity of the times, for California was an open field for gamblers and desperadoes to enter, and they did not neglect the opportunity. But worst of all were the "Ticket-of-leave men" who were dumped into San Francisco by the shipload from Sydney, Australia. They could not be controlled by ordinary means.

So rapid was the increase in population that the requirements of the day would be inadequate six months later. The officers of the law were frequently too corrupt, incapable or timid to measure out the full punishment for crime, and so migratory was the population that the witnesses of a crime could not be found when the slow process of law had brought a criminal to trial. Something had to be done to reclaim the State from the hands of these desperadoes. The Vigilance Committee of 1851 was reorganized in San Francisco; Sacramento, Stockton and other cities, and they pounced upon the rascals of bad repute. All were given a fair trial. Many were hung; some publicly whipped and branded; but the greater number were driven from the State under penalty of death if they returned. It is a noteworthy fact that not a single innocent person suffered death at the hands of the committee. The State was rescued, and never since have desperadoes defied the law. The end justified the means. I saw a man lynched at Angel's camp for an unprovoked murder, which was witnessed by a number of good citizens. Law was powerless to protect him from the hands of the committee, for he acknowledged his guilt, only asking for a few minutes delay, that he might appoint an administrator to settle up his business and turn over the proceeds to his mother. He was living under an assumed name and begged that his true name should be known only to his administrator. This man received his just due, and might have escaped by the slow process of law.

VISIT TO CONNECTICUT.

In the Spring of 1898 I found myself in poor health and my physician recommended a journey with congenial company. Before I had decided where to go, or who would be most likely to go with me, cousin Newton came in one morning and proposed that we make a trip to Barkhamsted, Conn., where our fathers emigrated from. The proposition was accepted with alacrity and the doctor's prescription was in a fair way to be more than filled; for the very man of all others whom I preferred to take a trip with had offered to take me in charge. The ostensible object of the trip was recreation and recuperation; but beneath this was a desire to learn all we could of our ancestors. To travel without an object in view, is very much like shooting into the dark; the result would be doubtful, but an object diverts the mind from a chronic channel and gives it needful occupation. Ancestral research afforded the object and the twin brothers, recreation and recuperation,

Photo of the Residence of the late R. H. Parker, Kinsman, Ohio (NOT SHOWN)

the pleasure. As neither of us desired a continuous journey without rest, we started one June morning and arrived at Syracuse, N. Y., at 8:40 p. m. of the same day, where we spent the two following days with my nephew, A. R. Gillis, who showed Newton through the Solvay works, that from a small beginning has grown to be one of the largest manufacturing establishments in the United States, employing in the manufacture of Soda Ash, Caustic Soda and by products, some 3,000 persons. Gillis has charge of all the machinery in the vast concern, which is a credit to his ability and a benefit to his financial prosperity. I spent one day while there, riding through the most delightful streets of the city behind Lallah Rookh, a filly that I had raised, accompanied by a gentleman that knew everybody and everything about the city; and the other day Newton and I devoted to searching ancestral records in the public library. One evening while we were there, Mr. and Mrs. Gillis attended a ball; the object of which was to raise funds to equip a company of volunteers (which was made up of young men of that city) for the Cuban war. The receipts far exceeded all expectations, showing conclusively that patriotism is not dead. Thursday morning we proceeded on our journey. Nature was garbed in her most attractive attire; activity and prosperity were apparent in the cities, towns and neat little hamlets through which we passed; in fact no railroad passes through a more delightful country than the New York Central. I am not one of those who prefer mountain scenery; a ride through the Mohawk valley on a pleasant morning in June, surpasses any trip of the same length I have ever taken. The gentle stream with its valley of unsurpassed beauty; the valley skirted with verdant hills whose sides and tops are dotted with magnificent residences, delights the eye; while the railroads on each side of the river and the famous Erie canal, fills one with wonder at the immense traffic between the west and the sea shore. Could General Johnson look on this beauty spot of today, much of which was ceded to him by an Indian Chief for a blanket, his eyes would open with astonishment and his heart would be filled with joy by the prosperity which he laid the foundation for. It is very probable that another one hundred years will see greater changes. Who can tell!

General Johnson was an early, if not the very first white settler in Fulton County, N. Y., and resided at Johnstown. He was a great favorite with the Indians and their chief often made him protracted visits. The general possessed a very nice blanket, which the chief of the tribe in that vicinity coveted and was anxious to possess, but did not like to ask the general to give it to him; so one morning after spending the night with Johnson, he informed him, that he had dreamed that he had given him the blanket. The chief got the blanket. Not long after the general visited the chief, he too, had a dream. His dream was that the chief had given him all the land within a designated boundary. The chief said "Well, General, you takum, but me dream with you no more."

At Albany, we changed to the Boston and Albany road. We missed connections at State Line; so jumping back upon the same train, continued our journey to New Hartford, Conn., via, Pittsfield and Westfield, Mass., where we changed cars for Farmington, Conn., where after another change and a thirty minutes wait, we boarded a train for New Hartford, arriving there safely but very weary, just after dark.

The country through which we passed was rugged, but prosperity has left its mark; though a western man would lead a doubtful existence among the hills, where those people seem contented and happy. In almost every little hamlet some specialty is manufactured; and it's a wonder to me that the list of specialties does not become exhausted. Westfield is all whips and cigars; Collinsville is an edge-tool center, and here large quantities of machetes are manufactured for the Spanish and Cuban armies. It is not a pleasant thought that Americans put an instrument into the hands of our enemies to slay our brethren with. We spent the night at a quiet hotel from which we emerged in the morning refreshed, and after breakfast and a stroll of observation through the town-which is largely interested in the manufacture of cotton duck-we called on Capt. Henry R. Jones, a distant relative of mine; an acknowledged authority on the genealogy of the Jones family; and found him an intelligent and congenial gentleman from whom I gleaned much information that was useful to me and who permitted Newton to copy his genealogical record for me.

Capt. Henry Jones is a great-grandson of Capt. Israel Jones of Barkhamsted; is editor, publisher and proprietor of the New Hartford Tribune; and as a leading citizen is loved and respected by all who have the pleasure of his acquaintance. We could not have chosen a more opportune time for a visit, as his paper had gone to press the day before and he was at leisure. By chance we met my cousin Fred Jones of Barkhamsted, who repeated the invitation we had received by letter from his father to visit them, which we accepted later. In the afternoon we visited Farmington, which was first settled by a company, (of which Dea. Stephen Hart was the leader,) in 1640. I hoped to secure some relic of the deacon, but had to content myself with seeing the lot, now vacant, on which his residence once stood. The deacon made no mistake selecting this location, as it is one of the most beautiful spots we saw in the state. We regretted that our time was limited to an hour, but we employed a "natural talking machine," with a carriage to drive us through the town and land us at the depot-a long mile away-in time for the Simsbury train. This woman was wound up to run the full hour; and we learned more about the town and its inhabitants in that short space of time, than we might otherwise have learned in a day. Should I ever visit Connecticut again, I shall spend a much longer time in Farmington. We were in time for our train and were soon landed in Simsbury, where we put up at The Maple Tree Inn. It was kept by a widow lady-assisted by her daughter-and was so well ordered, that we wished all hotels could be kept as well.

Newton had corresponded with Hon. Wm. Wallace Lee of Meriden, Conn.- the Barkhamsted historian - who had directed him to call on Mr. A. S. Chapman, who was the town clerk of Simsbury and use his - Lee's - name in introduction, as Mr. Chapman could probably put us in a way of ascertaining what we wanted to know better than anyone else there. After supper we did so; and were invited into his private office, which was connected with the post office, as he was the postmaster, where we held an impromptu reception.

I think Mr. Chapman must have sent out for some of the older citizens; at least several of them came in. A Mr. Ensign, an old settler, crippled with rheumatism which had affected neither memory nor tongue, proved a bonanza for us. It is not necessary to say that the theme of conversation was largely on genealogical matters, though politics and war came in occasionally for a share. Newton was well up to those eastern fellows in the discussion and was primed with apt stories that made him captain of the squad and it must have been fully ten o'clock before the party broke up. The next morning Mr. Chapman escorted us to the Probate Court room, where the old records of the township were kept in a vault under lock and key; and brought out the books which he thought would most interest us. He returned to his post office and left us to search the records at our own leisure. We soon found the record of marriage of our great-grandfather Benjamin to Mercy Atwater. We had not expected to find this record here, for we supposed it would be in Wallingford where they were born and raised. We also found records of birth of all their children, as well as deeds of three parcels of land which were bought at different times as they became able. This was our first experience in examining old records and we were elated by our success; for it enabled us to fill many blanks in our previous record. During this time a Mr. Phelps had heard of us and called at the post office to make our acquaintance. Not finding us there he left an invitation for us to call on him, which we accepted and found him to be a genial and well informed gentleman, who in his younger days had bought cattle in nearly every township on the Western Reserve and had driven them overland to Connecticut. He was as eager to learn about Ohio as we were about our ancestors; and it was through his recollection and direction that we found the place where Benjamin Parker settled in 1751. He showed us a very large new barn which he had lately completed, his horses, carriages, flower garden, &c, I remarked that he was not likely to make the acquaintance of the sheriff very soon; his reply came slow and mild: "I don't know about that; the tax collector pesters the life nearly out of me, the sheriff may come next." He had inherited a large amount of land from his father, who had been a "land grabber," and land has so depreciated in value that he can neither sell nor rent. Western products have driven eastern farmers to the necessity of growing vegetables and making butter, to supply the small manufacturing towns. Horses, cattle, hogs and sheep are grown at a loss. We did not see a flock of sheep nor a bunch of steers in the state; and this is why there are so many abandoned farms. It seems singular, and unaccountable to me why the first settlers should have located among the hills, leaving the valleys unoccupied; for the valleys are still productive while the abandoned farms are among the hills.

As we had planned to get a livery rig and make a trip to the site of the Parker homestead near Weatogue, we invited Mr. Phelps to accompany us. He expressed regrets that he could not do so, as he must attend the funeral of a cousin of his which was to be observed that afternoon; "but," he said, "you shall not go to the livery for a rig. I have a horse that would rather stand still than go; get your dinner, and you will find him hitched up and waiting for you under that shed" pointing to the place. "Take him, go where you please, come back when you get ready, and hitch him there. My man will care for him." The offer was made in such a way that we could not refuse, and we found that "the horse that would rather stand still than go" was what I call a first class family horse, free, but gentle. A delightful ride of about two miles up the Farmington river, first on its west, then across and up its east bank, brought us to the home of Mr. Ensign and an abandoned road which used to be the thoroughfare eastward. By invitation Mr. Ensign accompanied us and directed us to the location we were looking for. It was about a half-mile from Mr. Ensign's, and a beautiful spot. The house faced the south, and across the valley some eighty or one hundred rods, King Philip's mountain towered above the surrounding hills. We wandered for some time about the site where the house had stood; noticed that still a few old fashioned flowers grew where the garden was probably located; cut each a cane to bring home as a momento, and as we turned our backs upon the place where our grandfather was born, we could but feel thankful for such ancestors and well repaid for visiting it. We took the evening train for Granby, which soon left us there, where we embarked upon a rickety stage, conducted by a drunken driver, for East Hartland. The driver was so unfit that Newton drove a part of the way, and finally "called him down" for his insolence, which caused him to apologize, and we made the balance of the trip in comparative peace. Cousin Fred was in waiting for us at East Hartland, where we arrived just after dark, and after a quick ride of two miles we were welcomed by my cousin, Edwin P. Jones, and his wife, in a way that made us both feel we were among our own people again. The next day was the Sabbath and we all attended church at East Hartland. The building in which we worshipped was erected by Daniel Bushnell in 1801, and from its steeple on a clear day the spires of fifty two others can be seen. This does not seem so strange when a person realizes that it stands upon the top of the mountain, and the city of Hartford some twenty five miles away - can be distinctly seen. On Monday we were very fortunate in securing the services of D. N. Gaines to assist us in our work. He came with a two-seated carriage and took us to all the points of interest we wished to visit, and as he was most thoroughly posted on the genealogies of Hartland he proved invaluable.

The church record gives date of the death of our great-uncle Benjamin, but we were unable to locate the grave; also the dates of marriage of two of his sisters. Mr. Gaines had almost complete records of all the families that had ever lived in Hartland, and he was able to give us a complete record of the military service of our great-uncle, which we never before had been able to secure. We visited Hartland Hollow, where the township clerk resides, and secured the record of land purchases made by our great-grandfather Benjamin and my great-grandfather Uriah Hyde. The road leading by where the Parkers resided in Hartland has been long abandoned, and the road and surrounding country has grown up so dense with brush and second growth timber that it was impossible to get to the spot where they had lived without walking through a mass of tangled growth for three-fourths of a mile or more, and even the fox-hunters took a compass when they wished to penetrate that locality. Mr. Gaines was prepared for the trip, but I knew it was not best for me to try such a jaunt, so we gave it up. To add to the ordinary difficulties, the brush and timber had been crushed down and indescribably tangled by an ice storm which occurred last winter. It was so destructive that shade trees, quite large timber, and whole orchards were ruined. I never saw such utter destruction to growing timber in my life. Tuesday we devoted to visiting with Cousin Edwin and family, and wandering about the spot where Capt. Israel Jones of Enfield settled in 1750. History gives him the credit of being in all probability, the second settler in Barkhamsted, and here he, and his son Samuel after him, raised families, but now all that remains to tell the tale of a once prosperous home is the cellar partly filled with brush and elders, and the ruin of the chimney stack which was built up in the middle of the cellar from its bottom. That evening Cousin Fred took us to Barkhamsted Center, where we passed two delightful days, and were royally entertained by Cousins Mary and Rollin Hart. Cousin Mary possesses rare literary ability, and is well known as an historian and newspaper correspondent; while Rollin gave us exhibitions of mimicry and inimitable drollery, which convulsed us with daughter. The next morning Cousin Rollin, with a two-seated buggy, took us up the East Hollow road to visit the "Old Parker Homestead." We passed the oldest house in Barkhamsted, erected previous to 1771, and once owned and occupied by Col. Israel J ones, who was a brother of my great-grandfather. The house is still in a good state of preservation, and bids fair to endure the blasts of another 125 years. We soon arrived at "the old home in Barkhamsted," as our parents always loved to call it, and began investigations. The dam, which used to form the pond where our fathers skated and fished, was washed away by a flood some thirty years ago, but another further up the stream turns water to the same mill that stood there then. The foundation to the forge, where our blind great-grandfather made horseshoe nails, could be traced; and here it was that our grandfather laid the foundation for the prosperity of his sons in "the West." It was with reverence we turned our faces toward the house, in which no material change has been made, inside or out, since the memorable day when the Parker family, with sore hearts but bright hopes, started on their long journey for Ohio. Only one of the family - Uncle Rufus - who left that day, ever visited the spot. There stands the two-story house, grim and gray with age, in construction commodious, a mansion in early times, now the home of a colored family.

When I asked Newton if he would like to go in and see the interior arrangement of the house he answered emphatically, "No. I do not wish the impressions which were instilled into my mind by my father as to the house mixed up with the associations connected with a family whose mother is white and father black."

It was two much like sacrilege; his sense of propriety was shocked, and from my heart I gave his feelings my unqualified indorsement. We walked back past where the barn once stood and on to a hogback ridge that extended from near the house to a brook at the foot of the mountain. On this ridge, from which the storms of years had washed nearly all the soil, were a few wintergreens, and strawberry vines with ripe fruit. We picked and ate some for association's sake, and I think Newton sent a few wintergreens home.

We located "the old cow path," climbed part way up the mountain, drank in the beauty of the scenery, rested a bit and returned just as Cousin Rollin - becoming uneasy at our protracted absence - was on the point of starting after us. A drink of water from the well refreshed us, and as we turned our backs upon "the old home" we only communed with our own thoughts.

Retracing our way a short distance we crossed the river at the mill, and halting at the Hawkins Hart homestead long enough to go through the house, which still stands but is vacant, and see the musket which he carried in the Revolution, now owned by his descendant, Monroe Hart, who lives near by, we were soon at the Center cemetery, where sleep our great-grandparents. Here we spent some time with those who had passed away. The old meeting house in which our ancestors worshipped has been torn down and removed. In its place stands the monument erected to the memory of Barkhamsted's fallen heroes. The evening was devoted to visiting and mirth. Cousin Rollin was at his best, and I yet laugh when I think of his fun-provoking stories. The next day I went to Winsted with Cousin Rollin, while Newton visited with Cousin Mary and searched the town records. Friday morning our cousins escorted us to New Hartford, which was a beautiful ride of five miles, where we bade them good-bye, feeling that we had made one of the pleasantest visits in our lives. The train landed us at Hartford in time for dinner, after which we walked to the Capitol, where in company with Dr. Charles J. Hoadly, and Hon. Wm. Wallace Lee who met us by appointment, we passed the afternoon. Dr. Hoadly produced ancient manuscripts for our inspection. A letter from King Charles; records made by William Andrews, the schoolmaster, and other valuable papers that are preserved with the choicest care, and we felt honored with the confidence. At our request Mr. Lee accompanied us to our hotel and took supper with us, all the time adding to our store of information from his seemingly inexhaustible fountain. Saturday morning we visited the Connecticut Historical Society's rooms and were delighted beyond measure by what we learned and saw. The Brooks collection of war relics was on exhibition and we gave it considerable attention. Newton called my attention to many things and explained what I was unfamiliar with. Projectiles fired at the battle of Bunker Hill were there, as well as those used in nearly every battle during the Civil War. In the museum department I discovered that I had some specimens they did not possess, but the collection was one of the largest, if not the very largest, I ever saw that belonged to a private party. In calling Newton's attention to the section of a tree, all scarred with shell and bullet marks, and labeled "From the Battlefield of Chickamauga," I found he was very atheistical as to the genuineness of such exhibits, and after listening to his reasons for it, must confess they were well taken, for to use his expression, "When a cannon ball strikes a tree, generally, there isn't much left but the hole where the ball struck." At Thompsonville, where we went next, we spent Saturday with the Enfield records in the interest of the Jones family. Here are extensive carpet manufacturing interests, and as the town is nicely situated upon the bank of the Connecticut river and we had a good hotel we concluded to remain here over the Sabbath.

To ascertain if the church records would aid me, we called on and made the acquaintance of the pastor of the Enfield church, Rev. O. W. Means, whom we found to be an agreeable gentleman and anxious to aid me in every possible way. He directed me to communicate with James Allen Kibbe of Warehouse Point. I have done so and thereby secured information previous to Benjamin Jones of Somers, which I did not before possess. Sabbath was rainy; I was not well, so we did not attend church as we had planned. Towards evening we visited the Enfield cemetery, but learned nothing I did not know before, and I retired early, not feeling as well as usual, and with my mind made up that it was best for me to return home soon. I wanted to examine some Massachusetts records, but did not think it best to try at this time, unless I should find myself much better by morning. Monday morning we decided to start for home. While waiting for an electric car for Springfield, Mass., after a minute's walk from the hotel, I was taken with a distressed spell. My heart pounded like a gladiator and I almost fell to the pavement. Newton proposed to take me back to the hotel, but I objected, hoping to feel better soon. By the time our car arrived, I had recovered sufficiently so that by Newton's assistance I got on the car, and as we proceeded on our way, gained strength and felt braced up by the fresh, morning air. We passed through Long Meadow, one of the prettiest little towns I ever saw. The street for miles must have been twenty rods wide, lined on either side by fine residences, which were surrounded by grand trees and nicely kept lawns. Taken together it was an ideal residence village. Close connections at Springfield and Albany brought us to Syracuse in good time, where we spent the following day with my nephew. The ride to Syracuse took all the endurance I could command, so I was well fitted for a day of rest. Wednesday morning we started on the last stage of our return, which I stood well, and arrived home thankful to my All wise Father for the care He had bestowed upon me, and that I had been instrumental in aiding to preserve the history of my ancestry.

Note. - The above description of our trip to Connecticut was begun by Cousin Rufus, but was somewhat broken in connection and unfinished at his death. As it was the last work which occupied his leisure hours, I have attempted to supply the missing links and complete it as though it were wholly written by himself. Believing that it will be of interest to the family to preserve it, I insert it here.

L. N. PARKER.

MILITARY RECORD.

No.4.

Benjamin Parker: private in Seventh company (Capt. Isaac Cook of Wallingford), First Conn. Reg.; discharged in Northern Department, October 17th, 1775; a native of Wallingford; later of Simsbury and Hartland; moved to Barkhamsted 1778; was a blacksmith and lived near Monson's mill in Barkhamsted; died 1807. Father of Dea. Lovel and Joel Parker. There were three and possibly four Benjamin Parkers in the service. (Barkhamsted men in the Revolution.)

The First Connecticut Regiment-Col. David Wooster-was raised under the first call for troops by the Legislature, April-May, 1775; recruited in New Haven county. It marched by request of the New York Provincial authorities and the Continental Congress to New York in the latter part of June and camped at Harlem. Gen. Wooster and a small detachment guarded stock on Long Island during the summer. About September 28th the regiment; under orders from Congress, marched to the Northern Department-Gen. Schuyler-and took part in the operations along Lakes George and Champlain; assisted in the reduction of St. Johns in October, and afterwards was stationed in part at Montreal. Much sickness prevailed in the command and many soldiers were furloughed or mustered out in October and November. Companies 3 and 5 were at the siege of Boston. (Conn. men in the Rev.)

Note.-Captain Isaac, afterwards Col. Isaac Cook, was a distant relative of Benjamin Parker, as his great-grandmother, Hoge (Parker) Cook, was a daughter of Benjamin's great-grandfather, Edward Parker of New Haven. Benjamin's cousin, Eldad Parker, with twenty six others, was killed at the defense of New Haven, July 6, 1779, and from the record it appears that every branch of the Parker family was represented in the army during the Revolution, but space forbids giving the record of any but those in the direct line here.

No. 4 ½

Benjamin Parker, Jr., enlisted in Capt. Benjamin Hutchin's company (date unknown); was discharged September 14, 1776, and died November 8, 1776.

This company with it's regiment-the Eighteenth Regiment State Militia-was ordered to New York to aid in its defence. The regiment arrived there August 18th, 1776, and the record indicates took active part in the operations there at that time.

Note.-As Benjamin, Jr., died fifty-four days after his discharge, it would appear that the immediate cause for his discharge was sickness, and the action taken with a hope it might save his life, for the entire company was discharged only eleven days later.

No.5.

Lovel Parker served in the field near the close of the Revolution for some three months. All public record of his service has been lost. This is not unusual, however, for it is well known that all record of many commands cannot be found. His service was probably with the State Militia.

Hawkins Hart, father of Hannah, and Abigail (Hart) Parker, was commissioned an army lieutenant in Fifth company, Col. Douglass's regiment, June, 1776. This regiment was in the battle of Long Island; at the defence of New York; at the battle of White Plains. It is said that he served at other times; was then of Wallingford (now Meriden). Removed to Barkhamsted and died there in 1824. (Barkhamsted men in the Revolution.)

Samuel Jones, grandfather of Harriet B. and Statira (Jones) Parker was a sergeant in Capt. John Norton's company at the defence of New York, 1776. Probably served at other places and times. He lived in the northeast part of Barkhamsted. (Barkhamsted men in the Revolution.)

John Andrews, grandfather of Lucy C. (Andrews) Parker, enlisted May 26, 1777, in Capt. Champion's company, Third Connecticut Regiment, for eight months. Discharged January 1st, 1778. He may have served at other times. (War Department, Washington, D. C.)

Noyes Parker, No.6, served in Capt. Hayden's company at New London, Conn., August 3d to September 16th, 1813. (Conn. men in the Revolution.)

John Andrews of Kinsman, O. commissioned Quartermaster Sergeant of the Odd Battalion, Third Brigade, Fourth Division, Ohio Militia, November 28th, 1811. "Commissioned Quartermaster Sergeant of the Third Regiment-Col. Hayes-Third Brigade, Fourth Division, Ohio Militia, April 20th, 1812." Marched August 24, 1812.

L. Newton Parker, No. 26, enlisted in Company I, 105th O. V.I., for three years, August 8th, 1862. Served until the war closed and was discharged a First Sergeant, June 3d, 1865. He was wounded twice at the battle of Perryville, Ky., October 8th, 1862; stunned by an exploding shell at the battle of Milton, Tenn., March 20th, 1863; marched with the army under Gen. Rosecrans to Chattanooga, Tenn., and from there under Gen. Sherman through all his campaigns to Richmond, Va., taking part in the grand review in Washington, D. C., May 24th, 1865.

Almon Parker, No. 20, enlisted in Company G, 171st O. V. I., for 100 days, April 27th, 1864; discharged Aug. 20, 1864. This regiment did duty guarding prisoners on Johnson's Island, 0., until June 9th, when it was ordered to Kentucky to aid in repelling Gen. John Morgan's command. It engaged the enemy near Kellar's Bridge, Ky., June .11th, losing thirteen killed and fifty-four wounded.

Charles Parker, No. 39, enlisted in Company Do 88th O.V.I., for three months, May 26, 1862. Was discharged on expiration of his term of service, September 26th, 1862. Re-enlisted in Company A, 86th O.V.I., for six months, June 16th, 1863; discharged February 10th, 1864. He campaigned with Company E, 23d O.V.I., during the period between enlistments, but not as an enlisted man.

The record shows that the 88th and 86th regiments were principally engaged in guard duty and apprehending guerrillas.

James L. Truesdale, No. 35, enlisted in Company E, 2d Ohio Cavalry for three years, August 10th, 1861. Was discharged on surgeon's certificate of disability January 19th, 1863.

The record made by this command is excelled by none, and is too voluminous and well known to be produced here.

Albert L. Parker, No. 80, enlisted in Co. "A," 41st O. V. I., for three years, Feb. 29th, 1864. Died at Victoria, Tex., Sept. 17th, 1865.

Andrew C. Parker, No. 82, enlisted in Co. "A," 41st O. V. I., for three years, Aug. 18th, 1861. Re-enlisted as a veteran. Discharged a First Sergeant, Nov. 27th, 1865.

This regiment made a record that has been seldom equalled; for its active service began with the battle of Shiloh and continued during the entire war.

James A. Parker, No. 83, enlisted in Co. "E," 100th Pa. Vol. Inf. Aug. -, 1861. Killed in the battle of Secessionville, or James Island, South Carolina, June 16, 1862.