Organization of Fulton County

     The Act of the Legislature for the organization and establishment of the County of Fulton, and defining its boundaries as they now exist, was passed on the 28th of January, 1823. Several other counties had their boundaries defined by the same act, but were not to be organized until they should attain the requisite population. Until the period of their organization they were to be attached to Fulton county, for all purposes, just as though they were actually a part of it
     Peoria county was a part of this attached territory, and the village of Peoria furnished to Fulton county its first sheriff, in the person of Abner Eads, who, in 1823, at the first election, beat Ossian M. Ross for that position. The Peorians, it is said, came down from Peoria in "pirogues" to the mouth of Spoon River, then "pulled" up that stream to the neighborhood of Lewistown, which was the only voting-place in the county, bringing their whisky and their candidate with them.
     The first session of the circuit court of which I can get any knowledge was held at Lewistown, in June, 1824. This certainly was not the first court; but, as the records of the county for the first year after its organization have disappeared, no account of its proceedings have reached me.
     Mr. George S. McConnell was a spectator at the court held in June, 1824. He says that Thos. Reynolds, a brother of Gov. John Reynolds, was judge. Hugh R. Coulter, a brother-in-law of Ossian M. Ross, was circuit clerk. Coulter was at the same time justice of the peace, and held several other official positions.
     The court was held in Coulter's house. This was a double log-cabin, containing some three or four rooms. Mr. McConnell does not remember seeing but two lawyers in attendance, these being John Shaw and Nicholas Hanson, nor does he remember which acted in the capacity of circuit attorney. The panel of jurors was so scanty that the same persons had to sit both on the grand and traverse juries.
     In 1824, the Board of County Commissioners consisted of David W. Barnes, Thomas Covill, and a Mr. Moffett. Wm. Totten and John Pixley were the only constables in the county.

INCIDENTS.

OUT OF MEAT.

     One day in the fall of 1823, Henry Andrews relates, there came two land-hunters to the cabin of Col. Barnes. These men were Joshua Moore and Levi Ellis. Barnes invited them in the most cordial manner to make his house their headquarters while in the neighborhood, and the invitation was cheerfully accepted. Mrs. Barnes announced to her husband that the meat was out that evening, and that she did not know what she was going to do for something to eat. As meat and corn-bread or hominy was about the extent of the pioneer bill of fare at that period, this announcement was received with some consternation. Barnes had no stock to kill, and had neglected hunting, from the pressure of his fall work. George Matthews was at that time working at Barnes's, and in the morning he undertook to find some game. He started out east of Barnes's cabin, and had been gone but a few moments before the report of his gun was heard, and his halloo for help soon followed it. The whole family started for the scene of action, anxious to know the result. Matthews had shot and killed a fine doe within a short distance of the house, and was proceeding to skin it. This gave Mrs. Barnes relief, and she furnished her guests an abundance of venison during the balance of their stay.
     Moore purchased land in what is now Joshua township, and gave the township its name. Ellis settled at Ellisville, which township was also named in his honor. He built a mill at the present site of Ellisville. Both of them were prominent and useful men, and possessed of great influence among the people at that early day.

HOW BUCKHEART TOWNSHIP ACQUIRED ITS NAME.

     Some time in about 1824, John Pixley, a tall, gaunt, red-headed man, a great blow and something of a hunter, shot a buck about where Piper's Woolen Factory now stands in Canton. The deer was wounded: Pixley swore it had been shot through the heart. He followed it across the prairie to the head of what is now Buckheart Grove, where he lost track of it. Pixley used to tell the story as an instance of the wonderful tenacity of life possessed by deer, always insisting that he had unquestionably shot that buck through the heart, and that afterward he had followed it five miles and it had finally escaped him. The grove where it disappeared was called Buckheart Grove in derision of this story, and the stream running through it received the same name, which was also afterward extended to the township.
     The first tavern license issued to a citizen of Canton township was granted to Captain David W. Barnes, on the 6th of September, 1824. Mr. Barnes was, by the Board of County Commissioners, allowed to charge for a single meal 37 ½ cents, lodging 12 ½ cents, unless two persons occupied one bed, when the bill should be 6 ¼ cents each. Single feed of oats or corn, 25 cents. Whisky, per half-pint, the charge was fixed at 12 ½ cents; rum or gin, per half-pint, 25 cents; brandy or wine, per half-pint, 37 ½ cents. At this time there were but three licensed taverns in the county: one kept by Ossian M. Ross, at Ross's Ferry; one by Stephen Phelps, at Lewistown; and Capt. Barnes's. The Board of County Commissioners, or County Court, at this time were James Gardner, James Barnes, and David W. Barnes. This board received an application for and granted to John L. Bogardus a license to keep a ferry across the Illinois River, from the Village of Peoria to the opposite bank, in Sangamon county—Peoria at that time being in territory that was attached to and under the jurisdiction of Fulton county.

HABITS AND CUSTOMS OF THE PIONEERS.

     The Pioneer was a jolly, generous soul. Meanness did not enter into his composition. The social scale was exactly balanced, all occupying precisely the same level. The idea that one man was socially the superior of any other man was not to be entertained for one moment.
     The earliest residences were cabins of unhewn logs, having either dirt or puncheon floors. The puncheon floor was made by splitting logs into slabs of six or eight inches in thickness, hewing one surface, and dressing the edges with the broad-axe. This made a substantial if not even or close-jointed floor. The roof of the cabin was of clapboards, and kept in position by logs of wood laid on its upper surface. These logs were called weight-poles. The chimney was usually made by building a kind of puncheon double frame for the fire-place, and filling in the space between—about ten or twelve inches in thickness—with clay which was well pounded in—the chimney above being made of sticks built up pen fashion and well daubed with earth mortar. The hearth was generally pounded clay, unless stone suitable happened to be very convenient and plenty. The door was usually made of clapboards, with a wooden latch on the inside, and was opened from the outside by pulling the latch-string. When the "latch-string was out," the approaching comer knew the folks were at home, and, if at all acquainted, never took the trouble of knocking. If a stranger, he would generally announce his approach by a loud "halloo, the house!" which would bring the good man and woman each, or either who happened to be at home, to the door, followed by as many juveniles as the cabin afforded. If the caller was a footman and a stranger, he first rapped on the door and called, in a loud voice, "Who keeps the house?" and would receive the response from within, "House­keepers: come in."
     The furniture of the cabin was as primitive as the occupants. In one corner—perhaps in two or three corners—were the bed­steads. These were your genuine cottage bedsteads, made by boring one hole, say four feet from one corner of the cabin, into a "house-log," another hole, say six feet from the same corner, on another side; opposite these holes was set an upright post, usually a section from the body of a peeled sapling; in this post two holes would be bored at any desired height, and at right angles with each other; poles were inserted in these holes, making in this manner a square frame; over this frame was laid a covering of clapboards, or, as some denominated them, "shakes," and on top of this platform the bed was spread. The chairs were—to make a bull ---not chairs, but three-legged stools or puncheon benches. The cupboard was literally a cupboard, being a puncheon supported by pins driven into holes in the house-logs at some convenient corner. The boxes which had held the family dry goods while en route to the new country generally furnished the table, and a trough or troughs the meat and soap barrels. Hollow logs sawed into sections and provided with a puncheon bottom furnished a receptacle for meal, potatoes, beans, wheat, "and sich like truck"—to use the pioneer vernacular. The table was bounteously supplied with "samp," "ley hominy," corn pone, honey, venison, pork, stewed pumpkin, wild turkey, prairie chicken, and other game. Wheat bread, tea, coffee, and fruit— except wild fruit—were luxuries not to be indulged in except on special occasions, as a wedding or gala day. "Samp" was quite a frequent dish. It was made by burning a hole into some con­venient stump in the shape of a mortar; this hole was filled with corn and pounded by a large pestle hung like the old-fashioned well-sweep pendent from a long pole, which was nearly balanced on an upright fork. This pole had a weight attached to one end and the pestle to the other; the weight would lift the pestle, while manual force was expected to bring it down. When the "samp" was pounded sufficiently, it was washed and boiled like rice.
     The traveler always found a welcome at the pioneer's cabin. It was never full: although there might already be a guest for every puncheon, there was still "room for one more," and a wider circle would be made for the new-comer at the log fire. If the stranger was in search of land, he was doubly welcome, and his host would volunteer to show him all the “first-rate claims in this neck of woods," going with him for days, showing the corners and advantages of every "Congress tract" within a dozen miles from his own cabin.
     To his neighbors the pioneer was equally liberal. If a deer was killed, the choicest bits were sent to his next neighbor, a half-dozen miles away, perhaps. When a "shoat" was butchered, the same custom prevailed. If a new-comer came in too late for "cropping," the neighbors would supply his table with just the same luxuries they themselves enjoyed, and in as liberal quantity, until a crop could be raised. When the new-comer had located his claim, the neighbors for miles around would assemble at the site of the new-comer's proposed cabin and aid him in "gittin' it up." One party with axes would fell and hew the logs; another with teams would haul the logs to the ground; another party would “raise the cabin”; while several of the men would "rive the clapboards" for the roof. By night the cabin would be up and ready for occupying, and by the next day the new-comer was in all respects as well situated as his neighbors.
     Saturday was a regular holiday, in which work was ignored and every body went to town or to some place of general resort. When all were together in town, sport began. Of course, whisky circulated freely and every body indulged to a greater or less extent. Quarrels were now settled by hand-to-hand encounters ; wrestling-matches came off or were arranged for in the future; jumping, foot-racing, and horse-racing filled up the inter­val of time; and every body enjoyed the rough sports with a zest unknown among the more refined denizens of the present good City of Canton.
     The fleetest runner among the pioneers was Stephen Coleman; the champion wrestler was Daniel Babbett; while at fisti-cuffs the belt was contested for between Stephen Coleman and Emsly Fouts. Coleman and Fouts were nearly equally matched, and on several occasions waged desperate war, with varying fortunes, until they held their last great battle, which will never be forgotten by the pioneers. It was on election-day, in the fall of 1831. For weeks before it had been understood that they were to fight. On election-day, accordingly, they met on Union street, in front of Tyler's Tavern, and, surrounded by an immense crowd of their respective friends, proceeded to settle their difficulty. The fight was fierce, long, and bloody. Coleman, it was claimed, struck Fouts before he was entirely divested of his coat, and by this means began with the advantage in his favor, which advantage he was able to maintain until Fouts, after a gallant struggle, was forced to yield.  Coleman's friends raised him on their shoulders, and marched with him a triumphal march to the Public Square and back.
     Fouts was defeated, "but, as he believed, not fairly, and he determined to renew the contest on another occasion. This was also understood, and the final struggle was looked forward to by the settlers with even more expectant interest; than the first. Accordingly, a few weeks later, one Saturday, Fouts came to town for the purpose of meeting Coleman. He stopped at Dickey Johnson's, where he left his coat and put himself in fighting trim. Johnson accompanied him to town and acted as his friend and second. Fouts soon met Coleman, and informed him that he had come to town expressly to settle their little trouble. Coleman began to draw his leather coat, but before it was off Fouts took the same advantage Coleman had taken in the previous fight, and struck him. This advantage was all he desired, and vigorously did he follow it up. Coleman was not easily handled, however, and soon was stripped and in fighting trim. The fight was a desperate one, and it was soon apparent that neither would acknowledge defeat. Fouts, however, had so well followed up his advantage that Coleman's friends parted them, and ever after neither could be induced to attack the other.
     Foot-racing, jumping and wrestling were also indulged in on Saturdays, and among the pioneers were men of fleet foot, strong arm, and sinewy limb. John Anderson, a saddler who worked for Bryant L. Cook, was credited with the fleetest foot prior and up to the storm in 1835; while Alexander Cumming, a brother-in-law of Jacob Weaver, was said to excel all others in jumping. In 1830 and the immediately succeeding years John Scurlock and Abram Putman were the champion runners, and Putman the champion jumper. Occasionally the sport would be varied by a horse-race, while whisky and jokes were freely indulged in. Some of these pioneers were rare old jokers, too. The point of their joke would some times rub a raw place in their victim, but for that so much the better.
     There was running through this pioneer life, too, a deep, rich vein of religious sentiment. The pioneer preachers were no carpet knights, but men who preached from a stern sense of religious duty. They were not deterred from filling their appointments by wind or weather, but swam rivers, faced northers, and passed through the perils of the wilderness, to carry the glad tidings of the gospel to the frontiersmen. Peter Cartwright, Father Somers, Woolescroft, John M. Ellis, Jno. G. Bergen, Jesse Williams, Ozias Hale, Jno. Clark, and their colaborers, were—some of them, perhaps, not eloquent—but all devoted, true, worthy men—men who preached a pure religion; for there was a religion in the olden time, a religion plain, unostentatious and simple, but earnest, pure and undefiled. Plain men and plain women met together, not for display, not for frivolous discourse, but for the worship of the one Living God, whose handiwork they recognized in the forests and prairies, and whose watchful care they, felt around them every day, in preserving them from the savage, and from the innumerable dangers to which their pioneer life was subject. They met, not in turreted church, with stained-glass windows, to seat themselves on cushioned seats, and listen to hired musicians, who torture elegant organs by singing the words of religion to the music of the opera and the ballroom. They met in the settler's cabin, coming on foot, or horseback or in rude ox­carts to the place of worship. They came, not dressed in velvets, not loaded with panniers and false hair; but plain women in moccasins, or cowhide brogans, wearing modest three-cornered handkerchiefs over plain linsey or homespun checked cotton gowns, their hair, as God caused it to grow, unadorned, combed but smooth and glossy, and hidden from view by the primitive Methodist bonnet, or the modest sun-bonnet, as our mothers wore it. The men came, not kid-gloved bewhiskered dandies in tights, and boots that were a size too small for their feet, and walking with a gait as ungraceful as disgusting; but clad in linsey-woolsey hunting-shirt, with home-braided straw hat or coon-skin cap, with their plain white home-made cotton shirt, whose wide collar was turned down over the "wammus" or hunting-shirt. They came with a firm, free step, in their moccasins or brogans, a long, graceful step that told of strength and activity.
     They met in some log school-house, or in the one room of some pioneer log-cabin! Outside the door were seats for the men— logs laid lengthwise and boards or puncheons stretching across them. The yard fence was also used for seats, and no one complained at the length of the exercise either, even if compelled for two hours to perch upon the sharp edge of an oak rail during the service.
     The people have assembled. The women occupy the inside of the cabin; the men are scattered around without, awaiting the coming of the man of God. The set time has come—has been passed an hour, and the minister has not appeared. There is no impatience, however, no murmuring. They know that the good man has a long and weary ride this morning. He preached yesterday at Ross's Ferry, perhaps, or Fort Clark, and the streams are high, and the roads bad. He will come—no fear of disappointment—and what is an hour or two? Presently there is a movement among the young men who have strayed to some little distance from the cabin; they begin to move up toward the door, and select their seats. Old men rise up from the fence-corners, where they have been squatting in groups, talking over the latest Indian news, and look down the road where the minister is expected to appear. Yes, there he comes, the primitive man of God; clad in sheep's-gray pants, and round-breasted blue or brown jeans coat, with its stiff, straight collar, over which appears his white shirt-collar, guiltless of starch or gloss; and all surmounted by the white fur, low-crowned hat, with its wide brim.
     And now all is still. The hum of voices, which had been incessant before, is hushed. The old men meet the preacher, and in low tones ask after his health; if he had much trouble in crossing the creek, and how he found the roads. He answers their questions with few words and passes in, shaking hands with some of the older mothers in Israel, as he hangs his hat on a projecting pin, and takes out from his capacious coat-tail pockets his well-worn bible and hymn-book. Taking his stand in the open doorway, he gravely reads, or rather recites, that old hymn— "Come, let us anew our journey pursue."
     It is sung by every man and woman present, sung with voices clear and loud. No operatic quavers, no voluntary, no pretension. The voices are all blending in a harmony born of devotion, and which goes up a pure offering of praise to the throne of the Most High. It is a music that comes from hearts all attuned to praise, and finds its way through the open gates of heaven to the great white throne. With music such as this is heaven wooed, and heaven won.
     As the last notes die away, the good man folds his hands and prays. The prayer is simple, plain, and as of one who approaches the vestibule of Omnipotence, in its solemnity; and as unfaltering in its trust as the pleading of a child with the father who it knows will stoop to listen. It bears up the burdens of the people; it lays before the throne the wants of every stricken soul. It must be heard if the heavens be not of brass. The prayer is closed, and again the voice of song is heard. This time it is that grand old hymn—"Oh, when shall I see Jesus, And dwell with him above?"
     The good minister selects a chapter, as the last verse of this hymn is sung, and now he reads it; reads, not with the actor's trilling rs and guttural tones; but in a plain, earnest and solemn voice, he reads a chapter wonderfully appropriate to the condition of his congregation.
     The sermon is not an elegant production of finished oratory. It may be disconnected; it may be ungrammatical, and lacking whitened polish; but it is plain, simple, direct. It came from the heart—it will reach the heart, and it is listened to with an attention never given to the polished oratory that delights in ornate chancels as its birth-place, and silk and broadcloth listeners.
     The sermon ends; the doxology and benediction have been spoken; all gather around the good minister, eager to press his hand—attentive to listen, willing to treasure up the words of exhortation, of reproof, or of warning, which fall from his lips.
     This was the pioneer worship—a pure and godly worship; a worship more pure, more likely to find favor in the sight of God, than the religion that displays itself in turreted and cushioned edifices born of pride, but labeled for the worship of God, that have succeeded the old log school-houses of fifty years ago.
Those were the days of Christianity. I fear we are now living in the days of churchianity.

A CALL TO PREACH.

     Jesse Williams and Peter Cartwright were among the earliest preachers who preached in Canton. John M. Ellis was, however, not much, if at all, behind them in paying attention to this field. There were in the vicinity a good number of Ironside Baptists, who organized a church of their faith in the Eveland neighborhood at quite an early day—probably before, certainly not later than, 1825.
     James Tatum, one of their pioneer preachers, used to edify his hearers by relating his call to preach, "in the words and figures that follow, to-wit:"
     "My dearly-beloved brethering-ah and sisters-ah, my blessed master-ah, has called me to dispense with the everlasting gospel-ah. For one night-ah, in a vision, in a vision of the night-ah, I dreamed-ah that I had swallowed a stiff-tongued four-horse wagon-ah, and me thought-ah, that the tongue of the wagon-ah was a stickin' out of my mouth-ah, and the chains were a hanging down beside my chin-ah, and the chains were a rattlin'-ah, and the tongue was a waggin'-ah, and my beloved brethering-ah and sisters-ah, I knowed that God had called me to preach his everlasting gospel-ah, and I 'm a goin' for to preach it-ah, until the day that I die-ah."
     The same preacher exemplified the doctrine of "once in grace, always in grace," in this wise:
     "My dear brethering and sisters-ah, when a soul is once converted-ah, it allers stays converted-ah. It's jist like me the other day-ah, I was a goin' to Canton-ah, and as I rid past old Mr. Eggers-ah, old sister Eggers run out-ah, and she hollered, 'Brother Tatum-ah, won't you take a coon-skin to town-ah, and sell it and buy me a plug of smokin' terbacker-ah?' And I said sartin, sister Eggers-ah; and so I took the coon-skin-ah, and when I got to town I tried to sell it to Joel Wright-ah, but he said coon-skins weren't of much account now-ah, and he wouldn't buy it-ah, so I took it to Mr. Stillman-ah, and he wouldn't buy neither-ah, then I tried to give it to Mr. Stillman-ah, and he wouldn't have it-ah, and then I took it back to Joel Wright-ah, and I tried to give it to him-ah, but he wouldn't have it neither-ah. So I bought sister Eggers a plug of terbacker-ah, and I tied the coon-skin to my saddle-ah, a thinkin' for to lose it-ah, and I started for to go back-ah, and when I got most back to sister Eggers-ah, I heard some body behind me a hollerin', 'Mr. Tatum-ah, Mr. Tatum-ah,' and my brethering and sisters-ah, when I looked back-ah, I seed a man a comin'ah, with that very coon-skin in his hand-ah, a holler-in' 'Mr. Tatum-ah, you've lost your coon-skin-ah.' And so, my brethering and sisters-ah, it is with religion; you can't sell it-ah, you can't give it away-ah, and you can't lose it."
     At a Methodist meeting in these early days, Daniel Ulmer, who had been a very profane man, was at the "mourners' bench," and was surrounded by the older members, who were praying for him with primitive zeal and exhorting him to give himself up to the influence of religion. Daniel at length arose to his feet and began clapping his hands and shouting at the top of his voice, "Glory to God! I’ve got religion, I've got religion, and I don't care a G—d d—n who knows it" He was perfectly serious in his exclamation. The force of habit only was answerable for his religious profanity.

DARGO B. JONES.

     One of the earliest singing-school teachers of Canton, was a relative of Deacon Jones. He taught in the old Presbyterian Church, in about 1837 and 1838. Jones was a most enthusiastic teacher. He loved his profession, and it was with a zest and relish unknown to modern music-masters that he stood up before his class and beat time with both hands,—now sounding a note to show the class how it should be sounded; now, with a querulous, excited voice, checking some tuneless soul that was making horrid discord with flats and sharps. Leonard F. Ross and Robert Sebree laid the foundation for their splendid musical education at the singing-school of Mr. Jones, as did also most of those young people who lived in Canton and were musically disposed at that early period.
     The first marriage of a couple residing in Canton was that of Isaac Garland to Hannah Kinney, which was celebrated by John Orendorff, Esquire, at his residence east of Canton, on the 3d day of January, 1827.
     Isaac Swan, the proprietor of Canton, was married to Miss Elizabeth Addis, by Esquire Orendorff on the 16th of January, 1828. At this time there was no magistrate and no settled minister in Canton. The marriage ceremony was performed, in the few weddings that occurred, in most cases by Esquire Orendorff who was exceedingly popular as a weaver of the nuptial tie.
     The first wedding celebrated in the Village of Canton was celebrated by Esquire Joel Wright, on the 20th day of October, 1830, when he united in wedlock Thomas A. Morse to Miss Harriet C. Jones, the eldest daughter of Deacon Nathan Jones.
     Joel Wright was the first magistrate who resided in Canton. Mr. Wright's commission bore date January 9th, 1830, and he was qualified and entered upon the duties of his office May 27th, 1830.
     Isaiah Stillman was the next magistrate residing in town. His commission was dated September 15th, 1831, and he was qualified September 26th of the same year.
     In Orion township, Sands N. Breed was qualified and entered upon magisterial duties August 30th, 1839, and Parley C. Stearns September 17th, 1839. Both these gentlemen now, after the lapse of thirty-one years, are acting magistrates in the City of Canton.

ISAAC SWAN.

     The original proprietor of Canton, was a native of Vermont, but emigrated with his father to Western New York while that region was still a wilderness. At the age of about twenty years he left New York, in company with his brother-in-law Nathan Jones, and started for the Great West. Making several short tarryings in different parts of Indiana, they finally established themselves in St. Clair county, Illinois, about 1818. They remained there until 1820, when they removed to Montgomery county, and tarried there until 1824, when they removed to Fulton county, arriving at the present location of Canton in the spring of that year. Isaac Swan was a man nearly six feet in height, splendidly proportioned, and remarkable even among pioneers for his strength and activity. His courage was unquestioned, and made him a valuable acquisition to any new settlement in which his lot was cast
     Mr. Swan had only such education as could be obtained in the log school-houses of Erie county, New York, fifty-five and sixty years ago; yet he had so far improved his limited opportunities as to have been considered a man of fair education. He was a Methodist, an honest man and a good citizen, one whose word was his bond. He gave to Canton its establishment and almost all of its early prosperity—his enterprise and energy directing attention to it and bringing in new settlers, who were attracted by the desire to settle near him, in many cases. He was killed by the storm in 1835.
     As early as 1833, Rafe Dixon, Emsley Fouts and George Smith owned and operated a small distillery on Duck Creek. This was a small, old-fashioned copper still, and made pure if not palatable whisky from corn. It is related of some of the pioneers that they would, when in need of their accustomed beverage, shell a bushel of corn, put it on a horse, mount on top, and ride to Gabriel Walling's little band mill on Copperas Creek, get their grist "cracked," then ride over with it to the Duck-Creek Distillery and wait until it could be turned into "sperrits." They were some times plagued very much while at the distillery by a fellow by the name of Garron, who, it was asserted, would drink the whisky as fast as it ran from the still.
     Daniel Babbett, from Scott county, Indiana, came to Fulton county, and landed at the Cottonwood Grove, three miles south­west of Canton, on the 8th day of January, 1828. Cottonwood Grove farm was then owned and occupied by Elias Foster. His family, consisting of his four sons, Jacob, William, Daniel and Silas, and two daughters, Cynthia and Christina, were considered a great acquisition to pioneer society. The daughters soon married— Cynthia being chosen by John Swegle, and Christina becoming the wife of John W. Abbott. Mr. Babbett farmed a portion of the Foster—now Barnard—farm the first season, selling his surplus to and purchasing his goods of John Coleman, sen., who at that time was the owner of the only stock of goods in Canton.
     Mr. Babbett soon moved nearer Canton, some where east or northeast of town, and followed his trade, that of a brick and stone mason.
     Mr. Babbett was not a church-member, but was an attendant on the ministrations of Rev. James Tatum, Rev. Strickland, and other pioneer preachers. His children were sent to school, during the winter, to a Mr. Cubbidge, who was teaching in a log out-building belonging to Col. Barnes. Mr. Babbett boasted, in his life­time that he had had no occasion for bolts or locks in those early days, and that crime was unknown.
     In 1833, Mr. Babbett moved into Farmington township, where he was elected magistrate the same year, and was regularly re-elected up to April, 1847 or 1848.
     Silas Babbett, the youngest of Daniel's sons, is still a resident of Fulton county, residing in Farmington township, eight miles north of Canton. He was elected sheriff of the county in 1868, which position he held to the entire satisfaction of the people for one full term.

STUMP QUARTERS.

     The "stump quarter" was one of the pioneer institutions. Without it many a prairie farm would have gone unfenced for a long time, many a fire been more scantily supplied with fuel, and many a "speculator " the better off financially on making sale of his tract of western land. The "stump quarter" was a convenient tract of land owned by some eastern "land-shark," as the non-resident owner was dubbed. To tax him inordinately was considered good and sound political economy, and to steal the timber from his lot, if it happened to be wooded, was not looked upon as an offense. The Morse quarter was one of the first “stump quarters” contiguous to Canton, and was completely bared of its timber at quite an early day. The next in course was what was known as the “Canton quarter,” west and north of the Lewistown Bridge. This furnished fuel for perhaps a dozen years, and fencing for twice that number of small farms. After this came the “Rawalt quarter,” northeast of town, just north of what was known to the old settlers as the Jacobs or Shecklar place. Both these quarters were owned by speculators, and when the first attack was made, the best citizens of the surrounding country thought it no moral wrong to swing their axes vigorously into the timber of the odious “land-shark,” while it would have been difficult to find a pioneer jury who would have rendered a verdict for stealing timber in such cases.
     Ministers as well as congregations would participate in these attacks, and it is a fact that the old Congregational Church in Canton was framed from "stump-quarter " timber. A "bee" was made, church-members and world's people turned out together, and in one day the timber was felled, much of it scored, hewed and hauled, and Deacon Jones, Lyman Walker, Cheeny Jones, and a host of others—good, pure-hearted Christian men, against whom no breath of calumny has ever blown,—aided and abetted. "We settle the country," said they; "we bear the burden of pioneer life; our labors make these lands valuable; and we will make the non-resident owner pay us for our labor in his behalf, whether willingly or not." It is true that most of these "stump quarters" were thin clay land, of but little value except for timber, and when divested of that were comparatively worthless; still, with the one argument conscience was stilled and the taking of other men's property justified. Custom, popular and powerful custom, made the law and furnished the justification.

BRISK BUSINESS.

     Coon-skins were currency up to 1835, and values were frequently expressed in coon-skins. Whisky was one coon-skin per quart Childs & Stillman were selling it at that price, and their store was a place of resort in consequence. The counter of this store was a rude affair, and the front of it not closely jointed: indeed, there were interstices between the clapboard panels through which a coon-skin could be readily pulled. One day Jesse Dollar called for a quart of whiskey, and in payment handed over his coon-skin. The coon-skin was tossed under the counter, and the whisky drank among the crowd. Dollar had a ramrod in his hands with a wiping-screw on the end. This he slyly inserted through the cracks in the front of the counter, and, twisting it into the fur, drew it out, and with it paid for the second quart, which was also passed through the admiring crowd. Dollar was liberal, generous, indeed prodigal, with his one coon-skin, making it pay for five quarts of whisky in almost that number of minutes. Childs & Stillman were pleased at their prosperous trade. The crowd were pleased at the joke, and Dollar was glorious.
 

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